#/not missing something that was already addressed

[buckevantommy]

Buck could fill a small bakery with the amount he's baked in the past few weeks. He cleaned out the flour shelf at his local corner market, used a coop's worth of eggs, pushed his mixer to the limit, and had his oven working near constantly. Every neighbor on his floor and everyone he's passed in the lobby has had a loaf of some kind left on their doorstep or politely shoved into their hands. Everyone at the station is begging him not to overload them on anymore sugar - they'll take the carb-loaded meals he makes at work but avoid Buck the moment he enters the bay doors with a basket of saran-wrapped sweet bakes.

The worst part is that it's not even working anymore. It never really distracted him enough to not want to call Tommy, just put his hands and head to use for an hour or two at a time so that he couldn't text or call.

But now there's nothing left to bake with. And Eddie is looking at houses in El Paso. And everyone has family to go home to, except for Buck. And every reason he has for not being the one to reach out first goes out the window.

After a few rings, Tommy answers with a questioning: "-Buck?" and it's a gutpunch he doesn't need today but he's already feeling like shit so the pain just gets absorbed into the rest of it.

"H-hey, Tommy." It feels good to say his name under- well, not better circumstances than addressing his broken heart, but something with a bit of tentative hope at least.

And it's good to hear his voice. The voicemails and audio notes and videos from their time together have soothed him and tormented him at different times, but hearing Tommy respond sends a pang of longing through him.

"Um. I-I, uh."

"Are you okay?"

A bitter sound trips its way out of Buck's mouth. "No. No, I-I'm not okay."

"Are you hurt?"

The urgency in Tommy's voice thrills him; he still cares. But Buck doesn't want to misrepresent himself, doesn't want to trick Tommy into caring about what he's going through.

"Guess that depends."

"On what?"

"What kinda hurt you mean."

There's an inhale across the line. "What can I do?"

Tears prick at the corners of Buck's eyes. "I just- need someone to talk to." He doesn't say: even though we're not together anymore, can we still be friends? because even though he's missed Tommy being in his life, he doesn't know if he could be just friends.

"Okay." Buck hears some rustling in the background, footsteps, background noise receding. "I'm here. Talk to me."

Tommy wants to hear what Buck has to say, he always did. So Buck talks. He tells Tommy about Eddie moving away, and Tommy listens. And when it gets too much he tells Tommy about a new niece or nephew of his on the way, and Tommy offers his sincere congratulations. And then he tells Tommy about his baking coping mechanism and Tommy quiets.

So much so that Buck checks to see if the call dropped.

"I'm on my fifth engine," Tommy admit. "I keep taking them apart and putting them back together until they work better than before. But everytime I was done I had to start again, fix another broken thing, because I couldn't fix.."

Buck takes an unsteady breath. Us. "Me."

"No," Tommy says emphatically. "I couldn't fix me. Too broken to be good enough for you."

It's a heartwrenching confession, but Buck feels a smile beneath the tears sneaking down his face. "You don't think I'm broken? Nobody stays for me, Tommy. At some point I gotta realize I'm just not someone people wanna stick around for in the long run."

"Evan.."

Buck breezes over the sound of his name in Tommy's mouth, can't dwell on how good it feels because it won't last. "Guess neither of us are forever guys, huh." His heart, bruised and battered, bleeds a little more. The tears stream freely now. He sniffles, but manages to steady his voice as he says: "I loved you. That was real."

Tommy's breath hitches. "I was a coward."

Buck nods. Cries some more. They're both fucked up.

Tommy hesitates, but then: "I'm off-shift soon. We could.."

He leaves it hanging. There's so many ways Buck could finish that sentence, most of them unbearably hopeful. He doesn't want to stay in his empty apartment anymore. "Yours?" His voice is a little wet. "Maybe I could help you with that engine."

Tommy's breath of amusement is a balm to Buck's aching heart. "You know something about vintage cars I don't?" It's teasing, and gentle, and Buck has missed this.

"Maybe. Maybe trying to do it alone is the problem."

Another breath of laughter, followed by resignation in Tommy's voice. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

Buck listens to him breathe for a moment: in, out, in..

"I'll meet you at mine."

Buck's poor heart beats a little stronger.

*

It was more than an hour later, of battling crosstown traffic and then letting himself into Tommy's house because Tommy had explicitly told him to use the spare key. They never gotten to the point of swapping keys. That probably should've been a step they didn't skip over. Buck's too-long legs had skipped too many for Tommy's comfort.

He pushes all thoughts of that aside. He's not perfect, he's too much, but Tommy agreed to see him. Tommy wants.. he's not sure.

Buck stands in the little living room, surveying Tommy's space while his mind spirals, heart yoyo-ing between hope and hopelessness. He doesn't know how much time passes when the front door opens and Tommy appears in the entryway.

He looks good. Tired, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by, but good. His hair is a little longer all over, and it suits him. Buck wants to tell him as much but he can't seem to say anything.

Then Tommy says, "Hey," soft and concerned and fond, a sad smile at the corners of his eyes.

And Buck's tears threaten back into his own. "Hey." His voice is watery and brittle.

Tommy's there in three strides, gathering Buck into his arms, and Buck lets himself be wrapped in an embrace. Winds his arms around Tommy and presses into his solid warmth. Breathes him in as the tears come.

He feels safe. Seen. His heart cradled in care the way his body is cradled in Tommy's arms.

Buck takes a deep, steadying inhale of Tommy's scent and pulls back enough to look him in the face. His hands loose their grip at Tommy's shirt, smoothing to palm him through the cotton.

"About that engine.."

Tommy's smile is wide enough to crinkle his eyes in that way Buck loves, with joy etched in the creases.

"I wanna help you, if you'll let me. We could make it work. Together."

Tommy's eyes glisten. His smile breaks into a grin. "I'd like to try that."

buck probably called tommy every chance he got when they were together. driving home from work and stuck in traffic, it’s time to call tommy and tell him about his shift. late night in bed and he’s struggling to fall asleep without him, tommy’s soft voice will lull him to sleep from the other side of the phone. both on shift and the calls had been particularly slow, he will go and sit on the roof with tommy on loud speaker and they will just talk about anything and everything.

and when buck finds out that eddie is thinking about moving back to texas, tommy is the only person who he wants to talk to about it. so he finally gives in and calls. and of course, tommy will answer.

[haoboutyou]

jeon wonwoo + “is there something you want to tell me?”

If there is one thing Jeon Wonwoo loves more than you—and family, and his friends—it has to be gaming. So much so that he manages to convince you to turn the spare study room into his very own little gaming nook, fully equipped with everything a gamer could possibly need to play in peace: large monitor, custom PC, a comfy gaming chair, state-of-the-art headphones��you name it, he already has it set up.

Having you hang out with him in his gaming room is nothing new too. He even added an additional chair so you can comfortably sit next to him whenever you want. It is something you really appreciate; most times, you are content just sitting in each other’s presence while occupied with something else. Too many nights were spent curled up in your chair while reading or scrolling through your phone, the sounds of Wonwoo talking with his friends over Discord, the clicks of his keyboard, and the game’s music serving as familiar white noise.

Wonwoo even develops a habit of wearing only one side of his headphones—just so he can hear if you are talking to him. Nevertheless, you still always make it a point to gently tap on his shoulder for attention, so as to not disrupt his playing.

This time, it takes only an hour since you entered the room for Wonwoo to realise you were in there with him. You gently pry the door open, tiptoeing into the room as quietly as you can. It works: Wonwoo hasn’t registered your presence. He is fully engrossed in the game that’s blown up on his screen, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he strategizes with his teammates over their call.

He only notices you when you tug on his sleeve. Almost immediately, he pushes his chair away, lifting one side of his headphones and opening his arms wide. You shoot him a grateful smile as you climb into his lap. He makes sure you are comfortable straddling him, cheek resting on his shoulder before he pushes the chair back towards the table, resuming his game while hugging you.

You have never been more thankful for Wonwoo’s large arms; they’re long enough to comfortably reach around you for the keyboard without struggle.

Wonwoo is considerate enough of his teammates to move his mic out of the way before addressing you. “Is there something you want to tell me, love?”

“Missed you. I can’t sleep.” Your voice is muffled as you speak into his hoodie.

“Really?” You nod sleepily. Chuckling, he presses a kiss on the crown of your head. “I’ll be a little noisy. Is that okay with you?”

You hum in acknowledgement, but Wonwoo already knows he is losing you to dreamland. “Sleep well, love.”

His teammates online try to mock him by mimicking him in high-pitched voices, but he doesn’t even care. “At least I have a girlfriend, you lonely losers.” It prompts a stifled laugh from his hold, and squeaks of retaliation through the headphones.

Yeah. That shut them up real quick.

divider by @saradika

[myafterlifeisbetterthenyours]

A part 2 to either of the girlfriend abuses you series

where we se the recovery or the family of the girlfriend comes after them

People we love

Octava stared down at you, the girl in silent contemplation as you snuggled into her chest, the young lady holding you close.

She ran a hand through your hair, happy to see It'd been growing back well in the small time you'd been staying with her and her family.

As per her mother's Insistence you'd been sharing not just a room, but also a bed for the past few weeks and you'd noticeably improved.

You'd become happier. Eyes brighter. More and more welcoming every day, started smiling again.

Not those forced, people pleasing smiles she now recognised from before.

You weren't as touchy feely as before, but you weren't afraid to sit next to her, or hug her anymore.

Hugs.

You started hugging her again.

She was surprised the first time. You just randomly hugging the girl one morning, holding her for several minutes before youd part, thanking her softly as you walked off.

Since then, it'd been a pleasant surprise throught the past few weeks.

She'd missed the contact with you, desperately so.

Youd always been affectionate with her and just being able to hold you close again was a treat. Especially with you being the one to initiate it. It meant the world to her.

You'd also been sharing her bed, as per her mother's arrangement.

And while she'd initially been flustered and slightly uncomfortable, she'd quickly gotten used to it, the girl coming to enjoy it.

Plotonically, of course. You had slept over many times before.

Well, before you began dating HER!

But you were free now.

Free from her and her horrible and nasty ways. And she'd be dead and buried before she ever let that BITCH lay so much as a finger on you again.

You were stand-offish in bed, then again, you were stand-offish most of the day, which made sense, as you were still recovering.

But it'd be the second week you shared a bed that things... shifted.

You'd kept your distance the first few days, sleeping on the other side of the bed, telling her goodnight softly before curling in on yourself, sleeping tight, keeping clear away from her.

As you'd done the last several days, you all curled up on the other side of the bed, she'd started longing for your warmth.

Or at least that's what she'd thought, as it'd been the fifth day before you'd head to bed, the two of you getting into bed, you saying goodnight as usual.

Octavia saying it in turn, rolling over to sleep.

But itd be after several minutes of silence that she felt you shift, shuffling across the mattress, Octavia rolling over as you practically latching onto her, pulling her close in an iron grip, hugging her stomach as you laid there.

Octavia laid there for a minute, breathing deep before a smile crossed her face, tears pricking her eyes as she pulled you close, the two of you laid there, Octavia so happy to have you bridge the gap.

That became the norm for the two of you.

You never addressed the situation, never talking about it, it becoming something of a nightly ritual.

You'd say goodnight, the two of you laying there for several moments before you shift and roll, quickly shuffling over to her, holding onto her.

Octavia loved it, the young lady already turned towards you, a smile on her face, just waiting for you to approach.

And like clockwork you turned over, shuffling until you were pressed against her, hugging her core, Octavia smiling softly as you held her close, nuzzling her fluffy chest.

You'd hold onto her with a terrified grip, and while she normally hated overbearing grips, she could tell you needed it, practically relishing the way you clung to her.

Loving it as she held you close, softly stroking your hair as you just hugged her, the young lady knowing it couldn't be easy recovering from what you'd been through.

And it was a month in where the scene began.

Octavia waking up before you, the young lady finding you in her grasp, relishing the contact you shared, the early morning sun seeping into her room as she held you close, the young lady softly stroking your growing hair, relishing the warmth and comfort you granted her.

She breathed softly, the owlet watching your sleeping face, watching as your expression tensed, breathing picking up as you stirred, shuffling, hands gripping her tight, nails digging into her back as you held her tight. Almost painfully so.

Octavia went ridged as you jerked, letting out a strangled.

"...No!"

Your arms gripping holding her like a vice.

"Please... no!"

Your voice was pained... desperate. You clinging to her as if she were the last being in Hell.

You'd whine and whimper for another minute before awakeinging.

You'd jerk awake, releasing a desperate, "NO!" Snapping up as you grabbed at the sheets.

Tears streamed down your face as you sat there, breathing heavily as Octavia sat there stunned, watching you, the young lady sitting up as she carefully reached out to you.

Placing her hand on your shoulder you snapped to her, spinning around and almost falling out of her bed.

You had tears in your eyes as you stared at her, expression horrified as you sat there.

The girl barely processed what had happened when you launched at her, grabbing the girl as you buried your face in her chest.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry..." You sobbed, clinging to her, tears wetting her chest. "Please, don't leave me..."

You sobbed, whining pathetically, clinging to her desperately, face buried in the nook of her neck as you sobbed, apologising over and over as you sobbed loudly.

Octavia, snapping out of her shock, quickly held you close, shushing you over and over as you sobbed, the girl unable to even imagine what you'd been through, the young ladies attention solely on you as she did her absolute best to comfort you.

Holding you close, stroking your back as she hugged you, kissing the top of your head, telling you it was alright, over and over again.

You'd stay like that most the morning, you apologising over and over, clinging to her desperately as the two of you just laid there, Octavia doing her best to comfort you as you quickly soaked through her shirt.

It was almost lunchtime by the time she'd finished comforting you, Octavia fiddling her shirt as she sat in front of her, well, 'meal".

The soaked material on her chest holding a far greater weight then simply tears.

You'd all but passed out after your breakdown.

You'd clung to her for what felt like hours, you apologising over and over, sobbing like a baby as you clung to her.

Octavia unable to do anything but hold you close, assuring you over and over you weren't alone. That you didn't need to apologise. That she was there for you.

Not that it seemed to calm you.

You sobbing and crying for seemingly hours before all bit collapsing.

She'd left you to sleep.

She wished to stay with you, she truly did, but she was hungry and needed a moment to herself, the young lady knowing her just sitting around you wouldn't do any good.

So she'd gone to eat, the young lady sat before her meal, mind a million miles away as she played with her meal.

"Ah, hello dear, how are you this morning?"

Stolas' elegant Goetian voice cut the silence, Octavia perking up as she looked up in time to see the man waltz in.

Octavia just sat there sternly, tired and emotionally stressed, playing with her food before she looked up at the man.

"What's going to happen?" She asked softly, an edge to her voice.

Stolas paused, head turning towards the young lady, the demon Prince staring for several moments before piping up.

"Well, uhhh, I was planning on a late breakfast, then-"

He tried to play it off casually only for Octavia to cut him off, coarsely asking him.

"The Bitch!" She snapped, rising to her feet. "What's going to happen to the fucking bitch!"

She seethed, breathing heavy, Stolas taken aback by his daughters outburst.

"Via, darling, me and your mother are handling the situation, trust u-" he tried to deescelate the situation, only from Octavia to snap at her father.

"No! No!" She growled, shoving her meal away. "Look, I haven't brought it up cause I was sure you and mum had something planed, but you haven't seen what I've seen, okay? (Y/N) has been through enough! I need to know he's safe!"

She breathed heavily, gripping their kitchen table.

"(Y/N) deserves more... He deserves... He deserves safety... and we can't give him that until she's dealt with."

She finished, breathing heavy, staring down at the table as memories of your breakdowns flashed through her mind, the young avian gripping her still soaked shirt, emotions spiking violently.

Stolas paused for several moments before walking over, the man hugging the young lady, the owl prince cooing softly.

"I know this has been a lot darling, but I promise, It's all going to be alright. Don't worry... we'll deal with her soon. Everything will be okay. So trust me, were taking care of it my dear little starfire."

Octavia stood there for several moments before sighing, nuzzling her fathers chest, sighing as she leaned against the mans fuzzy chest, shoulders slumping as she released the steadily building tension, the young lady having so much on her shoulder since you'd been placed in their charge.

The two stood for several moments, hugging each other close before your voice suddenly cut in.

"Uuum, I'm not interrupting am I?"

At that the pair turned, finding you stood in the kitchen doorway, hugging yourself, in a rather pathetic state, Stolas stepping back as Octavia perked right up.

You looked exhausted.

Bags under your eyes, growing hair in a mess of 'bed-head', clothes dishevelled as you looked at the pair.

"N-no, not at all my boy, please come in!" Stolas stumbled, quickly inviting you into the room, doing his best to raise the rooms spirits.

You'd do so, walking in, still holding yourself as you got yourself a drink of juice, taking a seat besides Octavia.

The girl was tense, though quickly relaxed as you shared a smile with the girl, a soft, tender smile on your face as you sipped your drink.

Octavia quickly returned the gesture, the tension in the air quickly disappearing as the two of you sat there.

Stolas would chat up the two of you, you speaking sparingly, clearly not in a speaking mood, Octavia's gaze rarely leaving you as she discussed the days plan with her father.

The three of you would finish your respective 'meals'. You once again washing your mug, Octavia sticking close this time, an ache filling her gut as she noticed the fading bruises on your forearms.

She was happy to see them fading, knowing you were healing was a major comfort to her, but even then, it still hurt knowing you'd suffered as you did.

The girl holding herself responsible on some level.

Finishing up in the kitchen the three of you'd end up in the 'greenhouse', you sat amongst several of Stolas' plants.

You and Stolas happily discussed said plants, you genuinely smiling as one of the larger plants nuzzled up to you, you practically beaming as you discussed the various aspects of her fathers unique plant collection.

Octavia just sat on a nearby arm chair, smiling softly as you seemed to come out of your shell, right at home as you discussed the man's carnivorous flora.

The young lady smiling as she watched you engage with her father, practically beaming as saw your eager, giddy nature seep out, reminding her oh so much of what you were like before...

Before you met that Bitch!!!

You'd be discussing the unique features of a carnivorous plants when youd be interupted by an imp servant, the servant whispering something into the mans ear before Stolas would stand up staight.

Clearing his throat, the man would excuse himself, telling you something urgent had come up and he'd be right back.

And so, youd be left alone, you playing with one of his plants before shed turn to you.

She was about to ask you about your favourite part of fathers collection when a series of violent slamming sounds rang out.

The two of you froze, Octavia on her feet just as the shrill voice streeched out.

"Where the fuck is my Boyfriend!"

An all too familiar voice screeched, the girls feathers standing on alert, Octavias heart beating like a war drum as you instinctively pulled in on yourself, the plant on your lap pulling itself away.

You froze, eyes widening in horror, Octavia recognising that expression.

That look in your eye.

A look of utter horror and fear.

The sound of the palace doors slamming open snapped her from her state, the girl rushing over to you, stopping before you just as the heavy footsteps rushed onto the room.

You began breathing heavily, seemingly bordering a panic attack, Octavia about to reach out and comfort you when the door to the greenhouse suddenly burst open, the girl spinning around.

There she stood.

Your Ex girlfriend wasn't an ugly girl, not by any means.

At least not physically.

By all conventional standards she was a very attractive young lady.

Though Octavia couldn't give less of a shit what conventions may think.

She could have been the Queen of Hell for all she cared.

The bitch was your abuser.

And as far as she was concerned that made her the most repugnant bitch in Hell.

And if she had it her way, she'd be a dead bitch.

The young lady breathed heavily, clearly unhappy, eyes pearcing as she glared right at you, an ominous aura filling the room.

Octavia would take a defensive stance, the young lady stepping before you as you sat there holding yourself, frozen, shaking like a leaf as the young lady put herself in between you and your abuser.

"Come here. Now." The young lady ordered, her voice suspiciously level, eyes glaring, almost as if she were putting on an act.

Looking back at you, your eyes were glued to the floor as you gripped yourself, all but hiding behind Octavia, unable to gather the will, or courage to do anything but sit there.

"Darling." The girl began, voice suspiciously sweet. "I haven't seen you in weeks, I just wish to make sure your alright."

She spoke in a sinisterly sweet tone, extending her arms for a hug.

The girl suddenly all calm and seeet as if she were some caring figure. As if she weren't the bitch who abused you for Lucifer knows how long.

"He doesnt-" Octavia went to speak for you, wanting to tell her off, only for the other young lady to snap at her, telling her curtly.

"I wasn't talking to you!" She spoke, contempt thick in her voice. "I was talking to my darling boyfriend~"

She cooed, smiling to you, a sinfully sweet smile crossing her face as she softly held her hands out.

Octavia just sneered, planting her feet, intent on telling her off, but before she could speak you stepped forwards.

Octavia stared in horror, breath caught in her chest as she stared, the girl turning, raising an arm, about to say something when you looked at her, smiling softly before stepping before the girl.

The young lady just smiled, a sisnister glint to her eye that made her skin crawl, the girl smiling at you as you stood before her. Youd take a deep breath, composing yourself as you stepped to her.

But after a moment, you took a deep breath, and looking back at the girl with a surge of integrity, you turned to your 'girlfriend', telling her curtly.

"I think you should leave."

Your voice shook, fists clenching the hem of your shirt as you did your best to look at the girl.

Octavia was shocked, relieved and proud to hear you stand up for yourself, but a deep sense of fear would hit her, the young lady getting an ominous feeling in her guy.

The young lady on the other hand just froze, staring at you for several moments before speaking coldy.

"What did you just say?"

She was incredulous, a sneer crossing her face as she stared down at you.

"I think..." You began, breathing heavily, heart racing as you clenched your fists, trying to stay composed. "I think you should leave... We... I think we're done!"

If the young lady had been unhappy before, she was utterly enraged now.

Before either of you could even react, the lady had slapped you, the young woman grabbing you by the hair, violently yanking at it as she knocked you to your knees.

"You dont get to think! Is that how I trained you!?" She snarled, her voice suddenly booming as she violently yanked on your hair.

You were almost immediately on your knees in tears as she tore at a clump of hair, you desperately gripping her wrist as she yanked at your scalp.

"I put all my time into making you worth something and you think you can just walk away?! You dont get to think! You useless excuse of a Goetia!"

She snarled, voice filled with such venom.

You were in tears, sobbing violently, profusely begging for forgiveness as she brutally yanked on your hair, something she had done countless times before, the reason you'd started wearing it short.

But with your hair grown out, she once again had a solid grip, the pain intense, your body seizing with pain.

Before the bitch could say another word however, Octavia stormed over, slapping the bitch right across the face.

Hard.

The bitch stumbled back, releasing you, allowing you to fall to the floor, sodding as Octavia came to your aid, pulling you close, holding you to her chest as she shielded you, you quickly latching onto the girl, sobbing violently into her chest.

Seeing you cling to the girl, apologising profusely into her cheat, the bitch would become enraged.

Storming over to the girl as she held you, the bitch would raise her hand, intent on slapping Octavia, fire in her eyes as she stood over the young goetia.

However before she could strike the girl, her hand was suddenly grabbed, the bitch looking up to find none other then Stolas of the Ars Goetia standing over her, a powerful sneer crossing his face.

His eyes glowing a sinister red.

The bitches face instantly fell, the girl stumbling back, not getting far as his grip remeaind firm as steel.

The bitch tried in vein to explain herself as Stolas only tightened his grip on her forearm, the man glaring down at her before he snapped at her.

"Shut Up!"

He'd tell her bluntly.

"You see that boy?" The man spoke, a deathly cold tone to his voice. "He doesn't belong to you."

"He belongs to me now. To my family. He belongs to me and my daughter. Not you..."

Octavia would try and make sense of his statement, when Stolas suddenly smacked her with the revelation.

"That boy is now engaged to my daughter and I won't have anybody, least of all some spoiled little bitch daughter of a Duke abusing him."

Hearing this, the young woman's face went pale, Octavia's own eyes bulged, the revelation being a metaphorical slap to the face, even more so for her then the bitch before her.

"B-Bu-I-I, No I didn-nt."

The bitch tried to speak again, trying to justify herself to a prince of Hell, but Stolas didn't care, the man harshly twisting her arm, a sickening snap ringing out as the girl screamed bloody murder, her forearm bending at a disturbing angle.

You meanwhile just clung to Octavia, face buried in her chest, holding onto her even tighter as the bitch screeched in pain, Octavia holding you even tighter, doing her best to comfort you as you clung yo her, mind still processing her father's revelation as you flinched at the girls screeches.

The Demon Prince would drag the girl out of his Palace by her collar, the girl screeching and crying in pain all throughout.

The Bitch begged for mercy as Stolas rather ruthlessly tossed her to the street, using her amr as leverage as he threw her, the girl screeching in pain as she held into her shattered forearm, the girls yowls of pain being heard for blocks.

You meanwhile just sat in her arms, sobbing into Octavias chest, Octavia doing her very best to comfort you.

The girl both overwhelmed but also deeply concerned, the owlet pushing aside her own feelings and conflicting feelings as she did her best to help you, focusing on your emotional distress.

You'd cling to her, your violent sobs finally settling down as Stolas re-entered the room.

The man standing over the two of you for several moments before eoctavua looked to him.

"When were you going to tell me?" She'd ask softly after several minutes, not quite accusatory, but with a notable edge to her voice, her attention on you.

The man stood in silence for several moments before sighing, the avian looking down at the both of us.

"It was recent. Very recent. The finalisation only just being finished. Your mother managing to secure the agreement with his family only this morning. We were waiting for the right moment to mention it and well..."

They'd both look down at you as you desperately clung to the girl.

"He needs you dear. Now more then ever."

He'd stand there for several long moments before he'd step out of the room, the two of you being left alone.

You'd cry softly into her chest, the girl just holding you close as she gently hushed you, gently kissing the top of your head.

"... I'm sorry...." you spoke softly, gripping her arm.

Octavia would hush you, rubbing your back.

"Hey, it's not your fault." She tried assuring but you just pushed her away, wiping your eyes.

"No!" You began, barely holding back sobs. "You don't deserve this!"

You sobbed, pulling away as she reached out to you.

"You deserve a man who will protect you!" You turned, staring at her, an anger in your eyes as tears streamed down your face.

"You deserve somebody strong. And brave. And capable. And-And-Not somebody... Not somebody weak and helpless... you deserve somebody... some... thing... More..."

"And I'm... I'm just nothing..."

You finished so softly. So weakly.

The girl utterly decimated at the idea of you genuinely believing you were nothing... it was too much.

The girl would grab you, yanking you towards her as she forced you to look at her.

"Don't you dare!..." she'd sniffle, eyes welling up with tears. "You are something! You so much!"

She'd gasped, her breath shaky as she struggled keeping her composure.

"You are the best thing that ever happened to me (Y/N)! My best friend..."

She'd begin crying, furiously wiping tears from her eyes.

"Your not nothing. Your everything to me (Y/N)... You deserve so much more and I'm so, so sorry!" She'd cry, looking to him, lip quivering, breathing shaking as she looks down at you. "I should have been there! I should have protected you!"

She'd sob herself, leaning into the crook of your neck.

"I knew it... I knew she was rotten and I... I didn't stop it when I could have..."

She'd cling to you, nuzzling your neck.

"I'm so sorry (Y/N)!"

You'd just hold you, utterly bewildered.

"N-No, Octavia, you-You saved me!"

You'd pull back, looking at her.

"Y-Your the best part of me! The best thing-person I could ever ask for!"

You'd tell her, struggling to stay coherent as your breathing hitched over and over again.

"You-You deserve more, so much more then m-me!" You'd sob.

"I DONT WANT MORE! I WANT YOU!"

She'd cry out, clinging to you.

The both of you standing there for several moments, staring at each other as the girl held back her sobs.

"You... Your my best friend (Y/N)... Your the only person I've ever wanted... you... you mean everything to me (Y/N)..."

She spoke softly, staring into your tear stained eyes.

You'd grasp onto her, the two of you holding each other close as you broke down in tears.

You just clung to each other, the two of you breaking into tears, clinging to each other as you broke down, your only comfort being each other's embrace.

Youd sit there, holding each other for what felt like hours, unable to do anything but cry and sob, desperately holding onto each other.

But eventually you would both settle, eyes running dry as you held each other, both of you just leaning into each other's shoulder, holding each other.

Time would pass in a blink, both of you leaning on each other before you'd finally pull back, sluggishly leaning back as you rubbed your eyes.

Silence would ring out for several minutes as you wiped your eyes, doing your best to compose yourself, neither of you really looking at each other as you sat there.

"... Did..." you'd wipe your nose, still unable to look at her.

"Did you mean what you said... about... you know..."

You asked her, unwilling to put it into words lest she utterly deny it.

Octavia would sniffle wiping her nose, straightening herself as she reached out, cupping your cheek.

"I did. And I still do..."

She'd lean in, kissing your cheek.

"You... you mean so much to me... please don't ever, ever say your nothing."

She'd turn you to her, looking into your eyes.

"You mean so, so much to us (Y/N). To me. To me and my parents. Your... your a part of us. A part of our family."

She'd nuzzle her nose against your own.

"Your the best (Y/N). No matter what that bitch may say or think. You deserve all the love and attention in the universe."

She'd hold you close as you broke into giggles, the two of you quickly breaking into laughter as you held each other close.

After several minutes of laughter you'd settle, humming softly as you pulled back, the both of you staring into each other's eyes.

"... Thank you... Octavia..."

You spoke softly, looking into her eyes.

Octavia just smiled, nuzzling you.

"You deserve it. That and so... so much more."

She'd reach out, pulling you into a hug, you happily hugging her back, the girl gently nibbling at the feathers around your face.

It was a simple, but intimate act between Goetia.

Preening. A simple, delightful act between two demons that truly cared for each other..

You'd giggle as she nipped and nibbled on your feathers.

Eventually you'd pull back, giggle as she smiled at you.

You both sat there for a long moment before humming.

"Thanks O. You... Your really the best thing that ever happened to me."

You'd sit alone for another moment before she'd smile.

Getting up, she'd extend a hand, smiling down at you.

"Let's go, (Y/N)... Let's get out of here. You need a shower."

You'd stare at her hand for several moments before a gentle smile crossed your face, breaking into giggles.

Taking her hand she'd pull you up, smiling warmly as you pulled on her hand.

You'd stumble slightly, sniffling as you looked you her, the girl holding you close.

"Thanks O..." You spoke softly, leaning your head on her shoulder.

Octavia just smiled, moving forwards as she held you, the both of you walking into her manor.

Your home. The girl embraced you completely.

The young lady loving you unconditionally.

[veronicaphoenix]

zutto — chapter thirteen | wc: 6k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Noah and Lia spend the day in Tokyo and visit a certain exhibition that leads to steamy things once they're back in their room.

Reading time: 25mins. aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings:  talks/depictions of rope play and mentions of war and torture (related to historical events), wet dreams, explicit sexual content including teasing, dirty talk, Lia wearing a choker, Lia on her knees, oral sex (Noah receiving), p in v (protected and unprotected), praise kink, “good girl”, Noah restraining Lia’s wrists, slight dom/sub dynamics if you squint, fluff. Let me know if I missed sth. 

Say thank you @bluestdai because the wet dream scene was inspired by her fanart of Lia and Noah. 💞

I wanted to post this before I leave on a roadtrip, so I didn't have much time to really revise it. Sorry for any typos or mistakes you might find.

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

“Will you stop looking at me like that?” Lia demanded, her cheeks tinged with a rosy hue as she struggled to speak around a mouthful of her fourth tamagoyaki of that morning. Her hand hovered in front of her mouth.

Noah’s grin widened.  “No.”

A crease formed between Lia’s brows as she swallowed. She licked her lips before retorting, “It’s making me uncomfortable.”

“Is it?” Noah asked, his tone playful as he arched an eyebrow. “I love watching you eat. You look adorable. I can’t help it.”

Her face grew even warmer. 

“It makes me self-conscious,” she mumbled, glancing at the empty plate in front of her. “That was my fourth tamagoyaki...” 

Noah, who had finished his breakfast minutes earlier, continued to watch her, his elbows resting on the countertop of the kitchen isle. Grandma, ever busy, had flitted off to another part of the house barely five minutes ago. 

“Want another one?” Noah asked.

Lia’s eyes widened in alarm. Before she could reply, he raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“I’m not teasing! I’m serious! I love the way you enjoy food. That’s all.”

Lia hesitated, her eyes darting to the tray where the remaining tamagoyakis were arranged in two perfect rows. Temptation gnawed at her, but her stomach was already satisfyingly full.

“I’m good,” she said, brushing her fingers on a napkin. She made a mental note to ask Grandma for the recipe before returning to the States. No Japanese restaurant back home could replicate the unique taste of Grandma’s cooking, and she was sure neither could she—nor Noah, for that matter. But she was willing to try. 

Just then, Hana bustled back into the kitchen, her white hair neatly gathered into a bun. She carried a pile of freshly washed kitchen rags that she quickly stored in a drawer. 

“Why don’t you take the rest with you?” she suggested, gestuing toward the food tray and already pulling a plastic container from the cupboard. “You’re spending the day out, right?” she asked, glancing between them.

“Yep,” Noah confirmed.

“Better to have something on hand,” Grandma insisted. “Just in case.”

“We’re planning to eat out,” Lia pointed out, standing from the stool.

“For later,” Grandma said with a knowing smile. Without waiting for further protests, she began packing the tamagoyaki along with a couple of small juice bottles.

Lia shrugged, catching Noah’s amused expression. Despite herself, she couldn’t hold back a grin.

As Grandma finished packing their food, Noah and Lia headed upstairs to change out of their pajamas. Today, they were planning to explore Tokyo on their own after spending most of their stay so far indulging in Grandma’s company and taking her to places. 

They made the bed together and Lia opened the balcony doors to let some fresh air in. While Noah was checking his hair in the bathroom, Lia stepped out and leaned against the railing of the bedroom balcony, dressed in black leggings, a white shirt, and a soft denim jacket that would later pair with her boots. She took a few deep breaths and admired the beauty of the scenery before her before plucking her phone out of a pocket and moving her fingers deftly over the display, the cold morning air tinging her nose pink as her eyes scanned the information. 

“Lia, you ready?” Noah’s voice called from behind.

“Yeah.” Lia turned to face him, hesitating for a moment before adding, “Noah?”

“Hm?”

“I found this exhibition...” She waved her phone slightly, her expression both eager and uncertain. “I thought we could go.”

“What kind of exhibition?” Noah asked, crossing the room to get a closer look at her phone screen.

“It’s a... Shibari exhibition,” Lia explained with a casual tone. But her gaze was watchful, eyeing Noah and unsure of what his reply would be. 

Noah’s eyebrows lifted.

Before he could say anything, she quickly added, “I’d like to see it.”

For a moment, Noah simply studied her. Then, with a shrug and an easy smile, he spread his arms. “If you want to go, I’m in. Where is it?”

“Not far from Tokyo’s center,” Lia added, relief evident in her voice.

“Then let’s do it,” Noah said. He extended his hand toward her. “Shall we?”

No matter how full they still felt after the hearty breakfast at Grandma’s, the bustling energy of Tokyo’s center and the amount of cafés was enough to draw them in for another warm drink—and Lia’s fifth tamagoyaki of the day—. After stepping out of the cab and strolling through narrow streets lined with shops and neon signs, they stopped at a cozy café. They talked idly as the indulged in steaming sencha tea and they watched the city’s rhythm outside the window. Lia connected her phone to the café’s free Wi-Fi and googled their way to the exhibition venue. The map showed it was only a fifteen-minute walk, so they set off and managed to make it there without stopping in too many stores. 

The venue was tucked away on a quieter street north of the city center, its sleek modern exterior standing out against the older buildings nearby. The gallery’s enormous windows offered glimpses of the artwork inside, making Lia and Noah pause by the first window, leaning close to peer in.

The gallery was expansive. The walls they could see were adorned by vintage, A4-sized photographs. Beneath each image, a foam block appeared to hold neat inscriptions in Japanese and English, perhaps with details about the photos. Deeper inside the venue, Noah and Lia caught flashes of different lights, red ropes and abstract installations.

Lia turned to Noah, biting her lip briefly but eyes sparking. She grabbed his hand and tugged.

“Let’s go.”

Noah smirked, charmed by her enthusiasm, and let her take the lead.

At the entrance, they were surprised to learn there was no fee. The receptionist, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a nice smile, welcomed them. She handed each of them a brochure and explained the exhibition’s layout: the first section showcased historical photographs from the Edo period. The following ones contained suspended rope installations, live demonstrations, and at the end they would find a workshop space for learning basic knotting techniques, and even a literary and philosophical corner for quiet reflection. Souvenirs, books, and rope could be purchased at the store located at the very end of the exhibition. 

“Feel free to explore at your own pace,” the woman added. “There’s a live demonstration that will start in about thirty minutes, near the back.”

Lia clutched her brochure, her eyes already scanning the gallery, while Noah gave the receptionist a polite nod before following Lia inside.

Initially, the vastness of the gallery and the weight of the artwork’s themes made Lia hesitate. She lingered near the first exhibit, a collection of photographs depicting the use of rope in Edo-period hojojutsu, a martial art once used for restraining prisoners. The photographs were stark and evocative, showing the artistry that elevated the utilitarian knots into something symbolic.

Lia felt Noah stiffen slightly beside her, adjusting his black cap, his posture reserved. She glanced up to see his brows furrowed in concentration, perhaps grappling with the unfamiliar context and maybe wondering the repercussions of someone spotting him there. Wanting to reassure him, she reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his.

Their eyes roamed over the photographs, analyzing the intricate interplay of shadow and light that emphasized the delicacy of the knots. One picture captured a prisoner kneeling with a calm expression, their arms bound behind them in an arrangement so precise it resembled a lattice of branches. Another photograph showed a ceremonial display of knots, the prisoner’s posture one of poised dignity despite their restrained state. Each knot seemed to convey a story of its own, involving control, power, but also elegance and care. It was strange and yet, fascinating.

“Look at this one,” Lia murmured, pointing to an image of a woman dressed in a kimono, her hands tied with a flourish that mirrored the folds of her garment. “It’s beautiful.”

Noah nodded, his brow still furrowed. “It is,” he admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant. “But looks complicated.”

They moved into the next section, where the gallery shifted from history to abstract art. Ropes hung suspended from the ceiling, looping and twisting in gravity-defying arcs. Some installations were simple, resembling waves or vines, while others were chaotic tangles that seemed to pulse with energy.

Lia stopped in front of one particularly piece—a massive web of crimson rope that seemed to expand and contract with the airflow in the room. At its center was a suspended a gold ornament, bound so intricately that it seemed to hover like a captured treasure.

“How the hell did they do this,” Noah muttered to himself, his curiosity breaking through his earlier reserve. He stepped closer, crouching slightly to observe the knots securing the installation to the floor and ceiling. “It’s flawless. If you pull at one knot, the whole thing would collapse.”

“Kind of like trust,” Lia said thoughtfully.

He glanced up at her, caught off guard by her comment.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Like trust.”

They lingered for a few moments before following the signs toward the live demonstration. The corridor opened into a large space with seating arranged in a semicircle around a low platform. A few people were already gathered, chatting quietly or flipping through their brochures.

On the platform, a man and a woman prepared for the demonstration. The woman was standing in the center, barefoot and wearing a beige tight bodysuit. The man was dressed in simple black clothes. He was arranging coils of rope on a low table beside him.

Noah and Lia found a spot where to stand on the side, close enough to see the details but not so close as to feel conspicuous. Lia noticed Noah’s posture relax slightly as he leaned forward, his cap shielding his face from view momentarily as his arm rubbed at Lia’s shoulder.

Moments later, the room quieted and the demonstrator stepped forward, bowing slightly before addressing the audience. 

“Thank you for joining us today. What you are about to see is a traditional art form that blends discipline and creativity. It requires trust, communication, and respect between the participants.”

A mix of curiosity and reverence settled over the room.

As the demonstration began, the audience watched. The demonstrator moved with a calm, rhythmic precision, guiding the rope around his partner’s arms and torso in fluid motions. Each knot was a statement, each loop a deliberate choice.

The demonstrator began with a length of smooth, red rope, holding it as though it were a living thing. He stepped behind his partner and guided her hands together at the small of her back. With a single motion, he looped the rope around her wrists, his fingers dancing as he secured the first knot. 

The room had grown so quiet that the soft rustle of the rope against the woman’s skin was audible, every sound amplified in the stillness. The demonstrator wrapped the rope twice more, forming clean, parallel lines that looked as though they had been measured with a ruler. He paused briefly to check her posture, a silent exchange passing between them before he resumed his work, the ends of the rope weaving into a decorative knot that held the arrangement in place.

Lia felt her breath catch as she watched. The movements were hypnotic. She could feel Noah’s steady breathing behind her, as well as the way his chest rose and fell a little more deeply than before. 

As the man finished securing the final knot, the woman flexed her fingers, the subtle movement testing the hold. The demonstrator stepped back, bowing slightly to acknowledge the completion of the first step. The woman returned the bow, her restrained hands adding an unexpected grace to the gesture.

The audience remained silent. The room felt charged, as though everyone was holding their breath in unison.

Lia shifted slightly, and that was when she noticed how close Noah had leaned in. She could feel the faint warmth of his breath near her ear, each exhale brushing softly against her skin. His heartbeat was steady but insistent, a subtle rhythm she could sense through the proximity of his body.

For a moment, the gallery and the audience faded away. All she could focus on was the quiet intensity of the scene before them, mirrored by Noah’s quiet intensity beside her. The blend of concentration and restraint in his posture made her wonder what he was thinking—if he was thinking the same things she was. 

Lia felt her own pulse quicken, her fingers tightening on the edges of her brochure. She didn’t say a word, afraid that even the softest whisper might shatter the spellbinding stillness of the room. Instead, she turned her attention back to the platform, where the demonstrator was already preparing for the next sequence. But the sensation of Noah’s presence intensified.

“Do you find that interesting?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety so that only she would catch his words.

Lia, so absorbed in the intricate process before her, missed the subtle suggestion in his tone. She nodded earnestly, her eyes never leaving the scene. Behind her, Noah smiled, a sly curl of amusement tugging at his lips.

The rigger moved smoothly, his hands working with practiced ease to loop the red rope over the woman’s shoulders and around her chest, framing her torso in a symmetrical pattern. The interplay of rope against skin, the way it both restricted and enhanced her form, was mesmerizing to watch.

Noah, however, had shifted his focus to Lia.

His fingers slid down her arm, brushing her wrist lightly before curling around it. With deliberate slowness, he brought her hand behind her back. Lia hardly noticed, her attention still on the stage, until she felt him take her other wrist and guide it to meet the first.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The brochure dropped to the floor silently. 

Noah’s chest pressed closer, his body shielding hers from the view of the other spectators. His hand, large and strong, held both of her wrists in a resistant grip. The grip wasn’t painful—just firm enough to keep her still, to make her heart skip a beat.

She tried to look back at him, but her cheek met his.

“Imagine we’re in the bedroom,” he whispered, his voice dipping into a husky timbre that sent heat pooling low in her belly. “And your hands are tied at your back. Like this.”

To emphasize his point, he tightened his grip just enough to make her gasp softly. The edge of sweet discomfort prickled through her awareness, and she was acutely conscious of how exposed they were.

“Can you picture it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Noah’s grin deepened, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear. 

“Good. Would you be willing to do anything I say? While you’re tied up? Like her?”

“Yes.” Her answer was quick and breathless, her heart hammering in her chest as his words wove a spell around her.

His lips brushed the corner of her jaw, his breath hot against her skin. 

“Can I be honest? I can picture it, too” his tone was so seductive that Lia had to press her thighs together. “I’ve pictured it so many times already. I’d make you get on your knees...” With his thumb he traced circles on the inside of her wrist. “And after that, I’d do whatever I want to you, with the only intention of pleasuring you. How does that sound?”

Lia’s pulse quickened, her lips parting.

Before she could speak, the rigger on stage gave a gentle tug to the ropes, shifting the model’s position. The sudden movement pulled Lia’s attention back to the demonstration, her cheeks flushed with both excitement and awareness of the people around her—and at the hard thing pressing against her back. 

Back to her senses, she muttered, “you’re getting a boner, Noah.”

She was not facing him, but she could tell he had looked down at his own pants. 

“Yes, I am. Shit.” He released her fast and adjusted his trousers, taking a single step away from her and looking around coyly.

Lia looked at him over her shoulder and nearly snorted. Noah send her a playful glare. 

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll have time to finish this.”

As he stepped back slightly, giving her space, Lia felt the loss of his warmth but couldn’t quite shake the lingering heat of his words. She tried to get her attention back to the stage, trying to refocus, but her mind was already far away, spinning with possibilities Noah had just whispered into existence.

The demonstration ended and everyone clapped. A couple of minutes later, Noah and Lia walked hand in hand to the workshop section, where they tried to learn the basic of knots and ended up cracking up at clumsiness they both showed at it. Lia had stayed frozen for a full ten minutes trying to understand where the teacher had instructed to pull the rope through, and Noah had at least tried, only to get his own hands tangled in the mess of rope. Lia teased him about not having learnt anything from the book he had at home. He was quick to retaliate, stepping closer to nibble playfully at her ear, whispering that he hadn’t had anyone to practice with before. 

“Now I have you,” he said, “and I plan on getting really good at it.”

At the souvenir shop afterward, they made a donation to support the various artists who had contributed to the exhibition. Lia bought a history book, paying for it along with a set of black-and-red cotton ropes that Noah dropped onto the counter. 

“They might not let us take a katana home, but I’m sure there’s no problem with a few ropes,” he stated.

The day in Tokyo was eventful. They walked a lot, saw a lot, laughed a lot and shared plenty of kisses in hidden corners of the big city. They returned home with their hands full of bags and their feet aching, though the discomfort was soon forgotten when they sat down in Hana’s tea room. They enjoyed a quiet conversation with Grandma, recounting the things they’d done and seen—leaving out a few details, of course—as they sipped lukewarm tea before heading to bed.  

Upstairs, with most of the lights in the house off and their shopping bags piled on the desk, Noah changed into his sleep shirt and sweats and waited for Lia to finish brushing her teeth in the bathroom. 

He was about to flop on the bed when she called out to him. 

“Noah, could you grab my sleeping shirt?” Lia’s voice came from the bathroom.

“You mean my shirt,” he replied with a hint of amusement, moving to her suitcase and rummaging around to retrieve it.

“It’s been mine for years now. You lost your chance to reclaim it long ago—” Her words trailed off as she entered the bedroom, only to freeze in place. She stood there in her bra and panties, and Noah, instead of holding her shirt, had something else entirely in his hands: the pair of kitty ears and the choker she’d impulsively bought in Osaka. 

One in each hand, he lifted them slowly, inspecting them with raised brows.

“What... is this?” he asked, looking up at her, intrigued.

Lia’s shoulders slumped, her cheeks flushing. 

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Oh? And why not? What exactly are you planning to do with it?” He cocked an eyebrow, studying her reaction with growing interest.

She stepped forward, reaching to snatch them from his hands, but he quickly tucked them behind his back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Did you buy these for me?”

She huffed, barely hiding a reluctant smile. “Can you just forget you ever saw them and put them back, please?”

“No chance.”

“Noah!” she exclaimed, her tone halfway between a scold and a plea.

“I think I need to see you wearing these,” he murmured, lifting the kitty ears in one hand, his eyes then drifting to the choker in the other, as though savoring the thought.

Lia gave him a pointed look, her lips pressed together to hide her amusement. “You will. One day. But not here. Now, please—put it back?”

“Put it on.”

“Noah…”

He paused, then added with a gentler tone, “Alright. Then, let me put it on you.” His voice softened, but his eyes held a playful gleam that made it impossible to deny him.

She took a slow breath, biting her lower lip as she debated. Part of her wanted to let him have his way, but they were at Grandma’s house, of all places. However, she couldn’t deny how his expression—the mix of pleading and challenge—made her pulse quicken.

“You’re trouble,” she finally said, her tone half-resigned, half-amused.

Noah smirked, tempted to raise his fist.

“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice dipping into a more serious tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

Obediently, Lia turned. She started to lift her hair, but he was quicker, his fingers brushing along her nape in a deliberate, lingering caress. Her breath hitched as he fastened the choker, slipping it around her neck. His arms grazed her shoulders as he clasped it, and he gently tugged her hair free to let it cascade down her back.

When she turned to face him, her heartbeat thudding, she saw him struggling to maintain his composure. He handed her the kitty ears with a quiet intensity in his eyes. She took them, placing them on her head, pushing her long hair back with a shy smile.

As she stood there, arms falling to her sides, he took a step back to take her in fully. His gaze fell on the choker, and she saw the way his playful smirk vanished, replaced by something deeper, something raw.

“Fuck.” 

There was a beat of silence. Lia blinked as she read his expression, then her eyes dropped to the bulge that had appeared down his front, and she felt a surge of power curse through her. 

Yes, she thought. Fuck it.

Her hands went to the laces of his joggers, and the sudden motion snapped Noah out of his trance. 

He caught her wrists. “No.” 

She froze. She waited, her breath catching. Then he continued, his tone dropping lower, dripping with command. 

“Get on your knees.”

Her stomach flipped. Oh, God.

Slowly, she sank to her knees, the soft carpet on the wooder floor brushing her legs as she looked up at him with brown doe eyes. Maybe it was a risk, but she took her hands back to his laces, and this time, he didn’t stop her. He let her undo them and pull his sweats down as he peeled his t-shirt off quickly, discarding it onto the floor. Lia pushed his underwear down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. 

“You’re gonna suck me, right?” he asked with strain. “I need you to s—”

Lia cut him off by wrapping her fingers around the base of his length and lifting it slightly to drag her tongue along the underside. She started at the base, tracing the thick vein that pulsed beneath her touch, all the way to the head. 

“Lia… Fuck.” 

She took her time, savoring the weight of him in her hand, her tongue exploring every inch. When she finally began to bob her head, his sharp inhale was all the encouragement she needed. Everything that came out from his mouth after were moans and praise.

“That’s it. God,” he murmured, “the mouth you have…”

The pride that filled her was electric, and it must have shown in her eyes because Noah’s lips quirked into a grin even as he struggled to maintain his composure. 

“You like that, Lia? You like sucking my cock?”

She couldn’t say yes—not with her mouth full—, so she doubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks and taking him deeper. His features contorted as though caught between pleasure and pain, and she felt his fingers move to her head, his hands tangling in her hair as he helped guide her movements. 

“Keep going, baby.” His words were choked, punctuated by grunts. “Just like that. Yes.”

He looked down at her again, thinking he must have done something extraordinary in his life to deserve this—to have such a beautiful girl on her knees with her mouth full of him. On top of that, her desire and enjoyment were palpable in every moment. Knowing he was making her happy by having her at his mercy ignited a possessive thrill that rushed through him.  

His hands caressed her scalp, guiding her motions. Lia closed her eyes, her tongue working with deliberate twists and touches. She tried to take him deeper, twisting her tongue to draw more sounds from him, her confidence soaring with each groan that escaped his lips.  

Then, with that voice of his, that low, deep tone that never failed to leave her weak, his hands tightened in her hair as she murmured, “You’re such a good girl.” The praise was so raw it almost undid her. Heat flooded her body as she thought she might come just from his words alone. “You look so pretty on your knees, baby.” 

One hand slid from her hair to her chin, his touch gentle despite the fire in his eyes. He tilted her face upward, and as her lips released him, his cock slipped out of her mouth, a string of saliva connecting them. Her tongue darted out to lick it away before she bit her lip, wanting more. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” he admitted, his voice rough as his dark gaze trailed to her neck and the baby pink collar still snug there. “I’m never letting you take that choker off.”

Lia thought he would let her finish him, that she’s have him falling apart in her hands—and mouths—but Noah had other plans. Taking himself in his hand, he helped her rise to her feet. His hands cupped her cheeks, pulling her into a kiss that stole her breath. He didn’t give a fuck about tasting himself on her lips. 

The kiss was all-consuming, leaving her dizzy as he walked her backward toward the low bed. 

Once her knees hit the mattress, he guided her down, his hands slipping to the waistband of her panties. 

“Take off your bra.”

She obeyed without hesitation—she was Noah’s good girl—, unhooking the clasp and discarding the thin bra next to her. Noah tugged her panties down, tossing them aside before covering her body with his.  He trailed a path of kisses from her lower belly to her chest, kissing and licking her nipples and then sucking at her neck at the same time his cock made its way inside of her, making her gasp and grab onto his shoulders.  

With the friction of the bodies moving, the movements sent the kitty headband on her head slipping back. With a quick hand, Noah removed it, letting it rest on the pillow next to Lia’s head. 

“The choker stays,” his voice declared against her ear. His voice was low, possessive, and his words were followed by another murmuring that sounded very much like a “you’re mine”. He buried his face in her neck and thrust into her again and again. 

“Open your legs wider, Lia,” he urged. “That’s it. Good girl.”

She moaned in response. 

“Say my name.” Noah instructed. It was a command, a desperate one. There was something raw in the way he said it—a need he couldn’t suppress. He needed to hear his name on her lips. Over and over and over. 

“Noah, please.”

“Yes, Lia,” he groaned, his pace quickening. “Say it again. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you need.”

“More, Noah. Please.”

He would give her more. He would give her everything. 

“Lia.” His voice was a mantra as his lips found hers again. 

“Noah,” she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut as her body surrendered.  

“Lia,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she breathed. She was barely present, her words more a reflex than conscious thought. 

“Lia, open your eyes,” he said, his voice softer now. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and the world shifted. 

Darkness enveloped the room, and her breath caught in her throat. Noah wasn’t on top of her anymore. He wasn’t naked—and neither was she.

He was lying on his side of the bed, propped on one elbow, his expression etched with concern as he patted her cheek. 

“Lia,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Oh, Jesus…

“Were you having a nightmare?” He asked. 

Lia’s hands shot to her neck, only to find there was no choker clasped around it. Her movement didn’t escape Noah’s notice, and his gaze narrowed suspiciously. 

“Was someone hurting you?”

“N—no, nothing like that,” she stammered, shaking her head. 

“That’s what I thought,” he added, his voice turning into something more of a tease, “because you were moaning my name.”

Lia froze. Uh, oh.

So… She had been having a wet dream.

And Noah knew. 

“Wanna tell me what you were dreaming about?”

Before she could respond, his hand slipped under the covers and under the waistband of her pajama pants and panties. His fingers grazed her, and he cursed in surprise as they came away with slick. 

“What the hell was I doing to you that got you this wet?” he asked, his voice rough now, desire flooding his tone. 

Lia could only close her eyes, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as his fingers began to circle her clit.

“You’re not going to tell me?” He pressed. 

She shook her head, biting her lip to suppress a moan. 

“Maybe I won’t let you come, then,” he threatened, his tone playful but edged with real intent. 

Her eyes flew open, shocked, and her hands moved instinctively to his wrist to keep his hand in place. 

“It’s a surprise,” she said, her voice breathy as his fingers circled her clit again. She moved her hand to his crotch, then, where she was met with his obvious erection, cock straining against the fabric of his sweats.

“A surprise?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I promise to tell you once we’re back home.” 

“And why can’t you tell me now?” His voice dropped, his curiosity turning almost predatory. 

“Because if I tell you, I don’t think you’ll be able to keep it together. And Grandma is a few doors down.”

That obviously only heightened his interest, his eyes darkening with frustration and amusement in equal measure. But he trusted her.  She was smart, and her reasoning—even if infuriating—was probably sound. He could still have her anyway, and he’d be content by just being inside of her and barely moving. 

“Fine,” he relented, but a low escaped him as he added. “You’re lucky I’m a patient man and you’re adorable when you’re having wet dreams.”

That only made Lia blush harder as she playfully pushed at him. 

His hands moved quickly from then, tugging at her waistband as she helped him out of his clothes. Pajamas and underwear were discarded with a shared urgency, their hands brushings and lips touching as they worked together. 

When the last clothing barrier was gone, Noah retrieved a condom from nearby and rolled it on with ease. He settled himself between her thighs and under the quilt. His weight against her was always comforting, grounding.

The way he looked at her, like she was his entire world, made her pulse race. 

“I’ll take this,” he murmured, “but you’re telling me everything as soon as we’re back in the States.”

And with that, he surged forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that silenced any response she might have given, the night stretching out before them in whispered sighs and muffled moans.

At the first stretch, Lia gasped. The first thrust never failed to make her brace herself against Noah’s shoulders, her fingers clutching for stability as she adjusted to the feeling of fullness. She had learned in their short time together as a couple that Noah always watched her intently in this moment. His expression conveyed so many emotions. His jaw was tight. There was a small wrinkle between his brows, and a dark unrelenting hunger in his eyes that contrasted with the careful gentleness of his love for her. 

As he began to move, her body relaxed. It was a dance, a symphony of shared breaths and whispered sighs, their connection running deeper than just physical pleasure. 

One of Noah’s hands slid to cradle the side of her head, his thumb brushing her forehead tenderly. With the other, he gripped her wrist and pinned her arm above her head. Lia let out a soft exhale and moved her free hand to rest beside the one he held captive, silently asking him to hold her completely.

Understanding, a cheeky smile curved Noah’s mouth. He pressed closer to her, meeting her yearning expression with one of his own before he dived to kiss her, teeth and tongue and all. 

It was slow, but it spoke louder than words. The eye contact making both weak in each other’s arms. Not even five minutes into it, Lia wriggled her wrist and Noah released her hands. Her finger found Noah’s face, and she dragged a finger along his lips, wet from her kisses. He caught it between his teeth with a teasing bite before letting it go, his features contorting with rising pleasure. 

“I’m not far,” he whispered, his voice tight. 

“Me neither,” she managed. “Can you…?”

“Yeah.”

He knew exactly what she needed. 

His fingers found her clit, rubbing as he increased his pace. He was tempted to cover Lia’s mouth with his other hand, but instead, he let it be, allowing the tension between them to coil tighter and tighter, their breathing growing ragged.

When Lia’s orgasm took hold of her, Noah thrust one last time, making her back arch even more. A loud sob escaped her lips, and that’s when Noah did cover her mouth, muffling the sound as his face buried itself in the curve of her neck. His body trembled with his release, spasms overtaking him as he spilled into the condom. 

Lia’s body shuddered beneath him, her legs locking around his waist as she bucked against him, riding out the last ripples of her pleasure. 

In the stillness that followed, Noah’s weight pressed her into the mattress, and she kept hugging him tightly, not ever letting go. For a long while, neither of them spoke. 

Noah’s mind wandered, and in the quiet of the night, with Lia’s heart beating against his own, he reflected on their past and every step, every scratch and heartbreak that had led them inevitably to this moment. 

Feeling more settled and thankful than ever, he whispered against her skin, “All my life, I was waiting for you without knowing it.”

Lia blinked, adjusting to the darkness in the room to find his eyes. Her fingers traced his face, her touch reverent as she admired the man he had become. “All those years,” she replied softly, “you deserved a better version of me.”

“It doesn’t matter what version I deserved,” he replied, his voice filled with conviction as he touched her pink cheek with the bend of his index finger. “I had you. I have you now, and I’ve loved every version of you.” 

Her eyes welled with emotion as she leaned up, brushing her lips against his as she promised, “You’re mine, Noah.”

— prev. chapter | chapter fourteen

Taglist:

@somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel | @thecoyotescry | @bluestdai | @lma1986

@sweetwombatpizza | @missduffsblog | @shilohrosechicken | @jilliemiw86 | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

@chey-h | @ferduttini | @dominuslunae

[mookymilksims]

I was accused of being a drama queen and told I should be blocked for starting drama, while the person who said that didn’t even bother to block me themselves.

Then, I started noticing a lot of people who had liked the shady posts about me a month ago suddenly hearting my posts again.

At first, I thought maybe something had happened behind the scenes, causing people to reconsider, even though I’ve been minding my own business and going back to my usual content—without talking about the situation, even privately.

Then, a post I made did pretty well for someone like me, and I saw this narrative being spun around that same time.

I actually planned to spare you all the details because I think this community has a huge misogyny problem that nobody really cares to address, and I wanted the focus to remain on respecting my work, not fueling more drama.

But now, a whole month later, I see the same narrative being pushed again, so let's just clear this up once and for all and move on, yeah?

First of all, this is a bad look. Are you mad because you got blocked? Mad you think I needed you to reblog me immediately? Mad that people took one side of the story but you refuse to share yours because it "doesn’t matter"? Mad that I blocked you before the incident even happened a month ago?

The ccfinds blog in question has never reblogged my work.

For weeks, I tagged them on many of my posts, and they still never reblogged. One of those posts still have the tags on them, as I pointed out over a month ago.

That same blog consistently missed my tags, but never missed the tags of white creators who uploaded the same day as me.

The ccfinds blog has a history of ignoring small creators in general, but especially small creators of color.

It’s funny how they only seem to “find” the tags of small creators of color once those posts have gained enough notes on their own, without any help from the ccfinds blog.

Then, suddenly, they reblog it.

And, suddenly, after I called them out, this blog started reblogging small creators of color a lot faster about a month ago. So much so, it was noticed by the same creators of color this cc finds blog typically ignores. (To make this even clearer: they were suddenly reblogging small creators of color more frequently to make it look like they aren't racist.)

I didn’t even realize this until I asked other small creators of color about it.

This is already KNOWN about you in creator spaces behind the scenes.

So, if you don’t like me, AND despite suddenly reblogging small creators of color (who you typically ignore), you still never reblogged me.

Never. Not once.

After I publicly addressed this, you messaged me claiming you went looking for my tags but couldn’t find them. Well, of course—you couldn’t find them because I had already blocked you.

I only need to be told once that you typically ignore poc. After realizing you were intentionally ignoring me, then poc telling me, you typically ignore them unless their posts do well without you, it's literally all I needed to know.

Let me be clear: I don’t know why you think I should continue tagging you when:

You never reblogged me,

This pattern spanned weeks and several posts,

You were actively reblogging other creators (white creators, to be specific) who uploaded the same day as me.

It’s not about doing it “immediately.” Everyone else I tag gets to it within a week or two, sometimes even days. This was never about timing—it’s the total absence.

The pattern was clear. I noticed it because it was consistent.

I used your tag because it fit my work—it’s an xto3 conversion, and you’re an xto3conversion finds blog, right?

But here’s the thing: other ccfinds blogs? They reblog EVERYONE’S work regardless of popularity. That’s why I respect them the most—they meant it when they said they wanted to support creators.

Your blog doesn’t feel like that. It feels like a table people can’t sit at if the host doesn’t like them. And this isn’t just my experience—other small creators, especially creators of color, have noticed this too.

And as for BelleKenobi... publicly “wondering” what you did wrong, but privately ignoring my message?

A whole month later?

What happened to “touching grass,” sis?

You’re this disgruntled a whole month later?

I directly asked you about it after you made that post—told you to say it with your whole chest—but you ignored it. So why are you acting like you’re still wondering what you did wrong now?

Is this not you ducking me?

You’re wondering. You’re curious. It’s a month later, and you’re still confused. But you had all this time to respond.

Really seems like you’re just acting confused publicly to protect your image.

You see, I cleared you a month ago. I apologized publicly and privately. Then you ran off and made that passive-aggressive post.

Despite knowing you’re still a bully, despite still associating with other bullies in this community, and even after harassing people and laughing about it in a Discord server for everyone to see, I still cleared you from that situation.

Because it was not your blog.

But then you made that shady post, and people saw the real you.

You can’t put that on me because, again, I cleared you from the drama. You inserted yourself back into it when you made that passive-aggressive post.

Even if people didn’t know you to be passive-aggressive or a bully before, they certainly thought so after that post.

You could’ve just kept quiet, or even publicly accepted the apology. Played it off like you were confused—but you messed up your own optics with that post.

Then I wouldn’t have had to mention to everyone that you’ve been a mean girl in this space. You could’ve kept your innocence, but you didn’t.

I was going to let it slide.

I could’ve said, “you’re not the blog, but you’re still a bully, so I don’t care”—but I have something called integrity.

A bully is going to bully, and you would've slipped up anyway.

Everyone would’ve seen it for themselves, whether I said something or not.

Which you did immediately after my apology, by the way.

Now, a whole month later, you're being a hypocrite to the oh-so-kind advice you gave me before?

Chat, is this "touching grass"???

Both of you do not like me. You didn’t before I called this out, you didn’t during, and you don’t now.

So why are you crying about being blocked by someone you don’t like and have never supported?

Does this have anything to do with the fact I’m not canceled? That people didn’t block me in solidarity? That you and all your friends have to like each other's posts now to make it look like you’re still popping? That I still have a YouTube channel and an amazing Discord server? That people still fuck with me? That you no longer have access to me? That I put up a boundary? That I block people who clearly do not like me?

Here’s my advice: block people who don’t like you, instead of searching them up to see if you’re blocked. Then you’ll gain the same peace of mind I have.

[pascaloverx]

stockholm syndrome

Summary: You’ve just started working at a local diner, where whispers swirl about the disappearance of the previous waitress. While some believe she simply grew weary of her ordinary life, the mystery surrounding her vanishing lingers. On your first day, a man with piercing blue eyes catches your eye. His name is Titus, and he was a frequent customer of the missing waitress.

Author's Note: This fanfic will romanticize abduction; please be aware of this. It may also include violence and inappropriate language. This fanfic features characters from the short film Regulars (2023).

PREVIEW

Your shift is almost over. Tonight, the diner will stay open late to welcome those who aren’t feeling the Christmas spirit—the lonely souls, adrift in the world. Much like yourself, newly arrived in this small town after losing your father to a cruel illness and falling out with your mother.

This Christmas Eve, you find yourself waiting tables to cover the rent for your tiny apartment. Two other coworkers are in the back of the diner, gossiping about the former waitress who vanished some time ago. They’re whispering their theories about what might have happened to her, leaving you alone to clean tables and serve the customers.

"Are you... are you open?" A blonde man with a clean-shaven face and captivating blue eyes steps into the diner, looking extremely nervous. Last Christmas plays softly in the background—you had set it on your phone while tidying the tables, hoping to drown out your coworkers’ gossip. "Obviously, it is. What a foolish question to ask," he adds, glancing around with a hint of nervousness and insecurity. In his hand, he holds something, fiddling with it in a way that seems to calm him.

“It’s not foolish; it must be rather unusual to find a diner open on Christmas Eve. But to answer your question, yes, we are open. Please, make yourself comfortable, sir,” you reply, walking to the counter to fetch a menu.

“You don’t need to call me sir,” he murmurs so softly it’s almost inaudible, still clutching what looks like a fidget toy. The gentle tone of his voice is oddly comforting. You smile, trying to think of a kind response. He seems like someone in need of kindness. As you step closer to hand him the menu, you notice a cut on his forehead.

“And how would you prefer to be addressed, sir?” you ask, your gaze briefly lingering on the cut on his forehead while he alternates between glancing at the menu and meeting your eyes.

“You can call me by your name—I mean, my name. Titus, that’s it,” he stammers, tripping over his words. You find it endearing how he seems ready to combust just from talking to you.

“My name is Y/N, since we’re introducing ourselves. So, Titus, what would you like to eat or drink?” you ask, pulling a notepad from the pocket of your apron to take his order.

“A cup of black tea, if possible…” he says, handing you the menu. As you reach to take it, your hands brush ever so slightly. His hands are icy, almost freezing to the touch.

“Forgive me for being forward,” you say softly, “but while I heat the water for your tea, may I fetch a bandage for the cut on your forehead?”

"My cut?" he asks innocently, as he touches his face in search of the wound. When he takes too long to find it, you decide to take his hand and guide it to where the cut on his forehead is. He lets out a pained groan as soon as his fingers make contact with the spot, slightly bleeding.

"I'm sorry, I should have realized it would hurt. Wait here while I heat the water for your tea and fetch the first aid kit," you say, gently releasing his hand, noticing the slight surprise in his eyes at the gesture.

You quickly head to the back of the diner, noticing that your coworkers are no longer there. They must have slipped out quietly while you were attending to Titus. There’s no time to dwell on it now—the water is already heating in the electric kettle, and you still need to find the first aid kit. You locate it in a compartment near the staff lockers and hurry back to Titus.

"I hadn’t... I hadn’t noticed this cut. Is it very deep?" Titus asks, his voice trembling slightly as he struggles to form a coherent question. You sit down across from him and begin gently cleaning the wound on his forehead. "It’s not too deep, but it could’ve gotten worse if left untreated," you reply, your tone calm and steady as you focus on the task at hand.

"Do you often take care of your customers' physical well-being?" Titus asks, trying to push past his shyness as you finish applying the bandage.

"Actually, I used to dress wounds for my father all the time—he was quite accident-prone. Compared to his injuries, yours seems almost nothing," you explain, placing a Barbie band-aid on his forehead. He smiles gently at you, his eyes softening. There's an unexpected warmth in the moment, the two of you now closer than before.

"I bet you'd rather be with your family tonight instead of here, making tea and dressing the wounds of a complete stranger," Titus says, pressing his lips together as if regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth.

"I won’t lie, I’d rather not be working. But your company is actually making everything feel a bit easier. And I couldn’t be with my family. My father recently passed away, and my mother... she wouldn’t want to spend Christmas with me," you say, feeling as though you've opened up too much to a stranger, but something about Titus’s presence makes you feel oddly at ease. An awkward silence hangs in the air for a moment, and you quickly decide to fetch Titus’s tea, returning to the table with a steaming cup of black tea. You place it in front of him, offering a small smile.

"I’m sorry about your father," Titus says softly, his voice sincere as he takes a sip of his tea. "I too lost someone I cared about recently." You nod, murmuring a quiet "thank you," and start to step away from the table, the weight of the conversation lingering between you. But before you can move too far, Titus gently takes hold of your hand. His touch is soft, almost as though he's afraid you'll pull away.

"Would you stay with me for just a little while longer?" he asks, his voice hesitant, tinged with an uncertainty that surprises you. His eyes search yours, as if waiting for you to decide. Something about the way he asks makes you feel as though he’s not just looking for company, but perhaps something more—a moment of solace in the quiet of the night.

You consider your options for a moment, but as you meet Titus’s gentle gaze, something inside you softens. His eyes, filled with a quiet yearning, draw you in, and without thinking, you nod. "Of course, I can stay a little longer," you say, your voice calm yet warmer than before.

Titus's expression brightens slightly, a hint of relief crossing his features, and he gives a small, appreciative smile. The air between you both feels lighter now, as though, for a brief moment, the world outside had faded away, leaving just the two of you in this quiet corner of the diner.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

I’m going actually insane rn tbh

[team5ds]

the worst part is i can't even say he's wrong. they certainly did figure out how to contribute the city by joining the wrgp. but like. this is one of those things where it literally does not make sense. this is insane levels of logic. "we're not sure how to contribute to the city. we think entering a magic the gathering tournament will help." like. imagine saying that fr when your parents ask what you're going to do after you graduate college. "idk. thought i'd play card games and figure it out, man"

[the-worms-in-your-bones]

I want more lore about gallifrey and how time lord society works, but at the same time I love making shit up about it

[alittleemo]

.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!

[icy-fressia]

Not to mention that problems can not only with such moments, sometimes it is not clear how characters should address each other. For example, choice "Вы" or "Ты". Especially in relation to Odile, the King and some other characters

fuck me dude ISAT has a lot of "replace this word" in the middle of the text line type of structure

how the fuck am i supposed to translate this into a case-sensitive language like russian

[darknight3904]

It Burns For You

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ. ᴏᴏᴄ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴇʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ. ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ!

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

Coriolanus is 12 when he sees you for the first time. Your red uniform is pressed perfectly and your school bag looks brand new. Your lunch consisted of a hearty-looking sandwich with roast beef and lettuce and a container of fresh fruit that had his mouth-watering.

"Do you want a piece? Our maid always packs too much and I can never finish it. You can have some if you want." Your voice fills his ears

A delicate-looking hand is holding a juicy-looking strawberry in front of him. He reaches for it and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to shove it in his mouth. Instead, he takes a small bite and thanks you for sharing.

"Don't you have a lunch today?" You ask

He doesn't. The school had said they would start supplying the students with lunches soon but how soon? Coriolanus had already been attending for a number of years and still nothing.

"I already ate it." He lied

"You're still hungry though. You can have the rest." You say with a smile as you push your fruit bowl to him.

"Is it your first day?" He asks

"Yes, my mother thought that my governess wasn't doing a good job so she had my father enroll me here. I miss being at home with my new kitten though. She has long white hair and she is the cutest thing in the whole world." You said

Coriolanus can't believe that you had your own governess, let alone a pet to call your own. He later learns from Arachne that your father became incredibly rich by manufacturing weaponry for the Capitol. Despite your inherent wealth, you've never flashed it around him.

You and Coriolanus are 15 when you discover all the lies he tells at school about his family. He had left his uniform jacket behind on his chair and you got his home address from Sejanus, meaning to give it back so he'd have it for tomorrow. Instead, you had discovered the Snow's decrepit-looking building and barely functioning penthouse. Coriolanus' heart nearly stops when he emerges from his room to see you and his Grandma'am sitting together as she compliments your shoes.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, ready for your judgment and teasing words

"I wanted to return your jacket, Coryo. You'll need it for tomorrow."

The red of the jacket in your arms matches his face as he ushers you to the door, trying to hide the fact that Tigris was preparing cabbage in the kitchen that would undoubtedly stink the entire place up with the scent of the Snow's poverty.

"Stop rushing me, your cousin invited me to stay for dinner." You say trying to stop the way he is leading you to the door.

"You don't want what she is making. Tigris is a terrible cook." He said

Tigris lets out a shout of disagreement from the stove and Coriolanus ignores it.

"How about, I go out and get something to add to the meal Tigris is cooking, and by the time I get back you change your attitude about me staying for dinner Coryo. "

And with that, you walk out the door and slam it in his face. He's rather stunned at your declaration but knows you're serious. He rushes around their home, trying to clean up what he can while Tigris laughs at his frantic motions. Then, just as he was debating whether or not he wanted to change out of his uniform, you return from your short trip to the closest market.

"I wasn't sure what Tigris is cooking so I got a couple of things." You say placing the bags on the table.

Coriolanus is sure you spent a fortune on what is in these bags. Fresh bread accompanied by a sickly sweet fruit spread and a block of butter sits in one while the other holds something else in a brown box. You take your seat next to him at the ugly little table he has eaten too many meals at and cut a piece of the bread for Grandma'am. He is worried when Tigris starts portioning out the cabbage she cooked on the stove. Coriolanus watches your expression as you take a bite but nothing that he expected happens. You don't knit your brows in disgust or get up to leave and take your fresh bread and mysterious box with you. Instead, you go back for a second bite and compliment what Tigris has done with the food.

He sits stiffly next to you and can barely accept the slice of bread you offer him. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom and Tigris reaches across the table and pinches his shoulder.

"Stop sitting like that, Coryo!" She scolds

"Like what?" He asks,aware that Tigris meant how oddly straight his back was.

"You're making her uncomfortable. You've been friends with her for years she isn't worried about what our home looks like." Tigris says

"She might not be but what happens when she goes to school tomorrow and talks?" He asks

He shuts up when he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening again.

"That was lovely Tigris. I've never had anything like it, I'll have to invite you all to my own home for dinner sometime. Our cook makes these pastries that are simply wonderful. They even get sold at local markets, which leads to this..."

His eyes widen when you finally unveil what was hiding in that second bag. A dozen expensive looking deserts sit in the brown box you brought, each one decorated differently.

"I hope I picked something everyone would like. I know Coryo mentioned that Grandma'am liked chocolate so I picked this one just for her."

Coriolanus feels a wide smile stretch across his face as you pass out your little desserts. His worries about you gossiping to their peers fade from view as he bites into what he thinks is a croissant. You laugh at his reaction and toss a napkin at his face which is most likely covered in the gooey fruit filling that was in his pastry.

He walks you back to your home that night and thanks you for making his night. He can't remember the last time Grandma'am had smiled from eating chocolate. You accept his thanks and gently tell him that he shouldn't be ashamed about his financial situation. He never gets to disagree with you though because a soft kiss is pressed to his lips followed by a rushed,

"Goodnight, Coryo! Thanks for the cabbage!"

He walks back to his own home with a jump in his step. Thoughts of you consume him as he smiles to himself, proud his first kiss was shared with you. He feels his heart burn with something that felt like it was going to come up and out his mouth as he finally made it back to his room, you officially had him wrapped around your finger.

Your room is flooded with sunlight the first time Coriolanus sees it. A soft, silky-looking bed spread sits atop one of the biggest beds he has seen as you beckon to your cat, Maisy to come and say hello to him. He looks at the oversized wooden dresser that sits against one wall. He sees the photograph of him and you that was taken a few weeks ago at your 17th birthday party nestled among little knickknacks. Books Coriolanus has never even heard of line your shelves as he you place a record on the player that sits on your desk. Soft sounds of a piano and the words from an unnamed singer fill your gorgeous room as he turns to you.

"Do you want to dance?" He finds himself asking

You accept and he leads you or well tries to. You're rather stiff and it turns out dancing is harder than it looks because he isn't any good at it either. You laugh as he trips over his feet and end up falling with him, landing on the ground entangled in each other. Your fingers brush his curls from his eyes as his nose brushes yours.

"What're you doing?" You ask quietly

"Nothing." He responds, his eyes flicking to your lips.

The moment his lips touch yours, a tingle shoots down his spine. This is a real kiss, not what you gave him when you were both 15. He cups your face and your hands are tangled in his hair as he deepens it. He felt his head spin as you moved against him, almost as if you wanted him to swallow you whole right here on your bedroom floor. A giddy feeling swelled in his chest when he pulled away for air.

"Coryo...what was that?" You ask

"I thought you'd know by now. That was a kiss, darling." He laughed brushing his thumb across your lip

"I know that...but why'd you give me one?" You ask

"Don't you know?" He smiles and places a chaste kiss on your lips "My heart, it burns for you, it always has."

Part 2 is out now!

Series Masterlist

[dalishious]

The Sanitized Lore of Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Tevinter is the heart of slavery in Thedas. This lore has been established in every game, novel, comic, and other extended material in the Dragon Age franchise to date that so much as mentions the nation. But in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, when we are finally able to actually visit this location for the first time… this rampant slavery we’ve heard so much about is nowhere to be found. It’s talked about here and there; Neve mentions The Viper has a history of freeing slaves, as does Rook themselves if they choose the Shadow Dragon faction as their origin, for example. But walking down the streets of Minrathous, you’d never know. Because Dragon Age: The Veilguard, for all its enjoyment otherwise, has one glaring issue: It’s too clean.

The world of Thedas is full of injustices. Humans persecute elves, fear qunari, and belittle dwarves. Mages of any race are treated like caged animals in most places. The nobility is corrupt. Although, Dragon Age has not always handled these injustices well, mind you. Many, many times I’ve found myself frustrated with moments that just feel like a Racism Simulator. But what makes it worth it, is when you can actually do something about it. These injustices are things that a good-aligned character strives to fight back against, maybe even for very personal reasons. Part of the power-fantasy for many minorities is that this fight feels tangible. I cannot arrange the assassination of a corrupt politician in real life, but I sure can get Celene Valmont stabbed to death in Dragon Age: Inquisition, for example. Additionally, these fictional injustices can be used to make statements on real life parallels, like any source of media. For example, no, the Chant of Light is not real, but acting as a stand-in for Catholicism, through a media analysis lens we can explore what the Chant of Light communicates on a figurative level.

When starting Dragon Age: The Veilguard and selecting to play as an elf – this should be unsurprising to anyone who is familiar with my bias towards them – I was fully prepared to enter the streets of Minrathous and immediately get called “knife-ear” or “rabbit”. But this did not happen. I thought perhaps it was just a prologue thing, but returning to Minrathous once again, there was not a single shred of disapproval from any NPC I encountered that wasn’t a generic enemy to fight. And even the generic enemies, the Tevinter Nationalist cult of the Venatori, didn’t seem to care at all that I was a lineage they deemed inferior before now. This is a stark difference from entering the Winter Palace in Dragon Age: Inquisition and immediately getting hit with court disapproval and insults. Are we now to believe that Tevinter has somehow solved its astronomical racism and classism problems in the ten years since the past game? Or perhaps are we to believe all the characters who have demonstrated Tevinter’s systemic discriminatory views were just lying or outliers? Because it makes absolutely no sense at all for this horribly corrupt nation to not have a shred of reactivity to an elven or qunari Rook prancing around. But here were are, and not a single NPC even recognizes my character’s lineage. And because this is so different from every single past game, it feels weird.

As an elf, you have the option to make a comment about how “too many humans look down on us” in one scene early in the game. You can also talk to Bellara and Davrin, the elven companions, about concerns that people won’t trust elves after finding out about the big bad Ancient Evanuris… but this is presented as if elves don’t already face persecution. It’s all so limited in scope that it could be all too easily missed if you are not paying very close attention, and coming into the game with pre-existing lore knowledge.

All this made it easy to first assume that the developers simply over-corrected an attempt to address the Racism Simulator moments. And if that was the case, than I would at least give credit to effort; they did not find the right balance, but they at least tried. However, the sudden lack of discrimination against different lineages in Dragon Age: The Veilguard is not the only sanitized example of lore present.

In Dragon Age: Origins, Zevran Arainai is a companion who is from the Antivan Crows; a group of assassins. He discusses in detail how the Crows buy children and raise them into murder machines through all kinds of torture. The World of Thedas books also describe how the Antivan Crows work, echoing what Zevran says and expanding that of the recruitment, only a select handful of those taken by the Crows even survive. When you start Dragon Age: The Veilguard as an Antivan Crow, you immediately unlock a re-used codex entry from the past, “The Crows and Queen Madrigal”, that says the following:

“His guild has a reputation to uphold. They are ruthless, efficient, and discreet. How would they maintain such notoriety if agents routinely revealed the names of employers with something as "banal" as torture.”

Ruthless, efficient, and discreet. Torture is banal. This is what the Crows were before Dragon Age: The Veilguard decided to take them in a very different direction. The Antivan Crows in this latest game are painted as freedom fighters against the Antaam occupation of Treviso. Teia calls the Crows “patriots”. And while I can certainly believe that the Crows would have enough motivation to fight back against the Antaam, given that it is in direct opposition to their own goals, I cannot understand why they are suddenly suggested to be morally good. They are assassins. They treat their people like tools and murder for money. Even as recent as the Tevinter Nights story Eight Little Talons, it is addressed that the Antivan Crows are in it for the coin and power, with characters like Teia being outliers for wanting to change that. It makes the use of the older codex all the more confusing, as it sets the Antivan Crows up as something they are no longer portrayed as.

I personally think it would have been really interesting to explore a morally corrupt faction in comparison to say, the Shadow Dragons. Perhaps even as a protagonist, address things like the enslavement of “recruits” to make the faction at least somewhat better. (They are still assassins, after all.) Instead, we’re just supposed to ignore everything unsavory about them, I suppose…

We could discuss even further examples. Like how the Lords of Fortune pillage ruins but it’s okay, because they never sell artifacts of cultural importance, supposedly. Or how the only problem with the Templar Order in Tevinter is just the “bad apples” that work with Venatori. I could go on, but I don’t think I have to.

It is because of all this sanitization, that I cannot believe this was simply over-correction on a developmental part. Especially when there is still racism in the game, in other forms. The impression I’m left with feels far deeper than that; it feels corporate. As if a computer ran through the game’s script and got rid of anything with “too much” political substance. The strongest statements are hidden in codex entries, and I almost suspect they had to be snuck in.

Between a Racism Simulator and just ignoring anything bad whatsoever, I believe a balance is achievable; that sweet spot that actually has something to say about what it is presenting. I know it is achievable, because there are a few bright spots of this that I’ve encountered in Dragon Age: The Veilguard too. For example, some of the codex entries like I mentioned, and almost all the content with the Grey Wardens thus far. It is a shame there is not more content on this level.

Dragon Age: The Veilguard is overall still a fun game, in my opinion. But it’s hard to argue that it isn’t missing the grit of its predecessors. The sharp edges have been smoothed. The claws have been removed. The house has been baby-proofed. And for what purpose?

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[erwinsvow]

it’s like you were put on this earth to bother rafe.

everyday, without fail, come some sort of request—rafe, let’s go get coffee. rafe, i want ice cream. rafe, i wanna go to bed. he tells you to go to bed and you whine immediately after, letting out a faint “not alone! not what i meant!” before he rolls his eyes, one huge hand settling on your hip and the other one on your back, throwing you over his shoulder and taking you to bed. 

once you finally get him there it’s all laughs and giggles and avoiding his gaze, getting shy again, refusing to tell him what you really want. he rolls his eyes and gives it to you hard, like he knows you need it, so you’ll fall asleep and let him finish his work in silence. and it works—for a few hours, that is. then you're up again, usually with more requests.

“rafe, they’re having a sale.” you fiddle with your R pendant, the way you always do when you want something and can’t find the words to just ask for it. for a girl pawing at his dick and begging for it raw half the time, you get awfully shy. 

“so? how many fuckin’ clothes do y’need?” 

“you’re the one who keeps ripping ‘em up! not my fault-”

he rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair.

"knock it off," he says, coming out louder and more frustrated than he meant.

then he watches you quiet down and scroll on your phone, biting your cheek. he thinks he messed up and made you cry. he feels bad the second it's done, because there’s definitely some pretty, tiny dress pulled up on the screen that you want to show him. 

he knows how your brain works at this point—you want him to get it for you, take you out to a cute dinner so you can wear it and then have him yank it off of you later that night. you won’t ask for it though, there’s your shyness again. 

you feel bad when he actually does buy you anything more than a six-dollar latte or a big ice cream that you can’t finish.

"what're you looking at?" he finally asks, not even a minute later, looking at your body resting on the complete other side of the bed now.

"nothing."

"you gonna do this right now?"

"do what?"

"just show me what you want."

"no, it's nothing. i'll just ask my other boyfriend for it, it's fine-"

before your sentence is finished, he's already on top of you, squishing your cheeks together, pinning you down. he stares into your eyes, maybe expecting tears, but they don't come. instead you look... satisfied. satisfied with yourself for riling him up like you wanted.

"yeah? other boyfriend?"

"jus' a joke, rafey." your voice comes out all quiet and squeaky since he's holding your face tight. your eyes are big and wide staring up at him. he hates that he's getting hard right now. he lets you go, rolling off and feeling your body sink into his bed.

“get your ass in the car.” it comes out as a statement, not a request. you comply immediately, leaning over to give him a wet, sloppy kiss before stumbling out of bed to grab your shoes. he gets up too, looking for his keys, when you come right back to give him a hug. you press your head against his chest, arms wrapped tight around his neck, eyes fluttering shut, breathing in his scent.

“thank you, rafe,” you murmur against his shirt.

“yeah, yeah, whatever,” he starts, but you don’t miss the way the tops of his ears are flushed with pink. “get the fuckin’ address for that place out-”

he does take you out to dinner, a cute place where he pulls out your chair for you and holds your hand in his on the table. he gets you flowers that match the color of your new dress, which are resting in the backseat of his car now. he kisses your cheek when he helps you put your jacket back on. then he slaps your ass when you’re getting into the passenger seat of his truck, because now it’s his turn to have fun with that dress.

later that night, close to sleep, you paw at his arm and ask for ice cream. the two of you are on the road five minutes later. he turns his head at the red light to watch you lick your cone. then you hold it up to his mouth so he can have some too, smiling and laughing when he takes a big bite.

he's starting to think he likes when you bother him for stuff.

[monicahar]

“my wife.”

how they address you. why does it make your heart skip a beat each time?

characters; neuvillette, wriothesley

—female pronouns obvi, aaaa this is so random😭 fluff, tad bit of crack, has suggestive themes/dirty jokes cause that's my humor in general, just tryna get into writing again heehaa don't mind me ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

NEUVILETTE always accompanies the term with unmatched affection. it rolls off his tongue perfectly like a match made in heaven, coupled with the serene image of you instantaneously appearing in his mind before he even thinks of the uttering the endearing term. he still finds it surreal that you are both even lawfully married, yet the way he calls you his wife is already on instinct. is it too presumptuous of him?

well, in the end, he can't find any means to worry about it when you seem to equally adore the nickname.

“ooohh, say it again, say it again!”

he can't tell whether he married a child or not, but he still obliges your request and calls you his wife affectionately once more.

meanwhile, furina nearly gags everytime she hears him say it so softly—like using any other tone when referring to you would land him in the hands of the fortress of meropide. sure—she might've been the one who set up both of you—but the drama and thrill akin to watching a romance film has delightfully ended, and she can only meddle so much in marital matters. the iudex just might actually have her head in a platter if she were to do anything mischievous at that point.

but while a happy neuvillette is running around announcing 'my wife' this and 'my wife' that, you are currently stuck on what to call him in return, sadly enough.

“at this point, i think i'm just going to call you daddy.”

it was unfortunate with the way he choked on some of the water he was drinking—well, thank goodness he didn't spill much as before. for this wasn't the first time you said something unprompted while he was in peace with his water—he can only internally sigh.

“and what exactly has influenced you to arrive at such a conclusion, my wife?” he does not miss the tiny shudder of your body that followed the endearment. your face burns a tad bit at that, and he softly chuckles.

“your effect on me is no joke, you know?” you pout at his amused smile, “the way you refer to me so sweetly makes me want to call you my dearest husband everytime.”

“i don't recall voicing any complaints. is something else holding you back from doing so?”

you nod solemnly in agreement at that, which prompts him to raise a brow in mild curiousity.

“thing is, i really like calling you by your first name. same with monsieur neuvilette. there's something mildly erotic within it—you get what i mean, hehehe...” he only stares at you, clearly unimpressed, and a bit concerned at the implication. you clear your throat, apologizing under your breath.

“still—it's such a devastating predicament to be unable to choose between the three.” you sigh defeatedly, moving to slump your entire weight on his lap. you mutter, “my dearest husband monsieur neuvillette...mmm, no, that's too long.”

chuckling at your dramatic antics, he plants a soothing hand on your waist, the other fixing your wrinkled clothing as you practically melt against his hold. “and you thought settling on daddy was the appropriate option?”

“i'm not hearing any objections.” you jest, feeling cheeky.

“please refrain from calling me such a thing in the eyes of the public atleast.”

“...huh? you're actually allowing it??”

WRIOTHESLEY on the other hand, says it as if he's flaunting. it leaves his lips like a taunt each time, indirectly telling the other party 'i have a hot wife and you dont' even though most of the time the people he mentions you to don't even know what you actually look like. it's silly, childish even, but you still love it nonetheless.

sigewinne and the other inmates have collectively told you that ever since you got married, he has never uttered your actual name to anyone else. some find it weird, some find it somehow disrespectful, and some are now convinced he's crazily obsessed with you, and now he's showing it off every chance he gets, much to everyone's dismay.

it's arrived to the point where a small percentage of people have actually forgotten about your name, and now refer to you as the duke's wife, or even duchess, to which you made a face at. that's kind of pushing it by then.

anywho, in the end, it's funny and endearing, maybe even makes you a bit giddy, but there is no way you're telling him that. the situation might escalate even more if possible.

“you know, my wife is very mean to me today.”

as a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around your waist, you resist the growing smile on your face, deciding to mess with your husband for a bit.

“is that so?” you continue your chores without a care in the world. he huffs.

“mhm. she won't look me in the eye the whole day, even though she seemed sooo happy last night.” face instantly burning, you hiss as you slap his arm in a fit of embarrassment, pulling a hearty chuckle from the man behind you.

“—and now she's hitting me as well. i can't believe this.” you both know very well he was not fazed in the slightest bit.

“if her husband wasn't such a pervert then maybe—”

his facade cracks as he forces out an awkward laugh, “hey now, baby, you know i'm nothing like that.”

“wriothesley.”

he clears his throat awkwardly, “okay, maybe a little. it's exclusive for you though! my wife doesn't have to be so mean about it, you're making me reallyyy sad here, y'know?”

there it is again, you think. that nickname. that damned word that makes you want to turn around and smash your lips against his and—wait, hold yourself together! don't forget the reason you're being cold to him!

“you deserve to feel remorse. i've been struggling to even move the whole day because of you.”

you go rigid.

you didn't mean for that to come out so bitter...oh no.

“oh. so that's what this is about.” you don't even have to turn around to know that there's a smug look on his stupidly handsome face, his grip on your waist turning into soothing circles as he presses a kiss to your neck.

“if my wife wanted a massage, she could've just said so.” it's husky when it leaves his mouth, leaving you to shiver with the chills he enunciates.

flustered, you completely disregard the way your knees buckle at the endearment laced with that low voice of his, hitting his arm once more, earning a tiny 'ouch' from him.

“pervert. i want rest, not another round!”

“heh, i didn't say anything about another round, my perverted wife.”

“you—” you are abrupt cut off as you yelp in surprise when your feet are raised off the ground, your face now much closer to your husband's as he carries you gently in his arms.

“shhh, just let me take you to bed. if my wife was feeling terrible the whole day, she should've just told me in the first place so she could stay in, don't you think?”

he's right, but you're still angry. “shut up.”

“just letting you know i'm not completely at fault, wife.” you attempt to ignore the furious beating of your heart, face burning at his smug expression. “i'm not the only one who wanted it.”

hsr version...? if i feel like it...🤔🤔