#good. you should be. this is no way to have a civil conversation and I refuse to sacrifice my own mental health to entertain you

[mindthelspace]

I definitely feel you about the very groupthinky leftist spaces. It sounds like in your case it got so bad you felt like you had to abandon your own judgement about your body in favour of Good Praxis.

I think when it comes to diet culture, you get a lot of typical-minding on both sides of the fence, where people assume that what was best for them will be what's best for everyone. Weight loss being harmful for one person doesn't mean it's harmful for everyone. And then on the other side, weight loss being great for one person doesn't mean it's what everyone should do.

Bodies and brains vary a lot, and you can't really one-size-fits-all them (literally and metaphorically), imo.

Institutional fatphobia is a very real thing, as is diet culture being screwed up in a lot of ways. But those are overarching social ills. They won't be solved by making random individuals feel evil for wanting to lose weight for health reasons. Just as making white people feel guilty for existing won't fix racism.

As for the history of the body positivity movement... movements tend to coalesce rather than be invented, so "Kinky men founded body positivity" sounds just as reductive as "David Jay invented asexuality" or- hell- "Marsha P Johnson started Pride."

Especially as, even in your podcast, it was really clear to me that NAAFA was a civil rights movement first and foremost, not a kink space or a dating space. (Otherwise, why would people have been complaining about events turning into meat markets? Surely that implies those people expected them not to be meat markets, right?)

... Anyway, I think I kind of get where you're coming from a bit more, here. It sounds like learning new information about NAAFA made you feel vindicated in what felt for a while like Doublebad Wrongthink.

(Ugh. Fuck the "sit down, shut up, and say the words" leftism of the 2010's. No political movement should oppose you thinking for yourself, or encourage performative groupthink at the expense of individual needs.)

Going to talk again about feedism now. Partly as a continuation of this and partly in response to your other reply to me, because I'd like to try and keep this conversation to one thread:

(Cut because personal kink talk- anyone who's lurking, click at your own risk)

Feedism has, historically, had a bit of a twin pincer problem: Firstly, the sexist domly dom feeder dudebros, who do exist, do commandeer way too much space, and are a very real problem. Secondly, the fact that the mainstream media really has no interest in looking at anyone but said dudebros, or in portraying feedism respectfully. Feedist communities are approached primarily as fodder for shock factor gonzo journalism. And that journalism is what gets shown to people outside the community.

Neither of these problems erase the other.

The end result really is that the problems are real, but they aren't all-encompassing in the way you've probably come to believe.

That's the objective bit. Now for the personal bit:

The portrayal of feedism as inherently exploitative at best was what I saw growing up. It really was- and in the mainstream still is- the only depiction out there. Feedism is disgusting, and immoral, and only horrible people and cowed victims would want to do it. End of.

I'm a feeder. It's the majority of my sexuality, and that's been the case since before I really knew what sexuality was. And I grew up... basically afraid of my own sexuality, because I only ever saw it depicted as this monstrous thing that abusers did. I remember being a teenager, admitting to myself for the first time what it was I was feeling, and concluding that I'd take it to my grave.

Trying to figure out my sexual orientation as an obligate kinky teen who wouldn't look her kinks in the eye was also a barrel of laughs.

Then I grew up, and found feedist spaces online which were not remotely like the ones the lurid documentaries showed. No hyper-gendering of roles. Made up mostly of women and queer people. Posts about the importance of communication and consent. Vocal opposition to creep behaviour. A commitment to cleaning house of the creeps that did persist. All the hallmarks of a good kink space.

Furthermore, I saw people enthusiastically participating in feedism and talking about it. Most of them looked nothing like the mainstream depictions in the schlocky documentaries.

Yay! I'm not evil! Neither is anyone else here! It was the sexists that were the problem, not the kink! We can have kink spaces that don't centre them! I can even ethically practice, if I ever want to!

So when that portrayal of feedism as something inherently sordid and abusive crops up, it's important to me to challenge it. It's done as much damage as the actual abusers have. In fact, it likely contributes to abusive behaviour, as forced sexual shame does not create open and healthy communities.

…wasn’t it though? Every deep dive I’ve seen says that men who fancy fat women were a big part of the movement’s beginning.

Am I looking at biased sources?

(Please note thst “the origin of this movement was people with kinks” does not mean “this is mostly people with kinks now.” Kinky people are very often driven out of movements they helped start. Pride would be another one.)

[scarapanna]

I liked your art, you won🎉🎉🎉

WE WON NO REDEMPTION WAHOOOOO/silly

I'm still terrified of the redemption route for this clown though hdhghfg, I want his silly self to stay evil and wimsy and goofy and with redemption uhhh

We're like

I dunno I'm sooo scared devsis is gonna take away that aspect which is what makes him just so funnn. Please pretty please let him be god awful and rotten and rude and goofy if you take that route Devisis I want him to keep his funny wimsy qualities. Please please pleaseeee write him well y'all are doing sooo good with him don't fumble by taking the redemption route (And if they do it better be good and he better stay chaotic and goofy and sassy and condescending and all his "rotten rabid thing" qualities)

If they do him (And his fun aspects justice in this dreaded hypotetical) then I may be cool with it. Though the mean ass possum has grown on me so much I'd 100% miss that evil and unhinged part of him TONS, devsis have mercy pretty please/silly

[Longer more insane ramblings are in the tags hsfhfhhv]

[1d1195]

Pucking Rookie IV

Read Pucking Rookie here | ~8k words

From me: slow burning!!!

Warnings: ANGST violence. CW: Signs of abuse.

Summary: Harry is very hot. Very sweet. VERY protective.

“Hey everyone,” she greeted brightly. “How’s everyone today?” She asked while setting down a tray of eight glasses and two pitchers of water on the table.

“Wonderful, baby, so excited to have you.”

She nearly knocked the glasses over (fortunately, since they were water glasses, they were only plastic). She made eye contact with him and felt her heart completely stop for a few beats. Kael smiled wickedly in return.

Fuck.

She kept her smile in place. “What can I get you to drink?” She asked. After eight years, she already knew what he wanted so she focused on his teammates.

“We were hoping to see The Chargers tonight,” Kael told her. “Do they come here often?”

She didn’t respond. “We have a few specials tonight, so if you have any questions, please let me know,” then she sauntered away to place the drink order.

“Already know what I want, baby?” He called. “That’s so sweet!”

She ignored him. Taking deep breaths she headed to the kitchen. Louis wasn’t in yet. Harry didn’t know she was working. Which meant the rest of the team thought she wasn’t working too. Marc and Michael probably had their suspicions that she was with Harry. So, no one knew she was there. Not really.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was probably just going to be an hour. He had his team with him. It wasn’t like they could have a private conversation in the middle of a restaurant. Yeah, he would probably tease and torture her for the better part of that hour, but she could be civil. She could pretend. She had for ages. He didn’t know she was working for The Chargers—she was sure he had an idea that she might be. But the afternoon set it in stone.

He was such a dick. It was the first time she had seen him face to face since she moved out. Everything about him made her skin crawl and she hated it. Every touch and kiss between them seemed tainted now. All those good memories, dates, hockey games, everything felt ruined. Each interaction was colored now with the hindsight that he didn’t love her. Not the way she did. Not the way she expected him to love her for ever and ever. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve that. She knew she didn’t deserve that.

So why did he make her feel undeserving of it ever again?

*

Kael and his teammates came and went fortunately. Just as she predicted. Only a little over an hour. She refrained from speaking directly to Kael and focused on the group as a whole.

When Kael left, she was well past the feeling of relief. There should have been a stronger word for how liberated she felt. She used the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and took a moment to process everything. It was just like Kael to come in and make her feel like shit without even trying. Louis was supposed to be in, so at least she had that going for her.

“Hey love,” Louis called. “Everything good?” She probably looked a little shaken, so she wasn’t surprised he asked. She felt shaken.

“Good,” she smiled assuredly. She flitted around the room, ducked behind the bar, and went about her day. It was a busy night, and she wasn’t going to let Kael sour her shift that he had next to nothing to do with. So she didn’t. The next hour ticked on quickly and she was feeling more herself as the time stretched between Kael’s departure and the present.

“Hi baby,” he cooed.

Her arms felt numb almost instantly, she was lucky she didn’t drop her tray. Her fight or flight swept her and just made her freeze. She turned as she had earlier in the day and looked at him. “Hi,” she said curtly. He was alone, which made her nervous.

“I figured you must get a break soon. I’d like to talk.”

“Not for a while. And it’s busy,” at least that wasn’t a lie. “So I might not take one tonight.”

Louis was hurrying about from kitchen to back room, to front of house. It was busy as it could be, but she wanted to keep an eye on him. If Kael got her alone, she wasn’t sure she would be able to control her emotions as well as if she had someone that knew she was not in a situation she wanted to be in just by looking at her. Louis wasn’t Harry, but he would know all the same that she was uncomfortable.

Kael smiled brightly.

Well, at least someone that cared ifshe was uncomfortable.

“I’ll wait,” he offered.

“Great,” she deadpanned.

She went to the back room and wished that there was a group of Chargers there. If she called any of them, she knew they would break curfew and be there for her in a heartbeat. The thought of Kael anywhere near her would make Callie incensed for ruining her day. Niall would be protective in his own way and focused on her. Asher and Lang would get her away from The Locker Room and make sure Kael never set foot there again.

She could hardly imagine what Harry would do to him.

But she lied. She told Harry that she wasn’t working. The routines the boys had had in place prior to her arrival with the team had been disrupted more than she ever anticipated. It was nice they cared but it wasn’t fair to them to upheave their lives for her. She was just the photographer for the team. Their coach’s niece. They didn’t ask to have someone they needed to babysit.

She was an independent, self-sufficient person.

“You okay, love?” Louis asked.

She nodded and flitted around the room taking order and tried not to think about the feeling of Kael’s stare on the back of her head.

*

It was perhaps another hour, and Kael was true to his word in staying put. Fortunately, The Locker Room remained steadily busy. She didn’t have to lie about not taking her break. She foisted him off on another waiter who grew a little tired of him asking for her each time he went over. “Baby,” he snatched her hand as she went by.

She pulled away. “Kael, I’m busy,” she marched away before he could reach for her again.

Without warning a multitude of memories where he snagged her hand over the years filtered through her mind. His grip tight on her arm or hand. Never in a way that any outsider would notice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she whispered to herself. She was going to call Harry. His wrath would be well worth it. At least Kael was scared of Harry and the team. Especially if he was outnumbered. She was shaking a little as she headed for the kitchen hoping to catch Louis at least.

“Hey,” Kael said grabbing her again as she passed too close to his table. This time he caught a real hold of her arm and pinned it to the table. To any other onlooker it would look like he was just keeping her in place holding onto her hand in almost a romantic kind of way. No one would see how his fingers dug into her skin, how she was feeling the ache of the hard wood against her knuckles and wrist bone like she just lost an arm-wrestling contest. “I just want to talk.”

She wanted nothing less. “Hey, Louis!” She called quickly and loudly enough so that he would be able to hear her over the din of the whole place regardless of where he had gone off too.

Within seconds Louis was there from the back room.

Harry was right beside him. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her arm on the table. Her mouth popped open in shock. She had no clue he was there. Most obviously, she didn’t want him to see this. “Oh fuck,” she whispered and tried to pry her hand away from Kael’s. She squirmed slightly as he refused to release her. He cupped his other hand gently on top of her arm trying to get her to stop.

Harry wasn’t supposed to be here. He was only supposed to come to her rescue because she couldn’t figure out what else she was to do. She was going to hide in the kitchen and wait.

Harry wasn’t supposed to be around Kael.

“Styles,” Kael practically sang. He didn’t release her arm. “Didn’t know you were here. Tough loss today. I hope it’s the same tomorrow, to be honest.”

He didn’t take the bait. His nostrils flared. “Let go of her hand Crowe,” Harry snarled stepping closer to him.

“We were just talking, right baby?” Kael smiled and took his free hand to cup the side of her face. She turned her face away and brushed it away from her skin.

Harry continued to approach him—up close and personal. If they were on the ice the cages of their helmets would have been touching. “Let her go, right fucking now,” his shoulders were heaving.

“It’s fine,” she croaked. Harry didn’t even acknowledge her.

Was he trying to keep it together? Not make a scene, maybe? Harry was quick to anger—like most hockey players. He probably would have torn Kael limb from limb by now if this wasn’t a local place where fans and the rest of the team went.

“Let go of her,” her he repeated, his voice was so deep. His body shaking.

“Harry, I’m fine—”

He ignored her still and Kael continued keeping her in place despite her squirming. She wanted to whimper as he squeezed her tighter and pressed her hand harder into the table. To the untrained eye, you wouldn’t know. But Harry was watching like this was his favorite movie and they were at the climax of the plot. He saw the way she winced and her body bend slightly as he pressed harder. “Mind your fucking business, Styles,” Kael shook his head. “This doesn’t involve—”

“She is m’business. Especially when you’re fucking hurting her,” the whole bar area went silent as they realized one of their favorite celebrities was about to punch the lights out of one of the best names in hockey. “If y’don’t let her go, m’gonna rip your hand off, Crowe. And m’gonna enjoy it,” he promised shaking his head. “Let go of her.”

She wanted to move more but was utterly terrified. Harry could get in serious trouble. Kael wasn’t particularly dangerous, but his grip was making her whole arm ache. Harry’s threat made her stomach swoop; he was so ready to protect her. Of course that was nice, but she wanted to cry. Hurting one of the top professionals in the league (even if Harry was also at the top) was a great way to get a hefty suspension and fine if he was caught.

Just another way she was going to upend his perfectly normal, happy life.

“Harry, stop,” she begged.

“Yeah, Harry, stop,” Kael mimicked. But she inhaled sharply, pulling and moving again uselessly to try and get away from the grip he had on her wrist. She whimpered despite herself as the pain continued. “Mind your business Harry,” he snarled. “M’talking to my girlfriend.”

Harry didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Stop fucking touching her, Crowe.”

“She’s mine. I’ll do whatever I want to her.”

Harry stared at him, his gaze flicking to her wrist still pinned to the table. She was still squirming, looking to get away. Louis reached for her and Harry put his hand on his chest and pushed him away. He walked to the bar, grabbed a shot of whatever the bartender was pouring. His head tipped back as he sucked the liquid down. The quiet clink of his glass hitting the bar was the only sound in the room. Silently, Harry plucked the rings he wore when he wasn’t playing hockey off his fingers. He tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt like the seconds were ticking by in slow motion. Not even the pain from Kael’s tight grip on her hand was enough to draw her attention away from Harry’s movements.

She swallowed, her eyes pleading with Harry not to do it. It wasn’t that bad. She could take it. The pain she was feeling now was hardly anything in comparison to what he could do. This was nothing.

“One more time, Crowe... Let go. Of her,” Harry’s voice was even. Measured. It had the tone of I’m not asking again.

“She’s mine, Styles. Find someone else to stalk.”

Harry smirked, shook his head, and his eyes flickered to hers for only a second. Then they were back on Kael. “Oh. No. No she’s very much not yours.”

As slow as the seconds had ticked by, they all came rushing back at full speed; maybe time even sped up. Harry delivered a lightning-fast punch to Kael’s nose causing him to gasp and drop her hand as he instinctively reached for his face. With the toe of his boot, Harry tipped his chair before Kael could get his bearings, and he fell flat to his back. The chair broke into pieces with his weight. He gasped, trying to right himself and protect his nose from bleeding everywhere. Harry reached down before Kael could get a grip. He yanked him up by the collar and front of his shirt. A stupid, ugly orange and blue sweatshirt that Harry was delighted to wrinkle hard in his hands. Before Kael was barely on his feet, Harry hauled him backward. Shoved him hard into the bar so the edge dug into his spine, no doubt. Without pause, Harry delivered a solid punch to his cheek, a heel stomp to his foot, and knee to his stomach.    

Kael bent forward, gasping for air and Harry’s breathing was as even as if he was sleeping.

Her hand went to her mouth and the other to her stomach as she tried to hold herself together. Everyone looked in pure shock. Surely someone was supposed to try and stop Harry. Even if he was a hockey player for the town that everyone loved. But given he incapacitated Kael in a matter of thirty seconds it wasn’t like anyone wanted to try and stop him. Even Louis was speechless and looked in horror. “Are y’gonna touch her again?” He didn’t say anything, which was the wrong answer as Harry twisted him in an instant, pressing his face down into the bar, pulling his arm back behind his body. “I said, are y’gonna touch her again?”

“No,” he rasped.

“M’letting y’keep your hand. Don’t make me regret it,” he snapped and shoved him a final time into the bar. He dropped a few hundreds on the bar for the damage and his drink. “Louis, keep the change,” he muttered over his shoulder without sparing another glance at Kael. “S’time t’go, Bunny,” he murmured lowly for no one else to hear but her. He placed an arm around her waist, and tugged her toward the exit. Every pair of eyes followed them.

“B-but m-my shift—”

Without missing a beat, he grabbed his wallet from his back pocket and stuffed it in the front pocket of her apron. “Let’s go,” he repeated and ushered her outside.

Harry opened his passenger door and gestured for her to get in.

She looked nervous, which made Harry uneasy. This strong, brave woman who bantered with unruly hockey players and dealt with fans and drunk patrons looked a bit lost. “What about my car— I mean... your other—”

“Get in the car, Rookie,” he ordered.

She followed his direction. Harry waited until she was safely buckled inside before closing her in. He locked the door for the short walk around his car, only unlocking it so he could slip inside. Once seated and buckled, he turned the car on and immediately exited the parking lot. After driving in silence for several moments Harry dropped his hand on her thigh like it was an instinct.

He didn’t ask if she was okay. Which was kind of him, because how could she be? Her heart was thudding in her chest, her wrist hurt, and her brain was a mess. Harry’s hand on her leg should have made her uncomfortable given he didn’t ask. But it was almost too comforting, and she dreaded the idea that he would have to let go of her eventually.

“Don’t y’dare cry over him, bunny,” his voice was tight.

She sniffled, not realizing she was, in fact, crying. She swiped her hands across her cheeks. “Sorry,” she whispered looking toward the window.

Harry shook his head and sighed. His hand squeezed her leg while he pressed his head back into the seat hard—if the head rest wasn’t there and he didn’t have to watch the road, she was certain his eyes would be facing the ceiling of his car, searching for strength somewhere above him. His jawline seemed sharper than ever as he clenched his teeth. “Y’don’t have t’apologize.”

“Thank you,” she croaked quietly. “For doing that, I...” she swallowed hard. “I don’t really know what I would have done,” she admitted. The scenario didn’t seem to play out in full if Harry wasn’t there. Yeah, Louis would have helped, but this was different. Harry didn’t say anything. She pulled his wallet out of her apron and placed it in one of the cup holders between them. “I don’t want—”

“It’s yours.”

 “Harry, it’s not that—”

“Bunny, I haven’t stopped thinking ‘bout you all afternoon. Since I met you, really. I can’t stop. I used t’think ‘bout nothing but hockey. But s’like you’re the only thing on m’mind now. M’happy when I see you around the rink taking pictures. M’happy when y’try t’skate on m’pond. I love our lessons, and I want t’have y’in my house all the time. M’happy when you’re around. Happier than I’ve been in years, and I didn’t even know I wasn’t completely happy. I can’t have one-night stands anymore. I tried, I did. You’re a long shot. I know that. Someone who deserves a guy so much better than a hot-tempered hockey player as evident by the piece of shit that hurt you in so many ways,” His voice is quiet. “S’not a secret I like you. A lot. If we can only be friends and roommates—because m’sure as hell not bringing y’back to that sorry excuse of an apartment—then s'what I’ll do.”

There was only a brief beat of silence while she contemplated all he said. “I worked really hard on my apartment,” she whispered.

This seemed to soften him a little. He sighed. “It’s adorable, Bunny. It is. But m’constantly worried you’re going t’be kidnapped, robbed, or worse. You can move in this week,” he insisted. “I have the day off after tomorrow and I was going t’spend it at the gym t’lift with the guys so we can pack and move your shit all the same instead.”

“Harry, I don’t think that will work... I have to pay out the rest of my lease if I move out early.”

“That’s bullshit,” he scoffed. She didn’t say anything. Because she kind of agreed that it was bullshit. But she couldn’t move in with Harry. Not when he just admitted he liked her the way she did. It set her heart into a dramatic flutter. Being legally bound would hopefully be enough of a reason for Harry to agree to let her stay until her lease ran out. Then she could figure out her next steps. “Fine,” he decided after a moment. “The black debit card in m’wallet will take care of it.”

She snorted unable to hide her shock. “Harry, you can’t—”

“M’done arguing with you ‘bout this, Bunny.” She frowned and looked at her hand, turning her wrist and wincing ever so slightly. “Is your wrist okay?” He asked.

She shrugged and answered instinctively. “It hurts; but I’ve had worse,” she gasped at her own mistake almost instantly. “Oh fuck, I mean—” she stopped speaking. It didn’t matter. It was too late. Harry saw through it and understood exactly what she meant. He clenched the steering wheel tighter and he swallowed. The bob in his throat looked like he was drinking a glass of nails.

“Did he ever hurt you like this before?” Harry’s voice was an octave lower than she ever heard it. His eyes narrowed as he stared forward.

She didn’t want to make matters any worse, so she didn’t speak. Didn’t move. For several seconds, the car seemed so silent it was as if the tires weren’t even on the ground anymore or if she was breathing.

“Harry,” she whispered eventually.

Harry took a deep breath not liking the tone of her voice and pulled off to the side of the road.

“What are we— Harry!”

Before she could understand what was happening, Harry was outside and opening his trunk and the car doors locked her inside. Instantly, he pulled out one of the back-up sticks he had in case his two in the locker room broke in the middle of a game (or if he wanted to practice while he was home on the pond out back). He slammed it hard on the pavement multiple times grunting as he did until the stick snapped. Then he grabbed a second and repeated this process again, swearing and cursing like he was imagining Kael was under the stick.

Once satisfied with his destruction, he collected the broken pieces and dropped them in the back before sitting in the driver’s seat again, his breathing only slightly elevated.

She stared at him wildly. Her eyes were wide and beautiful. “If he touches you again, m’killing him,” he said simply. It was a promise. His breath was heavy from the exertion.

She nodded; Harry put the car in drive and continued back toward his place. His hand went right back on her thigh, which she still found comforting and warm, even though she had only had the luxury of his hand on her for no more than a few minutes. “Okay,” she whispered hoping there wouldn’t be an again to speak of.

Harry let the silence linger again. “My apartment is the other way,” she reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. “I just told you, Rookie, y’not living there anymore.”

“Oh my God, Harry. You can’t be serious.”

He snorted. “No. I am. As a heart attack.”

“Harry I can’t move in—”

“Of course, y’can. I have like five bedrooms. Pick one. Pick three for all I care.”

She swallowed. “What if I pick your bedroom?” She was attempting to lighten the mood, maybe. Harry wasn’t sure. Or maybe she was trying (and failing) to be annoying. But Harry was never annoyed by her. He was amused at worst. She was adorable. Every little thing she did was adorable.

“Then it’s yours,” he shrugged. He was hardly home during the season anyway. With his niece, Mum, and Gem out of town, he wasn’t home much in the off-season either. He could easily move into another room if she wanted his. In fact, he probably would give her his room. It wasn’t the only one with a bathroom, but it had a nice tub that he knew was being wasted without proper use and it felt like she deserved a relaxing night to soak in the tub until she got pruney and everything else that stressed her in her life disappeared.

“I thought you didn’t bring women home to stay,” she reminded him.

“Never had one that I wanted t’bring home,” he shrugged.

She pressed her head to the window. He was quick. Didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll stay tonight, but I’m not moving in. My uncle is going to kill you.”

He shrugged. “S’a long line of Glacier Wolves who’ll want t’kill me before him.” She giggled softly under her breath. Harry glanced at her peripherally and smirked at the little smile that graced her lips. “M’niece is over a lot in the off season,” he told her. “Gem and Mum come by too. So s’had women there before.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then, yeah. Never had a woman I wanted to bring home,” he repeated. Harry parked in his driveway, turned to her, his hand still on her thigh and honestly, she never wanted it to move.

“Are we still friends?” She blurted. He just admitted he liked her. It was no secret she liked him too. It could make things very awkward going forward so she wouldn’t blame him if he really didn’t want to be friends any longer.

“What a weird fucking question, Rookie,” he shook his head.

“Can you just tell me?”

“Yes, we’re still fucking friends. Despite the fact I would love t’be more.”

She closed her eyes. “He really fucked me up, Harry,” she whispered. “He... he wanted some trophy girlfriend that doted on him and worshipped him for being a good hockey player. He didn’t want me to be my own person. He didn’t want me to have my own hobbies or interests. Like I was nothing, a nobody—”

“Rookie,” he whispered.

“—and I just let him treat me that way. Because it was easier than confronting it—”

“Rookie.”

“—So I don’t want to keep falling for you because you... you’re so talented and you will overshadow me and you should. But it’s so fucking cold living in the shadow of someone else and I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

He winced. “Bunny,” he wanted her to stop.

“I don’t love that nickname either,” she sighed. “I want to. It’s cute and it’s even cuter when you say it. But the connotation of being a puck bunny is just more of what Kael insinuated and I don’t—”

“I don’t think you are a puck bunny. S’not why I call you that. Y’wrinkle your nose like a bunny when y’concentrate. S’the first thing I noticed when I met y’taking pictures rink-side. And you’re always going and going like the little Energizer bunny. But mostly, s’because you’re so fucking cute like a bunny. S’honestly nearly nauseating sometimes.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed trying to keep all the feelings of falling for another hockey player at bay. “So, I make you sick?”

He smiled. “Excessively.”

“And you want me anyway?”

“Excessively,” he whispered cupping her face. She leaned into the touch, closed her eyes, and sank into the way his hand caressed her cheek for a moment.

Sighing, she opened her eyes and looked at him shyly. “You probably know that he cheated on me,” she reminded him. “And the worst of it, I don’t know if it was the first time, and I don’t want to know. Because I already felt stupid for letting him belittle me and letting me forget parts of myself.”

Harry tilted his head back fully staring at the ceiling for a moment. “Yeah...” And now Harry knew this wasn’t the first time he had hurt her either. Whether it was intentional or not.

“And...” she swallowed. “I don’t think you’re like him... if you take anything away from this conversation, please know that I think you’re nothing like him. You’re up front about most of everything. He kept things from me. But... you’re you and you could have any woman you want in any city you want. I don’t fault you for that—I really hope you know that... but I don’t want to be a number anymore, Harry. I don’t want to feel like an idiot, and I don’t think you would intentionally make me feel like an idiot but—”

“Bunny,” he interrupted, turning back to gaze into her eyes so intensely it felt like everything around them disappeared except for the space between them. The seriousness in his green eyes made her stomach flip. They seemed darker. Like the color was changing to a darker shade to explain how serious he was and how he meant every word that spilled from his mouth. “I think you’re brilliant,” he whispered. “In every facet of your life. I’ve thought about nothing but hockey m’whole life. It has been eat, sleep, and breathe ice, pucks, and sticks. The second I met you, every thought has been ‘bout you,” he reminded her. “If I never played another game of hockey, I really think I would be okay s’long as y’were around.”

Her heart felt like it was broken and whole all at the same time. It was too sweet. She bit the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t want that,” she whispered. “You’re quite good,” she reminded him.

He chuckled. “The point remains, Rookie... I want you t’have everything y’could possibly want. I want t’do anything I can t’help y’achieve anything y’want t’do.”

She looked at her lap. “I can’t believe you went to get a drink.”

“I really didn’t think y’would be there... was hoping I’d run into Louis and maybe he would know if y’were okay. Y’never answered my texts. Didn’t tell me y’made it home.” he frowned. “Why did y’lie t’me, Bunny?”

She took a deep breath. “The whole team has been so nice to me,” she whispered. “I’m not really used to that...” she trailed off. “Callie got so many penalties, you had to interrupt your post-game cool down to walk me to your car, everyone wants to take shifts to watch me... you have to drive me home, give me one of your car... I’ve seriously disrupted your lives... and it was all just too much today. I don’t want to bother you guys. You didn’t sign up to have a kid or a pet you need to watch. Uncle Charlie didn’t have to give me a job with a hockey team. I feel like I didn’t earn anything. It’s so sweet that all of you care, but it’s weird for me...”

God, she was cute. Even sad she was cute. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Y’haven’t disrupted our lives,” he promised. “We’d do this for anyone.”

“That’s comforting I suppose.”

“C’mon, s’late... we have a game tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered.

“Course, Rookie,” he squeezed her leg one more time and then got out of the car. (As she predicted, she hated the feeling of Harry’s hand anywhere else but her thigh.)

Entering his house, Harry kicked off his shoes and headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. She texted her group chat with Michael and Marc as she flopped onto the couch until she got more direction from Harry.

I’m at someone’s house for the night so don’t worry about me.

Michael reacted to her message with a thumbs up.

It better be a HOT hockey player.

Michael reacted to Marc’s message with a thumbs down.

Good night, Marc!

I want every INCH of detail

That earned a vomiting emoji from Michael. I do NOT want any details.

GOOD NIGHT MARC

*

Harry hated that he had a big house. If they were at her apartment, they could have been squished in her bed right then. She wouldn’t be down the hall and half of Harry’s mattress wouldn’t have felt so cold. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Fortunately, his phone vibrated almost immediately. Like she somehow knew he was awake.

Are you awake?

M-hmm

Can we get breakfast, please?

Harry would throw himself down a set of stairs for her if she asked. “You could jus’ come in here t’ask,” he called.

“I’m creating boundaries!” She answered from a guest room. “Besides this bed is comfy and I don’t want to get up,” she giggled.

“Well, I don’t want boundaries,” he grumbled to himself. He wondered if she slept without pants on. Not that it mattered. He was turned on by the thought of her naked in his bed or if she was in a full snow suit.

“What did you say?” She called.

“Nothing,” he grumbled and pressed the palm of his hand over the front of his shorts willing the blood to rush anywhere but his dick at the thought of her in a goddamn snow suit. “I just have t’shower,” he mumbled.

“Okay, I’ll be here,” she sighed, and Harry could picture her snuggling herself further into the mattress. Maybe it was for the best she was in another room. If she was there looking all cute and cuddly on his bed, he would have to quit hockey. He would probably spend the rest of his life worshipping her on his mattress in every possible way.

Plus, his dick would never be anything but hard.

“Jesus, fuck,” he sighed to himself under the spray of the warm shower. He tried to think about anything but her pretty self in the other room. In his house. In his bed. In his clothes. She was probably changing into her uniform from the night before, so at least he wouldn’t see her in the shirt and shorts he gave her to wear for bed.

He shook his head and focused on shower and not what it would feel like to press her against the tile or—

“Fuuuuck,” he touched his forehead against the tile. Hockey. Defense. Goals. Niall. That’s good. Niall, gross. Callie—FUCK Callie. Asher owes me ten dollars for betting Lang wouldn’t say “good effort” in their pool game the other day.

His shower took twice as long to shower because he had to actively think about something other than his pretty friend. Once he was out, he slipped into a pair of sweats and one of his long sleeve practice shirts. As he put on his deodorant, he realized it took him an embarrassing amount of time to realize what she was doing as he got dressed. “Rookie, you are not,” he called as he hurried down the hall.

“Not what?” She asked innocently.

“Doing my dish—Rookie, what the hell!”

“They were just there! And I was bored, Harry. Plus, you didn’t say I couldn’t!”

“I told you last time.”

“Well yeah, but that was last time.”

“Please stop,” he begged and rubbed a hand over his face. “We’re supposed t’be going t’breakfast.”

“Well, I figured while you took two years to get ready,” it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes max but maybe his effort to not think about her in his shower took longer than he thought, “I would make myself useful,” she shrugged and set the final dish on the drying rack beside his sink. She turned the water off and ran the dishtowel over the counter and edge surrounding the sink. She turned, leaning against the counter. Her black and silver uniform top for The Locker Room was on her again. Her leggings from the night before clung to her legs like a second skin.

He wondered how she could look so cute after working a hectic, busy shift, then slept all night and it barely looked like she had a hair out of place. “What?” She asked looking down at her shirt. “Do I have something on this? We’ll have to stop at my apartment first if I do. I’m not going out with you to breakfast when you look hot and I look like trash,” she frowned.

He snorted. “Y’don’t look like trash, Rookie.”

“Well, do I smell or something?”

“No,” he shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re beautiful. Stunning really,” he shrugged one shoulder and reached out to touch her face. He skimmed his thumb along her cheek wishing he could lean in and kiss her until they were both breathless. He smiled softly enjoying the way her cheek warmed under his touch. For someone so snarky, she was awfully shy. “Let’s go,” he tilted his head toward the main hallway. He made his way before she could read into it as he was sure she was wont to do.

Harry opened her passenger door and smiled wickedly at her as she got in. “What?” She asked, her eyebrows pinching together.

“You think I’m hot,” he sang.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Harry chuckled, closing her inside.

*

Kael didn’t play because he was injured. The report sustained it happened at practice the day before but everyone on The Chargers bench knew. Kael kept his gear on but moved to the end of the bench for the starters and lines of his teammates that would be playing. He hardly cheered, hardly moved.

The rest of The Wolves sent death glares to everyone on the team. Harry was checked into the boards more times than he could count. But every time he caught sight of the pretty photographer twirling her wrist in between photos, he felt grateful for each hit. She continued to take pictures, placing her camera into the cutouts of the glass around the ice.

Kael hid from pictures from his own media specialist, the news outlets, and even the fans during the game and in between periods.

“Coward,” Asher growled as they left the ice and headed to the locker room at the end of the game. The group that typically resided in the back of The Locker Room was livid when they found out from Harry that Kael hurt her. They too must have seen the way she twisted her wrist around between pictures. Harry wondered if she noticed she was doing it. It ate at him that it wasn’t the first time that piece of garbage hurt her. There was nothing Harry could do—well, maybe if he ever did figure out time travel, he could. But for now, he could take the hits from Kael’s stupid team and make sure the pretty photographer was okay.

Besides.

He may have had a tough game physically, but Harry was truly on cloud nine.

“Sweetheart, you good?” Lang called from the front of the line heading back toward the locker room.

“I’m good!” She answered.

Harry didn’t even care that Niall was walking alongside her and not him. Or that Callie gave her arm a squeeze when he walked by. It didn’t bother him that Asher was as irate as him either.

Because the word Styles was on her body. It was purposeful. If Kael paid attention, he would see it. He would know she supported Harry, regardless of how outlandish it was (or wasn’t) that he defended her last night. Harry knew the second he saw it, that Kael was going to look at the pretty girl with his number on her and start fuming in his seat. Maybe that’s why his team aimed for him so vehemently throughout the game as well.

Whatever, Harry could take it.

It was well worth it to see his name on her jersey.

Harry realized it was his time to shine after they went out for breakfast. He drove her to get her car at Louis’. He followed her home to the shady apartment building. He wasn’t in the mindset to leave her for any bit of time given the night before. Maybe not for a good few days either if he had it his way. They had away games coming up so they would be all but trapped together on a plane, a bus, and in a hotel so that was in his favor.

He really hoped she would be in a nearby room at the hotel. Or better yet, there wouldn’t be enough rooms, and he could share his with her.

“Why’d you choose eleven?” She asked when she came out of her room after getting ready. She was fluffing her pretty hair and tugging at the hem of the jersey that she had put on. It took a moment to register in Harry’s mind that she was talking to him and was anticipating a response. In her mind, it was no big deal that she was nonchalantly wearing his name and number. That she was by far the prettiest thing he had ever seen. The sweetest person he knew.

He swore his heart skipped a beat as his vision refocused on the lovely girl wearing his name on her back.

He cleared his throat. “S’the first number I ever got,” he shrugged. “But now I say m’so good, m’number twice.”

She grinned and laughed quietly under her breath as she put earrings on with The Chargers logo. “I like that. You are very good. I’ve seen a lot of hockey myself. I like to think I’m a good judge of ability.”

When Harry was younger, he thought if he could have a superpower, he would want to time travel. As he got older it changed a bit, he wanted super strength so he could be the strongest hockey player. Read minds so he could predict the movements of opponents on the ice. Since he met her, he returned to the tried and true: if he could time travel, he could figure out twenty seconds after he kissed her if she hated him or kiss him back, he would have done it right then.

He smirked. “So m’the lucky one today?” He asked pulling on the sleeve.

“I don’t know, does wearing someone’s jerseys constitute as lucky for the day?”

He nodded. “Yeah, very much so, Rookie.”

“Then sure; you’re very lucky, Harry,” she rolled her eyes.

Harry had to bite the inside of his lip to keep his smile from splitting his face in half. He turned away slightly and caught sight of a string of pictures on her little kitchen bar. “What’s all this?” He asked, picking up a photo and inspecting it. It was one of the ones she took while Harry was practicing before the rest of the team showed up. Another photo she got laying down on the ice of Callie’s skates when Harry wanted to rip his teammate’s arm off for holding her so close that day. One from Niall’s empty net. Another of Asher’s locker, his jersey on display. A close up of the C on Lang’s jersey. One of just the empty rink—no fans, no players, nothing.

“Oh... I don’t know,” she looked away shyly piling them together. “I was playing with the idea of making a series of photos,” she flipped one over to indicate the back showed the number three in the line. “You guys are attractive and stuff, but I thought there was a lot of beauty in the little things behind the bench, you know? It’s not just fights and points. The rink is so pretty,” she shrugged.

Harry grabbed her hand before she could stack any more of them away. He looked at each of the pictures painstakingly selected from the hundreds of photos she took each day. The way the light shone off a helmet, the way a shadow fell on the bench. “They’re beautiful, Bunny. Why don’t y’do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make it a series?”

She shook her head. “No... I don’t know. Not many people care about sports photography,” she shrugged. “Not like this anyway.”

“Rookie, I think every team owner and manager in the league would pay t’have this set in their arena.”

“No way, there’s not a single headshot of a star player. In sports, the only thing that really sells by far is you guys and your pretty faces,” she patted his cheek. “It’s tragic, I have some incredible photos of a few baseball diamonds at sunset. But there’s no fans and no players so it just wouldn’t sell well.”

“Show me,” he urged.

She sighed and put her jacket over “We’re going to be late, Harry. Uncle Charlie is already going to be annoyed with me that I’m wearing your jersey. And so will the rest of the team.”

“They all had their turn, Rookie, y’made me wait forever,” he grumbled. They didn’t have to be annoyed. They didn’t have a crush on her the way Harry did. They all knew that. His teammates were his family, but they made him cranky no less; teasing him about how smitten he was about their photographer.

She smiled sadly. “Harry,” she sighed. “I’ll show you another time.”

“Promise?” He pleaded.

“Promise?” She repeated in disbelief. Harry was nearly thirty years old and sounded like he was in kindergarten.

“Promise you’ll show me,” he said pointedly.

“Alright, yeah," She shook her head, sighed with a smile still on her lips. "I promise.”

--

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[heliosunny]

Your writing for Phainon is soon good 💖 How about something with a Dragon-shifter!Reader who kidnaps Prince!Phainon as dragons do - maybe to get a nice ransom from the royal family - the only problem is that he ain't interested in getting rescued. And may have just slaughtered the knights sent to free him and slay the dragon himself.

Yandere!Phainon x Dragon-shifter!Reader

The sky was dark by the time you reached the ruins of the castle, the stone walls jagged and broken from age, yet still standing against the weight of time. It was a place long forgotten, nestled deep within the mountains, far beyond the reach of any kingdom, perfect for keeping a prince.

“You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that.”

Prince Phainon mused, his voice calm despite the chains coiling around his wrists. His silver-white hair was tousled from the rough flight, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.

“Most would hesitate before daring to steal a royal away.”

You ignored him, dragging him forward. You had to admit, his lack of fear was… annoying. Maybe even unsettling. He hadn’t even screamed when you plucked him from his fancy palace, claws closing around him like a vice. He merely stared, as if daring you to drop him.

"Don’t waste your breath" you muttered, shoving open the rusted iron doors. Dust rose from the disturbance, swirling in the air. "You’re not here for conversation."

Phainon chuckled, unfazed. "No? Then why am I here, oh mighty beast?"

You tossed him forward. He landed on his knees with a grunt, but when he lifted his gaze, there was something dangerously amused about the way he looked at you.

"Ransom" you finally said. "Your kingdom will pay handsomely to get their precious prince back."

His laughter filled the place.

Your brow twitched. "What’s so funny?"

Phainon grinned up at you, shoulders shaking. "Oh, you poor, clueless thing. You really think they’ll come for me?" He leaned back, tilting his head. "Let me spare you the disappointment, they won’t. Not before they send someone to kill you first."

You narrowed your eyes. That was expected, of course. Kings rarely sent gold before swords. But it didn’t matter. You could handle any knight they threw your way.

"Then I’ll just have to deal with them." you said.

Phainon hummed, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering.

"You truly have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?"

You ignored him. The sooner you got him locked away, the sooner you could rest. The flight back had taken a toll, not that you’d ever admit it. Transforming, carrying a fully grown man in your claws, keeping to the shadows to avoid unnecessary fights… It was exhausting. And the moment you’d dumped Phainon inside the ruined halls of your abandoned castle, all you could think about was tending to your aching limbs.

Chains had been enough to keep him in place, or so you assumed. You doubted he’d escape, and even if he did, where would he go? You were deep in the mountains, miles away from the nearest civilization.

And so, you left him to his own devices, disappearing into one of the castle’s still-standing chambers. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting your disheveled form. You frowned, brushing dirt from your arms before pouring water into a rusted basin, splashing it against your face.

Just a quick rinse. Then, rest.

You didn’t notice the absence of chains.

Didn’t hear the soft, amused laughter echoing down the halls.

Didn’t realize your supposed prisoner had already slipped away.

Phainon rolled his shoulders as he strode through the forest, fingers brushing over the hilt of the sword he had so generously reclaimed from the ruins. His smirk widened. Really, he should be thanking you. It had been far too long since he had been truly entertained.

Ahead, the sound of armored footsteps drew his attention. He didn’t slow his pace, letting the knights spot him first. Their reactions were immediate- relief, determination, wariness.

"Your Highness!" One of them, a captain by the look of his insignia, rushed forward. "You’re safe! We came as soon as we heard-"

"Safe?" Phainon interrupted smoothly, tilting his head. "Was I ever in danger?"

The knights exchanged glances. "The beast-"

"Was nothing more than a misguided fool" he finished, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "I was just about to return, after dealing with my own business of course. No need for all this… concern."

The captain hesitated. "We can’t allow that, Your Highness. We must escort you—"

A sigh. Phainon turned his gaze to the trees, as if contemplating. "Ah, what a shame" he murmured. "I told you I would return."

He moved before they could react.

Steel flashed. Blood spattered against bark. The knights barely had time to scream before his blade cut through them like a whisper. Limbs crumpled, bodies fell. Their eyes, wide with shock, stared at him even in death.

Phainon exhaled, stepping over the corpses without a second thought.

"Now, then" he murmured, wiping his blade clean. "Where were we?"

With a smirk, he turned back toward the castle.

His little dragon was waiting.

Phainon pushed open the heavy wooden door, the creak echoing through the abandoned chamber. His eyes flicked over the dimly lit space, stone walls worn by time, a tattered bed of old furs, and there, lying in the center, a figure.

Not a dragon.

A human.

His brows lifted slightly, the only sign of his surprise. The realization came quickly, his captor was no ordinary beast. The dragon and this person were one and the same.

Leaning against the doorway, he observed you. Your breath was steady, though he noted the faint twitch of your fingers. He could slit your throat now, end this little game before it spiraled further.

But where would the fun be in that?

He stepped closer.

The moment his foot scuffed against the stone, your eyes snapped open.

Your instincts took over before reason could settle in, because your captive was free, because he had a sword again, because he stood over you with an unreadable smirk.

You moved in a flash.

Your hands shot out, grabbing at his limbs, forcing them down. Chains slithered from beneath the bedding, precautions you had set up, ones that now snapped into place with ease. His wrists slammed against the cold floor, and with a sharp twist, you locked his legs as well.

You pressed a knee against his chest, breathing heavy. "How did you escape?"

Phainon merely chuckled, entirely too amused despite his current position. "You should be asking yourself.. how did you fall for it?"

You narrowed your eyes.

His strength was not that of an ordinary man, you realized that when he shifted slightly beneath you, and your balance nearly tipped. He was holding back.

"You really are something else" he mused, tilting his head, the flickering firelight casting shadows over his sharp features. His blue eyes dragged over you, lingering, intrigued. "What should I call you? Or do you prefer ‘beast’?"

You didn’t answer.

His smirk widened. "You’re quite breathtaking up close, you know."

You scowled. "Spare me your empty words."

He laughed. "Oh, but I never lie." He shifted slightly, testing the chains, his muscles tensing beneath you. "And I never let myself be bound for long."

You barely had time to react before he tore free, a sheer burst of strength shattering his restraints like they were nothing. You leaped back, but not fast enough, his hands shot out, grabbing your wrist, flipping you before you could reach for another weapon.

The cold edge of his sword pressed against your throat.

For the first time, you truly looked at him, not as a mere human, but something far more dangerous.

His grip was firm, yet his touch was almost playful. His smirk was unreadable, a dangerous mix of amusement and something else entirely.

"You were saying?" he murmured.

Your lips curled, sharp canines glinting. "You assume too much."

Before his blade could descend, your form shifted- partly.

Your tail, thick with scales, shot forward, blocking the strike with an echoing clang. Sparks flew as his sword clashed against it, the force sending a tremor through the room.

Phainon’s smirk faltered for only a second before morphing into something else- pure, unfiltered intrigue.

"...Oh" he breathed, almost in awe. "Now this is getting interesting."

Phainon barely had time to act before you twisted, your tail sweeping low and knocking him off balance. His sword arm jerked, and you seized the opportunity, shifting back into your human form just enough to move swiftly, you grabbed his wrist, spun behind him, and yanked it up toward his back.

"Persistent" he said, amusement still lacing his voice, even as you forced him down.

"Annoying." you countered, your grip like iron as you shoved him to the cold stone floor.

The chains were still broken, so you resorted to something sturdier. From the corner, you grabbed thick, enchanted rope- strong enough to hold even creatures of great power. You looped it around his wrists, pulling them behind his back, then secured his legs in a way that left minimal room for struggle.

Despite being effectively restrained again, Phainon’s smirk remained, sharp and taunting. "You do like tying me up, don’t you? Should I be flattered or concerned?"

You yanked the rope tighter. "Be quiet."

A chuckle. "As you wish, my dear captor."

With a roll of your eyes, you stepped back, observing your handiwork. He was bound tightly this time, no easy way out, not unless he wanted to snap his own limbs.

But before you could relish your victory, he sighed dramatically.

"At least let me bathe before you keep me here like some caged beast" he drawled, his expression the perfect mixture of false suffering and noble exasperation. "I reek of blood. Is this any way to treat a prince?"

You scoffed. "You are a beast."

"And yet, I still deserve some dignity" he quipped, tilting his head. "Unless you enjoy the scent of dried blood and sweat?"

Your nose wrinkled. You didn’t.

Annoyance prickled at you, but you relented. He was still tied up. What harm could a bath do?

"Fine" you muttered.

Before he could gloat, you grabbed the ropes binding his limbs, dragged him up, and hauled him across the room.

Phainon let out a surprised grunt as you tugged him along. "Ah—so forceful. If you wanted to drag me somewhere private, you could’ve asked."

You ignored him.

The abandoned castle still had an intact bathhouse, a large pool of water fed by an underground spring. With one final tug, you yanked him forward and—

SPLASH!

You threw him in.

Phainon resurfaced with a sharp inhale, his silver hair now plastered to his face, water dripping down his broad shoulders. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he tilted his head up at you, his smirk both impressed and incredulous.

"You know" he mused, "when I asked for a bath, I expected something a little more… dignified."

You crossed your arms. "Be grateful I didn’t throw you off a cliff instead."

"Ah, but would you really? You seem far too attached already."

You grabbed a bucket and unceremoniously dumped more water over his head.

"Pfah!" He sputtered, shaking his head like a wet dog before blinking up at you again, lips curling into something downright mischievous. "If you wanted to get my clothes off, you could've just said so."

Your face twitched.

You promptly turned and walked out, leaving him tied up in the bath to deal with himself.

"Wait—! You’re just leaving me here?"

"You'll figure it out."

His laughter echoed behind you. "I like you more and more, little dragon."

The morning greeted you with an unfamiliar sound—soft, deep, and far too close. A hum. A HUM?

It took a moment for your groggy mind to register it. A gentle, unhurried melody, smooth as silk, drifting through the cool air of your chamber. You stirred, cracking one eye open, only to groan and bury your face into the pillow.

Phainon.

The silver-haired prince, your supposed prisoner, sat beside your bed, his arms resting casually on the frame as he leaned forward, watching you with the ease of a man who belonged there. He was freshly bathed from last night, his damp silver locks tousled slightly, his tunic loose at the collar. But what was most irritating was the absolute serenity in his expression as he continued to hum.

It wasn’t even an unpleasant sound. If anything, it was oddly calming.

"Shut up" you muttered, dragging the blanket over your head.

Phainon merely chuckled, his voice still low with sleep. "Good morning to you too, little dragon."

"Not a morning person?"

You groaned louder, pressing your hands over your ears.

His humming didn’t stop. If anything, it turned into an actual song, low, lyrical words spilling effortlessly from his lips.

You flung a pillow at him.

He caught it easily, smirking. "Tsk, so violent. I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"You shouldn’t be here." You finally sat up, glaring. "How are you here?"

Phainon tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "You tied me up, threw me into a bath, and then left me. Did you really think that would keep me contained?"

Your frown deepened. He was strong, you knew that, but you had used enchanted rope this time. He shouldn’t have been able to slip free so easily.

As if reading your thoughts, Phainon propped his chin on one hand, smirking. "I’ll let you in on a secret," he murmured, voice dipping. "I’ve never been trapped. I just enjoy watching you try."

You hated how easily his words sent a flicker of unease down your spine.

But before you could reply, the distant sound of armor clanking and hurried footsteps caught your attention.

Phainon let out a sigh, stretching leisurely, as if the mere idea of more interruptions exhausted him. "Ah. Took them long enough."

You shot up, shoving him aside. "Stay here."

You didn’t wait for his response. Rushing down the stone corridors, you made your way to the castle’s entrance. The knights were already spilling into the ruins, swords drawn, scanning the area. Their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek—stepped forward.

"You there!" he barked. "We received word that Prince Phainon was taken by a dragon. Where is he?"

You hesitated. Your first instinct was to tell them you were the dragon, but something in your gut warned you against it. You had no love for humans, but you weren’t bloodthirsty either. You had taken Phainon for ransom, not war.

But before you could decide how to respond— Phainon let out a chuckle.

He stepped out from behind you, his gaze sweeping over the assembled knights like a wolf among sheep. His sword was already in his hand.

The captain’s face twisted in relief. "Your Highness! We came to rescue you—"

"Rescue me?" Phainon repeated, voice laced with mockery. "From what, exactly?"

The knights stiffened. "From the dragon—!"

Phainon then moved.

Steel sliced through the air, swift and merciless. Blood sprayed across the stone.

Silence.

Then, chaos.

The remaining knights recoiled in horror, some shouting, some scrambling to draw their weapons. But it was already too late.

You could only watch.

Your breath hitched as the last knight staggered back, his sword shaking in his grasp. "Y-Your Highness, what—?"

Phainon drove his blade clean through the man’s chest.

A ragged gasp. A final shudder. Then, nothing.

As the last body collapsed, Phainon exhaled, flicking blood from his blade. His posture remained relaxed, unaffected, as if he had merely completed a morning exercise.

Then, slowly, he turned to you.

His smirk was still there, unchanged, unwavering. But his eyes…

Cold. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He murmured, voice smooth as silk. "Where were we?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts. The scent of blood—fresh, thick, suffocating, filled the abandoned halls. Around you, bodies lay strewn, once armored knights reduced to mere corpses. And at the center of it all stood him.

Phainon, the prince you had kidnapped, the human you thought was nothing more than an arrogant, troublesome captive. Now, standing before you, bathed in crimson, he was something else entirely.

"You…" Your voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "What have you done?"

Phainon tilted his head, flicking stray droplets of blood from his blade. "What needed to be done" he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Your claws curled. You could feel the shift pulling at your skin, your instincts screaming at you to fight. "They came to help you."

He chuckled. "Did they?" His piercing blue eyes met yours, unblinking. "Or did they come to drag me back to a place I had no intention of returning to?"

You gritted your teeth. "You killed your own men!"

"And yet, here I stand." He took a step toward you, slow and deliberate. "And you, little dragon, haven’t run. Haven’t struck me down. Why is that?"

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had so many reasons. The problem was, you couldn’t pick one.

Because you were stunned. Because your mind still reeled from what you had just witnessed.

"You’re a monster" you snarled.

Phainon exhaled, his smirk softening, something almost fond flickering across his blood-smeared features. "I never claimed to be a hero."

That was it. That was the moment your restraint snapped.

You lunged.

Your tail lashed out, striking toward him like a whip, but he was fast. He sidestepped, blade flicking up just in time to meet your claws. Sparks flew as steel met scale.

"That’s more like it" he purred.

You growled, twisting, your tail sweeping at his legs. He jumped back, but you were already on him again, clawed hands gripping his tunic, shoving him hard against the stone wall.

"You think this is amusing?" you hissed, your breath hot against his face.

Phainon smiled.

"You’re magnificent when you’re angry" he murmured.

Your grip tightened. "I should rip you apart."

His smirk didn’t waver. "But you won’t."

Damn him for being right.

You hated that you hesitated. You hated that your instincts, your dragon instincts, were at war with something else entirely.

"You’ve fascinated me from the moment you took me" he confessed. "At first, I thought it was amusement. Curiosity." He tilted his head, the sharp edges of his expression easing just slightly. "But it’s more than that, isn’t it?"

"You could have killed me" he continued, as if weaving the truth between you both. "Yet you didn’t." His eyes traced your face, your form, like he was memorizing every detail. "And I could have killed you. Yet I won’t."

Your chest heaved. "Why?"

His fingers brushed your wrist, so gently, so deliberately.

"Because I don’t want to." His smile turned wicked. "Because I want you."

Your world tilted.

Your claws flexed, your mind screaming at you to reject it. To deny him. But Phainon only looked at you like he had already won. And you hated that you didn’t know if he was wrong.

You were still seething when Phainon led you toward the kingdom’s gates.

You should have run. You should have killed him.

But instead, you were here, walking beside the man who should have been your prisoner, yet somehow, you felt like the one who had been captured.

The city was alive with murmurs the moment the two of you entered. The scent of blood still clung to Phainon’s clothes, a stark contrast to his relaxed demeanor. People gasped, whispered, stepped aside as he walked through the streets with you in tow.

But it was nothing compared to the reaction inside the royal palace.

The moment the throne room doors burst open, the king and queen, seated on their ornate thrones, turned with sharp, wide-eyed disbelief.

"Phainon?" the king's voice was filled with stunned relief. "You're alive?"

The queen clutched her chest. "The knights said.." She hesitated, gaze flickering toward you. "Who is this?"

You barely had time to part your lips before Phainon slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him.

His next words sent a ripple of shock through the room.

"This?" His smirk was downright predatory. "This one belongs to me now."

The king's expression darkened. "Phainon!"

"You sent knights to retrieve me," he interrupted smoothly. "And they failed. Miserably." He glanced down at you, as if you were some prize he had won rather than a kidnapper-turned-reluctant-companion. "So I took something better in return."

Your lips parted in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Careful, little dragon," he murmured against your ear, low enough that only you could hear. "You wouldn’t want them thinking you’re protesting too much, now would you?"

Your body tensed. He was toying with you. In front of his entire court.

The queen’s hands trembled. "You’re injured—"

"A small price for something so valuable." Phainon mused, tilting his head. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

The nobles in the room exchanged whispers, none daring to speak aloud.

The king exhaled slowly, fingers tightening over the armrest of his throne. "What are you planning, Phainon?"

The prince's smirk widened. "Why, to keep them, of course."

The king finally spoke, his voice cold and measured. "Phainon, do you even understand what you're saying? You cannot simply claim someone as yours—"

"Oh, but I already have." Phainon’s grip on you was firm, his tone laced with amusement. "And I dare anyone to take them from me."

The challenge hung thick in the air, sending another wave of murmurs through the court.

You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. "I am not some trinket to be owned."

Phainon turned to you, unbothered by your defiance, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Of course not." His hand brushed against yours, a deliberate taunt. "You’re something much rarer than that."

You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, not from flattery, but from the sheer audacity of this human.

"Fine" you bit out, eyes narrowing. "But don’t think for a second that this means I belong to you. Make sure to keep your promise."

Phainon chuckled, tilting his head as if indulging a joke only he understood. Then, leaning in, he whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

"Oh, little dragon… you just haven't realized it yet."

And with that, the prince turned back to his stunned parents, still grinning like a man who had won everything.

You exhaled slowly. Knowing at least you won't have to live a miserable life anymore.

-----

[next]

[cum-aside]

Ok it’s not like I go here really, but I’ve been reading a bunch of DPxDC recently because it’s very good, and I had an idea that won’t go anywhere

The various gangs in Gotham have callsigns/uniforms or something right??? If not, they should, and imma say they do. Anyway. Redhood I think didn’t think too hard about what people in his gang on his turf should wear for identification purposes, but they sure did. And what they came up with was Red.

Wearing red in the vicinity of the ‘Bad Part’ of Gotham?? Part of the red hood gang. Generally head gear is the preferred method of wearing red. Red hats and beanies, red head scarfs and hijabs, red headbands, red masks. The idea has been communicated. To a certain point, wearing red even if you aren’t officially part of the gang is a great way to get an in with them, or be under protection if you’re the right age in the right area, as long as you’re willing to risk getting roped into low stakes gang activity, which can range from working the counter at money laundering sites to community service (guarding clinics and shelters and volunteering) to making deliveries to destroying certain hostile architecture. (Hood saves the real jobs with cops and shootings and turf disputes for actual members, that he knows the names faces and skills of, and who are at least above 18, but preferably over 20, and who wear real gear he supplies them with, not just whatever’s in their closet that’s red) (this does not entirely stop the smaller ‘members’ from getting into their own fights with the cops and turf wars, but Jason has found that giving them Something to do that feels like direct action helps curb those tendencies. And it’s not like those things aren’t things that don’t need doing, so it’s a win win. Mostly)

Danny, bless him, does not know any of this. But has been staying in the sketchier areas of Gotham because that’s where people don’t care how old you are or if your papers are real or not, and he absolutely does not want people looking into how old he is and wether his papers are real or not. He is also wearing an inadvisable and vaguely conspicuous amount of red. His converse are red, his signature baseball tee is white and red, and his hoodie is also red.

Clearly, this kid (he’s like 17) really wants in with the hood gang.

And eventually, they oblige him.

Random people will approach Danny and ask/tell him that them and a couple others are going somewhere to do (insert vaguely/definitely illegal job or act of community service here) and Danny, who is deeply directionless in life currently, and also pretty assured in his ability to eat danger for breakfast, and has never met an institutional authority he doesn’t disrespect at least a little bit, is totally down for some civil disobedience and chaotic good shenanigans.

And then it spirals from there. Like. A worrying amount.

It takes Danny actual months, almost a year, to realize that he’s been low key slow cooked into the criminal underbelly of Gotham, and like… he’s not really mad about it?? Honestly if he had a choice when he came to Gotham, he probably would have picked the redhood gang anyway. He just seems to vibe with them on a… Spiritual Level…

Hm

Anyway

Years go by, and while Danny doesn’t have the most going for him in terms of a normal person life, vis a vis higher education, official employment, health insurance, dating life, or any other benchmark one uses to measure the trajectory of their lives— Danny’s feeling pretty good! Jazz, Tucker, and Sam have all finagled their ways into Gotham, (Tucker has a WE internship, Jazz is working/doing work studies at Arkham, Sam does what she likes now that she is a legal adult and has her inheritance, and what she likes is environmental activism, and occasionally being spotted with fellow activist Damian Wayne, and someone who may or may not be poison ivy, sources differ) and Danny finds his obsession suspiciously well served as a hood goon. Hood hench? Redgoon? Hench hood?? Name pending, who cares.

Danny is also suspiciously good at, well, his job. One of the best runners, even when he gets caught and frisked they never seem to find the goods on him (they never do check IN him, but then why would they) very well liked at every volunteer spot they have, patient, kind, funny, good with old people, kids, bitter people, addicts and the homeless, the sick and injured. And yet also very competent in the field, when they finally let him do actually dangerous things. Act as protection detail to the working girls in the red light district, he’s very respectful, and very good at intimidation, de-escalation, and when push comes to shove, excellent in a fight. Knows when to keep pressing his advantage and when to make a retreat with whoever he’s guarding. Not afraid to fight scrappy, and presses through pain and fear like a true gothmite.

He gets so good at his not really a job job that he becomes essentially, Redhoods right hand man.

The rest of the bats are skeptical of this for several reasons. Because generally speaking, the people in Jason’s turf are not fans of the bats, but Jason does a lot of coordinating with them, and someone so close to him is going to pick that up eventually if they’re half as sharp and useful as Danny is. Other than that, secret identity issues, plus pit rage, plus the fact that Jason trusts pretty much nobody. But Jason has great feelings about this guy, he always feels more clear headed and even keeled when he’s around, and he helps Jason remember the community he’s trying to build, and the community he serves. Also he delegates and mother hens like nobody’s business, but Jason just really can’t seem to work up too much irritation about it.

It is around this time, however, that the past, and shady government organizations come knocking.

Perhaps the GIW has also noticed how ecto-contaminated and lawless Gotham is and decided that they could start doing research and experiments with its live and undead denizens instead of amity, where the portal has closed, and ghost activity is down since phantom disappeared. Or maybe the GIW has finally located phantom specifically and is interested in what they’re always interested in. Or maybe it’s various ghosts harassing Danny to take up the throne, which he’s been avoiding successfully, but having settled into a life routine that suites him his core has finally ‘settled’ (halfa cores fluctuate more than other cores due to the transient nature of being alive, but halfa people settle into lifelong patterns and relationships quicker than other people because of the static nature of being dead) he is mature enough by ghost standards to assume the throne, or at least begin preparing for it.

Regardless, danny is being tracked down for his childhood baggage’s extended warranty, and brings the entirety of the JL and almost all associated sidekicks, hero group spin-offs, and organizations into the thick of it.

Idk. I just got through Secretary Danny by DeathlySilent13 on ao3 and I thought man oh man wouldn’t it be neat if Danny got to be Jason’s second in command instead??? That could open up a lot of avenues I haven’t seen yet. I’m also just very curious about how the Jason’s runs his gang according to the fandom, and I think that with all the ACAB energy Danny has been assigned, he should have a little bit of community focused organized crime. As a treat. Like I said I don’t go here thou, I just needed to put this somewhere and see if it vibed with anybody besides me

[dior-desire]

johnny cade crushing on a popular soc hcs

“ she smiled and looked at me, i was surprised to see, that a woman like that was really into me. ”

───── ˚ ୨୧ ⋆  ─────

— the two of you met in class, although he never talked unless the teacher called on him—you thought he was the cutest thing

— being a soc, you would never get the chance to actually have a civil conversation with him without being judged, so you just ended up pushing all those thoughts to the side

— that was until one day, the teacher had asked if you could come back during your lunch hr so that she could ask you something

— once the bell rung and it was time for lunch and you made your way to her class. walking into her class you made eye contact with the one and only johnny cade

— “ i’m glad you here ( your name ), i wanted to ask if you could help johnny here study for the upcoming exam? ”

— johnny cringed and looked away in embarrasment, “ of course ms. jones, when should i start? ”

— that day johnny had came over your house and the two of you only got closer there on

— johnny noticed how you werent like the other socs, you never made fun of someone because of their social class and had a good image amongst both socs and greasers

— the only person who knew that you and johnny had been talking was ponyboy, johnny would reguarly vent to him on how he wanted so badly to confess but he wouldnt want to tarnish your reputation

— as johnny and you spent more time studying together at your house, the tension between you two grew. one day, while going over notes for the upcoming exam, johnny couldn't contain his feelings any longer. he looked into your eyes and confessed how he felt, his voice trembled a bit from nervousness. It was a sweet moment that made your heart skip a beat

— after the confession, you both couldn't help but smile and laugh, feeling a weight lifted off your shoulders. from that day on, your study sessions turned into moments of shared affection and stolen glances. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship

— once you and johnny got together, ponyboy was so proud that it ended up slipping out to sodapop, and of course it wouldnt take long for the whole gang to find out

— they all bombarded johnny with questions,

“ whered yall meet? ”,

“ you’ve been to her house?! ”

“ have yall done anything yet?? ”,

“ she got a sister?? ”

— everybody was happy for johnny, while dallas on the other hand was a little upset on why he was just finding out johnny had a gf

— soon enough you end up meeting the gang and of course everybody loves you but once again dallas is still iffy

— he wouldn’t want some soc girl to break johnnys heart so he still had his guard up around you

— once dallas got to know you better he seen that your intentions with johnny were pure and even looked at you like a little sister, not by any means would he ever admit it though

───── ˚ ୨୧ ⋆  ─────

[melanchol1cs]

WHAT GOOD IS SORRY?

ex husband!leon x f!reader

word count: 3.3k summary: why does one wound those they love so deeply? masterlist | taglist | wips

18+ MDNI. mentions of divorce, cheating/infidelity, awkward leon stuff, guilt, yearning, leon and reader have a child together — and i named her denise for whatever reason, getting stood up by a date, drunk texting, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, bittersweet ending(?) i guess.

a/n: old wip,, this was supposed to be super gut wrenching and angsty but for some reason, my brain didn’t want to cooperate and decided that this would be the ending. also, i’ve been contemplating whether to address this or not and even tho its not a big issue, PLEASE interact with my posts. it’s the only way i’m able to know that you guys actually like the stuff i write, and ever since i’ve started writing on here 7 months ago, i’ve been noticing a decrease in interactions. im honestly losing motivation to write because i truly don’t know if people actually read my shit and like it. anyway, enjoy my mediocre writing ^___^

leon regrets everything he’s done up to this point. running into ada on a mission, going to the bar with her afterwards, and the kiss. the stupid kiss that eventually led up to this.

the divorce.

it all felt wrong, so wrong. yet here he was, driving his car to your doorstep, his stomach in knots despite having done this several times before.

for the sake of your daughter, the two of you had decided that shared custody would be the best option.

he stands at the door, hesitating before knocking, his knuckles hovering anxiously. clearing his throat, he gently raps his knuckles against the door, hoping for an answer. he's already second-guessing himself, wondering if he should have texted or called first.

your door eventually opens, and he's met with a familiar face. you.

you greet him with a civil smile, pressing a kiss into your daughter’s hair before ushering her inside.

he fidgets, adjusting the brim of his leather jacket nervously as he takes in the sight of you.

you reach to shut the door, catching a glimpse of him awkwardly hovering over you porch.

“you okay?”

he tries to find his voice. "yeah, i just, uh... i was just thinking..”

he looks down at his feet, kicking the ground with the side of his scuffed boot, as if trying to buy some time or maybe just willing the floor to swallow him up. when he speaks, his voice is low and sheepish. “when i was— last night, i thought… uh, do- do you remember when.. shit. are you free this weekend?”

”what?” you muse at his question. “leon, i really don’t wanna have this conversation with you again,”

he winces at the rebuff, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as a defensive measure.

leon’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard, his ears burning at your words. he looks anywhere but at you, his eyes darting over the porch railing, the foliage, the sky — anywhere but your eyes. oh, those eyes he adored so much.

"no, wait, hear me out,”

"listen..." he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever fallout this might bring, knowing he's already on shaky ground. “i just wanna talk.. to you.”

he shifts his weight, glancing up at the roof of the house as if the heavens themselves could offer a solution. when he does meet your gaze again, his eyes are pleading, his jaw clenched with a mix of anxiety and something akin to desperation.

“i’m sorry, leon. i’m busy,”

he scoffs and his face scrunches up, a pained grimace contorting his features as he cuts you off. “c’mon, please?” he's standing too close now, invading the personal space he once knew so well. “i.. i know it isn’t what we do anymore but—“

“no, seriously. i literally can’t. i have something up.”

“oh.” he deflates slightly at your dismissal, shoulders slumping in defeat. a soft, regretful sigh escapes his parted lips, and his eyes drop, gaze wandering aimlessly. "can- can you can you cancel? is it really important? what about on sunday-? i’m sure we can..“

“leon.” it's not a question this time, you stare at him with the tiniest hint of pity. “i have a date.”

ouch. he freezes, his chest constricting as if he's been punched. a date? the words echo in his mind, each syllable like a dagger to his pride, his ego, his everything. a muscle in his jaw twitches, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. leon swallows hard, his throat suddenly parched.

"oh," he repeats, the sound barely above a whisper. he takes a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw working in agitation as he grapples with the blow of your words. a snarky retort rises in his throat, a cutting remark to deflect the sting, but it withers on his tongue, a futile attempt at salvaging pride he knows is misplaced.

leon swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally finds his voice, laced with a wry bitterness. “yeah, no worries.. guess that's that," a bitter, hollow chuckle escapes him as he shifts his weight. his tone is flippant, trying to mask the sting of rejection, but the defeat is palpable as he turns to leave. he starts down the porch steps, his boots thudding against the wooden slats.

you finally close the door on him, standing by the door, hand on the knob, unease prickling along you skin like a thousand tiny needles, each one stinging with the weight of guilt. you sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she tries to process her feelings. guilt, regret, a twinge longing — it's all so confusing, so messy.

the weight of his pleading eyes, the desperation in his tone — he had no right acting like a dejected puppy after he cheated on you.

you shake your head, face between your hands. he made his choices, just as you had, and now it was time to move on. you squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped away from the door, determined to let go of the ghost of what was and focus on the life you were building. for you, and your daughter.

but it’s not really easy.

not when you’re sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date that never bothered to show.

your phone buzzes and you hold your breath. hoping for some sort of confirmation, but it's quickly snuffed out.

‘hey, sorry i couldn’t make it. something important came up’ the simple text reads. the same stupid excuse. every. single. time. your heart sinks, a dull ache forming in the pit of your stomach.

a bitter, derisive chuckle escapes your lips. serves you right. you knew he was trouble from the start. yet, your heart aches, a dull throb of pain and disappointment. you feel so foolish, sitting there, waiting for someone who never shows. though, it isn't really new.

now you lay in your bed, having already kicked off your heels and changed out of the uncomfortably tight dress you wore.

you pull the blankets up to your chin, suddenly feeling cold. you toss and turn, brooding and wallowing in misery, and it seemed like you’ve been doing it for hours till you’re startled out of your fitful doze by the buzz of your phone.

it's a text from leon, of course it is. it’s another one of his ‘where are u? i miss u’ ‘can’t stop thinking about you. please let me c u’ meltdowns.

he's drunk again, you can tell by the sloppy caps and the desperate pleas. every time he has a rough night, he always thinks coming over will magically fix everything. and you always refuse, knowing he’s only drunk and alone. but tonight, you feel particularly lonely.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and before you know it, you're typing. ‘come over.’ you hesitate, then send the message.

by then, he’s already halfway out the door, stumbling out and nearly falling as he trips over his own feet in his haste. he takes the stairs two at a time, a goofy, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. when he reaches your door, he pounds on it with a fist. his breath comes out in short puffs as he waits, anticipation making his heart race.

click.

the door creaks open a fraction and his eyes lock onto you, looking all soft and domestic in a robe. leon's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drink you in.

he tumbles in, arms outstretched as if he's about to catch something. he's immediately in your space, arms around you in a tight, needy embrace. his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, breathless with relief and something else, something suspiciously like love.

“leon—“ he smashes his mouth against yours, tongue pushing past your lips, the taste of beer and regret in his breath. his hands roam, sliding up your back, gripping your hair, fingers splayed wide as if to assure himself you're real. a low, desperate sound escapes him, half-groan, half-moan as his body presses against yours. he's desperate, sloppy, but undeniably passionate. when he finally breaks for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glassy with drink and longing.

“missed you s’ much, baby,” he presses a kiss to your neck, tongue tracing the pulse point with a reverence that borders worship.

“let me make it up to you, please,” he looks up at you with those big, puppy-dog eyes, an expression so pathetic it’s comical. yet, the desperation behind them makes it anything but.

his hands skim down your sides to your hips, fingers digging in as if to keep you anchored to him. his face buried in the crook of your neck as his hands knead the meat of your ass, claws digging in through the fabric of your robe. his breath hitches as he nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply as if committing you to memory.

he trails a string of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to nibble on your collarbone before continuing his journey south. his hands never stop moving, roaming over your body with an insatiable hunger.

you let out a soft whimper, arching into his touch. "bedroom," you breathe out, and he happily obliges.

once inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and spins you around, backing you up against the bed. he begins to undo your robe with shaking fingers, your heavy breathing and the rustling of silk the only sounds in the charged silence between you. when the robe falls open, he pushes it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet.

the thin, sheer fabric of your nightgown offers little resistance as he practically rips it off you. a shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he reaches for you again, fingers grazing your skin as if he's not quite trusting his own touch.

he guides you to the bed, pushing you to sit on the edge. he immediately drops to his knees before you, face between your legs.

“these ‘re pretty,” he slurs out, before he fucking tears your underwear off.

“leon!”

he chuckles at your reaction, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “sorry,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. “gonna buy you new ones,”

his stubble scrapes against your sensitive skin as he slowly trails open-mouthed kisses up your thigh, savoring every inch of you that you’re willing to give him.

he buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking with a single-minded devotion that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back in your head. his scruffy cheeks hollow as he sucks a hickey into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

god, it’s been so long. the feelings practically foreign.

his tongue begins to lash at your slit, long and flat, with a dexterity that belies his level of inebriation.

“you still mine?” he huffs. “‘course you are, ‘m the only one that can get ya this wet,”

slurp, smack, suck, repeat.

his tongue is relentless, probing your entrance, swirling around your clit with increasing fervor. he's sloppy, uncoordinated, but it only serves to heighten the intensity of it all. every time he pulls back, you can hear his heavy breathing, feel the vibrations of his moans against your most intimate flesh. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging him closer as your back arches off the bed. a keening whimper escapes you, the sound muffled by your clenched teeth as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control.

“fuck, leon—” your words trail off into incoherent mumbles as he drives you closer to the edge, tongue darting in and out with a pace that’ll make a grown woman go crazy. “d-denise, were gonna wake her up,”

a low growl rumbles in his chest as he responds to your whine. there's a hint of accusation in his gaze, but it quickly morphs into a look of raw, desperate need. “don’t matter,” he's relentless, persistent, refusing to back down even as you tremble and writhe beneath him.

he grunts, his attention snapping back to you, blue eyes squinting as he looks up from between your thighs. his tongue is a damn metronome, lapping and smacking with a relentless rhythm that has you chasing the edge of oblivion.

it's like every drunken fantasy he's ever had is being poured out onto you. messy, uncoordinated, desperate. and you’re eating it up. “gonna make you forget all about that stupid date," he mutters through slurred words. "’m the only man who can make you feel this good,"

he's not wrong. the way he's attacking you with his tongue, it's like he's trying to prove a fucking point.

"leon, please," you gasp out, and he takes it as an invitation to continue. your entire body is wound up tight, a taut string ready to snap. he slips a finger in, then two, curling them just right so that they’re pressing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your legs wrap around his head, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him in as close as humanly possible. his name is a chant on your lips, a prayer to the gods of pleasure. "leon, leon, leon,". denise could come in right now and catch you like this — legs splayed, back arched, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. he's that good. or maybe that bad. you dont know. and you don’t care to find out.

"yeah, just like that," he praises, voice a low, gravelly growl. "love my fingers in this greedy little cunt, don't you?"

your thighs clench around his head, heels digging into his back as you ride out the pleasure. "gonna cum, leon, please—“ yours words trail off into a wail, a keen of pure, unadulterated euphoria.

your back arches, toes curl, and your fingers dig into his hair, holding him to you as the wave crashes over you. he tugs you down to the edge of the bed, practically burying his face in your groin. he laps at your slit, in and out, in and out, until the last bit of resistance melts away.

he lifts his face from between your legs, eyes hazy and unfocused as he fumbles to unbuckle his pants. once he has it off, he's back, pushing your legs apart as he kneels between them. the thick of his length throbs against your lower belly, and you can feel his racing heartbeat through every inch of him that's in contact with you.

he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you feel the pressure, gathering your juices before giving a long, slow stroke up and down, coating himself in you. he's throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can practically taste the desperation in your mouth.

he presses in, just the tip at first, then a bit more. slow, shallow strokes, in and out. his hips rock against yours, the motion slow and languid. one of his hands cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your closed eyelids to check if he was dreaming. the other hand palms the small of your back, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as he slowly sinks into you.

he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, his heart racing in his chest as if he's trying to communicate something without using words. his hips move, the action slow and lazy, as if he's trying to spoon you into submission.

he pulls out, just to the tip, before pushing back in. the motion is slow, sensual, a deliberate teasing that has you whining and writhing beneath him.

sweat beads on his brow, tracing down the lines of his face, but he doesn't slow. if anything, he's driven by a desperate need to make up for lost time, to prove himself worthy of you. your back arches, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as he pistons in and out, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. he's not gentle, not soft, but rough and demanding, just like he always used to be when he was trying to stake his claim.

he nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he sooths it with his tongue. “fuck, feels so good,” he gasps out, his words punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. “can't believe i ever let you go.”

"leon," you whimper, the name a plea, a prayer. his lips find yours in a sloppy, frantic kiss. he's drinking you in, devouring your mouth, your moans, your gasps, trying to consume every ounce of you.

he's sweating, hair a mess, face scrunched up in concentration, but those blue eyes remain locked on yours.

you're lost in the sensation, every nerve ending on high alert, screaming for friction, for relief, for release. "leon, leon, gonna cum," you pant, your voice raw, your throat dry. "please, i—" but your pleas are swallowed by his next thrust, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls.

he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours, noses nearly touching. his hot breath mingles with yours, the scent of his beer-soaked breath and the musk of his arousal mingling together in the most intoxicating way. "love you," he suddenly whispers, the words a quiet, a desperate confession that hangs in the air between you.

“love you, love you, fuck—“

the way your walls squeeze him when you cum drags his own orgasm from him. for a long moment, he stays frozen, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

the heat of your body seeps into his skin, chasing away the chill of the night air. he collapses against you, a boneless heap of satisfied male. his cock throbs, pulses, and drips onto the bed between your legs as he tries to catch his breath. the room is silent, save for your joint heavy breathing, and the occasional groan as his softening length slips out of you. eventually, he rolls off, lying on his back beside you, one big hand coming to rest on your stomach, thumb stroking in a slow, idle pattern. his eyes are hazy, unfocused, but they find yours and hold. a small, sheepish smile tugs at his lips.

"sorry," he slurs out, the word garbled and slightly off-kilter. "i shoulda been better, should’ve tried harder, i... i‘m gonna make things right, i swear,"

he peppers your neck with soft kisses, his stubble rasping against your tender flesh. he's warm, solid, and comforting. gentle and tender, a stark contrast to the desperation that drove him mere moments ago.

he's not reaching for grand gestures or flowery declarations. he's asking for something simple, intimate, and achingly human. a chance to hold you, to sleep beside you, to maybe, begin to rebuild something from the rubble of what once was.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe that he’ll be different this time. that he's not just trying to relive past glories, but genuinely wants to make amends, to start anew.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。what if you’re someone i just want around (i’m falling again)

synopsis. somewhere along the line, you started to hate suguru—that doesn’t mean you stopped loving him too

— word count. 9.5k (i am in misery)

— contents. post canon! au — fix it! (we all need a good fix it fic with suguru don't lie), this fic was started before recent manga chapters so the higher ups are still alive—just go with it ok :,), geto survives + lives free of kenjaku, exes to lovers, kind of redemption i suppose, mentions of blood, injuries, and weight loss (geto), mentions of canon character deaths (nanako, mimiko, nanami), mentions of wanting to raise children with geto and have a family, no gendered terms but reader has a personality and actual thoughts and feelings, references to the hunger games (you have movie night lol), BFF satoru (he is babie), there is a kiss y’all !! (scandalous i know :O)

— notes. i started this fic back in march and i had trouble with it and put it on pause for a while. i’m very glad i finished it in the end. i always like fix it! fics and this is self-indulgent and idk if ppl will read it bc it’s sfw but it’s ok if they don’t, i loved writing it. thank you koi for beta-reading this whole bad boy. mwah <333

the day suguru is declared a free man is actually the day he signs away his freedom for good. 

you say nothing, but you know it’s the truth. satoru fights tooth and nail to plead suguru’s case—you think it’s perhaps a little too desperate for it to be in the best interest of suguru and not himself. but satoru has suffered enough, and admittedly—although you deny it—a small part of you does not want to lose suguru twice. you watch as satoru argues that suguru has already died once—surely he can’t die again? and losing control of his body and mind is paying for his crimes enough, is it not? he argues that there are no ideals left for a man like geto suguru to chase after losing himself to every principle he had left. 

and then satoru wins. 

you expect it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. you watch numbly as suguru is assigned under your watch. you should be happy. you love suguru—you never stopped. but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s not a free man, and now he drags your freedom with his. you’ll never break away from him, never cut through the ropes that tie your hands behind your back and bind you to him—and then you wonder for a moment, unsure if it’s selfish or selfless or some cruel in-between to think this way, if geto suguru was better off dead. 

whether that’s for your sake, or his, you’re not sure. 

and yes, he’s let off alive, and sure, there’s no real punishment for all he’s done, but you know deep down he’s as chained and shackled as he’s ever been. he’s not allowed to leave the house unless you or satoru are there to chaperone, and it’s never to be anywhere near non-sorcerers. he’s not to live in a place of his own until the higher up’s deem him trustworthy. he has to ask you to buy the things he wants from the grocery store. he can’t even step outside for a smoke unless you’re aware. 

for a long time, he doesn’t speak much—can hardly muster a barely audible mornin’ back when you force a smile and greet him cheerily for breakfast. slowly, it turns into half-snarky conversations that get cut short by one of you leaving the room. finally, you’re civil—maybe even friendly. you’re not so sure where you stand with him as of now.

it’s not the same suguru you remember falling in love with, it’s not even close to the version of the man you fell for all those years ago. it’s hard having him here—some days you’re angry and want to throw him out, to scream at him for haunting you again just when you think you’ve moved on from the horrors of your past. some days you want to cry and cling to him, bury your face into his neck and thank him for being here again, for finding his way back to you. and some days you wish you never met him at all, that this would all be easier if it didn’t exist in the first place. 

he’s not the same geto suguru you loved, but somehow, because life is as bitter as it is ruthless, you fall in love with this version just as hard no matter how much you deny it. 

“i made your favorite,” you smile gently, placing a neat plate of french toast with freshly cut strawberries on the side. you even take great care to get the syrup-to-powdered sugar ratio he likes right, but he doesn’t make a move to reach for the plate. instead, suguru sits at the table stiffly, like he has to be here or there are consequences for that too. it almost makes you sad—even here, he’s not free. 

“thanks,” he says quietly, “but i’m not hungry.”

“you said that last night, suguru,” you sigh, “and at lunch. and at breakfast. and at dinner the night before—”

“i’ll eat it later,” he cuts you off, playing with the ends of his hair. 

it’s a lot shorter now. it’s you who finds his body battered and bruised after the smoke clears. he’s almost unrecognizable, not the same charming and perfect suguru you’re used to seeing. not the same silkened strands and smooth skin, not the same muscled and toned body, not the same chiseled jaw and soft cheeks. instead, he’s a shell of himself. his hair is matted in knots, his body is almost frail, and you notice the sunken hollows of his cheeks and dark undereyes as you lift him from the rubble a little too easily. but his body is his own—that much you can tell from the way the stitches have disappeared. 

it takes shoko a long time to nurse him back to health—it takes even longer for him to open his eyes.

you waited day and night by his side, hand over his as he breathed slowly, unconscious and unsuspecting. it would be so easy, you think one night, it would be so easy to kill him and forget and move on. 

you’ve already grieved him once before. you’ve felt and conquered the pain of loving geto suguru and losing him first to himself and then to death. but love is as selfish as it is selfless, and it’s under your mercy that you let him live—yet it’s under your cowardice that you keep him close. 

“you have to gain back the weight you lost, suguru,” you sigh, “you’re w—”

“weak?” he finishes for you, eyeing you for a second and then grinning. it’s unsettling, a grin that makes your skin crawl and your heart stop for a moment before he’s reaching for the fork and stabbing into his toast. “is that what you wanted to say? that i’m weak?”

“suguru, you know that’s not how i meant—”

“you’re not wrong,” he hums, chewing on the first bite as he speaks, “i suppose i am pretty weak right now, huh? couldn’t even kill you in your sleep if i tried could i?”

your throat is dry as you shrug, “i suppose not,” you whisper. 

“ah,” he grins again, “but that doesn’t stop you from locking your door every night, does it?” 

suguru is still healing. his body is weak, and sometimes, he leans against the wall as he walks. his arm is healed—you’re not entirely sure how, but you catch him rolling the shoulder out every now and then like it’s sore and stiff. he’s lost a lot of weight—part of it is from being bedridden for as long as he was, injured and half alive, and part of it is from barely eating—save for the few bites you force into him. you never thought there’d be a day when you could say this—but the odds of you beating suguru in hand-to-hand combat are high, and the reality is an everlasting reminder that he is not who you fell for. 

you swallow, letting out a shaky breath as he watches you closely, diligently cutting another bite from the french toast sitting on his plate as he stares you down like he can see past your soul. you don’t know what’s scarier—that suguru can still practically see yours, or that you’re unsure he even has one anymore. 

“you tried coming in?” you ask, unsure what else to say. he merely shrugs, takes another bite, and sets his fork down. 

“thought i’d check on you,” he pops a strawberry half into his mouth as he speaks.

“is that what it really was?” you raise a brow, “or was i right to lock the door?”

you’re not sure why you lock the door at night. maybe it’s because you don’t trust him, or maybe it’s because you don’t want him near you just yet. you’re not sure. you’re not sure how satoru can go back to his cheery self, how he can step through your door and boom a loud yo, suguru! before settling beside suguru on the couch with his feet on the coffee table as he rambles away. maybe it’s not real—maybe it’s satoru desperately pretending that if he tries hard enough, things can go back to how they were. 

but you don’t know how he still has the energy to try, and you don’t know if you have it in you to try anymore yourself. 

you and suguru stare each other down like that for a bit, the tension rising with every silent second that passes. you’re sure he doesn’t want to be here as much as you don’t want him around—but you’re also sure he’s glad it’s here with you as much as you’re glad it’s with no one else.

“you tell me,” he smirks after a bit, the hint of amusement making your fists clench. how dare he have the audacity to look at you like that in your own home? like he has the upper hand over you without trying? “what do you think i was there for?”

“i think you should stay in your room, suguru,” you say carefully, “i bought a new bed just for that room.”

“how sweet of you,” he hums. he sips the tea before him—it’s cold by now, but it’s just how he likes it, rose with one sugar. “you must have been excited to have me.”

“hardly,” you mumble bitterly—you can’t help it. you want him to feel hurt, even just a little. you want him to know that just because he’s back, it doesn’t mean you’ve waited all this time for him to be. liar, a part of you says, you’ve always waited for him, haven’t you? but suguru doesn’t seem phased—he doesn’t even blink.

“then tell me, why am i here?” suguru asks, his tone is as casual as ever. 

i wish i knew, you want to say. i wish i knew but i don’t.

“because satoru asked you to be,” is all you can say.

he nods, pushing back his plate and standing up, offering you that same grin. “you’re right,” he hums, “that’s exactly why i’m here.”

it hits you why his smile is so unsettling once he leaves—it’s almost genuine, like he’s still loved you all this time. impossible, you tell yourself. suguru stopped loving you a long time ago. and you need to stop trying to figure out why. 

————————————————

even despite telling yourself you don’t care what suguru thinks, a small part of you needs to prove to him you’re not scared of him. that you don’t fear for your own safety in your home, and that him being here is not some form of him haunting you. you don’t care. he shouldn’t get the luxury of thinking you care. he can come in and watch you sleep like the creep he is if he wants—you couldn’t bother to give it a second thought. 

the first night you take a chance and leave the door unlocked, suguru slips into bed beside you. it wakes you up instantly, and before you can question it, his head tucks into your neck, and his hand grasps your shirt tightly. you notice the panting almost instantly��and then you realize, it must be a nightmare. 

you fall into old habits, even after all these years, defaulting to care for him like it’s second nature. 

“you’re safe, suguru,” is what you settle for saying after a moment of contemplation. it’s all you can really think to say, so you brush your lips over the top of his head as you murmur, “you’re safe,” over and over again. 

as difficult as it is to have suguru around, as painful and cruel and aggravating as it is to be reminded of his distant existence even as he’s two doors down, this part feels natural. it’s almost like you’re back in jujutsu high, waking up to him sneaking into your room as he presses his weight over your body and wakes you with soft kisses along your face. 

except this time, he’s not annoyingly demanding cuddles or telling you about his weird dream, he’s not stealing your blanket and demanding you play with his hair. this time, it’s not the same suguru—and this time, it’s not jujutsu high. 

it’s your room. the one you got on the other side of town to leave the sorcery world behind, somehow still stuck right in the center of it no matter where you go. and yet, just like all those years ago, your legs tangle, and your arms wrap him up, and you murmur, “you’re safe,” while he catches his breath. 

“but they’re not,” he mutters in between labored pants, making you pause. 

and then you remember. 

faintly, you recall the blonde and black hair from a distance, you remember bitterly wondering what’d it be like watching suguru fathering children of your own as you came to the reality that it would never happen. sometimes, you wonder if you hate nanako and mimiko for existing, for living as the dreams you never got to live through with suguru. 

it’s selfish—to hate two children because they are what you do not have. 

but then you feel something wet hit your neck, and then you wish they were okay—for his sake. and just for a moment, you’re selfless again. 

“they’re not safe,” he mutters, making you sigh. 

“they are,” you whisper, hesitating for a moment before letting your fingers slip into his hair. you scratch gently at his scalp, feeling his body melt into yours almost instantly—like it’s a response that’s natural to him. “they’re not suffering. not anymore.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” he scoffs. you shrug, letting your cheek press against the top of his head as you sigh.

“it helps me feel better,” you say softly, “‘s just how you learn to cope.”

it’s an understanding you both silently come to. loss on both sides. bloodshed on either ground. defeat no matter which ideal you take. to love is to bear the pain of mortality—it’s a lesson that you never cease to learn until the ends of time itself. 

“the jujutsu world is one of suffering,” he grits, sniffling into your neck. you hum, pressing a kiss to his head as your eyes close. 

“every world is one of suffering, suguru, you can’t erase them all. the sooner you realize that, the easier you’ll find peace.”

you fall into a slumber after that, faintly aware of the way he shuffles closer to you, faintly aware of the soft kiss pressed to your skin as sleep takes over your body and drifts you out of consciousness. 

when you wake up the next morning, suguru is gone, and the door is closed. the blanket is tucked up to your chin, and your neck still tingles from last night. 

————————————————

“get up,” you throw a pillow at suguru, waking him up with a start as he sits up. his hair is tousled and messy from sleep—it’s now long enough that he can put it in a bun without strands slipping from the bottom anymore. you chuckle as he glares at you, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he groans. 

“the fuck was that for?” he grunts, holding the blanket up to cover his exposed chest. 

it’s funny that he does that, in a way. it’s not as though you haven’t seen his chest…and then some too. it’s not like you haven’t torn his shirt off to stanch the flow of blood from his injuries before or feel the bare skin with your palm under the pale moonlight as the lingering scent of sex breezes through the room. 

but somehow, even though he doesn’t need to cover his chest around you of all people, you’re glad that he does. truthfully, it keeps you slightly comforted to know that he’s aware you’re still technically strangers—no matter how well-versed you are in each other’s pasts. but you don’t ponder on it too much. instead, you grin, shoving aside the visual of the small glance you caught at his pecs, and you clap your hands to motion him to hurry. 

“we are going grocery shopping,” you say casually—as though it’s not something to make him raise a brow in shock.

“me?” he points a finger at himself. you roll your eyes, and he challenges you with another raise of his brow. “aren’t i supposed to stay away from civilians?”

“yes, you,” you nod, pointing back at him, “and satoru has worked overtime to get you granted permission to roam around with me. he says you’re welcome, by the way.”

“tell him to go fuck off.”

“that’s ungrateful,” you say flatly, “his feelings will be hurt.”

“his feelings will find a way to cope,” suguru huffs. “i don’t want to be around…them,” he says bitterly. 

you suppose it’s wishful thinking to hope suguru has let go of his past beliefs. perhaps he’s long abandoned the possibility of the vision he once planned on bringing to life, but you can’t say you expected him to revert back to the old suguru who fought alongside you and satoru. you yourself certainly have no intention of returning to the sorcery world after all the events, so you can’t say you’re shocked by the lack of change he seems to show. but then again, you suppose suguru has changed. whether he sees it or not. 

he stays here and doesn’t put up a fight to leave even though he can now that he’s healed. he eats lunch when you tell him and even washes the dishes. sometimes, when you come home a bit late, dinner is even ready on the table as he sits and stares at you expectantly. his plate is empty like yours—like he’s been waiting for you even though he doesn’t need to. you suppose you can see he’s changed in the way he doesn’t scoff at the tv channels you surf through, he silently sits on the opposite end of the couch now and watches with you, and perhaps if you’re lucky, you’ll hear a light chuckle or a quiet sigh as the scenes roll on the screen. 

you suppose this suguru is a step closer to your suguru every day he spends with you, but you don’t know if any suguru is what you need right now. perhaps that name should’ve been buried away as a distant memory, perhaps it should’ve only been something you unlock once every year on his death anniversary—when satoru clambers through your door drunk and unsteady as he clutches the hand that killed his best friend, only to share pancakes with you in the morning and pretend like you don’t notice the dried tears on his cheeks while he acts like he doesn’t catch the way your hand shakes as you cut into your breakfast. 

but suguru is here now. whether it’s as geto, one half of the strongest duo in jujutsu high, whether it’s as suguru, the love of your life and the sole reason you exist, or whether it’s as geto suguru, the curse user and mass murderer who haunts your past, present, and everything in between. 

so you simply sigh, grab the pillow again, and hit the top of his head before walking over to the door as you call over your shoulder, “i’m gonna wait for you by the door in fifteen minutes. be ready or face the consequences..”

“no thanks. don’t wanna,” suguru grumbles petulantly, frowning at you as you stick your tongue at him, smirking as if you’ve just played your ace. 

“too bad,” you sing before swinging the door shut.

he’s at the door in exactly fifteen minutes, like he waited until the last possible second to join you as a move of spite. but you simply gesture him out the door and lock up, taking your sweet time as he stands there with an annoyed face. you stare at the doorknob once you’re done, taking a deep breath before turning to him with your best smile. 

“let’s go,” you hum.

“after you,” he mutters.

—

he grimaces as soon as he sees the people going about their business, clearly unhappy with the idea of being around non-sorcerers, but one sharp glare from you has him sighing and trekking along. the grocery store, admittedly, is not as bad as suguru thinks—in fact, there are lots of things he doesn’t realize he misses until he watches you grab a shopping cart. 

suddenly, he sees shadows. the silhouette of your figure climbing into the cart, the angry wave of satoru’s hands as he claims it's his turn to be pushed around, the figure of shoko pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation from the back—and then, he sees the dark shadow of baggy pants and a small bun. it’s him. suguru watches himself almost in slow motion through the remnants of his imagination as he gently shoves satoru out of the way and reaches to poke the tip of your nose before he pushes the cart with you in it.  

it’s a happy memory—and it’s gone all too soon.

as soon as he blinks, the shadows have disappeared—instead, it’s you waving a hand in his face, concern written on your features as you call his name. 

“suguru? hey, hello? are you with me?”

he exhales, pulled from his trance as he gently grabs your wrist from in front of his face and sets it down as he nods, “yeah, i’m fine. just thinking,” he mumbles. 

for a second, you hesitate, like you almost mean to say something. but in the end, you only nod before turning to grab the shopping cart. but he stops you—grabs the handle and turns to you with a small smile on his face, making you raise a brow as he gently moves you away. 

“what are you—”

“get in,” he grins, making you stare at him in bewilderment. 

“what?”

“just get in,” he sighs, “you love it when you get to sit in the cart.”

“i’m not a teenager anymore—”

“get in, will you?” he groans, “always so damn difficult.”

“hey,” you pout, glaring at him with your hands planted at your hips, “that’s rude.” it’s cute. suguru stares at you with amusement in his eyes and a soft look on his face that you don’t think you’ve really seen in years. 

“humor me,” he hums, “just get in, okay?”

so you do. 

with a huff and a grumble under your breath, you fight back a smile and climb into the damn cart just like old times. you swallow and try not to let it get to you when he reaches over and pokes the tip of your nose and pushes the cart around, letting you name off the things you need from your list while he grabs them. and when he sneaks snacks into the pile, you roll your eyes and glare at him in the way you always did—the one that isn’t actually annoyed. fond. happy to let it slide because it’s him.

“we need candy,” you murmur, “that’s the last thing on the list.”

“okay. what kind?” he asks, turning the cart into the candy aisle and smiling softly down at you.

“doesn’t matter, satoru eats anything as long as it’s sweet. he’s more likely to die from sugar than fighting a curse, i think.”

“you buy candy for satoru?” he asks, making you shrug as you reach over and grab a few bags of candy off the shelves, setting them down beside you. 

“he comes over a lot so i learned to keep stuff stocked up for him. you know how he gets when he’s hungry.”

suguru feels something he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. jealousy—specifically of satoru. 

suguru is not foolish. he knows as soon as he meets gojo satoru that of the two, one of them is stronger and it’s definitely not himself. for the longest time, he’s okay with that, okay being the strongest only when alongside satoru—until he’s not. and even if suguru always had a bit more attention in the romance department than satoru, in his head he’s always known that perhaps satoru can keep you safer, more well off, maybe even happier. with smooth smiles and eyes as welcoming as an oasis, gojo satoru would never leave you in the dark pit of misery as suguru once had. 

something about the thought of you and satoru keeping each other company through the lonely years, filling that empty spot suguru left behind, sharing moments over candy and empty wrappers makes suguru wonder for a moment if perhaps he’d be happier if he stayed. maybe he could have worn a heartfelt smile in a world that carves them off the faces of sorcerers with bloody knives as long as you were there to wipe the blood.  

but before he can dwell on it, you snatch one more bag—this time of his favorite candy, placing it into the cart and grinning gently up at him. 

“i haven’t bought this one in years,” you admit, “i almost forget how it tastes.”

“me too,” he says quietly.

“well,” you hum, “we’ll have to have some when we’re home.”

home. you say it as though it belongs to him as much as it does you, and then like you always have, without even meaning to, you wash away the dark stains of his jealousy with no trace left behind.

“yeah,” he chuckles, “we—”

“daddy, look! candy!” suguru is cut off by the gentle pitter-patter of two tiny feet running into the aisle, pointing at a bag of candy as a man follows close behind. 

his breath hitches. 

she’s small, the girl—she has two pigtails with soft strands of blonde hair falling out of the loosely tied bands. it reminds suguru of the first time he perfected tying up nanako’s hair, the soft giggles behind her tiny hand as she twirled in the mirror. 

there’s another girl in the man’s arms—dark hair on her head as she curls into her father’s chest and tucks her head into his neck when she sees you and suguru in the aisle. she’s shy, he realizes, like mimiko, and suddenly he remembers the tiny fingers that used to hook into his pants when she got too overwhelmed by the people around her, waiting for suguru to scoop her into his arms. 

perhaps in another life, suguru would redo everything differently—he’d be happy with you and satoru and shoko, and nanami and haibara would be there too, well and alive. but no matter what, he’d never redo nanako and mimiko differently. he’d never change a thing about them, not even the way nanako whines too much about small things or the way mimiko never speaks up even when something is clearly bothering her. he’d never change the way he saved them and took them in at the tender age of eighteen, too lost to be a father but choosing to raise them anyway. he’d never change the feeling of pure joy and unbridled pride when they climbed into his bed for the first time, shushing each other so as not to wake him—even though he’d awoken as soon as the door to his room opened. 

because he realized that night that yeah, maybe he’d made mistakes in his lifetime, lots of them too. maybe he’d made a bad choice choosing the path he did, or maybe he didn’t. he’s never been completely sure—just that he had to try at least to make his vision for a different world come to life. but one mistake he never made was his girls. one thing he was always sure about was the soft clutch at his pants and the tiny hands reaching for his own.

suguru wouldn’t change anything about nanako and mimiko—except maybe the fact that they aren’t here, gone because of him. 

“suguru?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand as he grips the cart tightly and pulling his gaze away from the family in the distance. 

he blinks, meets your eyes, and knows that you know. with one glance at your face, he knows you understand. the world is cruel, one filled with suffering, he thinks. but then he remembers what you said, that every world is full of suffering, not just his—that it’s a truth he has to come face to face with.

but it’s hard. it’s hard when this man has his two little girls and suguru does not—it’s hard to watch someone have what he wants with no worries of losing it, all because of people and their own weaknesses. he thinks for a moment that he’s been right all along—that non-sorcerers are too weak for this life, that the jujutsu world has always suffered so they don’t have to. 

but then the man speaks up, catching both of your attention. 

“your mother used to love those,” he says quietly to his daughter, a pained smile on his face. instantly, you and suguru both seem to understand the weight of that single sentence. 

every world has its own pain, suguru realizes. its own cruelties and unfairness, its own way of bringing suffering in its wake as it rips away the things closest to you from your begging fingertips, leaving them cold and empty and numb from the lost weight underneath them. 

“let’s go, suguru,” you whisper, “we have everything we came for.”

“yeah,” he whispers back, clearing his throat so his voice doesn’t crack, “let’s go.”

suguru leaves the grocery store with you after you pay, and for a brief moment, he’s unsure. unsure whether he’s grateful to satoru for fighting for him to be able to come and grateful to you for dragging him along, or if he wishes he died along with the rubble, gone before you could find him and turn him into this.

“before you even think about hiding away in your room,” you say, grabbing the bags from the cart as you put it back where it belongs, “you have to help with putting away the groceries.”

“sure,” he says smoothly. he grabs all the heavy bags from your hand, and you make a move to protest that you don’t need him to take the heavier ones, that you’re fine and can handle them like you’ve always handled them. 

but he walks off, and finally, you decide to simply follow.

————————————————

satoru likes to come and visit—you’ve started a routine movie night every week (unless he’s away, of course.) it’s fun, but it also means he makes your veins pop because he’s a headache like that—always makes himself right at home and eats your snacks like this is his place and not yours. he helps himself to your already limited candy and puts his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table no matter how many times you tell him not to. 

you try sitting with legs as long as these, he always whines, earning a harsh glare from you as you smack at his shins until he ultimately caves and begrudgingly sets his feet down. 

but then they always make their way back up to the coffee table, and you’re too busy enjoying his company to care—although you’ll never admit it. 

satoru is endearing like that, swallowing the dark clouds from your shoulders whole and eating up your burdens with that side of responsibility that you don’t think you could ever stomach. satoru is just like that, you realize, taking the brunt of the weight and laughing off every concern until you can’t help but not take them seriously yourself. 

it’s hard to remember that sometimes you didn’t just lose suguru, the love of your life, that night. everyone lost something. shoko lost someone to smoke with, yaga lost a student to scold, nanami lost a headache to avoid, and satoru?

well…satoru lost what you think might’ve been the only filled void of his miserably empty life. 

it’s hard to remember that satoru lost his best friend—the only best friend he’s ever had (although you like to think of yourself as a close contender)—because he’s so good at letting you forget. he brings you ice cream (that he eats half of because it’s only fair he gets a share), and he sits and hogs your couch (that he argues you don’t really need as much space as him on because your legs aren’t as long), and he watches those stupid sitcoms that are dry with boring jokes (that you used to make suguru watch back in the day).

it’s hard to remember that satoru also lost as much as you because he’s so damn good at making you forget about your own loss, you don’t care to think about anyone else’s for a while. just a short while. just until he’s yawning that obnoxiously loud yawn and stretching those awkwardly long limbs of his before he claims he really should go and that being the world’s best teacher requires as many hours of beauty sleep as you can squeeze in. 

and then he’s off. and it’s empty again. and just like that, you’re reminded of why he was there in the first place—to fill in that sick and painful void that geto suguru left in you. 

it’s gaping, like he tore a chunk of you right out with sharp teeth, like you’re just a piece of meat for him to get his fill of. if suguru really loved you, would you be so easy to let go of? why couldn’t he smile? because you could—god, you could smile just from the sight of him alone, you realize a long time ago. him with his cigarette tucked between his lips, those death sticks as you called them, hung loosely from his mouth as he gives you a lopsided grin. 

geto suguru is enough of a reason to smile. the world could crumble at your feet and leave you with nothing but rubble and dirt, and still, suguru is the core of the earth you’re searching for. 

so why couldn’t you be the same? what is it you were missing? what about you was just not enough for him like the way he was enough for you? 

it dawns on you one night, through bitter tears and shaky sobs, and that sick, twisted, pleading feeling in your gut that begs the wind to carry him back to you—geto suguru has never loved you the way you loved him.

and for that, you can never forgive him, you don’t think.

“you tryin’ to go bug-eyed?” he asks, settling down on the couch next to you, making you snap out of your trance. you shake your head a little, stare back at him for a moment before putting on that look on your face where you roll your eyes and pretend everything is fine.

“no,” you huff, “i’m just thinking.”

“about…?”

“satoru has rarely ever missed a movie night.”

“maybe he’s sick of you,” he shrugs, grinning slyly at you as you narrow your eyes with a glare, “there’s someone here to keep you company now so he’s probably taken his opportunity to run.”

“you’re hardly company,” you scoff, “freeloader.”

“hey,” he defends, shrugging as if it’s not his fault. you suppose it’s not. “i didn’t ask to be rescued. you can’t be high and mighty and petty. ‘s not how that works.”

“says who? you don’t make the rules. i can be graciously kind and a jerk all at once.”

“complexity,” he nods, “i like it.”

“i’m not as complicated as you might think,” you grumble, crossing your arms as you stare at the time. yeah, satoru isn’t making it—which, he told you as much, but he’s strolled in at the last second too many times to count before. you figure today would be the same. “as long as you don’t skip movie nights with me, i’m pretty simple to keep appeased.”

“alright,” he props his feet up on the coffee table—seriously, what is it with asshole men putting their feet on your table? satoru is a terrible influence. “let’s have a movie night.”

“what?” you blink.

“movie night,” he repeats, “you said you don’t like skipping movie night—”

“well, i meant i don’t like satoru skipping movie—”

“well, it was me before satoru, wasn’t it?” he says with a smile. his eyes are closed, crinkled at the corners, but his voice is carefully neutral—like he takes extra care not to let you see any emotion behind it. 

but that only means there is an emotion, isn’t there? is he jealous? does he hate the fact that you and satoru have a routine of your own without him? that you don’t need him to continue living your life? 

good. he should be. he walked out on you all those years ago. he killed a village. killed his parents. you never even got to meet them—he never even got to take you home and introduce you to them before he ripped away every fantasy you ever had with him. 

and now he’s back—he has the audacity to live, to laugh in your face with his existence that yes, geto suguru is here. and he was supposed to be executed, but your stubborn friend didn’t let that happen. he was supposed to be your husband by now with kids and a happy little home, and you were supposed to be his parent’s new addition to their family that they loved so much. but none of that is even close to happening, and it’s suguru’s fault, and the least he can do is show you some regret and maybe feel just the slightest bit bad that you now have to watch shitty movies with his best friend instead of him to feel normal. 

ex-best friend? half best friend? you don’t even know—do they still consider each other their best friends? does anyone consider suguru anything? you don’t know what you consider him. but you think the least he can do is act just the slightest bit pathetic after making you feel so pathetic for so long just to even the score. 

he should be a stranger. he feels like an old friend. but either is dangerous. 

“alright,” you sigh, “let's bring back movie night. don’t fall asleep.”

“i get plenty of sleep nowadays,” he hums, “i have more than enough free time for that now.”

“how lucky of you,” you snort. 

—

picking a movie with suguru is difficult. he actually has standards—satoru watches anything so long as he gets snacks, and he can make anything fun to watch with the way he comments from the side like a critic. suguru, on the other hand, actually cares about the quality of a movie, the metrics that make it good. 

so you pick the hunger games just to piss him off. 

“seriously?” he raises a brow, “this is your pick?”

“yes,” you grin, “i like these movies.”

“of all movies—”

“my house, my rules,” you grin cheekily, “you can pick the movies as soon as you start paying the bills.”

“wow,” he deadpans, “stooping to use my financial status against me? i thought you were better than this.”

“oh suguru,” you sigh dramatically, grabbing a bag of chips from the table, “you don’t know me at all.”

all things considered, you think it’s a rather enjoyable experience. it’s not as fun without satoru’s stupid comments that you pretend to hate, but suguru provides his own commentary that earns a giggle out of you here and there too—although his are not meant to be funny. but that’s the appeal of it, you think. 

“she should have picked gale,” he mumbles. you raise a brow.

“peeta was always there for her, did you miss the rain scene?”

“so was gale,” he says smoothly, grabbing a chip from your bag and making you scowl.

“gale killed her sister,” you point out, “and a lot of other people too. he was ruthless. she needed peeta.”

“gale did what he had to do,” suguru mumbles. 

suddenly, it doesn’t really feel like you’re discussing the movie anymore. it feels more than that. it feels sickening—the air is heavy, and your throat is dry and god, you just wanted a movie night and not this heaviness as you talk about stuff from the past without actually talking about it. 

you blink before turning to your chips, playing around with the bag as you shrug. 

“in the end he didn’t get katniss, did he?”

suguru studies you for a moment, stares a little too deep into you that you start to feel the urge to bolt to your room and go to bed. 

“guess not,” he says quietly, “guess that’s the one regret he has, huh?”

you think for a second, as suguru stares at your eyes with something you can’t quite read, that you might cry. you might cry and throw that half-empty can of soda in his face for speaking in codes and making you question what he means and remember your past. you might cry because suguru could’ve always gotten you—in fact, he had you.

it’s not fair. nothing is, but you can’t help but dwell on it.

“i’m going to bed. it’s late,” you mumble after a few moments, standing. he only nods, staring at the tv as the credits roll. when you make it to your room and the door shuts behind you, you debate clicking the lock in place. 

in the end, you don’t lock the door. suguru climbs into bed with you once more later that night, shaking slightly from his nightmare but calmer than usual. he’s still gone by the time morning comes, and you still never mention it.

it hits you one night that maybe he still has you—maybe you never let him stop having you, no matter what you say.

————————————————

suguru is good at cleaning while you’re away. you have to go out and do adult things like breadwinning and grocery shopping and bill paying. he dusts and cleans and even takes out the trash when you’re home to monitor him as he steps two feet out of your front door. sometimes, because you like to get on his nerves, you accidentally mess up a corner of the house just as he cleans it, laughing as he shoots you an unimpressed look. 

“stop getting crumbs on the floor,” he mumbles, “i just vacuumed.”

“you make a good malewife,” you giggle, “vacuuming and everything. how cute.”

“don’t call me that,” he grumbles, sitting down on the couch. 

“but you missed a spot,” you point to the crumbs you’ve sprinkled from your fingers as you snack away, making him glare. “failwife.”

“i’m going to divorce you and take everything,” he snaps, making you snort as you put your hands up in surrender.

“you don’t have to, you know,” you murmur, “clean, i mean. i can handle it.”

“i think i should carry my weight around here,” he shrugs, “since you are basically sugar babying me around for now.”

“dangerous curse user to the world, but sugar baby to me,” you tease, pulling a chuckle out of him as he rolls his eyes. 

sometimes it’s nice to have his company. suguru is good with banter like that, he’s not annoying like satoru where you run in circles. suguru makes you laugh from your belly, makes the hiccups catch in your throat as you double over. he’s always been like that, always known how to make laughter pour from your lips and trickle down your chin. it’s comforting to know he still knows how. it leaves a small amount of bitterness that he’s still able to make you feel like this. 

“by the way, next time you go shopping, take me with you,” he says casually, “i need to buy stuff for my hair. it’s growing.”

“you’ll finally see the sun just for your hair?” you gasp, “who knew that’s all it’d take?”

despite the playfulness in your words, there’s still shock. suguru is willingly stepping foot outside your house. he’s finally choosing to return to life after living like a recluse no matter how many times you and satoru have tried to beg him to get up and go somewhere. the most you can get out of him is a walk around the neighborhood before he goes back to wandering your home and hiding away in his room. 

suguru is returning to life, his life, and you can’t help but wonder where that leaves room for you.

“my hair is my charm,” he reasons, “wouldn’t you agree?”

there’s a smirk on his lips when he asks—it’s like he’s seventeen and teasing you again, giving you that unfairly flirty smile that used to make you stutter as a kid. back when you were hopelessly in love. back when it was you, suguru, and the world in your corner. back when you had dreams of your future, practically giggling as you planned it away in a notebook. 

suguru was always perfect like that, the kind of guy you could only dream about. he’s always been handsome—he’s always been the center of attention everywhere you went. you used to huff about it, about all the attention he managed to get from walking into a room alone. but then he’d smile, give you that tender look of his as he’d chuckle, and you’d be hopeless again. 

he shouldn’t have that effect on you anymore after over a decade. but he does. it’s cruel, the way the universe works. it’s like there’s a magnet that pushes you together no matter how far you try to go, still pulled by gravity straight into his awaiting eyes and devilish smile.

“i cut your hair off once, i can do it again,” you huff. he laughs, it’s good-natured and kind. 

“i was a bit heartbroken when i realized it was so short, i have to admit,” he says, “i didn’t look like me.”

“you looked good,” you say quietly, “i think you’d make anything work, to be honest.”

“yeah?” he grins, “any requests? i might consider it if it’s you.”

“oh shut up,” you roll your eyes, “how about shaving your head bald? let's see how much charm you have without all that hair.”

“i could charm you without the hair still, couldn’t i?” he winks. 

it’s unfair how he acts like normal. like a few months in your home undoes everything he’s ever committed, all the atrocities he’s caused. the way he flirts with you feels like you’re his again. the way he’s aged and changed feels like you’re meeting someone new. you don’t understand how suguru is so natural with that—with seamlessly falling back into a rhythm with you like nothing has changed at all.

deep down, you know that suguru is just moving on with his life. he’s making the most of what he can. he can’t die, satoru would never let him have a peaceful death after all this. he can’t go back to the way things used to be, whether that’s his sorcery days or his curse user days, and he certainly can’t start over. so he’s making do with what he has—which is very little in reality.

it’s you, your home, and the biweekly visits from satoru and occasionally shoko. so he weaves you seamlessly into his life and treats you with a sense of normalcy you can’t hope to treat him with. maybe it’s because suguru was actually able to move on after he left. 

it’s the part you hated him most for. for building a family with new people. for having two girls that he raised as daughters. for finding people to follow him and trust. suguru, after he walked away from everything he ever knew, actually did something with his life—even if it could hardly be considered good. 

you? you fell deeper and deeper into a pit of denial until clawing your way back out was too impossible, until you had to leave behind everything you’ve ever known to get away from the remnants of his existence. 

it’s easy for him to weave you back into his life because he chose to cut you loose. it feels damn near impossible to let him weave back into yours after he tore himself from the edges and frayed away. 

“don’t do that,” you sigh, making him frown.

“do what?”

“you know what, suguru,” you pinch your nose in frustration, “stop acting like things are normal.”

“things are definitely not normal,” he snorts bitterly, “i think needing your approval to take the trash out is not equal to normal.”

“then why are you acting like…” you trail off, unsure.

“like what?” he raises a brow. 

“like we never changed,” you slam your hands down on the couch in exasperation. 

he stares at you for a minute, blinks once, then twice, and then furrows his brows.

“well, of course we changed,” he mumbles in confusion, “i know that—”

you shouldn’t have said anything. you quickly realize that. suguru is not trying to act like things are normal—he’s trying to be civil, and you’re just a fool. a fool who looks too deeply into everything and assumes what you want to out of things and god, you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of your one and only ex-boyfriend in over a decade who was once dead and somehow came back to the land of the living.

of course, he knows things are not the same. he doesn’t want what you think he does. it’s been years and suguru has moved on—he had already moved on all those years ago, and you’re the only one here that is still focused on the past. and now he knows it too. 

you stand before he can finish, nodding as you stare down instead of meeting his eyes, pretending to adjust your clothes. 

“right, of course you do,” you nod, “i don’t know why i said that. just ignore me, i’ll be going to my room now. i have…things to do, so i’ll be—”

“hang on,” he frowns, hand grabbing your wrist, “i don’t mean it like that,” he says gently.

fuck geto suguru for being so confusing and fuck him for being nice about it too. 

“you can let go, suguru,” you pull at your wrist, “forget what i said, i wasn’t thinking—”

“i still feel the same,” he cuts you off, making your eyes widen, “if that’s what you mean. i never stopped.”

never stopped—that’s almost worse than moving on. how could he have felt the same all those years and still never come back?

“that does not help even a little,” you swallow the lump in your throat. “that makes this so much worse, do you see that?”

“i know,” he sighs, “i’m sor—”

“don’t say you’re sorry,” you grit your teeth, “we both know you’re not.”

“maybe not,” he admits, “i had to try. and that meant leaving—i’m sorry that’s not what you wanted.”

“it’s not!” you turn around, pulling your arm out of his grasp—suguru, for what it’s worth, takes the shove to his chest like a champ. “of course i didn’t want you to leave and kill a bunch of people and have an execution stamped on your forehead and live your life without me.”

“i know—”

“and now you’re back. back! in my house, eating my food and sleeping in my bed for half the night and i just have to act like this is normal. how is any of this normal?” 

“it’s not,” he agrees. he’s calm. so calm, it almost makes you mad. why is he so calm? “nothing about anything in our lives is normal. it never was.”

“you ruined my life,” you blink back tears. he smiles sadly, taking a step closer.

“i guess i can take the blame for that,” he nods, hands finding their way to your hips. against your better judgment, you lean half your weight against his body. this is bad, very bad—but it’s also the best thing ever. 

being close to suguru feels like the sun’s heat tearing through your skin—it’s warm. it’s pleasant. it leaves you parched and drained with a dry throat. but still, you need it to survive. 

“why did you come back?” you ask tiredly. his hand finds the small of your back, rubbing slow circles.

“i don’t know,” he hums, “i didn’t really get a say. maybe i was always meant to, who knows?”

you look at him at that—tilt your head to get a good look at his features. his eyes are more tired, and his cheeks are a bit more sunken in compared to the youthful flesh you remember him with. his hair isn’t as healthy, and his forehead has the slightest traces of pale marks from the scars. but he’s still suguru—and you have always loved suguru, even if he gives you every reason to hate him.

“you make my life unreasonably difficult,” you mutter.

he hums, smiling. “can i?” he asks breathlessly, pleadingly. you stare at his eyes, he stares at your lips. you know what he wants—but fuck, you can’t let him have it so easy. 

“can you what?” you ask, raising a brow slowly.

“are you really gonna make me say it?” he grunts, lips almost curled into a pout. it’s cute, the way he looks longingly at your lips—it’s so cute and beautiful and dangerous all at once, just like suguru. 

“yes,” you say, “yes i am. i deserve to hear it suguru, after everything you put me through. you…you left me. i wasn’t enough for you. i mourned you. i grieved a body i never even saw. do you know what that does to a person? to lose them not once but two times? the least you could do is tell me what you want,” your voice wavers just a little. 

it shakes for the lost time. for the moments you’ll never have. for the memories you lost. for the past that’s tainted. time is cruel like that. but that’s the beauty of it all—the fragility. it’s like sand falling through the cracks of your fingers, every grain slipping from your reach but still soft and soothing against your skin as it falls. everything fades over time, everything starts to hurt one way or another. but it stops. it heals. it starts over. the sand fills the cup of your palms again, warm and delicate and just as beautiful as before it crumbled. 

“can i kiss you?” he asks desperately, “please?”

“kissing me is not a temporary thing,” you shake your head, “not anymore. it’s for good. only for good.”

“i want to kiss you for good,” he nods, hands digging into your hips impatiently. you’re close. you’re too far. he can feel you, smell you, hear your unsteady breaths. but it’s not enough. he needs to devour you, taste you on his tongue, and melt you with his touch. “i won’t stop this time,” he promises. 

“you better not,” you sniffle, tears blurring your vision. you hated suguru for leaving you. you hated him for coming back to you like this. you never stopped loving him, never will stop loving him—and maybe that’s what love is. when the darkness is worth trekking through for the afterglow of the light. “if you fucking leave me again, you’re dead to me. i don’t care how many times you come back to life. you’re dead to me.”

“okay,” he agrees through a shaky chuckle, “i suppose i deserve that. let me kiss you, yeah?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

he kisses you—years too late, he kisses you. it feels like you’re teenagers again. it feels different and foreign. you know this feeling like the back of your hand. you don’t understand what this sensation is anymore. it’s new. it’s old. it’s perfect. it hurts. suguru is here. he promised not to leave—you don’t know if you believe him, but you’re going to trust that finally, for once, you are enough. 

you’re enough to make him happy. to give him a sense of purpose. to keep him swimming when his limbs start to sink. 

finally, for once, you’re enough. 

“i love you,” he whispers against your mouth, breathing the words into you like he’s offering you the air from his lungs, “i never stopped. i promise.”

“you don’t deserve to hear it from me,” you murmur back, panting against his lips, “not yet.”

“fair enough,” he chuckles, “you sure know how to leave a guy waiting.”

“i learned from the best,” you shoot back.

he grins—suguru smiles, heartfelt and real. life is full of misery, it’s painful, and nothing fucking makes sense. everything is cruel. everything dies no matter how carefully you water the roots. there’s always something, someone, ready to tear it from the earth. but if you keep planting the seeds, suguru will keep watering. 

maybe something kind can bloom from that, something big enough for him to hide under the shade when the scorching heat of tragedy becomes too much. 

in this world or in the jujutsu world; in this life or in the next. suguru is yours.

“why am i here?” he asks gently, his face digging into your neck. you hold him, cradling the back of his head as you hum. 

“because i need you here. will you stay?”

“yes,” he murmurs, “i think i’ll stay.”

hi. i have been working on this since march. its still not how i envisioned it to be originally but that's okay. i had fun writing it and it means a lot to me even tho its kind of. well....cliche LMAO like everything i write. but. i enjoy the cliches okay ?? i do. kxljchskdf hope u guys didn't hate it </3

also the fic banner is …. not the greatest. just ignore it ok

[moyazaika]

omg doe brought up this AMAZINGGG idea abt the crime lord yan and his lawyer darling hello hey hi!!!!!!

this kinda got away from me because it is 3am but i nEEEEEDED to get this out bjsjsjjs i blame @carnivorousyandeere

i know i wrote the initial dynamic for his darling to be his lawyer, in that they’re on his side in court to keep him from getting sent to prison BUT BUT BUT hear me out T_T

lawyer darling who put yan kingpin away.

as in ,, you are the reason he was found guilty. you are the one, when the judge announced the final verdict, that his gaze turned to and that he smiled for, then. sentenced to death, before it was appealed to multiple life sentences; the beginning of the end of his empire.

you, you, you — the cause of his downfall.

after the infamous internationally documented case, your career soars to unprecedented heights. you’re the lawyer on every newspaper in every country, all the tv channels and glossy magazines. every law school wants you to speak at their graduation ceremonies. every firm’s reaching out to you. the whole world knows your name; you have everything!

—so why do you keep going back to the man who now has nothing?

the kingpin looks the same as he did that fateful day in court. only now, there’s bags under his eyes, and a five o clock shadow on his jaw; lips still curled in an easygoing smile. he laughs when he sees you, as if the two of you were merely old friends who hadn’t caught up in a while.

as if you’re not visiting him years later in the city’s most high security prison.

he grins. “come to gloat, have ‘ya?”

“you’ve committed countless crimes.” you state. “stolen lives and livelihoods. broken up families. killed good men. and still, all these years later, no remorse?”

“don’t get ‘yer panties in a twist,” he huffs, lazily leans back in the rickety prison chair so that he’s swinging it back and forth on its back legs, like a child. how absurd that even the garish orange uniform of a prison should suit him, “comes with the job description, don’t it?”

“i think about you,” you admit, eyeing the chains that bind his handcuffed hands to the desk in front of him. you look up, meet his gaze through the thick, dirty pane that separates you from him. keeps you safe. out of his reach, if only just.

a low whistle. “you sure know how to make a man feel special, y’know. been followin’ your cases. never put another one like me away, did ‘ya?” he grins. “i like that i’m special. makes me feel all warm ‘nd fuzzy inside.”

“wow,” you let out. “you really have gone insane.”

“always been a ‘lil crazy! like i said, part of the job description. though i’ve been thinkin’ recently,” he starts.

your fascination prompts you to lean closer. a sort of morbid curiosity that yearns to solve the puzzle of his twisted mind, slot the pieces you’ve already got in a way that makes them fit. you’ve got this weird feeling that you’re missing something. a big piece, maybe. one of the central ones.

“thinking about what?” your voice is barely above a whisper, almost conspiratorial. he leans in, too, all wide eyes—

—and then he jerks forward with the chains around the cuffs on his wrists pulled taut as he suddenly yanks them all the way, like a feral dog pulling on its leash. he looks like one, too, with that glint in his eyes.

“fuck!”

you barely even register that you’re on the floor until he laughs, low in his throat. he makes a vague gesture to your chair, toppled over on its side.

“oops.” he says, coyly. “didn’t mean to scare ‘ya.”

“liar,” you hiss, standing up to dust yourself off. this was stupid. why would you even entertain the idea of a civil conversation with a madman?

he gasps dramatically. “this is slander, your honour!”

“i’m leaving,” you scoff. “i don’t even know why i even came down here. you’re clearly fucking crazy.”

“and you’re no fun!” he pouts. “how ‘bout you stay just a little longer and i’ll make it worth ‘yer time, pretty please?”

“no can do,” you turn on your heels and reach for the door, fingers curled around the handle as you spare him one final glance over your shoulder— “have fun rotting in here for the rest of your life, psycho.”

—except the door won’t open. you try again, and again once more. the handle won’t budge. an awful sense of urgency overcomes you as you desperately shake the handle in a futile attempt to get it to just—

“funny ‘yer calling me crazy, ‘cus einstein once said real insanity is doin’ the same thing,” he beams. “over and over and over and over again, and expecting different results. door’s locked, lovely. ‘yer not getting out from there, ‘m afraid.”

you turn back then, still holding onto that door like a lifeline. he’s standing up, rubbing sore wrists that are, you realise with a sinking feeling, no longer bound by the handcuffs that kept him chained; on a short leash, like a good dog.

“what are you doing…?” your voice shakes, and it’s a far cry to the headstrong, unwavering lawyer who put the world’s most notorious criminal behind bars. “what the fuck—”

“i told you i’d make it worth your while t’stay,” he rolls up his sleeves, before pushing all of his hair (longer and greasier than the last you saw him) out of his face, features set in a determination you’ve never glimpsed before. familiar eyes twinkle with mischief. “and i meant it, y’know. the world’s very best lawyer came so far to see me! least i can do is greet ‘em properly.”

“‘cus see, the other prisoners wouldn’t be so nice. but i’ve been thinkin’ about you too.” he pulls his arm back and his fist comes flying at the pane. “don’t wanna have a conversation or nothin’ like that, nah, we talked enough.”

“you’ve been thinking about me, i’ve been waiting around for you…” bloody knuckles against cracks in the one barrier that is keeping you safe from him. you watch, helpless, as it threatens to break beneath the brute force of his trained fists.

“now let me just come over there,” he pulls his arm back again, ready to strike; knuckles raw and red, like the maniacal grin carved onto his pretty, flushed face. a deep blush and a shaky smile as those fists bring it all crashing down. “and show you how much i missed my faaavourite lawyer in the whole wide world.”

“—that be a good enough reason to stick around?” he asks slyly, before catching himself. “oh, silly me.” he shakes his head, apologetically, as he steps over broken shards on the floor, tainted with his blood. “doesn’t matter what ‘ya say.” a low hum when scarred hands reach out for you. “i waited so long for you…”

“… so, let’s make up reaaalllll good for all that lost time, okay?”

[abibliphobiac]

Guys, I hate to break it to you, but I’m rewatching Teen Wolf as an adult and:

-Derek isn’t an interesting or even good character til like season 3

-Isaac and Allison shouldn’t have been a thing (but could’ve been something w Scott 👀)

-Boyd and Erica should’ve had more time and been flushed out more

-Kora felt very thrown-in and wasn’t given any respect frfr

-Isaac my Beloved sassy man you are missed every scene you’re not present

-ALL of the characters should have been flushed out more (but oh well, ig that’s what fanfic is for)

-Peter pisses me The Fuck off

-The storylines are so ???

-Some of the scenes are corny as HELL

-Some of the scenes are COLD AS FUCK bruh

-Stiles and Malia were actually really great together imo

-Malia is so fuckin funny on god

-Dylan O’Brien is. THE actor fr

-I really like Scott and Lydia’s friendship and would’ve liked it to be explored more 💕 (platonically)

-Stiles needed the time away from Lydia to love her in a way that wasn’t toxic or obsessive (and yet still has some concerning tendencies)

-EVERY. SINGLE. FEMALE. CHARACTER. Deserved so much more development and time without a male counterpart. Period.

-Especially Kira, Braeden, and Lydia

-PUT SOME RESPECT ON KIRA and please 🧎🏻‍♀️ let overpowered characters BE OP and not two hits and down fr

-I need more Dread Doctors content in my life for Reasons™️ and I will not be elaborating unless asked

-Theo is a character that exists almost solely in The Grey and y’all ain’t ready to have a civil conversation about how well Cody played the nuances of him

-Hayden is fine, Hayden and Liam is ? such a high school relationship I can’t complain but I don’t love

-the beast was 🤣 like cmon guys

-Ducalien👌🏼 (but not the cgi)

-Theo and Liam are a Fantastic duo, romantic or not (but they should’ve been canon ngl)

-We deserved more Mason content TBH

-Also, Corey? I better not see any hate for that little shithead ya hear? He��s my annoying little brother and I’ll protect him and Morey til I die.

- more puppy pack was A NEED in general

And so much more that I can’t articulate at the moment.

[27spoons]

Dizzy on the Comedown | Natalie Scatorccio

summary: Denial is a river in Egypt.

pairing: natalie scatorccio x fem!reader

based on: pretty girls - reneé rapp

warnings: smut (afab!reader), internalized homophobia (nat), period typical homophobia (if you squint), ambiguously queer!reader, angst in my pants, I know nothing about soccer

a/n: technically you can read this part without reading part one but you should read part one anyway <3

wc: 5540

part one / ao3

The chair next to you is empty. 

Again.

It's been empty all week, and despite your best efforts at convincing yourself that it's fine, you can't stop the void from weighing on your conscience. Sure, missing one day was fine. Normal, even. It isn't Natalie if she doesn't miss at least one class a week. 

But there's something about how she's been dodging your calls, the fact that this is the second day in a row she's conveniently missed the one class you two share, and the nagging pit in your stomach that says this absence feels different. 

You try to focus on the lecture—something about the economic structures of ancient civilizations—but the professor’s voice fades into the background.

You knew this would happen. You knew it would end up hurting one or both of you. For once, you're grateful your seat is in the back of the lecture hall because it lets you close your eyes and press your head into your palms in frustration.

The remainder of the lecture is spent in thought, wondering how the hell you're supposed to repair a relationship when the other person doesn't even talk to you.

Ugh.

By the time the lecture ends, your head is far too busy, wondering why the hell she's avoiding you instead of just talking about whatever—

Nope. Actually, that's perfectly in character, now that you think about it. Why talk about things when you could just wall yourself off and refuse to converse over what you deem problematic?

With a roll of your eyes, you stand up from your seat and throw on your backpack, making record time back to your dorm. 

Your first order of business? The soccer schedule Nat gave you at the start of the season.

She has a game tonight. 

Perfect.

If she won't talk like adults, you'll ambush her after her soccer game ends. Either way, you two will talk about this, whether she likes it or not.

You glance down at your watch as you arrive at the soccer field.

4:50, the analog clock flashes back at you—ten minutes to match start.

Truthfully, you've never been that big of a soccer fan. Despite attending most of Nat's soccer games since high school, you don't understand the game. You just know she kicks a ball around a field over the course of an hour and a half. Should you have learned a thing or two by now? Probably. Oh, well. That's a thought for another night. You don't need to understand the game's dynamics to understand that more goals equals win, and winning is good.

Rather than sitting in your usual spot, right behind Nat's bench, you sit in the middle of the bleachers, right in a mess of people, out of view unless you're actively searching the stands for someone. 

When the teams come out onto the field, your eyes find Nat immediately jogging out behind some girl with black hair and tan skin. Instinctively, you shrink further into the crowd as if she would even end up looking your way—because why would she? You know the areas that her friends usually sit in—and you're far from any of them. Regardless, you tug your hood up all the same and hunch over slightly in your seat. 

Right after halftime passes, you make the mistake of stretching your arms above your head in an attempt to relieve the tension that's started building in your back since you began hunching your back. And, of course, that just so happens to be the exact point of time Natalie looks up into the stands as she sets her water bottle down.

Good going. Your one goal was to be stealthy.

You tense slightly, and you honestly don't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't her just… glancing away and heading back out to the field. Or… maybe you should have expected it. She has a game to win, after all. What was she supposed to do? Ditch the game and start talking to you?

Either way, you notice she doesn't play nearly as well as she did in the first half. A part of you wonders if you're partially at fault for that.

By the time the game ends, the team manages to come out on top, one to nothing. You're not that big of an asshole that you'd interrupt a post-game celebration, but the second you see the team part and head to the changing rooms, you try and make a beeline for the familiar mop of bleach blonde hair mingling in the mess of soccer players. Yet, she's gone before you can grab her shoulder and talk.

Goddammit.

You suppose she doesn't play soccer because she's slow. 

But you'll be damned if she manages to slip past you again tonight.

You spend a good thirty minutes pacing outside one of the entrances to the locker rooms, already knowing that you could have very well missed her by now if she slipped out the opposite exit, but that's a chance you're willing to take.

She usually takes a shower after a game, anyway. It's not odd for her to spend a little longer in the showers, but thirty minutes is a little excessive. 

Still, in all your wisdom, you decide you'll wait an hour at the most. Not like you have anything better to do tonight, anyway.

By the forty-five-minute mark, you start debating your sanity.

By the fifty-minute mark, you start debating leaving—

The door opens. "Natalie!" You say immediately, pushing off the wall and walking in quick strides towards her, "Nat! Hold on!"

The girl scoffs and keeps walking away, shaking her head in annoyance. "Oh my God. I knew you were gonna try something when I saw you in the stands today."

"You've been avoiding me!" You yell back, "What the fuck was I supposed to do? You haven't been showing up to class, you've been avoiding my calls… I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know!" She calls back, not bothering to stop and look at you, "I think that maybe you should have waited until I came to you!"

"We both know you wouldn't have, Natalie! You would—" You quicken your stride again, "Fuck! Would you slow down for two seconds?! Or at least look at me when I'm talking to you?"

"If you can't say what you need to say while I'm walking, then it probably isn't even worth saying!" She responds with a humourless chuckle, "Not like I'm running away! Just walking!"

You huff at that, forcing out air through your nose. "Natalie." She keeps walking, "Natalie!" You finally snap, reaching out to grab at her wrist, "Stop fucking walking for a minute!" A beat, "Please." The last comment comes out slightly more desperate than you intend it to, but you don't know what you'll do if she doesn't talk about this with you, "Please, Nat." You breathe out, fully leaning into the desperation at this point, "Fuck, I… I can't lose you over something like this."

That makes her pause despite her initial struggle when you grabbed her wrist. She still doesn't face you, but she does stop walking. 

"You…" You can see the way her face contorts in an expression similar to pain, "You aren't gonna lose me over this."

"Then just…" A shaky sigh, "God, Nat. Just talk to me. Please. Stop… running—literally—just… just talk to me." You release her wrist after a moment longer, drawing your hand back to your side. 

"I can't." She whispers, "God… I just… I can't, okay?"

"Why not, Natalie?!" You can't help how your voice breaks on her name, "Why not?? We used to tell each other everything! When did that change?"

"It hasn't, okay?!" Nat snaps, turning around to look at you. "It hasn't changed! I'm just not ready to talk about this right now! Why can't you accept that?!"

"Because I know you! And I know that you'll just keep fucking avoiding this until it kills us!"

"Oh, wow." She scoffs, immediately throwing up those barriers you've become so accustomed to. "Y'sure think real highly of yourself, huh? That us not talking would kill me? Wow."

"You know that's not what I meant!" You hiss out as you take a step forward, "You know damn well I meant "killing our relationship," not… literally killing us!" You throw your hands up in equal parts frustration and confusion as to why she's acting like this, "Natalie, you have to know I'm not about to force you into a role or something—"

She slaps a hand over your mouth, "Would you lower your voice?!" She hisses at you, glancing around the area to see if anyone overheard, "Fuck! And, no, you aren't forcing me into a "role" because I'm straight!"

You yank her hand off of your mouth, "Natalie, you—!" You two enter a whisper-yelling competition, "Natalie. In case you fucking forgot, you were—" You glance around the area briefly, still focusing on watching your voice, "—tongue-fucking-deep in my fucking vagina the other night!"

Nat blushes furiously at the comment, jaw-dropping, and her entire body freezes. 

But, hey, you're already on a roll. "And, as far as I'm fucking concerned, straight chicks don't spend hours fucking her "best friend"—who is a woman—and fucking enjoy it!"

Her jaw remains on the floor as you finish speaking, and you really don't know what to do from here, but you really don't want her to walk off yet, so you do the reasonable thing.

You grab her face and draw her in for a kiss.

The kiss lasts about five seconds, in which she doesn't kiss you back at all, so you release her face and take a step back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "I—"

Her hand connects with your face with a loud THWACK, causing your head to flick to the side in shock, despite it not being that hard or hurtful.

Your hand moves to the cheek she hit, and it's your turn to drop your jaw. "Did you just… hit me?" You ask in equal parts, shock and reluctant arousal. 

Nat's mouth opens and closes a few times—as if she can't believe what she did either. "I… yes?"

A beat, an exasperated huff, "You don't even know if you hit me??"

"No! I mean… I know I hit you! I just…" She presses a hand to her head, just as confused as you are, apparently. "I didn't expect to hit you!"

"Well… you did??" You blink a few times as you try to recollect yourself, "Why??"

"I don't know?!" She yells back, "I don't know, okay?! I just—!" She groans in frustration, throwing her hands in the air. "Fuck, you piss me off!" And you think that she's about to storm off or hit you again, but she does something very unexpected and very appreciated— 

She grabs your face and kisses you. Properly this time. You hesitate only a moment before you return the kiss, hands immediately wrapping around her waist to draw her closer to your body.

The kiss is short-lived but intense, tongues pressing against each other in a flurry of want, Nat pressing up onto her toes to deepen it further, body pressing flush to yours as her arms wrap themself around your neck in a tight hold.

When the kiss breaks, her face remains close to yours. "Take me back to your dorm." She murmurs against your lips, warm breath fanning over your face. 

You hesitate for a moment, shaking your head minutely. "Nat, we… we need to talk about this—"

"Later." She cuts you off, "Please, later. I promise I'll talk about it with you." A beat, and she looks up at you with wide eyes, "You know I'm good on my word."

And, for all Nat is, she is good on her word. If she says she'll do something, she'll do it.

Another moment of hesitation, a quiet breath leaving your lips, "Y-yeah. Yes. Rachel is always at her boyfriend's place, anyway. We'll have the place to ourselves."

A small grin quirks on Natalie's lips, "Oh, boy. A twin-sized bed in a dorm with walls thinner than paper, all to ourselves. I can't wait."

You scoff and roll your eyes, detaching yourself from her hold, "You're the one that suggested my dorm room, asshole. We could have gone to yours."

She gives an exasperated pout, "But my dormmate is always home. And she snores."

You nudge your head in the general direction of your dorm, "Whatever. C'mon, before I change my mind."

"We both know you won't do that, though." She hums alongside you.

The second you two are in your dorm room, your backpacks are on the floor, and clothes are being quickly discarded.

"For the record," Nat murmurs as she throws her shirt off over her head, "I'm not—"

"Nope!" You cut her off as your hands move to your belt, "Don't wanna hear you say some shit like "I'm not gay" again after the conversation we just had."

The blonde scoffs and rolls her eyes, "I wasn't gonna say that." She falls back onto your bed and wiggles out of her pants, "I was gonna say "I'm not sure how much fun doing this in a twin-size is gonna be" if you would have let me finish."

A grin crosses your face, "Oh, trust me. I fully plan on having you finish multiple times tonight." You shoot her an overexaggerated wink, which earns you a (barely restrained) giggle and eye roll, with her pants being thrown at you. "Hey!" You catch her pants as they hit your chest, "You walked into that one. Only person you can blame is yourself."

"You talk so much, you know that?" She props herself up on her elbows and looks over you, "And you still have far too many clothes on. That needs to change."

"Yeah, I would have been more naked if someone hadn't thrown her pants at me." To tease her a little more, you spend your time folding her pants and delicately placing them on a chair, then do the same with her shirt that was discarded on the floor.

"Dude." Nat groans, "Seriously?" You see her kick her leg out at you through the corner of your eye, and a smirk twitches its way onto your lips as you continue the methodical process of folding clothes. And, much to the dismay of the half-naked girl on your bed, when you start stripping, you give your clothes the same treatment.

"You're fucking with me." She deadpans, eyes narrowed. "You have to be." 

You hum, "I'm just ensuring our clothes don't get wrinkled." 

Nat looks at the unfolded, clean laundry sitting in a heap at the foot of your bed, then back to you. "You have to be fucking with me."

"What can I say? I've decided I should start changing my habits. Starting now."

You get the sense she wants to give you a smart comment but then decides that if she did that, it would likely result in more of your teasing, so she opts for a frustrated huff instead. "Asshole." She grumbles under her breath, crossing her arms petulantly as she collapses back onto the mattress.

You grin as you pad back over to the bed, now in nothing but your underwear, "Yeah. But you knew that before you came back with me." You clamber onto the bed so that you're hovering over her, caging her to the bed. "So, once again, only yourself to blame."

"Yeah, I know." She murmurs, reaching up to wrap her arms loosely around your shoulders, "I seem to be making a lot of interesting choices lately."

"Interesting, but not bad?" You begin to press kisses to the side of her neck, slow and exploratory. 

"Mmm…" She moves her hands, one tangling in your hair, the other coming to rest on your shoulder, "No. Not bad. I make a lot of bad choices, but…" She hesitates, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she bares her neck for you. "No. I don't think this is one of them."

The grin that crosses your face is inevitable, and you pause your actions briefly as you reflect on the comment. "Good." After a long moment, you whisper against her skin, "That's…" You smile wider, pressing your forehead to her shoulder. "Good. That's good. I'm happy you think that."

"You're so cheesy." She pushes your shoulder back slightly so she can see your face, and a smirk appears when she sees your soft, warm smile. "And you're grinning like a dork."

"Can I be happy for thirty seconds? Is that allowed?" You run your hands up and down her sides, which immediately turns into her giggling and trying to get away from you, swatting at your hands. "Oh? Ticklish, Scatorccio?" 

"Asshole!" She laughs, trying to grab your hands. "S-stop! You know I'm ticklish!"

You shake your head, the grin now becoming more unhinged, "Nope! This is what you get for not letting me have a moment! I was trying to be cute!"

"N-no!" She laughs louder, eyes squeezing shut as her attempts remain futile. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I t-take it back!"

You laugh at that, enjoying the way she's squirming under you. And… it's nice. It's really nice, actually. Because this feels more like how a situation with your best friend should be, not… whatever happened at that party.

In your slight haze of thought, you pause long enough for Nat to shove you off of her, pinning you down instead. "Yes!" She laughs triumphantly, grabbing your wrists and holding them to the bed as she straddles your waist, "My turn!"

"Not ticklish, Scatorccio!" You laugh, shifting your hips up under her, both trying to get her off of you and trying to grind yourself against her. "But you're welcome to try!"

"Everyone is ticklish!" She lets go of one of your wrists, moving her hand to your waist and beginning her assault, "I'll prove it!" She laughs, warm and happy.

Admittedly, it's a sound you've missed. You've missed hearing her laugh.

But you still aren't ticklish.

You lay there and let her try, to no avail. "You're so fucking boring." Nat murmurs once she realises she won't be getting you to crack, and she collapses back onto the bed beside you. 

You turn to face her, propping yourself up on an elbow, your free hand trailing to rest on her stomach, "No, I'm just not ticklish. Hell, I touch you the wrong way right now, and you're gonna be giggling." You almost prove your point, but Nat glares at you and grabs the hand you have on her stomach, her expression telling you No.

"Mmmmm… but I'm feeling nice right now. So I won't. Because I'm nice." You grin down at her, and she rolls her eyes and releases her hold.

"Good. Because I'll kick your ass, I still have my cleats in my bag, don't make me use them." A quick glance at her soccer bag, and you briefly consider how long it would take Nat to push you off of her and grab her cleats, holding up her end of the promise.

Until she grabs your face with one of her hands, making you face her. "I'm joking." She murmurs, thumb brushing against your cheekbones. "Didn't I say you think too much?" And she pulls you in for a kiss, far more tender than you would have imagined it to be. 

"Also said I talk too much—" You mumble against her lips, which earns you a harsh pinch on your hip, a clear sign to shut up and kiss me, if you've ever seen one. 

So, you do. What can you say? You're a people pleaser at heart. 

Her lips part to make way for your tongue, and the kiss quickly escalates from there.

Natalie’s hands slide from your shoulders to your back, pulling you closer to her as her lips move against yours with increasing urgency. Her nails dig lightly into your shoulder blades, seeking a path downwards to the clasp of your bra. The second she gets it off, her hands shift to your front, squeezing your breasts greedily.

You smirk into her lips as your tongue presses against hers, saliva mixing together as your right hand flattens against the smooth expanse of her stomach, index gently tracing a small scar just below her rib cage.

She tenses slightly when you brush against the scar and immediately grabs your wrist and guides it lower, down to the waistband of her panties. You hesitate somewhat, but when she squeezes your wrist, you take that as encouragement and dip your fingers below the waistband, fingers quickly beginning to circle the area around her clit, but not quite touching it.

Blunt nails dig into your wrist, but she never breaks the kiss, despite the apparent frustration with your teasing in the way she grabs at you. A smirk makes its way onto your face as you detach your lips from her mouth, attaching them to her jaw, then slowly trailing them down her neck, savouring how she tilts her head to give you better access.

The second you bite down on her neck, attempting to suck a mark into the pale skin, you feel her tug your head back, "N-no. No marks." Nat mutters breathlessly, "Please. Just… nowhere visible." 

"Nowhere visible?" You parrot, considering that for a moment, "I can work with that." Continuing to press kisses to her neck, you agree to her terms and don't leave any marks, but you can't find it in yourself to remove your lips from the smooth expanse.

She seems pleased with the fact you're being so agreeable about that and lets out a quiet sigh, "Good. Now stop teasing."

A laugh is pulled from your throat, "Remember what I said last time? Gotta build that tension. Makes the release ten times as good." But, once again, you are a people pleaser. Specifically, a Natalie pleaser, and you let your fingers brush against her clit once, twice, then you start properly playing with the bundle of nerves.

Nat lets out a hum of appreciation as her fingers come to tangle in your hair, encouraging the way you press your face into the side of her neck as your fingers move, attempting to find a suitable rhythm. Once you do, you let out an appreciative groan at the way her hips grind down into your hand, trying to chase whatever you can give her. 

"Fuck," You murmur against the side of her neck, "God, you're so fucking wet." A shiver makes its way down your spine at the wet sounds you're pulling from the region, coupled with the short, sharp breaths Nat is taking. 

The breathless moan that parts from Nat's lips has you closing your eyes and focusing on your movements, brows furrowing in concentration. Your fingers leave her clit, sliding down through her wetness, then you're sliding two fingers into the warm opening, "Oh, God." You breathe out as your fingers sink down to the knuckle, "You feel so good."

"Not so bad yourself." Nat tries to quip back, but it comes out far too breathless to land the way she intends it to. "You're, ah, good at this." She murmurs out, almost like an afterthought, and you scoff and roll your eyes at the comment.

"Thanks." You mumble back, "I aim to please." 

And, well, you sure as hell aim for that goal.

Two fingers turn into three, Nat's breathless gasps and small whimpers pull from her throat at an increased rate, and it's not long until her nails are digging into your wrist hard enough to sting. 

You get the message pretty quickly. 

"Yeah—" You exhale, mouth trailing back up to her lips, "Wanna feel you come on my fingers." A kiss to the corner of her lips, "Wanna fucking feel you come on my fingers."

A small whimper leaves her lips, and her back arches, "F-fuck, keep doing that, and I will—"

You press your lips against hers, all teeth and tongue and oh god she's whimpering against your lips and—

You feel the way she clenches around your fingers in pulsations, the way her entire body tenses, then slowly relaxes as the pulses subside.

Before you can stop yourself, you retract your fingers from her and immediately press them into your own mouth, making a show of cleaning off the digits, pulling them back with a thin string of saliva connecting them to your lips.

Natalie, for the record, seems to find this very attractive. If the way her jaw goes slack and her eyes darken in hunger is any indication, "Jesus Christ." She stares at you, chest heaving with exertion (despite not doing anything other than lying there), and she's dragging your head back down to lock your lips together, desperate and eager. 

One of her hands curls around the nape of your neck, fingers tugging gently on the strands of hair at the base of your head. Her tongue presses itself past your lips, seeking yours, tasting the remnants of her release on your tongue. A gentle groan parts from her, and after a moment, she draws your tongue into her mouth, sucking on it, and whether she's chasing the taste on your tongue or just doing it because she can, you really don't care. It's hot.

She moves to turn onto her side, facing you, and one of her hands moves to rest on your hip, the other remaining at the base of your skull. Nat slowly rocks her hips into yours, "My turn." She breathes out against your lips, the hand on your hip beginning to trace itself lower with clear intent. 

The blonde hesitates slightly when she pulls back, eyes wide and pale cheeks flushed a shade of red. Her tongue peaks out to lick at her lower lip before she speaks, "I… I want you so bad…"

That comment makes you hesitate momentarily; even Natalie senses it wasn't entirely her to drop something like that. You give her a slight look of confusion at her attempt at being sultry but choose not to comment on the out-of-character line.

"Yeah," You breathe out after a moment, deciding just to move on, "Yeah." And you're kissing her again.

Nat moves her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, moving with purpose to find your warm heat, only slowing for half a second when she feels the wetness at the tips of her fingers. She hums into your mouth, seemingly in approval of her findings.

Unlike you, Natalie doesn't tease. Maybe it's because she already knows you're worked up from getting her off, or perhaps she just prefers getting right into the action, but either way? You're not complaining.

No, it's hard to complain when her fingers play with your clit like it's the most fascinating thing in the world to her, flicking the bud and rolling it between her pointer and middle finger with a satisfied grin on her face.

You push at her shoulder when you feel the grin against your lips, "Stop acting all smug." Comes out in a petulant huff, earning you a small giggle and a few quick circles of your clit.

"What? Am I not allowed to be happy I'm making you feel good?" She teases, voice laced with faux sadness.

"You just started, ass." Your hand moves from her shoulder to the back of her neck, "Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Hardly ahead of myself," she muses, fingers starting to move in smaller, controlled circles. "Just remembering what you did last time we did this. You seemed…" She hums to herself, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck, "pretty into it."

A scoff, followed by a squeeze of her nape, "Yeah, hard not to be into it when you have a hot chick's hand between your thighs."

That earns you another giggle, and Nat lets her fingers leave your clit in favour of seeking your entrance. "And, for the record?" She moves her lips to your ear, "It's gonna be a long night."

"That a promise?" You gasp as one of her fingers begins to tease, slowly sliding down, "Or just… a thinly veiled threat?" "Oh, baby." Nat purrs, finger sinking into its destination, "It's a guarantee."

And it sure as hell was.

It's well past noon when you wake up if the light streaming through your curtains is proof enough.

Most notably, there's a warm weight on your chest, and that weight you quickly realise belongs to none other than Natalie Scatorccio.

One hand draped over your waist, head resting on right above your heart. Bleach blonde hair is splayed out across your chest, and a soft smile makes its way onto your face at the sight.

She stayed the night.

The sense of relief that immediately crashes over you is palpable, and you let out a breath that you feel like you've been holding since that night at the party.

You aren't quite sure how long you lay there before you realise she's wearing your shirt like it's the most casual thing in the world, and, specifically, it's the shirt you wore last night. Usually, you're not one for cheesy romantic moments, but that? Oh, that makes you feel real good about yourself. Sure, it could have just been a "this is available" type of thing, but you like to imagine it's something a little deeper than that, even if you are being a little delusional. 

Like all good things, the moment of peace and reflection in the afternoon light comes to an end when Natalie begins to stir on your chest, slowly opening her eyes and coming alive to the world.

"Hey." You murmur out, one of your hands coming up to start playing with her hair, "Good sleep?"

She grunts at that, closing her eyes again and pressing her face back into your chest, "'m still sleepy." 

A warm laugh leaves your chest, and you can see Nat's small smile at your reaction to her mumbled comment, and it makes that fuzzy feeling in your chest return at full force. "Doesn't answer my question, though. Was it a good sleep?"

"Mm." She hums, the hand around your waist tightening slightly. "Yeah, actually. It was." The words come out in a sleepy mumble, and you can't help but feel… content, at least for right now. 

And, honestly? You'd be comfortable letting the silence fester. This is a good silence, not the type of silence that has you begging for an out.

Natalie, however, stirs after a few minutes in silence, giving your waist a soft squeeze. "I…" She sighs, opening her eyes and looking up at you from where her head is perched on your chest,  "Look. I'm gonna be honest with you. I don't…" She removes her hand from your hip and gestures to nothing, "I don't know what I am, alright? I mean…" A humourless chuckle, "I get that I'm not straight. Yeah, I've put the pieces together, but I don't, like, know what I am."

You shake your head, shifting slightly to look at her better, "Hey," you shake your head a few times, "that's okay. You don't need to know right now. It's not like I'm about to make you take a pop quiz on what your assumed sexuality is." The words are light, attempting to convey a joke, but there's also this underlying concern buried underneath. "I'm not about to… force you to label yourself, or anything." A sigh, "I mean… it's… complicated. I dunno. Figuring out who you are." Your fingers continue to run through her hair in a soothing motion, "I'm hardly someone who can, like, guide you down a path of self-discovery, but I'll be here if you need someone to talk to, Nat."

Some of the tension leaves Nat's shoulders at your words, but it's obviously still weighing heavily on her mind. Regardless, she gives you a slight nod and rests her head back on your chest, "Can we just… figure it out later?"

"Yeah." You reply softly, "We can figure it out later, Nat. No rush."

"No rush." She parrots, curling into your side again.

a/n: crush act 2 chapter 1 next trust

You snore when you sleep, by the way." Nat comments after a long few moments in silence.

"What??" You sit up, glancing down at her, "No, I do not." 

She gives you an exasperated huff when you sit up, therefore moving her from her (very comfortable) position on your chest. "Yeah, you do. Now lay back down, asshole. I was enjoying that."

"Not a single person has ever complained about my snoring before."

Nat shrugs, "Then they must not have been paying attention. Because you do." A beat, "And it's loud."

Your jaw drops in shock, and you can hardly believe what she's saying, "I genuinely cannot tell if you're fucking with me or not."

The blonde just shrugs as you lay back down, "Guess you'll have to wait and see, huh?"

"You're an asshole, Natalie Scatorccio."

"And here we are, anyways." She hums, "Here we are."

[grandline-fics]

For the valentines event possibly the prompt single red rose with Smoker? Please and thanks and hope you’re having a great day!

DESCRIPTION: Single Red Rose- When your date goes wrong, they come to your rescue

WARNINGS: slight jealousy

CHARACTERS: Smoker

WORDS: 1,419

A/N: Thank you for this request @rosemary-lungs. I can't say no to Smoker prompts and I hope this is to your liking!

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI | VALENTINES EVENT MASTERLIST

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You were never one to live in fantasies or fanciful notions, deciding keeping a rational and realistic outlook on the world and your own life- both personal and professional-was the best course of action. To lose yourself in ideal daydreams wouldn’t do you or anyone any good regardless of how tempting it could be at times. As stern as you were with yourself, you’d be lying to say there were times you didn’t immediately stop certain thoughts sooner than you should have. Your awareness of your fondness for Vice-Admiral Smoker was something you ideally found yourself thinking about more than you would have liked. Ultimately decided to put the feelings aside, classing them as a mere crush and reminded yourself nothing was going to happen and somehow it was proving harder to accomplish that you thought it would be. 

At first you tried to keep focussed on your work and mission reports and filling your free time on training; anything to stay distracted and occupied while waiting for the feelings to retreat back to the professional relationship it should have always been. After two weeks of this strict discipline you found that you still felt your heart pick up slightly when you spoke to Smoker. Even with the conversation being civil and downright mundane being near him made you happy. Now you had to readjust your tactics and thankfully another method presented itself a couple days later. On a visit to another Marine Base for interpersonal training on an island you were approached by one of the local Marine officers, catching you surprise by asking you out on a date before you and the rest of your unit returned to the G5 base the next morning. Deciding to use the invitation as the perfect way to deal with things you accepted the date with a smile. 

Other members of the unit were also going out to make the most of their downtime to relax and enjoy all that this island had to offer. The only stipulation before going had been to report to Smoker first and ensure all necessary tasks and duties had been appropriately completed beforehand. With your reports and completed training assessments in hand you hurried through the unknown base in search of Smoker. You caught sight of the clock on the wall as you picked up the pace, you’d be late for your date if you didn’t find him in time. Glancing out the window you sighed in relief to finally spot the man in question below in one of the training yards and sped up to get to him. You approached and smiled politely when he turned to look at who was interrupting him. “My assessments and reports, sir.” 

“Thanks, set them down and I’ll read them later.” Smoker instructed, taking a moment to look you over while you did as he told. It was rare to see you dressed up like this, he was always used to seeing you in your uniform or casual clothes but this was a pleasant surprise. “Heading out with the others?”

“Uh, no.” You hesitated for a moment. Why were you so reluctant to tell him? “I have a date.”

“I see.” Smoker noted, training his voice and expression into one of neutrality. It wasn’t his place to offer any comment on your personal life. “Hope you have a nice time.” 

Your eyes widened as you realised you really were going to be late now. Hurrying out a quick goodbye you turned and left Smoker who could only watch you go, trying to ignore how your eager exit made his jaw clench in slight annoyance. Whoever this date was with was certainly someone you really liked, it made him wonder why you’d never mentioned them before. Was that why you’d started to distance yourself from him lately? Biting back his bitterness twisting and growing in his chest, he set about finishing his training, new frustrations to work out of his system.

When that didn’t work he set out into the island’s town, wandering aimlessly while secretly hoping some pirate could appear or at the very least he hoped someone under his command would make a fool of themselves so he could reprimand them. Instead his disappointment grew to discover everything was peaceful. As he prepared to just turn around and head back to the Marine base he paused to spot you across the street, sitting outside a cosy little restaurant. Spying on you and your date hadn't been his intention but when he saw you he became curious about who your date was. Smoker’s annoyance only grew when he saw the person sitting opposite you was someone you’d only just met at the beginning of the day.

Then something else caught his eye, you were tense. Sure you hid it well enough, pretending to seem relaxed and offer your date a smile but Smoker knew how genuine interest lit your eyes when you spoke on topics you enjoyed. He’d seen first hand how you’d lean just a little bit forward and smile in a way anyone would want to keep the conversation going. His gaze dropped to how your foot lightly tapped in restlessness before you would catch yourself and stop the action only to start it again. Smoker couldn’t help but feel his bitterness subside into reassurance to see you weren’t having an amazing time. Deciding enough was enough he approached. “There you are!”

Your head snapped up at the sound of Smoker’s voice. While you stared at him with surprise, your date froze and momentarily choked on the piece of food he’d been chewing. He recovered fast to wheeze out. “V-vice- admiral! What a surprise. Are we-”

“Keep eating, it’s not you I’m here for.” Smoker ordered, the sharpness of his voice effectively silencing your date and making your eyes widen.

“Me?” You immediately rose in your seat.

“You assessment reports were incomplete.” Smoker explained gruffly and you instinctively opened your mouth to protest but he continued. “Get back to base and finish them properly. No excuses.”

“But I-” 

This didn’t make sense. You never handed in anything incomplete. Smoker knew that! He knew you! Why was he-? Then a thought occurred to you at the same time you spotted a look appear in his eyes. Was he doing this to get you out of your date? 

“No buts and don't even think about asking to finish them later.” Smoker continued harshly. “You aren't leaving my sight until they’re completed. Start walking.” You pressed your lips together into a tight line in a bid to pretend to seem disappointed and nodded. Glancing over your shoulder you threw your date an apologetic glance and began to walk with Smoker back to base. 

When you were both a sizeable distance away you let out a long breath and looked at Smoker, finally seeing his hardened expression of the pissed off Vice-Admiral act had dropped and he glanced at you with a small smirk. “Did I really look that miserable?”

“It wasn’t obvious to your date.” Smoker reassured you. “How bad was it?”

“He wasn’t happy that I was late but when I explained I was handing in reports he called you a ‘hard-ass’ and said his commander let them hand the reports in tomorrow. He was…okay. It just felt like I was staying to be polite and regretted saying yes to the date. I was- no I can’t be wasting your time with this.” You immediately shook your head and smiled up at Smoker. “Thank you for helping. I owe you one.”

“That’s not necessary. You shouldn’t have to sit through a date out of mere politeness so I was glad to have helped.” Smoker explained with a simple wave to dismiss your gratitude. How could you owe him one when as honest as he words were, his actions were mostly fuelled by his own selfish reasons? After a moment he cleared his throat. Deciding he didn’t really want to go through something like this again at the thought of missing a chance. “Though if you wanted to go out for an evening with me the next time we’re free I would like that.”

You definitely weren't expecting this turn in events and you didn’t even try to hide the smile growing against your lips. It wasn’t in Smoker to lie or joke about something like this. Gently you looped your arm through Smoker’s and smiled up at him. “I’m free right now.”

——————————————-

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[boowritess]

i love love love the headcanon of the 141 not having kids and babies and ewey.

i think that john price is still very relevant to that. kinda. i don't really seeing him having a pet honestly. unless you wanted one... sure... but nah y'know... he's old tired af. maybe a cat. probably definitely a cat.

but it's been you and john for as long as you can remember.

happy to be in each other's presence from morning to night, or simply just exist in a shared life that means you two don't have to always be around each other.

you could be shopping and he could be sleeping. he's outside tending to the stuff he had supposed to finish before he left deployment while you're reading on the couch inside. he's on a long deployment again, and you're at work.

plus the prospect of kids just never seemed to work into the schedule. "nah," john says to one of your friends, "can handle kids fine, but when i'm home, this old mans bones are good for sleep and not much else. i mean the breeding kink can get me goi-" john grunts when you elbow into his side.

"crude." you huff with an eyeroll.

"but true." he says into his beer as he takes a sip, eyes sparking with mischief.

your friend turns to you. "but doesn't it get lonely?" they asks. "wouldn't you want a little one running around?"

and well sometimes the days may be lonely for you when he's gone...

but that's become impossibly hard to focus on when your phone is being constantly blown up - not by price though. by the 141.

it's never really anything outrages or civil conversation. it's gaz asking which tie he should wear at an event because price said the black one but gaz doesn't really like the black one. then it's johnny sending you a video of him besting his previous time on a training course. though it doesn't stop there. ghost is messaging late nights for him but mid-day for you, asking about how to deal with insomnia. ghost is asking you because he knows you're awake and the others are asleep, he doesn't want to bother them.

you answer every single one, with so much care and attentiveness. you save every picture, every video and boost about their achievements to other people as if they were your own. however, people always assume you're talking about little kids not grown ass men.

yet on days when you're at home or you've come home from work. you're hardly surprised to find one of them had invited themselves into yours and johns home as if it was their own.

sometimes it's gaz crashed out on the couch who's in a desperate need of a shower but definitely needs sleep more.

or the sounds of soap in your fridge, raking around to find something to eat. "lass, ye out of cheese-" he ate the cheese. the whole newly bought block of it.

gaz and soap like to hover around you when they're home. whereas ghost helps price around the house.

but when it's just you and ghost, the oldest boy. it's quiet. there's no forced conversations but probably a few shitty jokes. it's you or him making food and the other doing the dishes. yet ghost opens up and the conversations turn into some of the most randomist, boyish, silly conversations.

when everyone's at home, it can actually be pretty hectic. so you go do the grocery shopping, but you take ghost along cause he's a little like you in regard for a need of quiet time.

oh and can't forget the days you go out by yourself only to come home with a few other things. socks for john - socks for all of them. you bought johnny a new pair of jeans and gaz a couple of shirts. and simon some more sweaters.

christmas, easter, new years - every single holiday is always hosted at yours and price. where everyone comes. farah, alex, laswell and her wife. rudy and alejandro making their way- then of course your boys...

and it's there where you've kinda realized.

you and john do have kids.

just in the form of grown men.

which both you and john don't seem to mind.

you end up shrugging your shoulders as you look at your friend, "honestly i have my hands full when they're all home. so... i'm good." you say with a hum, sipping from your own drink with a small smile as john just chuckles softly.

a/n: realized I never posted this. oh well. the no baby saga continues with john price. drink water be well ya'll xx

[waywardsou2]

FatherFigure!Logan X Latebloomer!AdoptedMaleReader

I was not expecting this to end up being this long...but I guess it is. I'm really happy with how this turned out. I won't spoil it. But this reader's mutation is my favourite in any universe.

Summary: You were adopted by Logan on one of his errands out of the school. Charles has deduced that you were a mutant but your mutation has not presented itself yet. One day it does, and it's not pretty.

Tags: blood, slight gore, warning for graphic imagery, hurt/comfort, father Logan, mentions of Charles and Jean

Word Count: 1.4k

Logan was sitting in Charles' office. It had been a few weeks since he had decided to stay at the school permanently and had taken up the job offer as a history teacher.

To be fair he had been alive since before the civil war so there wasn't anyone more perfect for their job. Especially now that he was able to get a lot of his memories back.

Charles has become like somewhat of a father figure to Logan, if not a good friend and confidante at the very least.

Logan had not only chosen to stay so the he could have a free room and a purpose in life but also because of you.

He had found you on a missions, picked you up and taken you back to the school. Charles had let Logan know when he was in the area that there was a mutant who hadn't presented yet.

It was safest for you here. Just because there was no way to actually tell when or what your mutation might manifest into.

But as Logan and Charles talked Charles fell silent in the middle of their conversation. Logan's eyebrows twitched in question as Charles eyes went glassy before coming back to focus on Logan. A new found worry in his eyes.

"Charles?"

"His mutation has finally manifested...Logan go"

Logan didn't have to be told twice. He knew at some point your mutation would manifest but it was hard to say when. You were well past the age of your mutation manifesting physically but there's a late bloomer in every species.

Logan pushed his chair back, it squeaking across the floor as it scrapes along the wood. He dashes down the corridors, dodging kids left and right as he makes his way to your room.

As soon as he turns down the corridor your room is in he hears it.

A piercing scream that hurts his amplified senses. A sound makes his heart ache.

He gets to the door of your room and pushes it open.

He finds you on the floor, curled in on yourself. Your shirt ripped in the back and a spattering of blood on your shirt and the floor.

You look up to see Logan. Thank fuck he's here. Before you could say anything, you open your mouth and a scream replaces your words. A sharp throb of pain spreading across your back and into your spine once more.

Logan bends down in front of you and tries to sit you up but you stay tucked into yourself.

He checks you over, as much as he can without moving you but he doesn't need to look too hard. Now that he's closer, kneeling in front of you he can see what's happening.

Sticking out of the holes in your ripped shirt are two bones, partially covered in skin and what looks to be...no way are those feathers?

Are you growing wings?

He hadn't heard of a mutation like this before. One the alters bone structure and genetic make up well into adolescent development. He would have to get Jean to check you over but right now he knew you couldn't move.

He could see the bone moving, growing at an accelerated rate that should have taken a years naturally. The skin and feathers began growing over the bone as more and more of it began to grow and stick out of your skin. The flesh around it was torn and you were bleeding profusely. He was worried about the blood loss but there was no way to staunch the blood without interfering with your growing. He might make it worse if he tampered with it.

So instead he sat there with you. He pulled you over to him so you could still stay doubled over, but your head was resting on his lap as he curled his legs underneath himself. He kept his hand in your hair, stroking it and whispering comfort to you.

He was hard to hear over your crying and occasional cries of pain but his presence was enough. It meant everything to you.

But that feeling was too mingled with fear and pain and you couldn't fully process anything. You just let the tears fall down your face as you tried to stifle your screams. Biting down on your own lip until it bled so that you didn't frighten any of the other children.

Logan watched as the bones continued to grow from your back. Sticking out further and further until a second bond joined the first one creating the rest of the wingspan as more feathers, longer and stronger began sprouting from further down the wing.

It was a few hours before the mutation had fully manifested. You had long since stopped crying the tears staining your face. You lay breathing heavily with your head still in Logan's lap.

He hadn't left your side the entire time. You sniffed and tried to keep your breathing even but even though the pain was gone the panic was not going anywhere.

When Logan was sure it was all over he helped you sit up. Making sure you didn't sit on your new wings and didn't aggravate the injury.

"Can you stand? We need to get you to Jean."

You nodded. Your back felt strange. There was a new weight. A new neurological connection to a set of muscles that hadn't existed before. You could feel the wings, you were in tune to them. Having them felt as natural as having two arms. But moving them hurts. So you let them drag on the ground behind you, rather than holding them up.

Logan took your hand and helped you walk to Jeans lab. You felt dizzy, all the blood loss has made you woozy.

Your bedroom floor and Logan's jeans were stained with it. There was so much.

Logan looked at your wings as he walked beside you. They were a deep green. Something like the leaves of the forest he used to live in during the spring. It was a beautiful colour. It matched your eyes and your hair.

He felt your pain. Knowing what it was like to have your body rip itself open for a "gift" you didn't want.

He was going to be there for you every step of the way whilst you figured this out. He made a promise to take care of you and he was going to keep it. Even if that mean struggling through your manifestation.

The two of you got to Jeans lab and she had you lay face down on her table. She poked at your wings trying to move your ripped shirt and new wings aside so she could assess the damage. It hurt. Any movement hurt but if she didn't clean the wound it would hurt a lot more later on.

She has to cut you out of your shirt because the blood had dried into a sticky brown colour and she couldn't risk getting cotton in the gashes.

She explained to you what she had to do and you nodded accepting what was necessary.

Logan crouched down in front of you and you looked at him from the bench. Forcing out a smile before Jean got to work. You shoved your face down into the table hiding the expression of pain you could feel twisted into your features. You didn't want Logan to see that. But he grabbed your hand and held onto it. You squeezed it each time pain ebbed over your skin. And he squeezed back, letting you know he was still here.

After what felt like too long Jean announced she was done. She had to stitch up a gap that was unnecessary to your wings range of movement. The extra flesh that had been torn from the growth.

She informed you that you would have to come see her again the next day and that you would have to be careful how you slept and moved until everything had fully healed and your body had adjusted.

After that Logan leads you back up to your room and helps you into bed. You don't bother to get changed. You doubt that you would fit into any of your shirts now anyway. You crawled into bed and tried to find a comfortable position but it was hard. You didn't have enough room anymore.

You reached a hand out from your place on your bed. Feeling with your hand you try to find Logan in the darkness of your room. He takes your hand and with the little strength you have you try to pull him towards you.

He gets the message and sits down in your bed. Kicking off his boots and pulling you back to lay on his legs and chest. Acting as a full body pillow for you. Within moments the exhaustion of the day caught up with you and you were out like a light.

I'm so glad I could write this. Staying up till 2am was totally worth it gets this done. I'm so proud of it! If you like this then please consider sending in a request of your own. I would be happy to take them in

[nylauninterrupted]

OP81 x Reader [Let's Get Out of Here]

before reading: this is a repost, since I am desperately trying to learn how to manage posts and format them, thanks for your patience! (I am currently open to requests and slowly working through them<3)

summary: You thought Oscar was your enemy, yet things seem to change after a party, when you're not feeling so well.

content warnings: smut, dom!Oscar, kinda rough at times

word count: 2357

You've known Oscar for a couple of months now. You first met the driver at a casual party of a mutual friend. And for some reason, unlike everyone, you seemed unable to hold a civil conversation with him.

Maybe it was the way he looked completely uninterested when you came up to him to ask a simple question. Or how he was always calm, no matter the situation, no matter how you felt. You truly didn't know.

But the fact is, every chat, every even slightly pointed glance, the smallest interaction would ignite flames and fighting. And you didn't understand it. You didn't understand yourself and your feelings.

There you are, sipping a cola on ice, in a slight haze, as your eyes take in the stuffy room of a friend's apartment. The movement of the people dancing around seems slowed and a bit blurry.

You're not drunk at all, but rather detached. You've had a bloody awful day after you had an argument with a family member. You wish to forget, to take your mind off things, to think about only the pleasant things.

It's honestly a perfect situation to get drunk and forget, yet you hold yourself back, knowing that this isn't the thing you should be doing. Moments like that always end up the same, with you barely able to walk, stumbling to your cold, empty apartment, having to clean your own puke the next morning, with a massive hangover.

The world around you seems to swirl, the seconds tangling together into minutes, as you sit alone, swirling the liquid in your glass. You exhale shakily, placing your heavy head on your hand. You close her eyes tiredly before opening them and looking up, just in time to see him walking through the door.

You want to scoff seeing Oscar, his unnerving calm expression present on his face as always. His eyes meet yours, as if feeling your stare... Or were you glaring?

He raises an eyebrow at you, his face nonchalant as if in a challenge. You straighten up, pulling out of your haze, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you vulnerable.

Oscar almost rolls his eyes at your gesture, reading it correctly. His eyes soften slightly as he approaches you slowly. You don't take your eyes off him, having to look up more the closer he gets.

"Piastri," you say coldly, though your voice cracks slightly, indicating your slightly shaken state.

He observes you closely, his eyes narrowing knowingly, figuring out that you are not feeling too good.

"What's with the sour expression? You look unhappy; it's definitely not just because I'm here."

"Maybe it is." you mutter, but your eyes relax a little as you give up on looking tough, knowing that he's got you figured out already. "Why do you suddenly care?"

Oscar pulls out a chair and sits right in front of you without looking away for even a split second. He takes in the way you're dressed, your expression, your hair, and every single inch of you that he can see.

"Dunno. Maybe I just feel curious." He shrugs, with absolutely no shame, studying every single movement of the muscles of your face. "So? What happened?"

You exhale, giving up on trying to chase him away, knowing that while he usually looked like he didn't care about anything, once he settled on something, he stubbornly kept to it.

"It's not a good day for me," you say quietly, finally showing slight sensitivity, meeting his eyes, which soften slightly at your words.

"And so you chose to go to a party instead of taking care of yourself at home?" He asks, and although his tone sounds a bit scolding for some reason, for once it doesn't make you want to punch him in the face. His questions came off more as his way of showing concern.

You would like to keep believing he doesn't care. That he is completely insensitive to everything you feel, maybe even enjoys it when you're miserable. But in this moment, he's anything but that. Even though his words are reserved, the way his honey brown orbs follow yours makes your heart flutter a bit for some reason. His lips suddenly look more full than usual, and oh, did he always have such a nice nose?

You open her mouth a bit, a little overwhelmed by those sudden thoughts. You quickly shake them off, trying to focus on forming a coherent response.

"I really don't want to be alone right now. The loud music and people are still better than sitting in my empty apartment right now. Even if it's not the best setting." you manage to say, taking a deep breath. "I didn't have any better ideas."

Oscar keeps looking at you, actually taking your words seriously. Seeing how you sit here, trying to handle your heavy heart, makes him soften. He gets up and holds his hand out to you.

"Come on. You shouldn't spend an evening like that at a party. You can stay with me tonight."

Your eyes widen at those words. The guy who'd show disinterest in everything you said, who you'd fight with all the time, saying something so sympathetic? It feels unreal.

Your face heats up a bit, soft hints of a blush barely visible on your cheeks. You blink quickly, trying to calm down a bit, not able to look away from the man standing in front of you.

"We won't do anything you don't want to do," he says quickly, noticing your subtle reaction to his words. "I promise."

To hell with it.

You carefully take his warm hand and get up, stumbling a little, even though you are completely sober. Oscar immediately catches you, steadying you and looking down to meet your eyes, which are still wide.

Still in a slight daze, you let him lead you out of the party and walk down the street with you in the chilly evening air. You shiver a little, as you didn't bother to take a jacket with her.

Without hesitation, he takes his large hoodie off and helps you put it on carefully, not saying a word. His scent immediately envelops you, as the fabric warms you up almost instantly.

He takes your arm gently and walks you through the empty streets. You press your lips together, utterly confused by the whole situation. Why did he start taking care of you like that?

"Thank you," you say quietly, not wanting to be ungrateful. A few hours ago you'd probably say that you hate his guts, but now... His actions leave you confused.

You walk in silence for a while before finally stopping in front of his apartment door. For some reason you feel nervous, never having been to his home before. The whole evening made you doubt yourself and every single emotion you ever felt. Even though none of the things Oscar did were that big, they made you feel like a whole different person.

He glances at you and opens the door for you, actually acting like a gentleman for once. Or maybe he's always been one, and you were just too busy focusing on his faults to notice? You really didn't know anymore.

He helps you to a seat, even though you are perfectly capable of walking by yourself, and kneels down, carefully undoing all the little straps of your shoes. You feel her face heat up once more, looking down at the man on his knees before you, helping you with everything, without you even having to ask.

"Why are you doing this?" you whisper softly, looking at Oscar, who just got up and sat down in front of you. Your eyes are shining in the dim light; you are almost fascinated by the man and his doings.

"Because you need to be taken care of." He answers softly, looking back at you, with something resembling determination in his eyes. "And I'll provide anything you need so you can feel better."

Your breathing slows down a little, while your heart speeds up at that.

"Anything?" you whisper softly, your body almost aching to touch him, feel the warmth of his hands on your skin again.

Oscar nods his head, and before he can say anything else, you lean closer, gently supporting his chin, while your lips touch his. Without hesitating, he puts his hands on both sides of your head, tangling your hair in his fingers as he takes the lead of the kiss.

You lean back after a few seconds, your breathing shaky, making eye contact with the Aussie.

"Just tell me what you want me to do," he whispers to you, his eyes full of affection and warmth you didn't think he was capable of showing.

"Just... Make me forget about it. I want to feel you. Just you."

"Do you want me to be gentle?" he asks, assuming that you need only care and affection.

"The opposite," you whisper, making Oscar's breath hitch slightly. He gets up and lifts you up from the couch, twirling you around a bit, before rather quickly making his way to the bedroom with you. He didn't want to have you on the couch for the first time. This had to be more intimate.

He throws you down on the bed a bit roughly, crawling on top of you. You're still wearing his hoodie over your silver party dress, which honestly turns him on quite a bit.

"My beautiful girl," he murmurs, breathing in the sweet scent of your perfume, as he buries his head in your neck. "All for me to have." 

He places soft kisses on your jaw and quickly moves lower, to your collarbone, progressively getting rougher. He nibbles and leaves hickeys all over you, marking all the sweet spots that make you whimper and moan.

"O-Oscar." You stutter, gripping his muscular back a bit, before immediately releasing it as the sensations continue.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" He asks quietly, a small smirk on his face, "Tell me how it feels, honey."

You bite your lower lip softly at the nickname, not expecting him to get this intimate so quickly, but definitely liking it.

"Feels... amazing," you whisper, which makes him continue. He takes his hoodie off of you before lifting up your party dress. His lips curl at your underwear. It's a simple lacy set, nothing too fancy. He doesn't need anything fancy, though.

"Light green, interesting choice." He teases slightly, undoing your bra and sliding it off, careful not to scratch you with the clip. He'd rather leave all the marks himself after all.

His hands move to your now-exposed breasts, kneading them in a painfully slow way, before taking one of your nipples in his lips, sucking on it, and teasing it with his tongue.

It makes you moan, which causes him to smirk against your breasts.

"Eager, are we?" He mutters, his head buried in your chest. Without moving his face away, his hand goes lower, sliding under your panties and feeling your already wet core.

His lips curl at the fact that he makes you so wet, but he doesn't comment on it for now, slipping a finger into you, making more beautiful sounds come out of your mouth. He attacks your chest with his tongue and grazes it with his teeth occasionally, all while working on your slit.

It doesn't take long before you are close. Your mouth opens slightly as you let out another whiny whimper.

"Oscar... I'm..." she stutters out, looking down at the man who's busy pleasuring her body.

"I know, pretty girl." He smirks. "But I can't let you yet." He pulls away, leaving your hole empty for a moment.

He takes his shirt off, making your eyes drift to his muscular stomach. He can see you enjoying the view, which makes him smirk again. Soon enough, he is completely naked, just like you. Still on top of you, he positions himself in front of your entrance.

He leans closer, his mouth close to yours. His dick is of regular size, maybe just a bit bigger than most. Still, you observe him a bit carefully, knowing that you asked him to be rough.

"You can take it; I know you can, baby." Oscar whispers and begins pounding into you. His movements are quite quick, cutting your breaths short, as he thrusts away. You both pant and moan, feeling pure bliss. You never would have thought having sex with him could feel so exquisite.

"God, you're taking me so well," he murmurs, going faster, which makes your moans grow louder. "That's right, let me hear your filthy whines."

You both finish at the same time, breathing heavily. He collapses on top of you, making eye contact.

"You did so good for me, pretty girl," he whispers into your ear and rolls to the side, lying next to you, as you catch your breath.

You look at him, your eyes turning watery. You suddenly feel even more vulnerable after sharing this intimate moment with Oscar.

"Why wouldn't you ever look at me? Why were you always so cold?" You whisper, not able to stop yourself from asking the question that keeps disturbing your peace of mind.

He looks back at her, his expression soft but serious; he wraps his strong arms around you, hugging you tightly.

"Because you intimidated me. I don't think I have ever seen a woman more enticing than you. I don't understand it myself, but I cannot keep my thoughts away from you. And it scared me sometimes."

You don't say anything to his words. You didn't need to. You let yourself sink in the warm feeling of being cared for. You look up to meet his gorgeous brown eyes and peck the tip of his nose, making him smile widely. He immediately responds with a soft kiss, only on your lips. You nuzzle up against him, breathing softly.

Neither of you say anything, simply finding comfort in each other's presence. Soon enough, your eyelids start feeling heavy, and you feel yourself dozing off in his arms.

[gay-dorito-dust]

I was wondering if I could req Headcannon's with Prince nuada dealing with his romantic feelings for a human s/o who's basically hellboys younger sister, And if possible if it's not too much would you be able to do relationship Headcannon's for this type of relationship?

He’s in denial from the very start.

Nuada hated humans with a vengeance and would not betray his own kind because he felt a slight flutter within his chest, he didn’t want to believe that he was falling for the very people that shunned his to reside within the darkness.

He felt as though it was a great disservice to his origin, his people, his home to fall for someone on the opposing side. He felt disgusted with how easily his body betrayed him when it came to you, hellboy’s human sibling.

He didn’t like Hellboy and the fact that you were human didn’t help make matters better either, and yet he couldn’t help but feel something he long thought was ripped out from his chest centuries ago. Affection, love, softer emotions that he had thought were dead but they were just heavily subdued by the anger, the need for revenge for his own kind that it drowned out any other emotion from surfacing.

Nuada made certain that the only feelings that he felt were to remind himself

Nuala, his sister, belvied that this was the change that her brother needed and would wholeheartedly encourage him to at least be civil with you, or have you strike up the conversation first. She just wanted Nuada to reach out and someday let go of the grudge he had harboured for far too long.

Nuada didn’t like this and neither did Hellboy, who was immensely protective over you and wouldn’t dare allow spearhead anywhere near you without threatening him with a good smack across the face.

This was probably the only thing they agreed on. Neither of them wanted anything to do with the other and Hellboy was more then willing to keep you as far away from the elven prince as much as he could, Nuada wasn’t at all interested or so he claimed but he would always find something deep within himself tell him to at least reach out to you.

So Nuada would find himself waiting for Hellboy to be out of sight and out of mind to allow himself to be within the same room as you.

Not by his own accord, he would claim. He would try to convince himself that the reason you were to do something stupid as per your human nature, should you be left alone to your own devices with no supervision whatsoever.

Nuala didn’t believe this lie, their bond told her more than enough as she finds herself smiling when she felt her brother feeling emotions of love, affection and admiration and overprotectiveness. She knew that Nuada felt more deeply and more then anyone else she knew and his emotions towards you were all the more evidence of that whenever you were both sharing the room.

Nuala could feel the soft blossoming of love within her brother, seen the way that he would try to act hostile and passive aggressive with you whenever you tried to engage in conversation, she could also feel the underlying regret that he would have when he successfully pushed you away.

Her brother was conflicted and she could only hope that one day, and when Hellboy wasn’t so hostile, you and Nuada will build and embrace a beautiful relationship to be treasured and remembered fondly.

Now let’s get to how your relationship with nuada would be like after he quits his ‘I hate humans’ phase;

Nuada is an immensely protective lover.

There’s not a mission where you go on where you weren’t without Nuada being your protective shadow who acted with instinct and fast reflexes that could take down the hardest of opponents as though they were nothing.

To Nuada, was technically the truth. He was a warrior through and through other then being a prince on top of that.

Hellboy still had his concerns when it came to you dating Nuada, he believed that Nuada was still up to his old ways but he was only just your overprotective brother trying to keep you safe and out of as much danger as he could.

Liz had to tell him to let you live your own life and if you see yourself living that life with Nuada then who were they to deny you of happiness. Thankfully Hellboy listened to her, probably more than he ever listens to you at least, but you thanked her for getting him off of yours and Nuada’s arse for the time being.

He’s doting and romantic to say the least as Nuada treated you better than most people that you could’ve dated.

He would kiss the back of your hand, keep it pressed against his chest when you both slept or when you needed a reminder that his heart was yours and yours alone or even for simplistic comfort to ease your overworking/ over worrying mind.

He was your rock, someone whom you could lean on and be reassured that everything was okay as he kept you close and tell you tales of his home and family with a fondness within his voice that you couldn’t get enough of.

Nuada would even listen to you speak about your childhood with Hellboy, remembering the day your father brought him home and how you quickly accepted him as you brother, your blood and how you would do everything in your power to remind him when he felt as though he wasn’t actually family.

Nuada found this determination of yours admirable as he gently covered your face in quick kisses that left you laughing and smiling within his arms as he held you close to his chest, happy to feel something this beautiful and deep with you after everything he had done.

The relationship you both had was built on trust, respect for the other and your unique traits.

It was a relationship where you both listen to each other deeply, so deeply with the intent of wanting to know the other deeper than anyone else.

It’s a relationship where you’d heal each others wounds and just hold each other tightly as you let the day pass both of you by as you listen to him read or you just enjoy the comforts of having the other so close by.

Nuada found himself more at peace with you and less prone to rising to violence and or snapping out of impatience. He found himself thinking more with a clearer head and a heart full of all the things he wishes to do with you one day.

The mere sound of your name, or hearing your laughter was more then enough for Nuada but if he was home after a long mission then eh would want to indulge himself in you as soon as he comes back to the compound, eager to rest within your arms despite his own minor injuries.