#he has a place to return to with ace

[deathofacupid]

★ STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES. all the times gojo desperately wants to kiss you, and the one where he finally does.

ft. satoru gojo x reader.

warnings — loser!reader / popular!gojo. smoking, kissing + making out. consumption of alcohol, mentions of sex, lots of cheesy banter. sato is a man down bad ! slow-burn kinda but mostly just very sfw fluff :p

(呪術廻戦) : note — 7k words + in my fluff era again awooga

୨୧ ⌞ act one: strawberry shampoo. ⌝

gojo rarely sees you. not often, truly. in class is different, but even then, it's infrequent.

you always wear a bored, distant look, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here. he suspects you simply don't care. the professor's words wash over you, in one ear and out the other.

most people don't notice your frequent absences. gojo does. he always does. the empty seat at the back of the room never escapes his eye.

it feels emptier, too, despite your quiet nature. he's unsure why. why he's so captivated by you. but when you are present, he stares. trying to be subtle, yet desperate to memorize every detail: the curve of your lashes, the perceived softness of your lips.

perceived softness, he should clarify. gojo isn't a creep. he doesn't spend every waking moment fantasizing about kissing you. (only every other waking moment.)

he knows you know he exists. you've exchanged words a few times, straddling the line between acquaintance and stranger. it's odd, but he finds a strange peace when you converse.

you're funny, kind, caring. a good listener, with a voice like honey he could listen to all day. god, he loves your voice. he wishes you'd speak more. if you did, people would listen. there's a lilt in your voice that makes him.

he's your opposite. you keep to yourself, wired earbuds always in. gojo has friends — many friends. he thrives on company and conversation.

he's got his whole crew: nanami, shoko, geto, haibara, utahime. even toji and sukuna, on a good day.

academically, he's a powerhouse. top of the class, loaded with extracurriculars, tests always returned with a perfect score.

and you? you're number two. he's certain you could be first, but you simply don't care. no ambition to be the best, no need to prove yourself.

you're just… there. you show up, ace your exams, and leave. he'd be threatened by the competition, but you don't seem to want it. he doubts you even realize how close you are to taking his spot.

it's infuriating. so much potential, so little drive.

yet, it's utterly enticing. you're enticing.

it's a shock when he pulls into the gas station in the dead of night, needing kikufuku because geto devoured the last of it, and there you are. perched on the ledge behind the worn building.

he doesn't see your face at first, but he recognizes the leather angel kiss bag you practically live with, adorned with sonny angels and charms.

the grocery bag falls limply in his hand. he takes a few steps, stopping just behind you. he calls your name out, quiet and hesitant, a rare tone for gojo. there's a crinkle of foil from you, and you turn, startled.

"gojo?" you inquire, head tilted.

"uh, hey," he manages a gentle smile. "what're you doing here?"

a small smile touches your lips. "hi. i could ask you the same."

the white-haired boy chuckles. "dickhead roommate ate all my snacks."

your quiet laugh is beautiful, he thinks. "yeah? well, i ran out of cigarettes." you place one between your lips. sliding over on the ledge, you offer a silent invitation, which he accepts.

you're close. the scent of your saccharine strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

"want one?" you offer. he shakes his head. gojo doesn't smoke, rarely drinks. instead, he watches you inhale, then exhale, wispy gray curls dissolving into the dark.

the silence between you is mellow, not awkward. in the dim streetlamp glow, your lips look coated in strawberry-red gloss, leaving a stain on the white of the cigarette.

"sure you don't want a hit?" you ask, sensing his heavy, focused gaze.

and because he'd do anything at the sound of that voice, he nods, changing his mind.

satoru gojo has game, no doubt. one hundred percent. he's smooth with women, but you're not just any woman. you're you, and with you, his game dissolves. all his past charm feels irrelevant, meaningless.

it's just you. you and him. he's not sure how to navigate it, and his attempt only leaves him embarrassed.

his eyes fix on the red smudge. he presses his own lips directly onto that spot. this isn't even a kiss, but an odd euphoria floods him, as if he's never kissed anyone before.

gojo's eyes flutter shut. he takes a quick, deep inhale, lasting only seconds before he's spluttering, coughing. a dry, charcoal-like feeling enters his lungs, leaving his throat dry. "jesus," he winces, handing it back.

you giggle, not teasing, but amused. he echoes the sound, and you both dissolve into laughter.

at two in the morning, everything's funny. your hands brush his as you take the cigarette.

"a— are you okay?" you ask, trying to compose yourself.

"yeah!" he clears his throat. "i mean, yeah. yes. i'm good."

"never smoked?"

"nah. coach would kill me," he chuckles, and you hum. sometimes, he forgets he's that picture-perfect, well-rounded student. in these moments, everything else fades.

"yeah," you say, meeting his gaze. his eyes are already on you.

"yeah," he repeats, smiling.

and then he remembers your closeness. his heart, if it ever slowed, races. should he do it?

should he kiss you?

you're so sweet, so pretty, right there — so close. he leans in, instinctual, like his body is drawn to yours.

and maybe you're leaning in, too?

just like that, gojo doesn't have time to tell, because his phone rings, a bleary call from his confused roommate.

just like that, the moment shatters. gojo pulls back, farther than before. the sweet scent of your shampoo vanishes, the press of his thighs against yours, knees knocking, gone.

you wave goodbye. he waves goodbye.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl in his class. the girl behind the gas station.

୨୧ ⌞ act two: pro-bono deals. ⌝

gojo doesn't see it coming. he knows you're here often enough, a quiet fixture in the library's familiar hum. there's not much he knows about you, not really, but what little he's gathered, he clings to like scripture.

he knows you like to read. that's a given.

he knows the cute thing you do with your nose when you're deep in thought, a slight scrunch, lips pursed just so.

he knows you hate writing in pen. he offered you one once, when you were caught without anything to write with, but you’d asked for a pencil instead. something about being accident-prone, you'd said.

he knows your handwriting is god-awful, an illegible scrawl that makes him abandon any idea of feigning interest in your notes as an excuse to talk. he figures it’s because your brain moves faster than your hands can keep up.

he knows you like flowers, sometimes catching you pausing by the daisies near the fountain on the way to class.

these little things, these quiet quirks you have, he catalogues them meticulously. they're important to him, these small habits you might not even notice yourself.

it's what makes it so real, so tangible. it makes him feel like he knows you, as pathetic as that might sound.

what you don't like is studying. so, when he sees your nose buried deep in the familiar green shade of a physics textbook, he's got every right to be a little lost. for the entire two and a half years he's known you, gojo has never seen you go out of your way to study.

he shifts his weight, from one foot to another. he could let you be, let you work. or, he could… work with you? would that even be okay? after a dreadful moment of hesitation, he slides into the seat beside you.

you’re surprised to see him; it seems like you always are, when it’s him. nonetheless, a smile touches your face, so it’s a pleasant surprise. "gojo, what's up?"

"just… reading through things, studying for finals," he says, watching you close the book. "you don't mind if i sit here, right?"

"no, not at all," you assure him, waving off his mild concern. "i might go crazy reading this dumb thing alone, anyways."

gojo laughs, and your heavy sigh turns into a little chuckle. "don't like physics?"

"don't like science," you correct, slumping in your seat. you click and un-click your pen, groaning, "it's so boring."

"sounds about right coming from a literature major." he hopes you don't focus on how he knows your major. it seems to be alright, though, because you know his.

playfully, you raise your brows. "seriously, i have no idea how you're planning on doing that for the rest of your life."

"you're not bad at it, are you? i mean, based on, like, your scores and… stuff."

"no. i guess not. all my absences are catching up to me, though, and i'm a little behind."

he supposes it makes sense for you to be struggling a little, at least. he's not sure how you do it in the first place, managing to pass at all without any visible effort. sure, gojo's smart, but he's not that smart. he wouldn't say he's envious, but he wishes he had that ability.

the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "well, i could help you out," he offers. it comes out as more of a question, which he hates himself for. he also wishes he were more confident around you.

your eyes light up. "really? because field theory's kinda killing me." your gaze flickers from your notes to him, a little skeptical. you’re just not sure why he's hanging out with you in the first place, much less willing to, like, tutor you.

"yeah. if you want," his voice is a little less tentative, this time around.

"like… pro-bono?"

gojo chuckles. "sure. if you're up for aiding me in psychoanalyzing othello."

"you know what?" you ask, sticking your hand out. "deal."

he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, and he accepts your handshake. "deal."

your hand feels soft in his, and the mere touch makes him shiver. gojo inhales quietly, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips.

it's the same strawberry-colored gloss. like a man down bad, all he can wonder is if it tastes like it, too.

୨୧ ⌞ act three: to get or not to get (some). ⌝

"i think we need to get you laid," shoko remarks, rather casually, the words cutting through the bass and chatter of geto's party. it makes gojo choke on his drink, a cheap beer in a red plastic cup, his grip tightening around it.

geto seems entirely too amused by this, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "shit, sho, look at him, all red."

"shut up," he seethes, an unnatural flush creeping up his neck. he can feel the heat on his cheeks, a testament to his unexpected embarrassment.

she sighs, a faux melancholy. "poor guy. the clenched jaw tells me all i need to know."

"i don't— alright," gojo groans, quickly giving up. it's useless to argue with them when they're like this. "go ahead, abuse me like the great friends you are."

swirling her vodka with a straw, shoko snorts. "we are good friends, trying to save you from your newfound virginism."

"she's right," geto says pointedly, leaning forward. "you're like a male nun."

weakly, gojo repeats himself, "shut up." just as he’s reaching for his phone, a girl walks by. short dress, long legs, a smile that’s less friendly, more predatory, aimed straight at him. at some point, she would’ve been his ideal type, the kind of easy distraction he gravitated toward.

now? now, he doesn't even bat an eye. shoko looks at geto, a silent communication passing between them. geto looks at shoko. gojo glances up from his pocket, catching the sly, knowing looks his friends are giving him.

"or… maybe he's already getting some," geto nods, a mix of betrayal that he wasn't told and grudging impressment in his voice.

"you dog," shoko chuckles, nudging his arm with her elbow. "c'mon, who?"

"it's not— i'm not—"

geto sighs, "i didn't know we'd be around for the 'someone tied him down' era."

"guys—" he tries to interrupt, but then you walk by. his world narrows, the party noise fading to a dull hum. as if on instinct, his eyes get dreamy, following your path. his world stops, along with time itself, and gojo freezes, completely captivated.

they follow his line of sight, their gazes landing onto where he's looking. no, staring.

if he wasn't caught so off guard by shoko's low whistle, a sharp, clear sound in the sudden quiet of his world, he would have had a second to figure out why you were even here. "damn," she laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound. "if you fumble her, i call dibs."

"...didn't expect that. how do you even know her?" geto asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

"uh, she's in humanities with us," he says, a little annoyed that his friend, who shared classes with you, hadn't noticed you. he can’t imagine that possibility, especially not when you’re all gojo can seem to notice.

shoko squints, like she's trying to recall a distant memory. "oh, yeah. i think i've seen her, sometimes. doesn't she ditch, like, a lot?"

gojo shrugs. "i guess."

"i'm with geto. i wouldn't have pegged that, but congrats."

"it's not like that! we're just…" he’s about to say friends, but the word feels foreign, ill-fitting. he’s not even sure if you're that.

"no, no," geto shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "sex is always great, man."

"we're not—"

the brown-haired girl cuts him off, her attention already elsewhere. "speaking of sex, i think i'm gonna have a go," she murmurs, vaguely gesturing to a pretty, curvy redhead across the room. downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, she's off before either of them gets a word in.

and, because god is good, a group of people walk in through the front door, and geto, ever the host, goes to greet them; it is his party, after all.

gojo sighs, weary, the weight of his friends' teasing momentarily forgotten. then he remembers: you're here. he’s practically racing away from the spot he's in, a desperate, though he hopes nonchalant, attempt to find you. had he been hallucinating? was he so crazy about you that he was now seeing you everywhere? oh, god.

gojo doesn't get any further with his worries, because someone runs into his back.

oh. oh, wait. the familiar, faint scent of strawberry shampoo. he turns around, heart already beating faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs, when he sees you.

"jesus, i'm sorry. i didn't even see you." you look up, your eyes meeting his, and your apologies vanish into thin air, replaced by a soft, surprised expression. "oh, my god, hi."

"hey," he says, his voice a little breathy, holding his breath as if he’s scared to move, worried you'll simply vanish like a mirage.

"isn't it crazy how we keep running into each other?" you giggle, a light, melodic sound, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yeah, um, small world," gojo nods, straining a smile that feels more like a grimace. you give him a funny look, a slight tilt of your head, but thankfully leave it. "i didn't think this was really your scene?"

your shoulders slump, and you sigh, a familiar weariness in the sound. "it's not. my friend dragged me here, and then left to go have trashy sex with a trashy guy."

"oof," he winces, a sympathetic grimace. "that's alright. you can always stick with me, you know." the words tumble out, hopeful and a little desperate.

you put a hand on his arm, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through him, sighing in relief. "once again, you're my savior. i'm stuck here until she's," you pause, a flicker of distaste on your face, "done."

"ah, well, if it's trashy sex with a trashy guy, it'll probably not be too long." he rubs the back of his head, a nervous habit. "i wouldn't mind if it isn't, though. i like talking to you," he admits, the confession coming out a little sheepish.

"oh," you say, your cheeks flushing so slightly he almost misses it. "thanks. i mean, me, too."

"yeah." there's a beat of comfortable silence between you two, the thumping of bass from downstairs filling the quiet space. "say, uh, wanna go upstairs?"

your eyes go a little wide, a startled deer caught in headlights, and gojo quickly backpedals. "to talk. it's— it's just loud, here."

you nod, a slow, deliberate movement, sighing in either relief or disappointment (he can't tell, but he desperately hopes it's the latter).

his fingers tentatively lace with yours, a hesitant connection, and he pulls you gently past bodies of people swaying to the music. he leads you into a less crowded room, a quieter haven, and shuts the door behind him. the muffled bass is a distant thrum now. "isn't this much nicer?"

"definitely, yeah." you take a seat on the edge of the bed, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around to ensure it's clean. "so… how's your day been?" it sounds awkward, a little stilted, and he's glad that he’s not the only one.

taking a seat beside you, a comfortable, close distance, he smiles, "good. very good. you?" he looks right into your eyes, letting the sincerity of his words reach you.

you return the smile, a soft, hesitant curve of your lips, debating whether or not to scoot closer. "s'okay. better, now."

"i know you don't like parties, but on that scale, how's this one been? be nice, i helped set it up," he warns, a playful glint in his eyes.

"it's good. i appreciate the lukewarm beer."

he holds his hands up, defensive. "see, i told geto to get more coolers. that part's not on me."

"okay, then, what part's on you?" you ask, crossing your arms, a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

"uh, i did the…" he frowns, trying to remember his own contributions to the party prep. "i taste-tested all the snacks. does that count?"

you snort, a small, endearing sound. "did you eat all of them, too? 'cause there weren't any left when i got here."

"i," a pause, a hint of guilt in his voice, "might have had a little more than i was supposed to, but those cookies were really good. so was the kikufuku."

"there was kikufuku?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"not anymore," he admits, a wry grin on his face. "that, i did finish."

laughing, a genuine, unforced sound, you tilt your head, "what parties have kikufuku?"

"the really, really cool ones."

"is that right?"

"would i ever lie to you?" his voice is teasing, but there's something else there, too.

"hm, maybe not," you hum, making a show of inspecting his features, your gaze lingering on his eyes. "you do have a really honest face."

"you have a really pretty one," he retorts, the words escaping before he can think better of them. it takes you a second to process, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. him, too, because… did he just say that? was that bad? he can't, for the love of god, read your face.

your mouth opens, a soft parting of your lips, but you're robbed of a chance to respond, because a couple barges into the room, their laughter loud and jarring. gojo flinches, startled. huffing, he says, "occupied!"

it's shoko and the redhead. shoko's eyes flit from you to gojo, a silent apology passing between them before she quickly steers the redhead back out of the room, shutting the door. god, out of all his friends,

he wouldn't have expected her to be the cock-block. well, at least someone's getting some.

୨୧ ⌞ act four: nepo-baby v. broke barista.⌝

the gentle chime of the bell above the door echoes through the quiet café, a familiar melody that always brings a sense of calm to satoru.

he pushes the door open, the scent of rich, freshly brewed coffee washing over him, a comforting aroma that instantly eases the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment.

this, to him, is the best place to be.

his sunglasses, a constant fixture even indoors and in the dead of winter, are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. he knows he probably looks a little eccentric, a touch out of place, but he doesn't care.

gojo’s soft, white hair, perpetually threatening to fall into his startling blue eyes, drifts gently across his forehead. with a practiced flick of his wrist, he rakes it back, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of the café.

he steps towards the counter, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the smooth, polished surface. his order was always the same, a creature of habit in a world that constantly shifts and changes around him, a small anchor of predictability.

“hi,” a soft voice says, breaking him out of his reverie. gojo’s eyes fix on the meticulously arranged cookies in the display case, and he’s caught between the choice of chocolate chip or macadamia nut.

chocolate, duh.

“hey, could i—” his gaze finally shifts up, and he locks eyes with the barista. but, because god really does have favorites, it’s not just any barista, it’s you.

he’s caught off-guard, seeing you, though he really shouldn’t be. not after having run into you unplanned this many times, already. it’s almost comical at this point.

“damn,” he shakes his head, a smile of disbelief slowly spreading across his face. “are you playing a trick on me?”

“god, no,” you laugh, a clear, bright sound. a few stray strands of hair escape from beneath the café’s branded hat, and you brush them out of your face with a practiced motion.

your smile is a little lopsided, charmingly imperfect, and he notices your apron is slightly askew, a testament to what must have been a busy morning.

“i come here all the time. don’t tell me i’ve been missing you… somehow, like, every single time,” he pouts, a playful whine in his voice.

“no, no. don’t worry, i’m new. i started yesterday. apparently, i’m more broke than i realized,” you confess, a wry smile touching your lips.

he nods in understanding, giving you a look of genuine sympathy. “yeah, i get it.”

“oh, do you, rich boy?” you tease, your gaze playfully raking over his expensive sunglasses, then his wrist to his watch, and finally the glint of a gold chain peeking from beneath his shirt. i

t’s not a secret that gojo is loaded, the son of gojo enterprises’ founder. he’s always gone out of his way to be humble about it, part of why he works so hard.

“yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "speaking of, you gonna mess up my drink, newbie?"

"oh, haha. did you lose your stick? because i think i know where it went." you quip back.

gojo snorts, motioning to the register. “caramel macchiato, please. extra sugar.”

“aw, elitist baby can say please.” you pause, a faint wrinkle forming between your brows. “wait, did you say extra sugar?” you ask, making a face as you reach for a plastic cup and a sharpie. he nods, feeling his face flush under your intense, slightly disgusted gaze. “you know it’s already, like, super sweet, right?”

in return, he nods again, a little sheepish. gojo watches you scribble his name down on the side of the cup, your handwriting the same scrawl it always is. he shuffles to the end of the counter, waiting to receive his order.

your movements are a little clumsy, a novice’s hesitation in your hands, and you have to pause to remember the steps for making the drink. he even sees you gag, just a little, when adding the extra thing he’d gone out of his way to tell you.

“enjoy the, uh, macchiato.” you can't help the slight grimace as you push the cup across the counter. the smell alone was overwhelmingly sweet, amplified tenfold by the extra sugar he’d requested.

“you’re laughing. don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he grins, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“nah, i think i’ll be knocking,” you giggle, shaking your head, a slight shiver running through you. “but, if that’s what you like, you do you.”

there's a beat of silence, and gojo watches you attention momentarily shift to a spilled sugar packet near the display. "we really should start planning our run-ins," he chuckles, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment as he grabs the cup.

"they wouldn't be run-ins, then," you correct, a sly lilt in your voice.

"i… wouldn't mind that." the words are soft, almost a murmur, but loaded with intent.

the universe has a weird way of pulling people together, doesn't it?

୨୧ ⌞ act five: she loves me, she loves me not.⌝

gojo goes out of his way to plan this. he knows it's not a date, and he probably shouldn't pretend it is one. you had taken him up on his offer to hang out sometime, and he wanted it to be perfect.

you don't deserve anything less than that.

to anyone on the outside, he's sure it does look like a date. it feels like one, at least, if that counts. gojo picked you up, he dressed nice, you dressed nice, and he drove you to the park for a nice picnic. all of it sounds date-like, especially the part where he told you that you looked very cute today.

and, especially the part where he frantically back-pedaled, telling you; wait, you look cute today, but you look cute everyday. he doesn't just mean today.

and, especially, especially, how you'd teased him about it after. so, yeah, forgive him if he's having a hard time differentiating a platonic meetup and a not-so-platonic date.

gojo's picking off the petals on the daisy he's holding, hoping you don't notice how he's mentally playing she loves me, she loves me not. he glances at the small pile of discarded petals, then back at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

you weave the stem of a flower into another, your brows furrowed in concentration on the crown you're making for him. "how long should i make this? you do have a really big head."

"hey, that's insulting. my head is perfectly normal-sized," he huffs, feigning offense, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he leans closer, trying to get a better look at your handiwork. "are you sure you know what you're doing over there?"

"positive," you retort, not looking up. you wrap what you've got so far around his head, the cool petals a gentle press against his temple. "yep, definitely needs to be longer. see?"

"okay, rude." he pulls away slightly, inspecting the half-finished crown. "i'm starting to think you're just trying to wound my feelings."

you sigh, a dramatic, mournful sound. "truth hurts, right?" you glance up, your eyes locking with his, a gentle warmth in their depths. "this is really nice, by the way. i'm really glad we're doing this."

"me, too. feels a lot less rushed, compared to just seeing you around. not that i mind seeing you around," he quickly adds, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

you smile, a soft, genuine curve of your lips. "yeah, i get it. you picked a nice spot. the gardens are so beautiful, i can't believe i've never been here before," you say, looking around at the vibrant roses beside you, your gaze lingering on their soft petals.

"you just wait, then, i've got a whole roster, baby." he means the pet-name as a joke, a casual endearment, but the sudden flicker in your gaze has his breath hitching, a silent question forming in his mind.

"you make me sound like your girlfriend," you laugh, the sound light and airy, a small puff of air escaping your lips.

"i bet you'd like that, huh?" he teases, pushing his luck, and you respond by playfully throwing a torn-off stem at him, which he easily dodges.

rolling your eyes at him, you scoff. "i just meant all this. you're really nice to me." your voice softens towards the end, a subtle shift in tone that he notices.

"well, yeah, we're," he hesitates, the word catching in his throat, "friends." sure, he's glad that you're even that, that you tolerate his presence, but it's still disappointing, only that.

"mm, friends," you repeat, the word echoing his own slight disappointment. he wonders if that's a similar ache he hears in the tone of your voice.

"what? you fallin' for me?" he asks, playing it off as a joke, a lighthearted jab, but, god, he wishes. he so, so desperately prays that a tiny part of it is true.

"oh, shut up," you huff, but the warmth on your cheeks contradicts your words, a tell-tale flush that brings a hopeful flutter to his chest.

he tilts his head at you, intently studying the familiar sparkle in your eyes, the way they crinkle slightly at the corners when you're amused.

taking one of the remaining daisies, he gently tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your neck. "you should call me satoru."

"yeah? okay, then, shut up, satoru." the corners of your mouth quirk upwards, a small, knowing smile.

he plucks off the last petal. she loves me.

୨୧ ⌞ act six: stay, little valentine, stay.⌝

"i hate valentine's day, you know," you frown, slumping down in the bakery's chair. the place smells sweet, a comforting blend of buttered croissants and something faintly fruity, like berries.

"of course you would. you're single," he remarks, casually, playing with the crinkly wrapping paper of his straw.

"you're single, too, gojo."

he points a finger at you, raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "yeah, but that's different. i'm at peace with it."

shoving his index finger away, you whine, "what, like you aren't sick of seeing love-sick couples sucking each other's faces off, all day?"

well, he won't admit it (to you, at least), but he's mostly just been imagining what it would be like if those love-sick couples were you two.

before he can come up with a lame excuse, an employee, a young guy with a chipped name-tag stops by, checking in to see if you need anything else. "just letting you know, it's all half-off for couples today," they say, their tone far too cheery for your liking.

you say, "oh, no, we're not—" at the exact same time gojo says, "sure. another blueberry muffin, please. two, actually."

"are you crazy?" you whisper harshly at him, leaning across the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. "we're not even a couple." unbothered, he shoves your face away, a playful flick of his wrist.

instead, he smiles brightly at mark, and audaciously winks at you. "a couple of those strawberry tarts, too. my girlfriend here has a real sweet tooth."

your voice is strained, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "he's exaggerating. just the muffins, please."

with a click of their pen, they're telling you that you're an adorable couple, then walking off, already distracted by another customer.

"see? adorable. i'm already winning 'em over." gojo leans back in his chair, a smug look on his face.

you shoot him a look, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "winning who over? the employee? or me, into wanting those things? besides, i didn't even need any."

"first, who said it was for you?" he retorts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "second, it's half-off. it'd be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

"right," you laugh, shaking your head. he might be going crazy, but he's really fond of the idea that at least one person thinks you're dating. and, sure, that doesn't make it real, but it's a step closer.

"you know," he says, taking a sip of his smoothie (your smoothie, he stole it from you and you said nothing, which he considers a victory), "i think we'd make a good couple."

"oh? what makes you so sure?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"think about it. i'm the brains, you're the… well, you're pretty good at complaining. we balance each other out," gojo claims, with a confidence that has you kicking his shin from under the table.

"ow! seriously?" he yelps, rubbing his leg.

"oh, is that your sales pitch? my top quality is complaining? how charming." you deadpan, crossing your arms.

"it's a very enthusiastic quality. plus, you'd never have to open jars again. or reach for things on high shelves. i'm basically a human step-stool with great hair." he gestures to his impeccably styled white locks.

"so, your criteria for a good relationship is purely utilitarian? i'm good for complaining and you're good for opening jars?"

"and looking good. don't forget that. i'm the eye candy. every couple needs eye candy. you can be good at appreciating my eye candy."

you fight the urge to stick a fork in his eyes. "right, because all i do is sit around and appreciate your god-given good looks."

"besides," he continues, ignoring your sarcasm, "that guy bought it. means we look pretty couple-y, right?"

you stare at him, a flat, unimpressed look on your face. "or, it means he's being paid minimum wage, and couldn't care less."

"you would know, broke ass." another swift kick, and he hisses, pouting exaggeratedly.

"excuse me?" you huff. "minimum wage or not, that man is doing his job. unlike you, who's just freeloading off my good reputation."

he nods, as if he's genuinely considering this profound statement. "good reputation? for hating valentine's day? that's quite the legacy."

defensively, you sit up straighter. "it's a very respectable stance! and i'm not broke. i just appreciate a good discount. like you, apparently, considering you just scammed a bakery employee into thinking we're an item."

he choose not to address you, taking a moment to meticulously tear the paper of the straw in half. "on the other hand," gojo says, eyes fixed on his paper dissection, "if you weren't single, you'd be far less grouchy all the time."

"you already said that," you huff, deadpan.

"it still holds true," he nods, finally looking up, a serious expression on his face.

snorting, you tilt your head up, looking at the cracks in the ceiling. "so… you're suggesting i need to get a boyfriend? are you also suggesting the boyfriend is… you? just to not be grouchy? okay, well, what if i prefer to be grouchy? what if that's, like, my thing?"

"not necessarily." he almost says yes, but catches himself. "but you should know, i'd make a gas boyfriend," he insists, puffing out his chest playfully.

"good to know," you hum, snatching your drink back. when you take a sip from exactly where he did, his heart does a little flip in his chest, a secret, happy flutter.

gojo clicks his tongue. "and, also, impossible. no one prefers to be grouchy. you're just… unfulfilled. a boyfriend would bring joy, sunshine, spontaneous acts of adoration. less frowning, more smiling."

"these are high standards to hold to yourself. or, like, this hypothetical boyfriend. also, i like the grouch. i think it's kind of like my core trait." you tap your chest, a definitive statement.

"that is such a sad, sad trait to base yourself off."

"oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "like the rich daddy's boy thing you have going on is any better."

he holds his hands up, defensive, but a grin splits his face. "well, one of us is paying for lunch, and the other isn't. you know, because she's broke." mildly offended, you kick him. again.

"hey! quit doing that. anyways, my point is, i've got all day to change your mind about valentine's."

"all day? what if i'm busy?" you challenge, a playful glint in your eye.

"nah. you wouldn't be here with me, if you had plans." he says it with absolute certainty.

he doesn't know it yet, but, yeah, even if you did have plans, you'd still ditch them for him.

୨୧ ⌞ act seven: strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you.⌝

gojo's phone died a little while back, and he has no idea what time it is. it doesn't really matter, though, not when he's walking in the dim-lit street with you, not when it feels like this moment will last forever.

he pulls you behind that same, tattered, gray building, the gas station he saw you at just a couple months ago. it looks the same, save for the dumpster that's against the bushes instead of the wall.

"oh, shit," he laughs, the sound a little breathless. "it smells rank back here."

you plop down on the familiar concrete ledge, scrunching your nose in agreement. "don't even start, you're the one who dragged me here. for your stupid matcha cravings."

pulling him down next to you, his shoulder bumps against yours. "wait, wait," you murmur, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. holding a flame to the end, you cup your hand to keep the tiny light from going out in the faint breeze.

there's an odd feeling that passes through him, not quite nostalgia, when he sees that identical stain of strawberry-colored gloss on the end your lips are over.

"remember the last time i tried to smoke one?" he asks, a small, knowing grin on his face.

"yeah," you giggle, your shoulders shaking slightly as the smoke hits your lungs. "you almost died."

he's a little flustered, denying it immediately. "i did not almost die."

"close enough, you started choking and everything. wanna try again?" you ask, holding it near him, the lit tip glowing orange in the dim light. he eyes it, then looks back at you, a challenge in his gaze.

"damn, you tryna kill me?" he teases, but his voice is softer than he intends.

you lean closer, a pretty smile on your face that makes his voice catch. "would i get your money, if i did?"

his lips part, a hesitant breath escaping him, and you slip the cigarette between them. he can faintly smell the sweetness of the red. it's barely there, a ghost of a scent, but it's enough.

"relax," you hum, your voice a low, soothing sound. "you don't need to be so tense, it's just me."

but that's the thing — it's just you. just you and him, here again, alone in the quiet hum of the night. you're so close, invading all of his senses, leaving him breathless. how is he even supposed to think straight?

he, hesitant, inhales the smoke. he lasts hardly any longer than last time, turning away and breaking into a coughing fit, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

"oh, my god," you wheeze, patting his back, a mixture of concern and amusement in your touch. "careful. you're not supposed to suck in that much. just a puff, sato." the nickname, soft and intimate, has him blushing, and he has to duck his head, hiding his flushed face.

"one more time, or are you tapped out?" you ask, your voice still laced with laughter.

"one more," he breathes, tilting his head up to take in a smaller stroke. it's easier this time, irritates his throat less. he has to clear his chest, a low rumble, but he doesn't start writhing on the floor, so it's a win.

"oh, look! you did it," you smile, your eyes sparkling, and you gently pat his cheek. he wants to respond, but all he can manage is to lean into your touch. you don't move your hand, but stay cupping his face instead, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

"hey, pretty," he whispers, his voice thick, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the cool night air.

you scoot closer, virtually pressed flush against him, and the sudden warmth of your body sends a jolt through him. "hi." his heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, a frantic drum, and he's afraid you can hear it.

gojo watches your eyes glaze over, a hazy, soft look, and how your long lashes flutter against your skin. you clutch his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric, and your noses brush against his. and in a moment of a burst of raw courage, he presses his lips against yours.

it's not patient, but it's still loving, desperate in its urgency. it's clumsy, rather, messy, because both of you have been waiting too long for this to happen. your teeth clash against his, a soft click, as your lips, almost silkenly soft, move against his.

he tastes the faint sweetness of strawberries, a hint of something smoky and intoxicating. his hand, warm and firm, cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

the other hand fixes on your waist, keeping you there, pressed flush against him, as if he fears you might disappear.

it's awkward at first, tentative, because he's all too focused on the frantic butterflies that loop through his stomach, a dizzying swarm. it's like he's never kissed another person before, like he's forgotten how to. it was like his first one. his right one.

when he pulls away, you're panting little breaths, needing air, foreheads pressed together, your eyes still hazy. gojo presses another gentle kiss to the top of your hair, his nose nuzzled there, inhaling your scent.

you taste like strawberries and cigarettes.

unofficial permanent taglist: @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too did u guys know this is the longest fic ive ever written i should get head in the gc <33 big thanku to @mia-can-yap-too for beta reading i cannot be trusted to go back and do that myself i will cry also tagging myleslover @shokocide bc ur long fics inspire me + idk how u do it but share the talent !!! gatekeeping is bad incorrect buzzer

[samerpal]

"First, I would like to thank everyone who supported me.🙏🌹

This is my new platform, friends, after my old platform was deleted for reasons unknown to me.

I ask for your help in sharing my story again to keep hope alive for me and my family, friends.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.♥️

My family and I appreciate your cooperation and hope to reach the desired goal and save us.🙏

Attached are the verification links for the old account from the supporters.

Link vetted by @ibtisams

Link vetted by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi

Link vetted by @sar-soor

My approved number by the families in need and endorsed by the supervisors is 196."

@90-ghost @ibtisams @nabulsi @aces-and-angels @sar-soor @sayruq @fairuzfan @palestinegenocide @vakarians-babe @northgazaupdates @northgazaupdates2

Trapped Family in Gaza Appeals for Help to Survive 🕊️🇵🇸🙏

I Samer Abu Ras, am reaching out to you with a heartfelt humanitarian appeal, after the ongoing war in Gaza has cast its dark shadow over my life and the lives of my family. Our lives were once filled with peace and stability before the onset of this catastrophe, but now, we find ourselves living in a situation described as nothing short of tragic.

My wife, Shurooq, our three children, and I are now homeless, without a source of income, and without hope for the future. My family and I have lost our businesses and our home due to the war, and we now have nothing left but the cold streets and troubled hearts.

My children are suffering greatly as a result of these horrific events. They have lost the security and stability they once enjoyed and are now facing new health and psychological challenges that threaten their lives. As a father and husband, I feel powerless in my ability to provide adequate protection and care for them.

My child, who is a year and a half old, is experiencing hardships far beyond his tender age. Since the war broke out, we had to flee our home and seek refuge in a tent in a displacement camp. My child lives in extremely difficult conditions, deprived of safety and stability. The tent does not provide adequate protection from harsh weather, and food and medicine are scarce. My child suffers from malnutrition and illness, lacking basic healthcare. He cannot play or grow in a healthy and suitable environment. My only dream is to see him grow up in a safe place full of opportunities

In the face of difficult circumstances, Samer Abu Ras and his family find themselves facing serious challenges in their daily lives. They reside in a modest tent lacking comfort and security, suffering from a shortage of clean water and food, and encountering difficulties in accessing necessary healthcare. Despite these challenges, they continue to express hope and resilience in confronting adversity, holding onto hope for a better tomorrow and a return to a more stable and secure life.

I appeal to you today, dear friends, to extend to me a helping hand in escaping this hell. Regardless of the size of the donation, every drop of generosity will contribute to alleviating our suffering and rebuilding our lives anew.

We need your help to secure the funds necessary to travel away from these destructive wars and seek a safe and stable environment where we can build a better future for our children

Let us stand together in these difficult times and let hope triumph over despair by providing support and assistance to those in dire need. Let us be part of the solution and build a better future for ourselves and future generations.

Thank you for listening and for the potential generosity of your giving, and for your generous donations that will change the lives of my family for the better.

With sincere gratitude and appreciation

‏Samer Abu Ras and family.

@heba-20 @soon-palestine @marnota @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @i-am-aprl @nabulsi @sayruq @communistchilchuck @palipunk @palestinecharitycommissionsassoc @faggotfungus @ghost-and-a-half @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @three-croissants @interfacefox @appsa @akajustmerry @feluka @flower-tea-fairies @90-ghost @victoriawhimsey @ficsforgaza @aria-ashryver @mangocheesecakes @humanvoicebox @plomegranate @queerstudiesnatural @commissions4aid-international @palestinegenocide @ghost-and-a-half @bibyebae @heritageposts @norrriey 🍉🌹🍉✍️

🌹🍉🇵🇸❤️🌹🍉🇵🇸❤️🌹🍉

[shy-writer-999]

Thigh Riding: Monster Trio + Law

WARNING: MINORS DNI. NSFW CONTENT.

A/N: How would the Monster Trio & Law act while you ride their thigh? What would they say and how would it be initiated? (afab reader~)

Shoutout to the anon who requested this—I was going to do Ace as well but I think that someone (@possiblyreallyme) recently did it better than what I would have been able to come up with, so I’ve linked that here.

Thigh Riding: Monster Trio + Law

ZORO

The first time you ride one of Zoro’s thighs, it’s his idea. He loves to see you get off in any way he can imagine.

“C’mere. On my thigh. I want you to ride it.”

You’re surprised because you’ve never done this before, but he’s been rabidly horny recently and he’s been getting real creative.

His thighs are thick and hairy—the perfect seat. He’s just wearing boxer briefs, so when you lower your barely clothed cunt onto his thigh, you can feel his wiry hair bristle your skin.

His cock twitches when you look at him, poised on his thigh, waiting for instruction.

His hands come to rest on your hips. “Grind on me.”

He knows just what you like best. His goal is to see you dripping wet with pleasure and a hot mess. He has no problem accomplishing that.

He smirks as your rub your sensitive spot on his bare thigh. Friction builds on your core, quickly sending zaps of pleasure from your clit to the rest of your body.

“Getting wet already?”

 As you slide yourself back and forth on his thigh, you start letting out filthy mewls and keens. Your panties are soaked through.

“How does that feel? Are you getting off by just humping my thigh, gorgeous? Must be pretty desperate.”

As you start rutting down into his thigh more frantically, your face twists into an expression of lust. After a handful of minutes, your eyes become glossy and half-lidded, cheeks flushed pink. He grips your hips tighter and pushes his thigh up into your cunt, eliciting a moan.

“Did that feel good? You like rutting your pussy on my thigh that much?”

He’s getting off seeing you hump so needy and pathetically on his thigh. He can feel the precum seeping out of his tip, making a stain on his briefs.

You’re completely lost by now, feverishly fucking his thigh. You’re making a wet mess out of this thigh and your panties are leaking. Your face is contorted with pleasure.

“You wanna cum for me baby? Wanna cum on my thigh?”

You nod and Zoro starts to push his thigh up into your cunt again. It feels so good that you collapse forward onto him as much as you can, your head coming to rest in the cook of his neck. Your core glides over his thigh while you ride him.

A few more squirming humps and a few more jerks of Zoro’s thigh up into your cunt  and you’re brought to your peak. You cum all over his thick thigh; you’re hot and sweaty, and Zoro is about to fuck you into oblivion.

“You ready for my cock now, baby? You want the real thing? God, you’re such a mess. C’mere.”

He lifts you up and you’re straddling him now, his cock pressing at your entrance. He proceeds to fuck you slow and deep until you’re even more of a babbling, fucked-out mess. Then he finally lets you cum on his cock, and you return the favor by letting him cum inside of you.

LUFFY

You’re cuddling with Luffy, legs entangled. You’re half asleep and Luffy is too.

His thigh is pressing on your crotch, and when he adjusts it, he inadvertently grinds his knee on your clit.

You let out a soft sound, kind of like a moan but not as intense. He does it again a few more times and you grab a fistful of his shirt. “Luffy.”

The idea hits him like lightning. He scoops you up from where you’re laying together and sits up, placing you on his thigh.

He’s already hard, and as you blink the sleep out of your eyes, you pull him into a kiss. You feel his thigh under your panties and instinctively start grinding back and forth on it.

“How does that feel?” He asks in all sincerity, and you respond back with a moan “feels good”. He’s always curious about what gets you off—he thinks its hot to see you get flustered and needy.

“Fuck Luffy, it feels so good.”

“Well keep going.” He’s all smiles like usual, his hands on your hips, but his voice is getting gruffer. He notices how wet you’re getting.

He’s getting harder by the minute. Something about seeing you get off on his thigh, of all things, is about to drive him feral.

He gets the idea to move his thigh up and down—maybe it will make you feel even better. He likes to see you in bliss like this, it makes him want to rip all your clothes off and fuck you senseless.

He’s holding off on touching himself right now because he’s too entranced by you haphazardly crashing your cunt on his thigh.

When you finally cum climax on his thigh, he picks you up and puts his cock in you. His voice is strained and husky. “My turn.”

He fucks you until your eyes roll back in your head. Luffy can go round after round, no problem. You riding his thigh was the perfect appetizer to his main meal—cumming in you no less than three times. By the end of it you’re seeing stars and he’s grunting and groaning in your ear.

SANJI

cw: instance of “pretty girl” and “needy girl”

Sanji thinks it’s so fucking hot that you want to ride his thigh.

You ask sheepishly and he becomes so excited he practically throws you over his knee.

The idea that you’re using him any part of him to get off makes him feel like he’s going crazy with desire.

He loves to feel your weight on his thigh. It makes him feel like he’s holding you, like you’re close together, like he’s supporting you in some way (which, technically, he is). It reminds him of when you sit on his face, and he’s hard just thinking about it.

He literally loves you so much that his heart melts any time you look at him. He blushes crimson and attends to your every want and need.

Can’t overstate how excited he was to have you straddling his thigh.

When you start dragging your clit back and forth on his thigh, his heart skips a beat. He thinks you’re gorgeous and is intoxicated by your presence.

He just adores you and it’s apparent in his voice. He sweet talks you as you desperately start writhing on his thigh.

He’s almost breathless. “Wow.”

“Just like that my love.”

When the angle is right, he’ll pull your face near his and caress your cheek with his thumb. He pulls you into delicate kisses, kisses your neck, and swipes his thumb over your lips.

“Pretty girl so worked up riding my thigh.” His grip tightens on your hips as he gets more aroused. He was already rock hard when he initially put you on his thigh, and by now his erection is raging against his pants.

“You’re getting my thigh so wet, beautiful. So fucking hot.”

He coaches and praises you through it. He calls you lovely things and uses his hands to slow down the pace of your thrusts. He wants you to ride him slowly until you’re begging him to let you go faster.

“Mmm, you wish it was my cock instead, angel?”

Your cunt throbs and pulses as you increase the pressure on his thigh—your whines and keens go straight to his dick.

He occasionally reaches a hand up to smooth down your hair and pet your hair and cheeks. He’s so obsessed with you it’s absurd.

“So wet for me, baby. Does it feel good?” He coos in your ear, and it gives you goosebumps.

Sanji starts to bounce his thigh until you’re literally drooling with pleasure. "Go faster now, my love. Go faster." Your thighs start to shake and your slick is oozing on his thighs.

“You look so gorgeous right now. Rutting all over my thighs, needy girl. I’ll fix you up just right, but I want you to cum before I fuck you. Okay?”

When you finally cum, he gives you more sloppy kisses. He picks you up by your waist and hips, carries you to the bed, and fucks you in missionary. Sanji does all the work—think of it as a sort of reward for riding his thigh.

LAW

Law lowkey makes you ride his thigh.

You give him bedroom eyes and he knows immediately that you want him to rail you.

Law says no—sometimes he likes seeing you whine and beg for it.

Obviously, he gets immediately aroused at the thought of you pleading for his cock but today he wants something else.

“You really want it? I’m gonna need a little convincing today.”

You think that he just wants you to give him head, but he simply crosses his arms and says “that’s not what I meant.”

When you ask him what he did mean, he tells you take off your pants and straddle his thigh.

“If you want me to fuck you so bad, you’re going to work for it, sweetheart.”

You’re confused as fuck and half naked. He tells you to put your hands on his shoulders, and then he puts his hands on your waist.

“What are you waiting for?” His look is deadpan, his tone is annoyed and cold, but behind those breath-taking eyes you see a fire roaring. You’re not quite sure what he means, but you’re willing to do anything if it means that he’ll put his cock in you later.

Law starts to bounce his knee and you immediately get the memo.

“Law, you want me to get off on your thigh? That’s embarrassing.”

“I don’t care what it is. Now move.”

He uses his leverage on your waist to push you down on his thigh while he bounces his knee. Your initial confusion is quickly thrown to the side as the friction on your clit builds.

Heat starts to pool in your core.

After a few moments of rubbing your throbbing cunt back and forth on Law’s thigh, your panties start to saturate. You can see that Law is hard already.

When you start letting out needy puffs of breath and muted whines, Law can’t help himself. He wants to see you as worked up as he can.

“Pick up the pace, beautiful. Show me how badly you want it.” Law purrs, his voice is deep. He’s trying to conceal how starving he is for your pleasure. He needs to keep himself in control so he can see you just how he wants you.

You start to rut your hips faster, dragging your sopping wet panties and humping his thigh. You’re so wet that it’s seeping through his pants.

“Law, I want it.” You're begging.

“And what would that be?”

“Your cock. In me. Please Law.”

“Is that so? You’ll have to make do with this. I’ll fuck you after you cum.”

He smirks. You didn’t take long to get this desperate.

He bounces his thigh again and you start moaning his name—that heat and need building on your core are ready to explode.

“Are you going to cum on my thigh or what?”

He pushes your hips down forcefully and bounces his leg harder. It hits your clit and folds just right.

You cum aggressively, basically screaming his name. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders. It’s an overwhelming, all-encompassing feeling of pleasure. Unreal.

His bulge presses on his pants, painfully tight, and he knows that he’s about to fuck you until you can’t talk anymore.

“That’s more like it. Now take those off panties and let me put my cock in you.”

---

(´ ᴗ｀✿)

that’s all for this one :3 here's my masterlist if you're curious! and here's the initial request/my response~

ohoho? thigh riding, you say? >:3c may I request some headcanons of that with characters of your choice?

woooow anon thank u sm for this, this was amazing to write because I have a burning passionate love for man thighs. They are among my favorite things… I think I have a fetish for them or smth because I really really like them, could stare at a nice hairy thick pair of thighs for literal hours. >///<

[xjulixred45x]

Imagine an adult Yuu who arrived at Twisted Wonderland PREGNANT.

This could be considered part of the Yuu! Parent variables (?). Perhaps the poor woman was returning from an early ultrasound (at 2 or 3 months old) when the black carriage hit her, scaring her to death upon her appearance in TWST. She must have thought she was about to be sacrificed to a cult.

I can definitely imagine the Squad characters being much more understanding/soft of this Yuu, especially Ace and Deuce. Ace wouldn't be so malicious at the beginning of the game (I'd like to believe that not even he would be capable of laughing in the face of a pregnant woman), and instead feels obvious guilt because Crowley has entrusted her with a mediocre job.

Deuce, my sweet boy, will set off all his alarm bells. He's the most outraged that the headmaster is forcing a pregnant woman to work ALONE, and if his dorm leader hadn't been so strict in the beginning, he definitely wouldn't let Yuu sleep in a dorm that's falling apart. Has Crowley gone crazy? Does he have no shred of decency?!

Grim probably thought at first that Yuu had eaten her baby, haha, and had to receive the wonderful "birds and the bees" lecture (much to Ace's amusement at Grim's horrified reactions). Let's just say Grim now insists on standing sentry in case Yuu decides to do anything too "dangerous for the baby" (humans are fragile even with magic; he has to take care of his minion!).

Jack, bless him, also tries to help make the ramshackle dorm safer alongside Epel, whether by removing the most rotten parts of the structure, helping clean, assisting with Yuu's errands, etc. Especially when she starts showing more of her bump.

GOD, IMAGINE THE DORM LEADERS!

Riddle was probably the only one who didn't realize Yuu was pregnant until the events of the Savanaclaw episode. And when he found out he almost seriously hurt a PREGNANT WOMAN? Trey and Cater practically had to keep him from banging his head against a wall for half an hour out of embarrassment and shame. He also drafted a LONG apology for Yuu, which was delivered with a giant strawberry cake (and one of those exaggerated bows I KNOW Riddle would do).

Thanks to his mom (for once in his life), Riddle is the most knowledgeable about useful pregnancy stuff! Whenever Yuu goes to Heartslabyul, she has access to calcium- and iron-rich meals (prepared by Trey), and teas that boost her immune system and combat morning sickness. Riddle is careful not to give her things like black tea or rosemary tea, knowing they could have negative effects (if it were up to Riddle, Yuu probably wouldn't walk unaided).

Leona is much more respectful to a female Yuu, we know that, but I don't think he has the energy to be rude, or be especially , well, Leona, to a PREGNANT woman. This ends up bringing out a side of Leona no one thought existed: an almost delicate side. Sure, he's still lazy and sarcastic, but he doesn't say no to Yuu when she asks for help with something, whether it's bringing something to her dorm or dealing with a difficult situation. he dosent even COMPLAIN. what did he do to the real Leona??

We all know Crowley doesn't give Yuu and Grim enough money to live comfortably, let alone considering they could soon have a new member on ramshakle. Yuu is now surprised to find extra money in the dorm after certain visits. Not that he'll admit it, but it makes everyone feel more at ease.

Again, I want to believe Azul wouldn't be capable of leaving a pregnant woman homeless, at the very least he offered her a place to stay in Octavinelle. It turns out the twins (especially Floyd) quickly took a liking to Yuu.

A cute scenario I came up with, when Yuu already has a prominent baby bump, is that she tries to joke with the Leechs that the nickname "shrimpy" doesn't suit her anymore, and that maybe they should change it to "whaley."

AND FLOYD IS LIKE, "Why are you saying that, Koebi-chan? :( Is someone calling you that? Come on, tell me :)"

I think the Octavinelle folks genuinely don't know how human pregnancy works, so they're surprisingly gentle and caring with Yuu (even when the baby is born, I can see Monster Lounge having a kids' menu for them).

Kalim, my god, Jamil is going to have to stop him from giving Yuu a completely equipped nursery for both her and the baby. Ironically, the one who's the most normal about pregnancy (the guy has 30 younger siblings, so he KNOWS about these things) and genuinely knows some home tricks that helped his mother when she was pregnant.

offers to organize a baby shower/gender reveal party! The bad thing is that it ends up being a whole festival with all of Scarabia participating. But hey, it's the thought that counts.

There's no way Yuu, who's already 6-7 months along, will wear the school uniform simply for comfort, so if you need help finding comfortable AND cute clothes, Vil will gladly help! Obviously, he's not as strict or harsh with Yuu due to the circumstances, but he still wants the best for her. Who knows, maybe they can pick out some clothes for the baby in advance.

Idia is afraid to get close to Yuu, not only because of social anxiety, but because of the thought that he might "ruin" the baby in some way. He needs a lot of support from Ortho and Yuu to even allow himself to have normal physical contact with Yuu, and just as he does, the baby kicks. Idia's heart is gone (everyone wants to feel the kicks now, especially Ace, Floyd, and Malleus).

They probably use some STYX or Ortho equipment for some of the baby checks, and he even gives an approximate due date, which feels bittersweet. Even if everyone does their best, Yuu still hoped to have his baby at home, but he doesn't complain when the boys do all this for them. It feels like Home.

Malleus is another who doesn't fully understand human pregnancy and is incredibly intrigued. It doesn't help that Lilia's answers to his questions are even more confusing, so he ends up going straight to the source of his intrigue, Yuu. Malleus is completely mesmerized the first time he hears the baby's heartbeat, completely fascinated by what human life is like compared to fairies/dragons.

That said, he proceeds to "scold" the baby when it kicks Yuu for "hurting its mother," not quite understanding the concept, but he has the spirit. Malleus is very scared of the idea of childbirth once he's educated on it (WHERE will the baby come out? HOW!?) and will probably try to improve his healing magic SOLELY because of that.

All I can say is that if the baby is born in Twisted Wonderland, they'll have a wide array of adoptive siblings, father figures, babysitters, and weird and eccentric uncles who will take very good care of them and its mother. So you can rest easy.

__________

(ESPAÑOL)

Imagínate una Yuu adulta que llego a Twisted Wonderland estando EMBARAZADA

Esto podría considerarse parte de las variables de Yuu! Parent(?)Talvez la pobre mujer estaba regresando de un ultrasonido de los primeros meses (2 o 3 meses) cuando el carruaje negro le paso por encima, dándole un susto de muerte cuando apareció en TWST. La pobre mujer debio pensar que estaba a punto de ser sacrificada a un culto.

Definitivamente puedo ver a los personajes del Squad mucho mas suaves con esta Yuu, especialmente Ace y Deuce. Ace no sería tan malicioso al principio del juego (digo, quiero creer que incluso el no seria capaz de reírse en la cara de una mujer embarazada) y más bien siente una obvia lastima de que Crowley le haya metido en un trabajo mediocre.

Deuce, mi dulce niño, le disparan todas las alarmas. Es el más obviamente indignado de que el director haga trabajar a una mujer embarazada SOLA, y definitivamente si su líder de dormitorio no fuera tan estricto al principio, no dejaría que Yuu durmiera en un dormitorio que se cae a pedazos ¿¡que acaso Crowley perdió la cabeza, no tiene el mínimo de decencia?!

Grim probablemente al principio pensó que Yuu se había comido a su bebe lol, y le tuvieron que dar la maravillosa charla de las “aves y las abejas” (para diversión de Ace por las reacciones horrorizadas de Grim). Solo digamos que ahora Grim insiste en actuar como centinela en caso de que Yuu se le ocurra hacer algo demasiado “peligroso para él bebe” (los humanos son frágiles aun si magia ¡tiene que cuidar a su secuaz!).

Jack, bendito sea, también trata de ayudar en hacer el dormitorio destartalado mas seguro junto a Epel, ya sea quitando las partes mas podridas de la estructura, ayudando a limpiar, ayudar con los mandados de Yuu, etc. Especialmente cuando empieza a mostrar mas la panza de embarazada.

DIOS, IMAGINENSE LOS LIDERES DE DORMITORIO.

Riddle probablemente fue el único que no llego a darse cuenta que Yuu estaba embarazada hasta los eventos del capítulo de Savanaclaw ¿y cuando se enteró que casi lastimo gravemente a una MUJER EMBARAZADA? Trey y Cater tuvieron que físicamente detenerlo de que se golpeara la cabeza contra la pared por media hora por la vergüenza, también redacto un documento LARGUISIMO de disculpa a Yuu, que fue entregado con una gran tarta de fresa (y una de esas reverencias exageradas que SE que Riddle haría).

¡Gracias a su madre (por una vez en la vida), Riddle es el que sabe más de cosas útiles para el embarazo! Cada vez que Yuu va Heartslabyul, tienen acceso a comidas nutritivas en calcio y hierro (hechas por Trey), Tés beneficiosos para el sistema inmune y para combatir las náuseas matutinas, aparte de que Riddle es cuidadoso de no dar cosas como Te negro o romero, sabiendo que podrían tener malos efectos (si fuera por Riddle, Yuu probablemente no caminaría sin ayuda).

Leona es bastante más respetuoso con una Yuu mujer, eso lo sabemos, pero no creo que tenga la energía para ser grosero o especialmente, bueno, Leona, con una mujer EMBARAZADA. Esto termina sacando un lado que nadie creía que existía de Leona, un lado casi delicado. Claro, sigue siendo perezoso y sarcástico, pero no le dice que no a Yuu cuando le pide ayuda en algo, ya sea llevar algo a su dormitorio o con una situación difícil.

Todos sabemos que Crowley no da ni de lejos el dinero suficiente para que Yuu y Grim vivan bien, mucho menos pensando que PODRIAN TENER UN NUEVO INTEGRANTE PRONTO, por lo que Yuu ahora se sorprende después de ciertas visitas, aparece algo de dinero extra en el dormitorio. No es como que lo vaya a admitir, pero todos están más tranquilos de esa forma.

De nuevo, quiero creer que Azul no sería capaz de dejar sin hogar a una mujer embarazada, aunque sea le ofrecería una estancia en Octaville, ya que, además, resulta que los gemelos (especialmente Floyd) se encariñaron con Yuu muy rápido.

Un escenario lindo que se me ocurrió, ya cuando Yuu tiene una panza de embarazada prominente, es que ella trata de bromear con los Leech de que el apodo “camarón” ya no le queda bien, y que a lo mejor tendrían que cambiarlo a “ballena”

Y FLOYD ESTA COMO “¿Por qué dices eso Koebi-chan?  ¿alguien te está diciendo asi? Vaaaamos, dímelo ”

Creo que genuinamente los de Octaville no saben muy bien cómo funciona el embarazo terrestre, por lo que son sorprendentemente gentiles y cuidadosos con Yuu (incluso cuando nace el bebe, puedo ver el Monstre Louge teniendo un menú infantil para ellos).

Kalim, dios mio, Jamil tendrá que detenerlo de regalarle a Yuu absolutamente toda una guardería completamente equipada tanto para ella como para el bebe. Irónicamente el que es el mas normal al respecto del embarazo (el man tiene 30 hermanos menores, el SABE de estas cosas) y genuinamente sabe algunos trucos caseros que le sirvieron a su madre cuando ella estaba embarazada.

¡ofrece organizar un baby shower/ fiesta de revelación de genero! Lo malo es que termina siendo todo un festival en el que participa todo Scarabia. Pero hey, la intención es lo que cuenta.

No hay forma en la que estando ya en los 6-7 meses Yuu use el uniforme de la escuela por simple cuestión de comodidad, por lo que si necesitan ayuda en encontrar ropa cómoda Y bonita ¡Vil le ayudara con gusto! Obviamente no es tan estricto ni duro con Yuu debido a las circunstancias, pero sigue queriendo lo mejor para ella. Quien sabe, talvez puedan elegir algo de ropa para él bebe de adelantado.

Idia tiene miedo de acercarse a Yuu, no solo por la ansiedad social, sino por la idea de que podría “arruinar” al bebe de alguna forma. Necesita mucho apoyo de Ortho y Yuu para siquiera permitirse tener contacto físico con Yuu de forma normal, y justo cuando lo hace, el bebe patea. A Iidia se le salió el alma del cuerpo (ahora todos quieren sentir las pataditas, sobretodo Ace, Floyd y Malleus).

Probablemente usan algo de equipo de STYX o Ortho para algunos controles del bebe, incluso el da una fecha aproximada de nacimiento, lo cual da una sensación agridulce. Aun si todos hacen su mejor esfuerzo, Yuu esperaba poder tener a su bebe en casa, pero no se queja cuando los chicos hacen todo esto por ellos.

Malleus es otro que no entiende el embarazo humano completamente y esta increíblemente intrigado, no ayuda que as respuestas de Lilia a sus preguntas son aún más confusas, por lo que termina lleno a la fuente de su intriga, Yuu. Malleus se queda completamente hipnotizado la primera vez que escucha los latidos del bebe, totalmente fascinado por cómo es la vida humana en comparación a las hadas/dragones.

Eso sí, procede a “reprender” al bebe cuando patea a Yuu por “lastimar a su madre”, no entendiendo bien el concepto, pero tiene el espíritu. A Malleus le asusta mucho la idea del parto una vez que se educa al respecto (¿Qué el bebe saldrá DE DONDE? ¡¿COMO!?) y probablemente trate de mejorar en magia curativa UNICAMENTE por eso.

Solo puedo decir que si el bebe nace en Twisted Wonderland, tendrá un vasto abanico de hermanos adoptivos, figuras paternas, niñeros, tíos raros y extravagantes que lo cuidaran muy bien a él y su madre. Así que pueden estar tranquilos.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

[joelsgoldrush]

“give me the first taste” | 10k

logan howlett x f!reader

part 2 of “GUILTY PLEASURE”

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

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

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

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

A girl and a mutant walk into an apartment…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow. You two are a match made in heaven.

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

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

Why is he about to fight a cat?

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

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from dozing off, you feel alive.

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

“Ask away.”

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

Okay, that was… weirdly specific. 

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

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

“Fucking, you mean.”

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

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

“I can walk on my own.”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you’re making jokes?”

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

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

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is what I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

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

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

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

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

“You could use a new wardrobe.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Kid.”

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

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

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

“Do you have an off switch?”

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

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

“Wait. I have a game to play.”

“It’s late.”

“Please?”

He sighs. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

“Really? You, of all people?”

“I wasn’t expecting to be judged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can always get new teeth.”

“But my morning breath—”

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

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

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

“Bub, I was actually falling asleep.”

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

More silence.

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“What was the Great Depression like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could’ve done something much worse.”

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

“What if—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The most surreal Sunday night of your whole life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t.”

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

“I said I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wade, that’s not even possible.”

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

“How did you pass History in high school?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Over a month.”

“Oh. That’s bad, like, really bad.”

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

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

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

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

“Hey, homey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Oh, no.”

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

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

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

Oh, Logan. Sweet, lying Logan.

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

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

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

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

Oh. You have classes. Had—past tense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey.

You again.

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

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

Okay.

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

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

Sure.

What’s that?

Why not?

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

We— we’ll figure it out.

We’ll figure it out.

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

My name’s Tom.

Nice to meet you. I’m Autumn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan, they weren’t even official.”

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

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

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

Lord have mercy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are the most exasperating person I know.”

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

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

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

“Drop it, kid.”

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

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine with me.”

“And you’ll be mad at me. A lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll definitely get back to that joke later.

“Will you—can you—”

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

God, you love it when he’s mean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bub.”

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“You don’t have any?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Inside.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Logan?”

“Tell me, bub.”

“Knock, knock.”

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

“Ice cream.”

“Ice cream who?”

“Ice cream for you all night long.”

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

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

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

[ssahotchnerr]

if you’re interested, i’ve been so into the idea of aaron discovering reader has a birthmark he’d never seen before — maybe on her inner thigh or something — and i’m dying to see what you’d do with that. take it whatever direction you like best no one’s picky over here <33

hidden in plain sight

hehe i hope this suffices <3 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, fluff and some spice

"We're in the depths of hell. I'm convinced."

A brutally hot day. AC temporarily out of service. The lack of ceiling fans preventing any air circulation, resulting in numerous agents in a worse mood than normal. The BAU in these conditions, not the best place to be.

"Whining isn't going to make it any cooler, y'know." You told Morgan, raising your eyebrows cheekily.

"Touché." He pointed his pen at you, his eyes then shifting from your gaze and settling on something behind you. You felt a familiar presence soon after, Aaron's palm finding your shoulder in a silent hello.

"Hotch, please tell me something's getting done about this AC," Morgan pleaded, using a case file to fan his face. "We're boiling out here."

"Hey you." Your chair turned ever-so-slightly as you peered up at him, grinning.

Aaron wasn’t immune to the heat either; his face flushed, his forehead dotted with small beads of sweat, the sleeves of his button-up rolled to his elbows. He looked uncomfortably troubled, but his facial features relaxed at the sight of you.

After offering you a small smile, he addressed Derek's inquiry. "It's getting fixed as we speak."

However, his voice trailed off as he ended his sentence - as your head turned back towards your desk.

You could almost hear his brows furrowing as he swiveled your chair to its previous angle, causing a slight tug at your skin as he got a better look at whatever had piqued his interest. Soon after, a fingertip traced your skin, focusing on one spot.

"How much longer?"

"As long as it takes." He answered plainly, directly. Aaron's hand brushed back towards your shoulder, giving it a long squeeze. "Can I see you in my office?"

You cleared your throat, fighting a squirm as you rose out of your seat. "Sure."

"Uh oh." You shot Morgan a glare at his remark, his teasing only half as enthusiastic as normal (the temperature to thank). Shaking your head in amusement, you followed Aaron.

"What's up?" Stepping into his office was like stepping into a wall of humidity - thick and stagnant. No wonder he had looked so tense, and had been avoiding the room altogether.

Instead of answering, Aaron moved behind you. His fingertips returned to your skin again, focused on the same singular spot as before. The roughness of his finger contrasted with the soft, comforting way he touched you.

"You have a birthmark."

Your birthmark laid along the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Usually covered by hair, but your hair was thrown up in attempt to keep it from sticking to your skin. You had also removed your cardigan, leaving you in a tank and exposing more of your skin - smooth and warm in the fluorescent light.

"You called me up here because I have a birthmark?" You laughed gently, your eyebrows crinkling in question. Despite the heat, goosebumps trickled onto your skin at his touch.

"I can't believe I haven't noticed it before."

"I mean, every time you've seen me bare, you've been distracted elsewhere." You teased, your forward-facing position causing you to miss the smirk that threatened his lips. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

"No excuse. I pride myself on knowing every part of your body." His finger traced the outline of the small mark; the pad of his finger lingering softly, as though savoring the imprint, studying it, committing it to memory so he wouldn't dare forget it again. Additionally, the added pressure he was applying made the strength of your knees falter. "No matter how delicate."

A heavy want grew in his chest; the urge to press his lips to that spot he had unintentionally missed. Over and over again, at that, offering it the attention it quietly demanded and he had lacked.

If you two were in the privacy of home, he would've.

"I'll tell you what." You turned around to face him, your eyes darting out to the bullpen before finding his again. They met him with a mischievous glint. "I'm in need of a shower when we get home. Aren't you?"

The ends of his mouth lifted upwards. "After today? Perhaps."

You leaned up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger as you whispered into his ear, "I’ll let you check for any other birthmarks you may have missed. How about that?"

[logaenhowlett]

WHEN YOU TOUCH ME - L.H.

Summary: Since when do neighbours fuck like this?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Fingering, Nipple play (ft. Logan 'Big Hands' Howlett), Unprotected sex (hint: floor-length mirror)

A/N: Yes, I’m aware the image is from The Wolverine, but let’s pretend it’s Worst!Logan (this man needs more domestic scenes fr). Another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was FURTHER. Title creds to Brandy.

MASTERLIST

Logan didn’t mean to kiss you.

Just as he didn't mean to unravel you, so mercilessly; two fingers deep, your desire a flame, licking at the edges of his own.

It so happened that, days ago, he'd eavesdropped on complaints of a broken AC amongst other casual chatter you and Wade shared in the hallway outside your apartments. And the thought of you, flushed and slightly dishevelled in the sweltering heat, was enough because the doorknob had somehow twisted itself, and just like that he was there with a playful "I can fix it".

God, he was such a liar.

Nerves coiled in his stomach every time. Still, he persisted, returning your sly comments, your teasing smiles, your barely-there touches. It was simply exhilarating - this game of cat and mouse.

So, when he showed up this morning, tools slung over a shoulder, mischief glazing his eyes, one thing was clear: trouble had certainly arrived. "Well, aren't you gonna let me in?" he'd drawled as you were suddenly, inexplicably, speechless.

Heat prickled his skin as he worked; the flannel stripped off without a second thought. Logan toyed with a bolt, biceps flexing with each turn until the wrench finally gave way. Even as your sharp gaze missed nothing - the slight tremor in his fingers, the slackening grip on the screwdriver - he remained stubbornly focused.

The lemonade you'd offered burned his throat with every swallow. He watched you tilt back, the ice in your glass clinking as you drank. A single droplet slid down your neck, his eyes fixed on its slow descent.

And then, snap.

It wasn't gentle, not at all. His tongue fought yours with a wild desperation, hands finding purchase on your hips until you were locked in place.

Logan had often imagined this. You, kissed by the warm glow of his bedside lamp, arching your back as he fucked you senseless. You, branded by his teeth marks, grinding against his abs till your cum smeared across his happy trail.

You. You. You.

But they were mere fantasies - well, until now.

Because somehow, in the stillness between one breath and the next, you're spun around. Logan's hand claims your chin, his thumb a shackle bruising your lower lip, forcing your gaze to the nearby mirror.

His fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the fabric bunches at your hips, and anticipation - tempting as the taste of forbidden fruit - stings between his legs.

Flush against your back, the jeans do little to conceal his arousal. Yet, he takes his sweet time, kneading the plump cushions of your thighs, savouring every whimper spilling from your lips.

It's almost lazy. The way his fingers pump in and out, a slow, mocking rhythm that just drips of cocky satisfaction - and the bastard has the audacity to pause.

"Eyes on me, darlin'," he rasps, leaving a fleeting kiss below your ear. It's enough, apparently. Dark lashes flutter in surrender as heavy lids part, finding him in the reflection. "Good girl."

His other forearm brushes your side, only briefly stealing your attention, before snaking beneath your shirt. The swell of your breast barely fills his palm, and he nearly loses it all right there.

Rough, calloused skin caresses your nipple. Logan rolls it between his index and thumb, toying the delicate bud until it hardens beneath his touch.

He could laugh, really.

And so, he does - something close to a growl that wakes goosebumps across your flesh. Even as you're writhing against him, hardly standing straight, he doesn't relent. Only deeper, only faster - his fingers thrust into your cunt.

"Fuck Lo– you're a lil’ shit, you know that?"

But he's heard the name you moan when you're playing with yourself. Late-night showers, hot water pounding down your back as you explore your body. Quiet afternoons on the couch, soft cushions muffling your gasps as you lose control. In bed, in the sun, in the shadows - whenever the mood strikes, it seems, he's on your mind.

"How 'bout you hm? Think I can't hear through these fuckin' walls?"

It's far from a threat, yet your laugh amuses him. Carefully, he brushes your hair aside, trailing his nose along your neck. And for a second - a single, pussy-drunk second - he's convinced you've doused yourself in every aphrodisiac known to man.

So he doesn't think twice.

His teeth close around your nape. Sharp and possessive, the bite makes you groan in pleasure. His tongue follows immediately, soothing the reddened bruise now begging to be kissed.

Mesmerised, Logan grins as your head slumps back on his shoulder, the world caught in a dizzying waltz as you lock eyes, your cum coating his hand while a sinful trail glistens down your thighs.

One lick.

That's all it takes; your sweetness lingers in his mouth as his fingers pop free, nice and clean. Logan twirls you between his arms until you're finally face to face. A visible bulge stretches the denim as you draw closer, your grip tightening around the contours of his biceps.

In the mirror, you're simply breathtaking.

His hands settle on your ass, playful squeezes shaping the soft curves beneath his touch. Giggles tumble from your lips, light and airy, as you melt against him.

"Since when do neighbours fuck like this?" you tease, kissing his jawline.

And suddenly, you're swept off your feet. Something like affection shines through his eyes as he nudges your bedroom door open.

"Think we're past that now, honey."

It's not long before your moans weave themselves into his name.

[ozzgin]

Art the Clown x Reader

Halloween Special! Come pick up your killer clown boyfriend. content: gender neutral reader, gore, murder, obsessive behavior

You always wondered what it would be like to have someone fall madly in love with you. You'd imagined it as a sort of dreamy scenario, plucked straight out of romance books, or maybe a Hallmark movie.

All it takes is one smile; that's how most of these stories usually begin. You were waiting for your coffee when you happened to glance across the diner and notice a costumed man. By the time you made the discovery, he'd already been observing you intently. He flashed you a wide smile, decaying teeth glistening underneath the smudged lipstick grotesquely contouring his mouth. Intrigued, you returned his gesture, shyly waving at the stranger.

It was obsession at first sight.

One could argue that whatever you're dealing with resembles a romance, albeit a terribly gory one. Days after your fateful encounter, you were surprised to find the same man standing before your house. Was that a bouquet of roses hiding behind his back? Almost! It was a bloodied axe, thick red liquid splattering down your pavement in thin streams.

You ran outside, horrified, and nearly stumbled over the dismembered body scattered across your lawn.

"Oh, God," you cried out. You immediately recognized your ex.

You know, the annoying one who wouldn't leave you alone. The one who kept following you around, insisting for a second chance.

"This is a nightmare," you whined. "I'll never be able to wash this out."

The clown carefully placed the axe down, then bowed before you theatrically. This was his way of flirting with you.

Don’t fret, he has other aces up his sleeve, and he won’t stop until he has you swooning. Who shall be the next offering? That irritating coworker? The guy who winked at you on the bus? Surely he must’ve known you already belong to someone else. That’s where boyfriends come in, you see. Art will be certain to remind him you’re all his.

You’ll never find another guy like him. And you won’t have to! He’s all yours, and it would be wise of you to accept his undying affections, too. You won’t regret it. Everyone else will, but not you.

[Horror Masterlist]

[gloomwitchwrites]

How about 141 taking care of reader who has painful cramps/ periods👁️👁️

Get this: within about six hours of me posting the first of these double drabbles to ao3, I started my period. Clearly, it was meant to be. All of these are fluffy and sweet, but Soap's a little...flirty. I had a lot of fun with this one! Thanks for sending it in!!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): fluff, brief suggestive themes, flirting, forehead kisses, all comfort no hurt

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“You need to eat something.”

“I’d rather not,” you mutter, turning your face into the pillow beneath your head.

John places his hands on his hips. He’s not annoyed with you, but you can tell from his facial expression that he’s unhappy with your answer.

“I know your stomach hurts, love,” he says sympathetically. “I know you’re in pain.”

“Do you?” you counter, wanting to be stubborn just for the sake of it.

“But you’re losing iron. And you haven’t eaten,” he checks his watch, “in almost twenty-four hours.”

You scoff. “Keeping tabs on me?”

“Always,” he replies.

It’s not a lie. John almost knows your habits and routine better than you do. He’s the one constantly reminding you about one thing or another.

“Bleeding from your vagina will do that,” you reply sarcastically.

John’s response is a deep sigh. It almost—almost—makes you laugh.

With a groan, John goes down on one knee, bringing himself to your level. “Dove,” he murmurs.

“Don’t,” you warn. John never calls you “dove” unless he’s about to tell you to do something.

“You can stay here. On the sofa. But you’re going to eat.”

“Am I?”

“You need to fuel that body.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“That can’t be comfortable, love.” Simon’s voice is gruff, but laced with tenderness.

You’re face down on the living room floor, curled up in a fetal position. With both fists clenched, you press them sharply into your abdomen. It’s dulling the pain a bit.

“I’m perfectly fine on the floor,” you mutter, voice muffled by the carpet.

Simon sighs. You aren’t sure what he’s doing until you see movement in your peripheral. Simon gets down on your level. He’s flat on his stomach, arms crossed with chin resting on top.

“You mind if I join you down here?” he asks.

“No,” you reply, turning your head to look at him.

"How is this not hurting your back?"

“It does. But the cramps are worse.”

He starts rattling off options. “Ice pack? The heating pad? Tylenol? A shot of vodka? Your favorite takeaway?”

“All of the above,” you answer with a deep sigh.

“Aces,” groans Simon, rolling onto his side.

Simon disappears. Returning, he places a chilled bottle of vodka with a shot glass next to your head along with extra strength pain relievers, an ice pack, the heating pad, and a glass of water.

“Takeaway will be here in thirty.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“You want cuddles?”

“No.”

“Kisses?”

“I’m fine.”

Johnny scoots a little closer on the bed. He lays on his side, one hand propping up his head as he stares down at you. You are on your back in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. The hood is up, strings pulled taut. Even with pain relievers, the ache continues.

“I read somewhere on the internet—”

“Johnny,” you warn.

“—having an orgasm or two can help.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, closing your eyes, breathing through your nose.

He shrugs. “Don’t mind a bit of blood.” You side-eye him but Johnny continues to talk.

“Not on my face.” He gives you his best smile. “Or my dick.”

“If you touch me, I might punch you,” you deadpan.

Johnny nods slowly and then flops onto his back. “I’ll bring you the heating pad.”

“That would be great,” you murmur, staring up at the ceiling.

The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, simply lingering in the silence. You try to focus your breathing, to inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth. It’s almost relaxing.

“So,” begins Johnny. “You want that orgasm?”

“Please shut up.”

“Heard.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You are cocooned in soft blankets, wrapped up like an overstuffed Chipotle burrito. Everything hurts from your abdomen to your lower back. The pain and discomfort radiate outward. Your head throbs.

A pair of legs step into your line of sight. You glance upward and find Kyle. He stares down at you a moment before slowly sinking to the floor, taking a seat next to the couch.

“Brought you a hot water bottle,” he murmurs, presenting it. You open the blanket just enough for him to slide it in. “I’ve got the kettle on. I’ll bring you a cuppa once it’s done.”

“Thank you,” you reply, voice a little scratchy.

Kyle places a plastic bag in his lap and opens it up. “Bought you some of your favorites.” Reaching in, Kyle takes snack after snack out, lining them up on the coffee table. “I also picked up some pain medicine. Not sure which you prefer so I got one of each.”

Balling up the bag, Kyle rests his chin on the edge of the sofa. “Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you, too,” you say, just as softly.

Kyle lightly kisses your forehead. “I’ll come check on you in a few.”

[abbotjack]

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

“Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

“I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.”

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.

[timetravellingkitty]

Hey guys, there's a fundraiser I'd like to bring to your attention, so please pay attention and don't scroll by

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Tagging for reach:

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[cheapshrimpysheep]

A Rainy Walk

SUMMARY: He invites you to go with him on one of his club's outings, but the weather is revealed, belatedly, tto be inappropriate and perhaps even dangerous for what should be a pleasant moment together.

CHARACTERS: Mountain Lover Club (Jade Leech) / Gargoyle Studies Club (Malleus Draconia)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Flirting; Kiss

WORD COUNT: An average of 2.370 words per character.

COMMENTS: In Jade's part, as a person who doesn't like hiking, I wanted to create a way for both those who like it and those who don't to be able to insert themselves. So I made the reader twist an ankle.

I hope you enjoy it. 🌧���⛈️

OTHER CLUBS:

But… We Lost… - Basketball Club (Ace / Floyd / Jamil)

Romantic Experiment - Science Club (Trey / Rook)

For a Quarter of a Second - Track and Field Club (Deuce / Jack)

Unlucky Overtime - Spelldrive Club (Leona / Ruggie / Epel)

In the Backstage - Pop Music Club (Cater / Kalim / Lilia)

P.S.: I don't know what's going on with me to make me start writing so much.

.

You had gone to the Mostro Lounge, as you do from time to time with Grim, Ace and Deuce for a snack. When Jade comes to your table to take your orders, he informs you that he has prepared a new dessert and would love for you all to try it and tell him what you think.

“Myaah yeah, I'll take any-” Grim starts to say excitedly, until he remembers who he's talking to. “Wait... what do you want?”

“Me? I would just like to know if this new dessert I made has a pleasant taste. And who better than some of our best customers to tell me?” He smiles and proceeds to describe something you would absolutely love to eat.

“Funny, that really sounds like (Y/N)'s favorite desserts. ” Deuce says.

“Truly? What a coincidence.”

“Which I'm sure it isn't.” Ace adds. “Come on Jade, tell us what you really want in return. We might even consider it.”

“Very well.” he smiled amusedly. “It would cost you 17 thaumark each.” Everyone is shocked by that price for a small dessert. “However, I have another proposal.” you see his sharp teeth through the smile for a second. “I believe you know that I am a member of the Mountain Lover Club. This weekend, I'm planning on waking up before dawn to head to the mountains so I can see a flower that only blooms in the early hours of the day.” He looks at you. “And they are such charming flowers that I would love to share this experience with... someone. Perhaps (Y/N)?” If you accept, I can give you all a discount and the dessert will only be 8 thaumark.”

“Did you really need to do all this ruse?” Grim asks annoyed. “Why don't you just ask (Y/N) out?”

“Because that wouldn't be as thrilling, would it? Fu fu.”

“My wallet doesn't need any thrilling, thank you very much.” Ace comments. “And 8 still seems a little pricey for this type of dessert.” he tries to haggle.

“Five each if you let (Y/N) come alone with me.”

They looked at each other as if they were between a rock and a hard place.

“Deal!” You say. After all, you also have a crush on Jade.

Jade laughs seeing your friends' worried faces.

“There's nothing to worry about, gentlemen. I will make sure (Y/N) gets home safe and on time. We can even bring you souvenirs if you’d like. I would be happy to share the wonders of the mountains with all of you as well.”

~

He could have promised to keep you safe and sound on the mountain, but unfortunately, he couldn't do anything, nor was he prepared for something to happen to you before the hike. In one of your Physical Education classes you ended up twisting your ankle and it wouldn't heal in time for the day of the hike. You were in the infirmary when Jade came to check on you.

“(Y/N), I heard about your accident in Professor Vargas' class.” Jade tells you with pity, or at least it seems like it. It's hard to know when it's genuine concern. “But may I confirm with you that it was indeed just an accident?”

You confirm that it was just your foot that slipped, a little confused by that question.

“Very well. Don't worry, I believe in you. But you know that if there is a classmate who is less... pleasant with you, you can tell me.” He says with a sweet smile before forming his toothy little grin. “I can have a reasonable little conversation with them.”

You assure him that it wasn't any other student's fault that made you end up like this. At worst, it was Grim's mischief to blame. Jade chuckles.

“But it was quite unfortunate that it happened right before our hike in the mountain. However, I thought of a way for you to be able to accompany me, if you still wish to do so.”

~

On the day of the hike, or rather, that night before dawn, Jade appeared at Ramshackle Dorm door and sent you a message asking if you were ready. He asked for permission to enter the dormitory and go to your room and when he arrived he had with him a flying broom with a special cushioned seat for you. Since it's still going to be a bit of a long walk, he thought that maybe the broom like you normally use in class might be a bit uncomfortable. You could accompany him on the hike sitting on the broom and that way you wouldn't have to walk and strain your feet.

“Would you like me to help you get on the broom?” He asks politely.

If you accept his help, he will gently hold you by the waist and place you in the seat.

“The weather forecasts have been a bit... surprising.” Jade says with an enigmatic smile. “The predictions have proven to be quite inaccurate recently. There is a chance of some rain so I advise you to take an umbrella. But you should also put on sunscreen and wear a hat. Hats are essential when sketching outdoors. I got horribly sunburned once when I grew too absorbed in my work.”

Jade was dressed for the occasion from head to toe. He even wore a long coat full of pockets and was carrying a camping backpack. But in your case, he didn't ask you to take much more than necessary.

As you were walking at night, Jade took a lantern with him and placed another one on the end of your broom. He was using his magic to lead the broom like someone leading a horse by the reins. He took you through the Dark Mirror to the Dwarfs' Mountain. It was a full moon night and it was beautiful. It shouldn't be long before the moon disappeared and gave way to dawn and at that height it was beautiful to see.

“They advise anyone who hike at night to do so on a full moon night, as this is the phase in which the moon provides the best natural lighting. However, if I'm correct it shouldn't be long until dawn. Maybe 30 to 45 minutes. The flower location is also not far from here, we will get there in time even if we take it slow and appreciate what surrounds us. Feel free to ask me anything if you see something that catches your interest.” He smiles and begins the hike.

If you do as he suggests and ask him about something you see or simply what his hikes are usually like, he'll be very happy to tell you anything you want to know. And if you ask him about some type of mushroom, he'll be even happier.

“I appreciate your willingness to listen to me talk about the mountains. I started to tell Floyd my thoughts about hiking in the mountains, and he nodded off not even a minute in.” Jade was telling you, “What a shame we cannot enjoy this hobby together.” when he felt something in his nose. “Hm?”

You also feel something on your nose, then on your forehead, on your cheek...

“Looks like this is your cue to open your umbrella.” He tells you. “So that is why it seemed like it was taking so long for dawn to come, the clouds are covering the sun. Fortunately... we arrived.”

You open your umbrella, it's not raining much yet. You see a small field between the trees and full of closed flowers. When you look at Jade, you see that something seems to be bothering him and you ask what he was thinking.

“Oh, you noticed.” he smiles, as if he had been caught. “I was thinking about these flowers. It says they bloom in the early hours of the day, but I don't remember if they would do so regardless of whether they received direct sunlight or not. It would be a shame not to be able to achieve our main objective.”

And then the sky gets darker and the rain starts to get heavier.

“Oh no, it doesn't look like it's going to be a light rain. You should take shelter. The mine is nearby, let's go there.”

“I should take shelter? What about you?”

“Well, it's not like water bothers me, remember? Fu fu~” He laughs amusedly.

Jade takes you by the broom to the inside of the mine, not far from the entrance, just enough to take shelter and still see the outside. As soon as you sat down on the ground the rain seemed to turn into a storm.

“Oh dear! I've never seen the weather forecast fail so badly.” he says with that toothy smile, probably enjoying the surprise a little too much. But then he looks at you. “I'm so sorry I brought you out into the middle of a storm this early in the morning. I really wanted to see those flowers with you. It seems I was reckless and let myself be carried away by impulse.”

He sees you shaking a little.

“Oh! I hadn't even realized how much the temperature had dropped. Here.” He takes off his long coat and offers it to you to put on. “I appreciate your concern, but there's no need to worry about me. I have excellent resistance to cold, remember? Speaking of your well-being, how is your ankle?”

You weren't wearing the shoe on your injured foot, but a thick sock over the bandages. That cold was good for your ankle, but terrible for the rest of your foot, especially your toes.

“Yes, as I imagined. Let me take care of you until we are able to go back to school. It's the least I can do after putting you through all this while you're still recovering.”

He looked at you with concern, but you've seen that "concerned" expression a few times before.

“You're looking at me so suspiciously. That is quite hurtful. You should know how careful I am, especially in a situation like this.”

But he still had that smile that, whoever knows him, knows there is something behind it. And so you ask him if you're going to be indebted to him after that. If there's one thing you learned from Octavinelle, it's not to accept any favor from them without knowing the terms and conditions of it.

“Fu fu fu...” his charismatic smile becomes his true smile, the one with his teeth showing. “I'm glad to see that you learned such a valuable lesson from us, (Y/N). But there is another one that we may need to teach you better. And that is the ability to realize when you have the advantage. Remember how you agreed to accompany me in exchange for a discount on the desserts? We were even then. In the case of the broom I provided, in exchange, you would offer me your company even though you were injured. In that case, I might be at a disadvantage. Since I was risking your injury getting worse by bringing you away from the protection of your home. And now, that risk has become real. Which means I'm the one who owes you this time. Which means I am the one who is in debt to you at the moment. Due to my poor decision of a date with a suitable weather for the hike. Any treatment I provide you will only and slimply make me pay my debt. Do you feel safer accepting my offer under these conditions?”

Everything he said made sense. And while the Octavinelle trio have a tendency to create shady agreements and contracts, they don't necessarily lie. They can do it by omission, but this is not the case, so you accept.

You are sitting on the mine floor with the same pillow that supported you on the broom. Jade sits in front of you and asks you to stretch your legs so he can put them over his. He takes off the sock that covered your foot and uses magic to warm your foot with the exception of the ankle that needs the cold. And while this heating magic is taking effect he massages your ankle and feet, in a way that is appropriate and specific for a sprained ankle. He was really good at it.

“There's another thing we've been even from the beginning.” he says with a smirk and without looking at you yet. “Grim was right, I wanted to go out with you. But...” He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, barely moving his head. “You wanted to go out with me as well... didn't you, (Y/N)?”

He sees you smiling, perhaps shyly, and takes it as a green light. He takes your feet from his lap and places them gently on the ground, then stretches out towards you, supporting himself on his hands, like a cat slowly approaching.

“I really feel horrible for putting you in this situation.” But he doesn't say this with regret, but rather in a purposefully seductive way. “I wonder what I can do to redeem myself? Especially if it lasts as long as it looks like it will. Making you wait here uncomfortably for so long will create a huge debt for me towards you.” He brings his face even closer to yours, with a smile as inviting as his heterochromatic eyes. “Tell me... what can I do to ease this situation?”

He won't kiss you. He'll wait patiently for you to do it first. Or better yet... for you to order him to kiss you.

“As you wish~” He says and kisses you passionately.

Rainy weather tends to get a person down, and that's what was happening to you too. Even though you may enjoy listening to the rain outside, it's never good when you have to go back to your dorm. Especially with Grim complaining.

Grim managed to get to Ramshackle Dorm dry because he made you to carry him. You, on the other hand, had your legs and feet stuck in water. It was when you were going up the stairs to change your clothes in your room that you saw some little and familiar green lights around you.

You turn around and go to the door. When you open it you see Malleus with a large umbrella and dressed in black waterproof clothes and a raincoat.

“Good afternoon, Child of Man.” Malleus greets you with a polite smile. “I couldn't help but notice you less cheerful and smiling than usual these past few days. I think it even coincided with the arrival of the rainy weather. Would the two be connected?”

You tell him yes. Maybe you don't like rain at all, or maybe you only like rain when you can sit inside and enjoy the sound. Either way, you don't like being out in the rain and risking catching a cold.

“Oh yes, that is true... a simple rain can make a human sick. But I believe that having wet clothes such as yours can also contribute to a possible sickness, am I correct?” he asks and you confirm. “Allow me to help you dry faster.”

“You're not going to use fire magic on me, are you?” you ask slightly worried.

“Yes, I was about to. Why so worried about it?”

“Because you can burn me with it.”

“Burn? Oh, no, I wasn't going to use direct fire. I know that fire hurts other living beings. I was going to use a variation of fire magic that just changes the temperature around certain objects. I have used it several times to dry my own clothes. You seem more relieved. Will you allow me to use it then?”

You accept and he uses his magic to dry your pants, shoes and socks in a second.

“You know, I personally quite appreciate this weather. It's perfect for the Gargoyle Studies Club because we can watch them perform their main function. Or at least I can see them. I would love to share this sight with you. Perhaps it could help you feel a little better on days like these. What do you say? Do you accept my invitation?” He smiles excitedly, which is also cute.

You say you'd love to, but you don't have rain gear like his.

“There is no need for this to be a deterrent. I'll be more than happy to provide you with suitable clothing.” He uses his magic again and changes your uniform into the same set of rain gear he was wearing. Seeing you in those clothes makes him smile even more. “They seem to suit you well.”

“But how do I go with you?” You ask. “Don't you usually fly up to the gargoyles?”

“I do. I was thinking, if you're comfortable with it, that I could carry you in my arms. Like I saw you doing with Grim just now when you were coming back home. This umbrella is big enough for two people. But if you prefer, I can also give you another umbrella and we can ask Coach Vargas for one of the flying brooms.”

You admit that you don't mind about the first option and maybe even use the excuse that you don't have magic and Grim clearly doesn't want to go with you, so you wouldn't be able to use the broom by yourself.

“In that case, if you're ready, we can go back to the main building to admire the gargoyles.” He smiles and bends his arm, inviting you to intertwine yours with his.

You do so, he places the umbrella between the two of you and you walk back to the school building. He was talking about his club and gargoyles in general until you got close to a wall with no doors or windows nearby.

“One of my favorite gargoyles sits right above us.” Malleus tells you. “Do you see that trickle of water? It's coming from that same gargoyle. Are you ready for me to take you up there and show you?” He extends a hand to you.

You place your hand over his and he gently pulls you towards him. He then lets go of your hand to bend down slightly, put his arm around you and picks you up. Your reflex is to put your arms around his neck to hold on, which brings your faces closer together. He looks directly at you and chuckles seeing your embarrassed/shy face.

“Hold on tight. And do not worry about hurting me, you wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Fu fu.”

As soon as he rises into the air you grab him tightly, which makes him chuckle because he was barely half a meter off the ground yet. Then he rises even higher, but slower than he would on his own. He doesn't want to scare you.

When you get close to the gargoyle, he sits the two of you next to it, you between him and the gargoyle so you can see it better. And he will never let go of your waist to hold you. If you are afraid of heights, or if you just feel a little scared at that moment and hold on to him, he will chuckle and hold you even tighter, but never too tight so as not to hurt you.

“Worry not, (Y/N). I won't let go of you. You can enjoy the gargoyle as much as you wish. I'll be holding you the entire time.”

As you admire the gargoyle doing its work and see the rainwater coming out of its mouth, Malleus admires you.

“Do you wish to know why this is one of my favorite gargoyles on the school building?” He asks and of course you say yes. “In terms of appearance, there's nothing very different about this one from all the others. In fact, there is nothing worth calling special about this gargoyle carving technique. What delights me the most about this gargoyle is not what any of us can see, but what it can see every day.”

You look ahead, trying to figure out where the gargoyle was looking, but the school grounds were so big and the sea so vast that you couldn't be sure. Malleus chuckles, as if you weren't seeing something obvious.

“You are looking too far away. See which building is closest.”

You look closer, at the least impressive building on campus.

“Ramshackle Dorm?” You ask.

“Correct. This gargoyle must have seen the whole story of your dormitory. When it was built, who might have been there before you, how it became an abandoned building and the answers to any question we might wish to know about its mysterious past.”

You look at that gargoyle again with new eyes. All your questions could be answered. If it could talk, it would certainly be a very interesting conversation.

“This gargoyle also witnessed all my visits to the ruins.” Malleus continues. “I wonder what it thought of me, coming in just to admire the decay of that dormitory. But more than that, I wonder what it thought of you. Arriving with a mischievous little monster, a being without magic and completely unaware of the history of this world. And yet, able to breathe new life into rubble and call it home. It also witnessed our meeting. Could it have found it as amusing as I did? Fu fu~”

You look at your dorm, thinking now of everything that gargoyle could have seen.

“And now, it is watching over you.” He looks at you with a sweet smile. “I've told this gargoyle a lot about you, and now it's finally meeting you.”

If you look at the gargoyle again and even greet it, Malleus will laugh in amusement.

“I am certain it was as delighted to meet you as I was that night.”

You look at him and see him looking at you with great affection.

“Speaking of which, I'm curious.” Malleus continues. “Did you also enjoy meeting me that night? You were not frightened, at least.”

You tell him how you felt that night. Surprised, especially seeing such a tall guy with horns, but also intrigued to know who he was. You also found him extremely polite by the way he spoke.

“But I remember finding you very handsome right away.” You admit it.

Malleus is taken aback for a second, but then he laughs.

“Well, I am quite grateful for your honesty. Fu fu. Therefore, I should also admit that I found you... intrepidly charming.”

“Is that a good thing?” You ask.

“For some it may not be, but for me, and the inherently way you show it, it is something wonderful. I could even describe it as cute, especially when you are oblivious to social statutes.” He smiles honestly. And after a moment of reflection, his gaze becomes tender. “I am very fortunate to have you in my life, (Y/N).”

You show him your surprise, that sudden line was very unexpected.

“These moments with you always become some of my fondest memories. I hope to be as pleasant a companion to you as you are to me.”

You feel his arm around you instinctively pulling you closer to him. It's being a cute moment until there's a flash. You both look up and a few seconds later you hear the deafening rumble of thunder. It was so loud that it felt like it was very close to you and made you flinch as a reflex. Which also caused Malleus to let go of the umbrella and let it float above you to be able to hug you with both arms.

“I need to get you out of here. We're too high.”

He picks you up with both arms without hesitation while the umbrella floats above the two of you. And then another bolt of lightning! But this time it hit the tower right next to you, which scared you and made you cling to Malleus.

“A quick trip it shall be.” He holds your head, making you rest it on his shoulder, and in the blink of an eye, you no longer feel the rain and the scene changes abruptly.

You are now at the door of Ramshackle Dorm. He has teleported the two of you there. He leans in for you to put your feet back on the ground.

“I'm sorry our study trip has been so short.” He says with pity. “There were other gargoyles I would have liked to show you. But if you enjoyed our time today, I can show them to you on another outing sometime.” He smiles at you.

Right after you say you'd love it, you hear another clap of thunder. And so, you decide to invite Malleus to stay in Ramshackle with you for a while until the storm calms down.

“You are... Well, I would love to accept your invitation, but you do know that storms are not dangerous to me, correct?”

“I know.” you simply say, without withdrawing your invitation.

Malleus starts by laughing softly, until he lets out a good-natured laugh.

“You certainly are a very strange child of man.”

Malleus is too much of a gentleman to advance much further than with charming words. So, that will have to be your job.

“I am very fortunate to have you in my life too, Tsunotarou.” You tell him.

Malleus looks at you in surprise for a second until an adorable smile forms on his lips.

“You are one of the few who would say that.” He smirks. “And certainly the only human outside of Briar Valley who would say something like that at all.”

Come to think of it, with perhaps the exception of Lilia, the Diasomnia boys tend to be a bit oblivious to subtext. So you decide to take a risk and be direct.

“Tsunotarou... Malleus... do you like me?”

“Of course I like you. I thought I was expressing myself quite well in that regard.” He says a little confused.

“I mean... could you...” He probably doesn't know what the word ‘crush’ means, or he may take it literally. “...be in love with me? Or something like that?”

He is taken aback, and looks at you with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Me? The successor to the throne of Briar Valley and one of the most powerful mages in Twisted Wonderland? In love with... a powerless human from another world?” He seems to think about it for a moment until a smile forms again. “Fu fu... ha ha... HA HA HA HA HA!”

That laugh hurts your heart a little, until he continues speaking.

“I had never thought of that.” He says, looking to the side as he thinks. “But... if what I feel for you truly is what they call love... then now I understand why it is such a longed-for feeling. And if it is true then... ha ha HA HA... Oh, the obstacles we would have to face to be together. It does indeed sound exciting... Perhaps...” He looks you in the eyes. “Perhaps you are correct in interpreting my actions as such. However, I still cannot be sure it is love. But perhaps I can answer your question by admitting that, in fact, I nourish a much more intimate feeling towards you than friendship. This would explain why your company comforts and makes me happier than any other.”

He sees you smile as you listen to what he was saying.

“May I interpret that beautiful smile of yours as a possible mutual feeling on your part?”

You confirm and he leans in to take your hand and bring it to his lips to kiss the back of it. If you dare to take advantage of the fact that his face is at the same level as yours and you kiss his cheek, he will look at you in surprise before chuckling.

“Such audacity.” He says with a smug smile and still leaning over, his face close to yours. “Are you certain you wiah to find out how passionate I can be?”

He interprets your smile as confirmation and he kisses your lips delicately. Despite everything, he knows he can hurt you if he lets himself get too carried away. He's going to have to test some... limits.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

"FOR HER" — Sakusa Kiyoomi

a/n : its official i am entering my baby fever era :) content : GIRL DAD SAKUSA. fluff. post timeskip. headcanon.

Girl dad! Sakusa who doesn’t cry in the delivery room, but when the nurse places her in your arms, you see the change happen in his expression before he even speaks. He stands beside you with one hand resting on the bedrail, still in his zip-up, curls flattened from the long hours, eyes fixed so intently on her tiny face that he barely breathes. You offer her to him, gently, and although he nods and reaches out, it’s with a kind of quiet reverence, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might shatter something fragile. When she’s finally in his arms, wrapped in that standard-issue hospital blanket, he doesn’t look away once. “She’s really ours,” he says after a long silence, voice soft and level like he’s stating a fact that still hasn’t settled in. You’re tired and aching and overwhelmed, but in that moment — watching him fall in love so quietly — you feel steadier than you’ve felt all day.

Girl dad! Sakusa who approaches parenting the way he’s approached everything else that’s ever mattered to him — with focus, with discipline, and with the same determination that made him the top ace in the country. He just does it. He reads every product label, tracks feeding times in his phone, and practices swaddling until the corners lie flat like muscle memory. You find him at night adjusting the baby carrier straps with one of her stuffed animals, narrowing his eyes like it’s something to be mastered. In the nursery, everything has its place: pacifiers in labeled containers, diapers stacked perfectly, bottles washed and sterilized on a rotating schedule that no one asked him to create. He’s not afraid of mess — he’s an athlete, after all — but this kind of order calms him. It’s the only way he knows to make sense of something this overwhelming. When you catch him in the early mornings rearranging the drawer of onesies so the softest fabrics are on top, you don’t interrupt. You just watch because you know that this is how he’s learning to love her.

Girl dad! Sakusa who is the first to notice that post-partum hit you. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach, the way your hands linger over chores but don’t quite start them, the way you keep saying you’re fine even when your voice betrays how deeply tired you are. He doesn’t corner you about it — he just starts making it easier to breathe. He finishes bottles without being asked. He folds laundry without announcing it. He draws a bath and offers you the quiet without implying you owe him anything in return. And when you finally sit down beside him on the bed and admit, barely above a whisper, “I think something’s wrong,” he takes your hand and says, without even flinching. “We’ll take care of it. You don’t have to do it alone.” That night, when the house is quiet, he tucks her in and then tucks you in too, placing your tea on the nightstand and brushing your hair back from your forehead before placing a kiss on your forehead like he’s reminding you that you’re still being held.

Girl dad! Sakusa who keeps her world structured, calm, and clean — not out of fear, but out of habit, and a deep belief that consistency makes kids feel safe. He doesn’t scold when she forgets to wash her hands before dinner. He just walks her to the sink, adjusts the faucet for her, and says, “Let’s try again,” with the same steady tone he uses when coaching a teammate through a play. You can already see how much of him lives in her — not just in her temperament, but in her tiny routines. The way she lines up her shoes by the door. The way she wipes the table with a napkin after dinner. He never told her to do any of that — she just watched him and followed his steps.

Girl dad! Sakusa who always stops what he’s doing when she calls for him. He never rolls his eyes or tells her to wait. Whether she’s holding a drawing she drew or asking him to see the rain outside on the balcony, he gives her his full attention. She brings him stories, toys, questions he doesn’t have answers to yet, and he listens to every single one. Sometimes, she climbs into his lap mid-stretch, legs crossed beneath her, curls sticking to her forehead, and just rests there like she knows there’s nowhere safer. You glance over from the kitchen and watch as he adjusts his posture just slightly to keep her steady, continuing his cooldown stretches like her presence is just part of the routine now.

Girl dad! Sakusa who teaches himself to braid because one morning she tugs at his sleeve and says, "Papa me want hair like Mama” and he doesn’t want to be the kind of father who says i don't know how to something like that. That night, while the house is quiet, you find him on the couch with one of her dolls in his lap, video tutorial paused on his phone, fingers fumbling but determined. He practices until the parts are clean, until the elastics hold. The first few mornings, the braid sits crooked on her head — slipping by lunchtime — but she runs to you saying, “Papa did it !” every single time. When he finally gets it right, she wraps her arms around him like he just won a trophy. And later, when you're brushing your own hair before bed, he watches you for a moment from the doorway, then comes up behind you, fingers gently sweeping your strands aside. “I didn’t realize how much of you she carries,” he says, quiet and sincere. “It makes me want to do everything right.”

Girl dad! Sakusa who brushes through her damp curls with more care than you thought possible. The spirals are his — the same exact texture that still coils around his forehead after a shower — but the color is yours, unmistakable in the morning light. When she’s sitting between his legs and he’s sectioning off her hair into neat parts, you sometimes find him pausing just to look. Not because he’s unsure of the process — he’s got the rhythm down by now — but because every time he sees her, it’s a new reminder that she’s equal parts both of you.

Girl dad! Sakusa who brings her to matches and never says a word about it being a distraction, though you know how seriously he takes preparation. She always sits with you, gripping a wrinkled “Go Papa !” sign in her fists, her legs swinging off the bleachers while she yells his name through a mouthful of fruit snacks. He rarely looks into the crowd — he’s too focused for that — but today, when she screams his name mid-serve, you swear you see the smallest flicker of a smile on his face. After the game, he comes straight to you both, drops to one knee, and listens to her long-winded play-by-play with a patience that makes even the camera crew step back. You take her hand as he packs up his bag, and she says, “Papa did good today !” He doesn’t say anything, but you notice how he walks just a little taller after that.

Girl dad! Sakusa who changes his phone ringtone to a voice memo of her calling for him because he says it’s easier to hear. It plays once during a team meeting and Atsumu nearly falls out of his chair laughing, but Sakusa doesn’t even flinch. “She’s loud,” he says calmly, setting his phone face down on the table, “but she gets my attention.” When you hear it go off at home, it always makes you smile.

Girl dad! Sakusa who never talks about how much he loves being a father — not in words, at least. But you see it in how he shows up. In the way he learns her favorite breakfast, remembers the exact way she likes her blanket tucked in, memorizes the lyrics to a show he pretends to hate. You see it in how he looks at her when she doesn’t notice — like she’s the most surprising, most important thing that’s ever happened to him.

Girl dad! Sakusa who holds her hand tightly on her first day of school, walking her up to the gate with slow, even steps. She’s excited and confident. She lets go of his hand the second she sees her teacher and runs inside without looking back. You expect him to say something — maybe a joke, maybe a quiet sigh — but instead, he just stands there for a long moment. When you brush your fingers against his, he finally speaks. “She didn’t even turn around.” You lean your head on his shoulder and whisper, “She''s growing up.”

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

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[riddlesrose]

the small things he does pt. 3

w/ ace, deuce, jack, silver, kalim, ruggie, epel, lilia & sebek

part one | part two

ace cannot sit in chairs properly. at all. it drives riddle insane but you find it hilarious, he'll have a leg slung over the side of a velvety chair, perfectly placed so that he's almost touching riddle with his foot, inching the housewarden to early greys. (his words, not yours.) when ace is visiting the ramshackle dorm, you welcome him to sit however he pleases, but chooses to sit like he had a board glued to his back. prim and proper like you're riddle's evil twin who will punish him for sitting straight.

deuce is always humming when he's around you. you have no idea why or if he even knows he's doing it. most time it's songs from the wonderland that you don't recognize. you got him to start recommending you songs when he thinks of them, so now you've got a playlist titled 'deuces humming habits' that you listen to often. (and since you can't access music from your home land... :[ )

jacked and kind. truly. jack is a sweetheart, he offers to carry your bags, open that damned jar or grab a book off the taller shelves for you. him and his unyielding sense of mutual respect would have him presenting his jacket to you at the slightest drop in temperature. jack invites you to the savanaclaw dorm building but ends up having to steer others away from you constantly because they want to challenge you (for some reason??).

silver likes to gift you rocks. whether they're shiny, smooth, textured, patterned or colourful, if silver likes the look of them he'll shove it into his pocket to be gifted to you later. after the mandatory nap. he started giving you the rocks a while ago, so you've now got window sill's full of glittering rocks that reflect the sunlight, making silver one of your first thoughts each morning.

kalim's hobby and love of parties and celebrations gives him a knack for decorating. he once showed up to the ramshackle dorm with a box full of tame decorations, they look like he swiped them off the mantles and shelves of the scarabia lounge with their golden colour and shiny nature, but he assured you these were in storage for a long time. you'll also often find a small box containing a new decoration or accessory to brighten up your ghost-ridden dorm on your front step, scribbled with kalim's hand writing.

ruggie sends you a message each morning, usually around the same time. his excuse is that he’s already making sure leona is awake so he may as well make sure you’re up too. but you think he just enjoys getting to tell you something each day, whether it’s a good morning, a random fact, a cooking or cleaning tip, (he’s really good a giving tips or hacks about a lot of things!) there’s always a message on your homescreen. (though he doesn’t do it for a return, he’s more than happy to accept if you offer him donuts. or a kiss he’s not picky.)

epel sneaks away to the ramshackle dorm, escaping vil and his damned vice housewarden's freaky signature spell (or at least he hopes..) to spend time with you. he'll drop his pretty boy act, pick his accent up and recount stories of his hometown to you. the intense passion he has while sharing the stories almost make you want to go to vil yourself and beg to keep his accent.

lilia will go out of his way to see how long it takes for you to notice when he’s walking behind you. if you’re lost in thought or deep in conversation with a friend and he notices he’ll start silently start following you, chucking to himself when you really don’t notice him. (there was once he was able to follow you from the nrc’s main doors all the way down the main street, down to the horse pastures before you realized there was a certain bat-like vanrouge waltzing beside you.)

sebek's respect for you grows with each day, despite you being human (even though he's half..), he'll start to protect your name when you're not around, confusing everyone around him, especially lilia and malleus, since he's only ever cared that much for them before. when you appear at the doors to the diasomnia dorms for a visit he'll beckon you in, and let you tell him about your day before returning the gesture and recounting his day to you, while slipping in small praises to malleus and his greatness, but you wouldn’t have him any other way. a loyal boy.

made this one longer than the other two so i didn't have a rogue post with only three characters lol

masterlist

[one-sunny]

Hello!

Could I request the first time Ace, Law and Zoro get a kiss on the cheek from the crush?

Maybe reader just went away after ?

Thank you !

A Kiss on the Cheek

hi there! thanks for the request, this was such a cute prompt and so different from the angst I usually end up writing (:

Masterlist

♤ Ace ♤

The Second Division Commander held a certain level of cockiness that his crew has lovingly grown to ignore. Everyone was aware that Ace was too good of a guy to focus on the occasional attitude, and some were aware of the facade that this actually was.

You fell into the latter of the mix.

So when Ace returns from a month long mission, greasy hair and dirty skin, presenting you with a particular item that you had been searching for at any and all stops along the grand line, there was an expected level of smugness about him. Ace grins at you as he holds out the bag, watching close as you inspect it, a smile breaking out on your face.

“Ace, this is amazing, where did you find it?”

And of course, you’re met with a long winded tale that a few of the others join in on listening to. But Ace can never stop himself from teasing you, akin to the little boy on a playground, pulling on his crush’s pigtails. Along the way, he throws in a few teasing jabs about how desperate you were for this particular item. About how unlucky you have been. About how he saved you from a life long search.

“Looks like Ace is fishing for some kinda reward.” Marco smirks, nudging your arm.

“Nah, nothing like that.” Ace tips his head back with a laugh. Though you don’t miss the playful look he first throws you. “Maybe some recognition.”

“Or a pat on the back.” Thatch teases.

“Maybe even a kiss on the cheek.” Marco adds on with a sly grin.

Ace flushes at this, coughing as he tries to fumble a retort to all their teasing. The script flipped far too fast for his liking. “No, I just-“

“Oh, maybe you guys are right.” There’s a teasing smile on your lips. “Ace did save me from, what was it, decades of searching?”

“I believe it was a life long search.” Izou corrects.

You snap your fingers to point at him, “Right. Life long.”

Ace nervously rubs the back of his neck, the facade effectively shattered by the other commanders. “You know i’m just messing around with you-“

But you step forwards before Ace can even realize, one hand cupping his jaw while you plant your lips on his cheek. Ace freezes up at this, feeling his body burning hotter than the inferno he already is, as the commanders around him howl with laughter.

He can pick up your giggles among this, even as you fade from the crowd and simply waltz away. Leaving him with a fluttering in his chest and red ears. Your eyes lock as you spare him a glance over your shoulder, your playful smile pulling a bashful grin to his lips.

And this sparks a whole new round of teasing the young Commander.

࿔ Law ࿔

“What’s for lunch!” A loud voice echoes through the walls of the polar tang as crew members begin to file into the kitchen, crowding around the table with bright grins and high energy. Law follows along with the pack, eyes cast around the kitchen to land on your form working to finalize something on a large tray.

“Sandwiches!” Your bright voice booms as you carry a platter over and place it in the middle of the table.

Your bright and cheery tone was something that could always lighten Law’s mood, but his nose scrunches at the food being served. He should be thankful for your generosity, always providing for his crew and catering to everyone’s individual needs, but that alone meant that you should already know. Did Law mean that little to you? Using the one food that he loathed? A pang of hurt runs through him at the very thought.

“Oh, stop sulking, Captain.” You bump the man’s shoulder as you trail back to the kitchen to gather up something else.

Law attempts to steel his face as he follows right behind you. “You, uh, you know that-“

“That you don’t like bread. That you loathe it actually. It’s a hate crime to your taste buds.” You offer with a cheeky grin, leaning against the counter beside of him, tilting in a little bit closer to him than necessary. If it was anyone else, Law would have certainly protested how close you were. “Course I know that, Cap.” A shiver shoots down Law’s spine at those words so close to his ear. “But the bread was about to go bad and I don’t like wasting food.”

He attempted to bite his tongue and hold back his protests. “So what am I-“

“Mind helping out?” You’re moving away before he can protest further. And as you look back over your shoulder at him, you’re able to see the Surgeon of Death himself pouting at you. Holding back your smile requires great effort as you nod your head in effort to call him over.

With a huff, Law moves over to your side to grab a tray of the dreaded lunch. Instead, what you offer out to him is a small plate of three onigiri, perfectly prepared. Your eyebrows are raised as you hold the plate out to him and that annoyingly cute smile is on your face.

“There’s your lunch, Captain, specially made.”

Law hesitantly takes it from your hand with greater difficulty meeting your eye than he would like to admit. He can feel the heat creeping up his collar under your watchful eye and nervously tugs at his hat to cover more of his face.

“Now, stop pouting at me, or your crew might just think you have a soft spot.” And with that teasing tone in your voice, you move to walk past him, stopping only briefly to brush your lips over his already blushing cheeks. “And don’t forget that I’m here to take care of ya, Law.”

His entire body bristles as you waltz back to the crew with another tray in hand. He is thankful that they were all preoccupied by the meal you so thoughtful prepared for them and completely unaware of the flood of emotions evident on Law’s flushed face. As his eyes fall to the plate in hand, warmth floods through his entire being and he is almost certain his heart skipped a beat.

You were certainly going to be the death of your Captain.

ᯤ Zoro ᯤ

The attack absolutely would have killed you. The distance. The power. The injuries you have already sustained. Had they made contact, you would have died.

But then he appeared out of nowhere.

There wasn’t time to strike before the blow was dealt. He coughed up blood, took a deep breath, and then he moved to take them out. No thoughts behind the action. Just pure rage. Far more aggressive than the man usually was in such a fight.

Now, you both sit collapsed against the railing of the Sunny. Sweaty and beat up, but alive.

“Zoro.” You mumble, unsure if the man was still awake by your side. He grunts in response, eyes closed and hand resting over his swords. “You didn’t have to do that, you know?”

“Do what?”

“Take the hit.” Your focus is solely on a loose string on your pants, pinching at it to avoid looking in his direction. “I could have…” Words trail off. “I would have been okay in the end.”

Zoro is quiet for a long, lingering moment. “I didn’t want to take the chance.”

“I’m strong, Zoro, I can handle-“

“I don’t care.” The man huffs out, eye opening to level on you. To an outsider, there was an angered heat in his gaze, but you knew better. This particular look actually held a certain softness that was entirely rare. “Until I get strong enough to stop an attack like that, I’ll take it every time to make sure…” He trails off, the determination dying on his tongue. “To make sure the crew is safe.”

“The crew.” You echo quietly.

“Yeah, well.” Zoro mutters as his eye closes, head falling back against the railings. “You should still go to Chopper, you took a beating.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re-“ Zoro bites his tongue at your stubbornness. He certainly believed you should be checked out, but he knew that this sentiment would only be thrown back into his face. Yet he couldn’t help but worry about you. “Fine, then just get some rest.”

You hum lowly, “Fine. I’ll go rest.”

Zoro hears movement from his side, believing this to be your retreating form, until he senses your presence closing in on him. His eye snaps open just in time to catch you leaning in to press your lips to his grimy cheek. Soft. Delicate. Warmth blooming in his chest.

His breath catches in his throat at the fleeting moment and before he can even process what had just happened, you were gone. Zoro clenched his jaw in an effort to stamp down the smile that threatens to break out.

A simple confirmation. He would always take the hit for you.

[pinkseas]

my dealer: got some straight gas, this strain is called "sovereign of elegance" you'll be zonked out of your gourd

me: yeah whatever. i dont feel shit.

15 minutes later

me: the previous sovereign of elegance, glorier, had fiery red hair and won her title while wearing a black gown. she vanished 15 years ago, her last known location in the wishing woods. the same time frame that the other missing stylists were kidnapped by the paladins and locked up underground in the wishing woods. in the diary pages of an unknown stylist, the writer refers to the wish master as nothing more than a "puppet" of the dark, and remarks that they've been cruelly experimented on, their body tortured. "even bathing in this moonlight is a rare luxury." the banshee is only ever out at night, under the moonlight, but nobody save for you has actually encountered her clearly. those who might recognize her as glorier haven't ever seen the banshee themselves. the banshee refers to those she enthralls as her puppets, and there are multiple places where her body looks cracked and damaged, more like a porcelain doll than human skin. that same diary remarks that the writer has a daughter waiting at home, and that "even in this dire situation, i will never submit. the unyielding elegance within my resolute and noble soul is my last ace." a torn note found in the room where the humans were imprisoned states that the strongest were tortured and perished or disappeared, expressing a want to go home, written in a very similar manner to the way the banshee herself speaks at the end of your duel with her. if you fail, the banshee tells you to become her puppet and suffer alongside her. an imperfect victory mentions that memories are not enough. a brilliant stylist is rumored to have opened a realm that no one else has entered before, and some say that the most exceptional stylists might even create their own personal realms. cantore's poem states that should one be a fool, their soul will fall into "that bewildering realm" to become another puppet, ensnared for all eternity. "the bitter end awaits with no return, leading you into the heart of the night's abyss, where even the stars fade away." underground, those imprisoned stylists couldn't even see the stars. the reason they were locked up was to attempt to recreate the power of the aureum vase for chigda, who had made a deal with The Dark for eternal life. from him the power of the mutated vines returned, but he was not their original source, nor did they vanish when he was defeated without need for giroda's sacred power. those mutated vines bear great resemblance to the vines, thorns, and roses surrounding the banshee within the visuals of cantore's poem. the banshee wants her puppets to suffer with her, implying that she herself is already suffering. is she, too, a puppet of the dark? back then, could creating a realm have allowed her to escape? did something go wrong? did she, like giovanni, attempt to make a deal with the paladins or chigda, only for it to backfire? did she attempt to defeat chigda herself, only to become corrupt by the vines? if she was captured and held in the wishing woods and hails from florawish, why is it that the banshee now haunts the breezy meadow and shimmer pond specifically? igrainne forbade nonoy from investigating more about her past. the banshee chants a bewildering melody, not dissimilar to that melody of the wishing one from nonoy's music box, the one left with her by her birth mother. how much does igrainne know? was she worried for nonoy solely because of the nature of glorier's disappearance, or is there more to it? could the direct power of the wishful aurosa be enough to save the banshee? how much of her past life does the banshee remember? what am i missing?

my friend nikki pacing: how do i tell nonoy i need to fuck her mom