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leclerckiss · 6 months ago

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pretty in pink ౨ৎ

notes: oscar piastri x girly!reader, est. relationship, protective demeanour, unwelcome attention from strangers, fluff. requested.

a/n: i adored writing this, and it helped encourage me to stop writing for only charles in all honesty. ily.

The aroma of petrichor against warm pastries from the L'Amour du Pain Vieux bakery nearby lingers, skies over Montréal grey with the lull of clouds where hints of the early afternoon light dance through and upon the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve below, a gentle remnant of dampness about the smooth stone streets from rainfall earlier in the hour that has since come to a halt.

With qualifying to commence in a few hours – highlighting the true beginning of the Canadian Grand Prix where your boyfriend hopes to secure the finest result possible – there is a heightening feel about the paddock as you wander through, latte of oat-milk and vanilla balanced in one soft-skinned hand, donned in your favourite, little dress like blushing, pale peonies.

After an early albeit comfortable, familiar morning waking beside Oscar in your shared hotel suite amongst the quiet luxury of pretty, minimal décor – mussed bed sheets of lush cotton, cashmere throws and interlocked limbs – shared, slow kisses and breakfast consisting of sweet, syruped pancakes and coffee, before greeting the true day ahead, you are most excited.

Amongst conversational journalists with inviting, saccharine smiles merely for enticement and photographers who do not hesitate to notice your face, the lovely and pretty diamond that is Oscar Piastri's lovable girlfriend, you have never quite opposed to the media attention so long as you have him by your side.

"Hm." Chanel ballet flats of embroidered ivory and light-pink clicking on the path, comforted by your sweet treat in hand whilst balancing your iPhone in the other – a brief conversation with your lover concluding he would be busy for another couple of minutes at least due to press conferences – you are mostly contently lost in your own daydreams.

"Excuse me?"

It is the sound of a voice addressed in your direction that has you faltering in your gait, pretty head tilting just the slightest to glimpse over your shoulder just as the sudden voice and approach of a male has you somewhat shy.

"Sorry, I feel like I know you from somewhere," He is youthful, perhaps the same age or a year older than the aforementioned by looks, dressed rather comfortably in a clean, white shirt of linen only half-buttoned against the beige hues of his trousers, Française Cartier watch glinting on his wrist.

His mouth curves on a smile, eyes like caramel dancing over your face and lower until he allows himself the fleeting, silent glance at how the neat edges of your mini dress hug your thighs before straightening his stance once again, lithe fingers threading through his styled, light hair.

The words leave you a touch perplexed given you certainly do not recognise him and lack any recollection of his face, laughing uncertainly as you tuck a stray hair behind the shell of your ear with the clink of a rose quartz bracelet about your wrist, the sound sweet as an angel's.

"I'm sorry, I don't think–"

"It's alright, I don't either." The man continues with an amiable shrug as though pretending to understand or assume what you had been meaning to say, countenance turning more charismatic on the edge of a revealed dimple, "My name's Jacques, love."

There is something in his gaze and the execution of his demeanour which has you hesitating, rosebud mouth parted ajar whilst you glance about momentarily even when the hint of a natural, polite smile remains.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Jacques," You reply quietly, the expression you hold towards him is a pleasant one despite yourself, although not enough to reveal the slight discomfort that lurks in the depths of your stomach, "But my boyfriend is–"

"Right here."

As if the mention or mere thought of him was an innate manifestation, you are greeted with the presence of a certain, handsome individual where you recognise the warmth of his aura just as fingertips are felt on the curve of your vertebrae against a splayed palm.

You cannot deny or refuse the immediate beginnings of a soft smile and the ease flourishing within you as soon as his touch is known, the lingering scent of his cologne with hints of patchouli and rosewood permeating, an incline of your head allowing gazes to meet momentarily in mutual greeting.

He stands tall beside you, the limb draped around your waist a familiar presence whilst eyes of an intimate, rich hue that remind you of coffee and autumn dance between yourself and the other man who now stands a touch awkwardly with a dissuaded visage.

"Is this man bothering you, princess?" His tone is honey-like, a smooth and lowered baritone that you adore, though there is the telltale sign of his fingertips that press a touch firmer against your hipbone, and the arch of a brow, that demonstrates the silent brewing of protectiveness in the midst of his affections for you. Oscar Piastri is an affectionate sweetheart, true to his feelings and honest in generosity with the renowned presence of patience, though can be a defensive figure when the subject concerns his girl.

"Not really. He was just being friendly," Your cadence is light and sweet with imploration, the subtle gesture of a kiss left against his cheekbone in comforting warmth as you balance on the edge of your toes momentarily.

You are sweet, almost too much so with your pretty looks and the faint glimpses of innocence there even though you know exactly where you stand; it has Oscar longing to return to the quiet privacy of home where nobody will harass you both for attention, where he can have you to himself even if only for a little while.

Jacques chuckles, almost uncertainly in a manner that juxtaposes his previous incentive whilst tucking one palm into the concealing wool of his tailored slacks when he nods, "I was just saying 'hello', no harm done."

The Australian does not seem particularly reassured though there is no instigation for a disagreement, looking over the other only a moment longer without another word before he's silently coaxing you against his side when he walks with a gait somewhat quicker than his usual.

"Wait," Your kissable lips touch a little downward in uncertain wonder, though you follow his guidance easily, a touch intrigued by his lingering silence that lacks explanation, "Where are we headed? Was I doing something wrong?"

There is no initial comfort or answer to your inquiries as he looks forward, evidently lost to his own thoughts whilst internally calming himself from the dwindling ache of his possession over you, a muscle in the line of his jaw shifting almost imperceptibly.

A boring press conference consisting of being asked the same questions like a repetitive, tedious dance had already left him a touch bitter, and the sight of a stranger trying to steal his girlfriend's attention away only aggravates him further.

Eventually, your shared walk leads to the quieter alcoves of the McLaren hospitality comforts until he's nudging you backwards through a white-varnished door, breathing in the sweetness of your perfume – Good Girl: Blush – with hints of almond against sweet peonies, vanilla and coumarin.

"You weren't doing anything wrong," Oscar murmurs, his arm entwined securely about your figure as his lips ghost over the outer shell of your ear near the glimmer of divine, embellished earrings he gifted you on your birthday after he had seen you admiring them through the glass of a jewellery shop once, swallowing slowly.

It is a quiet, comfortable room – one that he often confides in the refuge of when in need of fleeing from the never-ending attention and demands of his profession, an inviting, plush chaise lounge of white cushioning, shelves and cupboards of various items.

Your glossed lips touch into a delicate pout of mystery, a gentle sound of consideration and acknowledgement leaving the back of your throat whilst arms drape loosely around his neck, the edges of your thumbs tracing along his nape where you feel the soft hairs there.

"Then what was it?"

"Nothing." It is an uncharacteristically brief reply, though the manner his lightly-calloused palms cradle the small of your waist until he cannot quite restrain himself from the tightened grasp there with a brief glance towards the closed door, exhaling through his teeth in some kind of defeat, "I'm... Do you want me to be honest?"

The question is uttered so softly that the question leaves you a fraction breathless, heart thrumming within the interns of your rib cage like a dove locked away as you nod.

"I always want the truth from you, Ossie," You respond in a lull so saccharine it sounds like a sing-song of delight, the edge of your index finger and thumb dancing downwards against the soft fabric of his sweater before pausing when you meet his eyes through your lashes.

Oscar sighs, though there is the slightest of reservations of a smile the corners of his mouth at the manner in which you address him, a nickname reserved especially for when the two of you are alone together and intimate.

He does not immediately bless you with an answer, tilting your head towards him in silent, shared invitation before your mouths melt together. It is slow and sweet, tasting one another and your belongings forgotten on the nearby, makeshift desk of polished oak, a sweetened hint of café au lait on your tongue.

"Seeing that man," He begins between chaste kisses, not quite allowing you the liberty of shying away as he holds you close until your back nudges the ivory-coated wall behind, near drawn photographs of memorabilia from old Grand Prixes, "And how he looked at you, it made me want to–"

He pauses, inhaling audibly as though trying to meditate on his own emotions in that moment, his hands feeling over your body like a sculptor and his finest work before he swallows the remainder of his sentence with a kiss.

Oscar Piastri is an undeniably attractive man when he's possessive over you, touching every inch of you like his belongings, muttered sweet nothings and vows of devotions against your tongue. It is a warm feeling, knowing he will always protect you without hesitance. And he does, cherishes you like the pretty doll you seem to be, because he cares in some earnest, undying reality.

"I love you."

The punctuation of another kiss, "I love you more." And he traces the jut of your ribs through the thin, velveteen fabric of your rosé dress when he holds you close until you're flush together, sighing against your lips, "I will never let anybody hurt you, ever. Understood?"

"I understand."

#౨ৎ works #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader

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yurozo · 3 months ago

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resident evil headcanons (restaurant au)

characters: leon, chris, jill, claire, rebecca, ada, luis, carlos, wesker. a/n: this was created as a joke between me and my friends that completely spiralled out of control. maybe the stupidest au i've ever created. wesker and friends hit me up if you wanna use this warnings: vulgar language. sorry, i'm canadian, we swear a lot here.

chris redfield (bartender): he's one of the first hires, and has been working as the head bartender forever. he absolutely loves to lowkey trauma dump on customers unknowingly, only to shake the mixer after just to avoid the awkward silence. the owner has had to move the tv's out of the way of the bar because chris will only look at the screen and fuck up every single drink during a big game. refuses leon everytime he tries to come up to the bar for drinks. he knows when it's him, leon always tries to input it in the system as a customer order for a table that isn't occupied, but he always orders his whiskey in a very specific way that outs him. chris will pour it out in front of him to make a point. he eventually had to make a memo about not letting leon take drinks from the bar anymore. to customers, he is every older woman's wet dream. he knows that flexing his biceps will rake him in more tips, so he does it often. also does it when women are being hit on by creepy men to scare them away. the night that he wears tight turtlenecks are his big paycheck days. chris will never admit that he likes when people squeeze his arms. chris is the guy that everyone has a crush on when they first start working there, it's basically an initiation rite at this point. he's the friendliest one of the bunch and gives wholesome big bro vibes and it makes him absolutely irresistible to new hires. (x reader) if you're working alongside chris in the bar, prepare to constantly run into him. he's a massive guy, and maneuvering around a little bar with that hunk is near impossible without a couple collisions. after a while, he's learned to put a gentle hand on your back whenever he has to move behind you, all for the sake of "workplace safety". he loves to sneak food from the kitchen and share it with you, but this man eats like a horse. like the chefs are genuinely surprised on how much food this man can physically fit inside his body, but he will always leave a portion for you. it takes him a long time to make a move because he's afraid of ruining your friendship and workplace relationship. leon kennedy (server): he got hired a little after everyone else, and got put onto the waitstaff because of his looks. however, this man is super awkward with patrons despite being super popular with older women. he's always getting propositions to get set up with someone's daughter and he always unknowingly shoots them down. (customer: "you're really cute, leon: "ok.") he always makes little jokes to lighten the mood and it is an instant vibe killer. the only people who like them are the old ladies who think he's cute, and dads who genuinely think he's funny.

as for the whiskey incident, leon has tried multiple times to pretend being a bartender when chris is on break to sneak himself a drink. he claims that it makes him better at serving, but three broken trays and countless shattered glasses say otherwise.

leon does have kind of a blank expression when patrons try and get him to cut them deals or do stuff for them. he will immediately go back and scream by himself in the freezer after a difficult customer interaction. has cried silently in the freezer after food got in his hair. (x reader) leon always smells like american crew hair pomade, and always showers himself in cologne on shifts he knows he's working with you. you smiled at him one time in the middle of a rush and he had to sit on the curb to collect himself. leon has a horrible tendency to get distracted whenever you're in his general vicinity, and will completely ignore customers whenever you walk by with literal hearts in his eyes. he's one of the fastest people to make a move, mostly because he lacks any form of subtlety. he always offers to drive you home, always offers to take you out to dinner after work like you already don't work in food service, and always keeps something in his bag for you. he loves to lowkey fuck with you on shifts, like putting an ice cube down your shirt to make you pay attention to him. jill valentine (hostess):

another og worker, and the most no-nonsense of them all, especially with customers. if the wait time is thirty minutes, then you're waiting thirty goddamn minutes. she does not care who you supposedly know. she has gotten a couple writeups for visibly rolling her eyes when large parties come in without a reservation. jill demands a break every thirty minutes to sit with chris on the curb while he smokes a cigarette. she calls it her mental health breaks.

pointedly does not listen to leon when he asks her to stop seating people in her section. her favourite past-time is to seat all the old women obsessed with him at his tables to watch him flounder. also gives leon's number out to people who try and hit on her at the job. she's also the only person who can scare the owner, so jill gets away with a lot more than most people. her and carlos often hang out after shifts to drink beer and play pool. her and claire have regular girls nights where jill's convinced into facemasks and terrible movies that only have a one star rating on whatever pirated movie website claire pays for. (x reader) every attempt you make to ask her on a date goes completely over her head. it's only at chris' intervention that she finally gets the hint and takes you out to dinner. she ends up having her own shelf of stuff at your apartment within a week, and she's more than happy to drive you to work everyday. if you have a pet, prepare for jill to come over to spoil it rotten and feign ignorance when you confront her about it. another victim of the 'takes extra long to get ready on shifts you work together'. she knows you like her arms, so she's wearing short sleeves or tanks whenever she has the opportunity, and silently preens in your attention. carlos, (line cook):

without a doubt, the line cooks are the vibe bringers of the restaurant. carlos always takes a hit off his dab pen before coming in, because he claims it makes his cooking taste better. he always gives food to the female servers at any given opportunity, and pretends to not know what the male servers are talking about when they bring it up. (is the reason for 90% of the memos regarding workplace behaviour).

carlos always smells like old spice and food, and there is almost nothing that could break his good mood during a shift. he really is just happy to be there. he's very particular on how the freezer is organized, but loved to label the items wrong to piss off the others (spinch). his mother taught him how to cook, so he has a dedicated dish named after her. carlos always comps her meals when she comes in and doesn't tell anybody about it.

as for the other employees, carlos torments them. he loves to play his own music in the kitchen but has a wildly inappropriate taste for work music. chris banned him from the speaker officially after only playing doja cat for three hours. however, him and luis love to carpool and play brazilian funk with all the windows rolled down at max volume. those two are not allowed to work together too much. he also has a mobile game rivalry with leon, so anytime carlos is missing from the kitchen, you'll find him in the bathroom on his phone. just follow the shitty iphone game music.

(x reader) in all honesty, carlos is the man that's hooked up with the most employees. the mans charm is undeniable. but he has a particular soft spot when it comes to you-- you get to taste-test every dish, there's always a nice cold glass of water waiting for you, and carlos will take the fall for every fuckup at your table. he'll introduce you to his mom when she comes in, but is secretly terrified at how well the two of you get along. don't even get him started on bringing his siblings into the place, he would never hear the end of it. carlos received another memo after engaging in too much pda at work after the two of you got together.

claire redfield (waitress):

one of the main reasons for all the positive google reviews. it's not that she's naturally a super bubbly person, but claire knows how to turn it on and off when her shift starts. jill puts most of the families in her section since claire has a natural gift with kids. however, she is extremely biased when it comes to the food. her face always tells you exactly what she thinks of a dish.

since chris is always within eyesight of her, whenever difficult customers give her problems, she loves to sic chris on them. even just having him stand behind her is enough to give her leverage over someone trying to haggle on a bill. and with carlos' willingness to give food to pretty girls, she never goes hungry during a shift. the girl has her whole shift figured out on a system. she also knows exactly when the lull in service is going to be so she can take extended bathroom breaks.

out of everyone, she's the one to organize after-work hangouts, whether by putting gentle reminders into the group chat, or straight up bullying people to come (ie. jill). everyone always knows when she pulls up from the sound of her engine, but she refuses to let anyone on it. especially luis or leon, for insurance reasons.

(x reader) this girl has the uncanny ability to know what you need, and when you need it. forgot an iced tea for table 20? it's already in her hand on the way. it's her nice little way of showing what a good girlfriend she would be, that she can anticipate your needs. for every group hangout, you are the first person she texts and the primary benefactor of the tips she makes. claire is a no bullshit kind of woman, and when she wants you, you will know. she'll always ask you to hang out, always compliment how you look, tell you constantly how good you are at your job. maybe she'll let you ride behind her on the motorcycle just for the excuse of having your arms around your waist, and does that hot thing where she rubs your arms with her thumb at red lights.

rebecca chambers (head waitress):

dear old rebecca, truly the glue holding everything together. she's incredibly sweet to customers, and to most of the employees. the only reason the floor runs properly is her by the book attitude and highly perceptive personality. nothing is getting by rebecca. she's leon's number two nemesis for being able to drink on the job, and chris' number one nemesis for smoking outside. this woman has the nose of a bloodhound when someone is about to do something stupid.

despite her appearance, everyone is afraid to make her angry. she's lost her shit a total of one time, but it was enough for everyone to be on their best behaviour. she does have a tendency to make passive aggressive comments with such a sickly sweet smile on her face, that you won't even realize she insulted you until long after she's walked away.

least favourite part of the job? she is a hit with old men. they can never leave her alone. second least favourite part? finding ways to sneak vitamins into certain employees food so they can live to see another day. the way that some of the others operate is enough to give her grey hairs.

(x reader) rebecca is intelligent and ambitious, and more than willing to make sacrifices when it comes to you. she's more than happy to take the fall on a screwup if it gets you out of it, wanting nothing more than your smile in return. her main tactic of getting to know you is inviting you over to watch movies, inconspicuously of course, so she can ask you questions over the whole thing. overall, she's an acts of service girl, but is much more subtle about it than claire is. you need a meal prep plan? she's your woman. she wants nothing more than to take care of you, to make your life as easygoing as possible. but the true way to her heart is any form of baked goods. if you make a habit of bringing her pastries before a shift, she's putty in your hands.

ada wong, (head chef):

this woman, god help her, has the hardest job out of them all. not only does she have to babysit her two line cooks, but she's also responsible for cleaning up all the fuckups the waitstaff make. her saving grace is the fact that everyone else is terrified of her, creating a wide berth every time she picks up a knife. everyone can always hear her scolding carlos in the kitchen, who just brushes it off with a laugh.

despite the chaos of a kitchen, ada has the impeccable ability to never get food on herself. even after the dinner rush there is not a single hair out of place, looking just as perfect as when she started. every ingredient is measured precisely, every fda standard met and upheld-- pretty much the counterforce to carlos and luis. secretly, she loves when carlos has control of the speaker, but she would rather die than admit it.

the second an overcomplicated modification comes in, the temperature of the kitchen immediately drops. why the hell does she pore over a menu just for some middle-aged man to think he knows better than her? despite her no-nonsense attitude, she does secretly love fucking with leon. only luis knows about her secret tinder account that she catfished leon on with some fake woman in romania.

(x reader) ada is a woman in tune with herself, in tune with what and who she wants. the second she gets attached, she will display clear favouritism. every new recipe she tries is given to you for taste-testing, claiming that you will always give her the truth. it's a lie, she just like seeing the grin on your face when you enjoy it. if anyone asks her about it, she will vehemently deny it, claiming that you're the only one competent enough at your job. her asking you out is more of a demand than it is a question: this place, this time, wear that dress you know i like. she's not huge fan of pda at the workplace, but she'll always give you that look that screams, just wait until i get my hands on you later.

luis sera (line cook):

this man does not operate on a recipe, he operates on la pasion. really, it just means the foods always a tad spicier than it should be. he also sings obnoxiously loud in the kitchen, to the point that patrons can hear it if they're seated close enough. this man obeys ada for the most part, but he's honestly never touched a measuring cup in his life. he'll stop pouring when his ancestors tell him to stop pouring. however he has the uncanny ability to know exactly when meat is within three degrees of whatever temp they need it cooked to.

the waitstaff either love him or hate him. luis playfully flirts with everyone in his line of sight. who could blame him? he's stuck in a kitchen all day and everyone at this restaurant is unbearably attractive. mostly, he just likes seeing their reactions. leon adamantly begs claire to fetch his plates from the kitchen for him, because luis calls him prince charming every time, and leon hates it.

there's a rumour going around that he got drunk after a shift and made out with another employee, but no one knows who it is. there's a restaurant-wide betting pool on potential victims. also, since luis is the only person who knows about the catfish incident, he loves to ask leon innocuous question while feigning innocence about the whole thing. he's just really invested in his love life, he swears.

(x reader) if you think the flirting is bad towards leon, just wait until he catches an eyeful of you. it is a nonstop barrage of witty compliments, offers to go dancing (or clubbing), and pick-up lines that were definitely picked up off the internet. he's a suave guy, don't get me wrong, but he most definitely gets too many of his ideas from old romance novels. at some point he gives up, telling you straight that he wants to take you out, for reals, and cook you a nice home-cooked meal. maybe some wine. maybe more, if you'll let him. luis is another person who displays clear favouritism, and tries to convince ada into naming a dish after you. it has a horribly cheesy name, but it tastes wonderful and he loves shooting you a wink every time you see him making it (he always makes that dish more carefully than any of the others).

wesker (manager):

this man bought the damn place in a last ditch attempt to save himself from bankruptcy, and unknowingly entangled himself into the lives of the dumbest twenty year olds he's ever met in his life. the only person that he kind of tolerates is ada, because she runs that kitchen like it's the military, and he can respect how batshit terrifying she is. he has a particular vendetta against chris for reasons he can't name, but since chris brings in a lot of money, he can't really refuse. he mostly gets that frustration out by pinning things on chris that leon most definitely did.

he's rarely seen on the actual floor, usually just hanging in the back on the computer doing whatever the fuck he does. (he's playing farmville, but no one knows it's him because of a pseudonym. he also does not know how to turn the music off so if you stand at the right position outside the door you can hear it.)

when he is seen out on the floor, he's wearing the most obnoxious sunglasses and leather jacket known to man, and stalks around the bar to watch for mistakes. you know you fucked up around wesker when there's a sneer on his face. the place almost got robbed once, and wesker threw a punch so fast that everyone stopped trying to piss him off after that.

(x reader) truthfully, he doesn't act too much different around you. it takes months to catch onto the little quirks that show his softness-- just a slight ease in his eyebrow, a softer pitch when addressing you directly. he'll still chew you out for mistakes, but he forgets about it long before he'll let anyone else slide. if things did eventually progress between the two of you, that manager's office is staying locked.

thank y'all for reading! this ended up being way longer than i thought it was going to be lol.

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12thbiologist · 1 month ago

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Introduction by N. K. Jemisin, from 10th anniversary Authority reprint

"To my own shame, I've become a jaded reader in recent years. By this, I mean that my enthusiasm and curiosity, my drive to experience new worlds, have all been damaged by a persistent disjunct between reality and the speculative fiction I most enjoy.

"Is it any wonder? Given the horrors of Trump's first regime, the looming threat of another, a global plague allowed to run rampant, and a billionaire backed culture war on the rest of us. I'm more jaded about everything now. Escapism at this juncture feels like a way to temporarily pretend that everything is fine. And while there's value in taking a break from Hell, it also feels dangerous. Like drinking to drown my sorrows. Nothing wrong with alcohol now and again, but nobody needs a steady diet of oblivion.

"What I've found myself seeking instead are philosophies of entropy and survival. That is, fiction that addresses multifaceted decay and the psychology needed to survive it. At this point, to mangle Audre Lorde, the master has handed his tools out freely after designing them to break at first usage, buying out the only shop that could fix them and the only newspaper that tried to report on the scam, and charging all customers a subscription fee. And these days, it's no longer just us marginalized folks who need our media to acknowledge the slow motion apocalypse we're all trapped in.

"Enter, The Southern Reach books. When I first read Annihilation during the run-up to the 2016 election, it was a welcome breath of fungal, fetid air. Other fiction of the time seemed determined to suggest there was no need for alarm. Things couldn't be so bad. Anything broken could be fixed.

"Could it though? As I watched my country embrace a stupid, incompetent, and blatantly criminal fascist while insisting his spiteful, privileged sycophants somehow had a point—Well, when you're already queasy, sweet smells make the feeling worse. It helped to read instead about the smells and sights and horrors and haunting beauty of Area X. It helped me to imagine that creeping transformative infection warping body and mind and environment and institution. Because that was the world I was living in. It helped to meet the 12th expedition's nameless women who were simultaneously individuals, with selfish motivations, and archetypes, trapped in their roles. The biologist, driven by the loss of her mate and the need to integrate into a new ecosystem. The psychologist, a human subjects ethics violation in human flesh. We are dropped into danger with these women, immediately forced to confront an existential threat with courage and perseverance. And this? This was what I needed from my fiction.

"The second book, Authority, was even more what I needed. As we watch Control slowly realize he's never been in control, and that things are a lot worse than his complacency allowed him to see—it just resonated so powerfully. His over reliance on procedure and the assumed wisdom of his predecessor. His dogged refusal to see the undying plant in his office as a sign of something wrong. There was nothing of 2014's politics overtly visible in the book. And yet, they were all over it like mold.

"I've read and written reviews of these books and it seems to me that there's a common misreading that applies. Namely, that they are "climate fiction," or "cli-fi." This clunky label fits superficially, in that climate change occurs during the course of the book.

"However, Area X, with it's inexplicable reality warping power, is a poor metaphor for human caused destruction. Or even for the surreality of climate denial- talk about reality warping. I think a better analytic is to view the books as postcolonial fiction. Per Caribbean Canadian writer Nalo Hopkinson, postcolonial stories take the adventurous repertoire of science fiction—such as traveling to a distant realm and taming the exotic flora, fauna, and people who live there—and from the experience of the colonizee, critique it, pervert it, fuck with it. The characters of The Southern Reach books are only obliquely marginalized. Their races, ethnicities, class distinctions, and other markers of identity are deliberately downplayed, down to the lack of personal names. But they are all women, which is atypical of pretty much any US government agency. Two of them, the Asian biologist and the half-Indigenous psychologist, are racialized. Biology and psychology and anthropology are often dismissed as "soft sciences," in large part because too many women thrive in them. Or because they've done too good a job of reconsidering racial/cultural/ethnic equity and updating practices and personnel to suit.

"As the 12th expedition proceeds into Area X, on the surface it seems they are reenacting a thousand science fiction novels: going forth as intrepid strangers into a strange land. But for any reader who's familiar with those classic narratives, Annihilation's version feels like a setup. Our marginalized protagonists lacking the privileges and power of stalwart square-jawed white men seem doomed from pretty much the moment they enter Area X.

"So, they are the colonizees in this situation and Area X is definitely fucking with them. But as the story proceeds, it becomes clear that they are themselves fucking with that classic adventure dynamic. The psychologist has wholly focused her skills on taming her fellow adventurers, and perhaps herself. The biologist is trying to solve a mystery of identity: something unquantifiable and scientifically immeasurable, more felt than known, and deeply personal. The anthropologist has no one to study, save her fellow expedition members, and only the surveyor seems wholly focused on Area X at all. Perhaps this is why she later tries to kill the biologist. We see the irony of this setup most clearly with Control in Authority. He is the stalwart square jawed man that traditional science fiction has primed us to expect, even hope for, because he'll have the power to solve the situation, right? But Control becomes the proof that no colonizee can ever tame Area X. At best, they might manage to tame themselves.

"By the end of book one, the 12th expedition becomes the first successful one by a colonizer's rubric, in that they manage to share new understandings of Area X with those outside it and in that at least one member of the team survives with her mind and form somewhat intact. The beginning of book two seems to confirm this, as the story shifts to explore the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of the Southern Reach itself. But the expedition members' choices have become the choices of the colonized. Survive or not? Internalize or not? Assimilate or not? They bring these choices to Control, who adds his own familiar, horrifying existential questions. When change seems inevitable and irreversible, can it be controlled to some degree? Can the self remain intact after the mind and body have been "Ship of Theseus"-ed into something unrecognizable?

"This is not to say that climate focused readings are irrelevant to The Southern Reach series. I mean that climate issues are also colonization issues. In that, the worst effects of climate change fall hardest upon the most marginalized. We observe the breakdown of the 12th expedition, an invasive species to this new biome, even as we observe the breakdown of recognizable life within Area X. New configurations of life emerge from this collapse of old structures. Hybridizations, commensalisms, wholesale assimilations. Even our bureaucracies, as evidenced in Authority, form a kind of natural order that can be deconstructed and readapated. Control fails to contain Area X because of another key understanding that the colonized eventually develop: you cannot fight that with which you have become complicit. The best you can do is realize what's happening and hope its not too late by the time you do. Never fear, Area X reassures. Colonization and its associated harms, terrifying and painful as they might be, are not the end—however much traditional science fiction stories might suggest otherwise. Survival is possible if one is lucky, brave, and clever, but it might require a transformation far more nuanced and complex than mere death. And this is a reassurance. Speculative fiction has historically framed colonization as a contest with winners and losers, but its never been that simple. Human beings are syncretic, some element of who and what we were will always remain in what we become. Entropy cannot be stopped but new energy can be added to the system. And those who are caught up in the transformation can claim a degree of that power for themselves. And, ultimately, syncretism means that we are carried forwards regardless, if only in part. Still better than nothing.

"As I write these words, multiple genocides are in progress. I feel no certainty for the future. Half my nation is so enthralled to it's own bigoted fantasies that I neither expect nor particularly want the United States to survive. I do not fear the singularity, sentient AI, or any technological boogeyman. I fear the confluence of greed and shortsightedness and spite that human rights and human consciouses cannot survive intact.

"But new systems emerge, inevitably. After a climate extinction or a natural disaster, ecologies adapt, new entities eventually fill old empty niches, power changes hands, and stories can be deconstructed. Even when the situation is most terrifying, least stable, there will always be those who embrace the change, and perhaps gain new strength from it. It's a bittersweet understanding, but the change is upon us. We're all in Area X, now. If we are lucky, clever, and courageous, we might still recognize ourselves when its all said and done."

-N. K. Jemisin, Authority

#REALLY really excellent piece of writing and im kind of in awe of it #eye opening especially wrt authority and its place in the series. kind of changed my whole perspective on the series tbh #this is painstakingly transcribed from the audiobook so formatting is just me guessing. boo.#i love n k jemisins writing so i hope it isnt too fucked up #authority #annihilation #acceptance #n k jemisin #nk jemisin #southern reach trilogy #jeff vandermeer

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patrophthia · 2 years ago

Text

red ears, and redder strings | theodore n.

pairing: theodore nott x hufflepuff!reader

genre: red string soulmate!au, fluff, slight humor, slight very slight angst, confused feelings, unrequited love but also not really?, not beta read

wc: 7.2k

this is a request ! thank you anon!! it’s so cute i loved writing this :>

there’s two OC, one of them is named mark, hufflepuff (based off of nct mark, i love that lil canadian guy) and elio. i also wrote theodore based off of nct’s jaehyun and sungchan hehe.

taglist: @mersmoon @pleasingregulus @l--absinthe

"I'm going to need a favour from you," I say first, his eye brows rising slightly at my words. "I need you to keep us being soulmates a secret."

"It's not you, I promise," I added quickly. "I'm sure you're a great guy, you're very handsome too but I'm just— I can't just let faith decide on who I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. It's like I don't have a choice with what goes on in my life; and I can't ... have that."

"So I'm begging you, please," I plead. "Please, don't tell anyone about what we are."

"I can pay you." I offered. And If Nott wasn't so caught off guards by how I was able to say the exact things he had planned to say 30 minutes before, he would've laugh at the prospect of being paid when he already had a fortune in his hands. "I don't have much but I could also do your work for the year, just don't," I pause, "tell anyone until I'm ready, please."

Theodore won't admit it but he feels impress. Because deep down, the Slytherin in him would've never been able to beg for something the way I'd just beg of him. And if he wasn't so taken aback by how I basically read his mind, he would've said something more coherent than: "Okay."

"Okay." I repeated his words, nodding. And even though he didn't audibly give me a reason to trust him on it, I knew that he meant it.

A part of me thinks that that must've been why we were soulmates because why else would I so blindly trust him on this secret of ours.

Tug. Tug. Tug. Blaise has been tugging at Theodore's pinky for the last five minutes now. Doing it over and over just to get a rise out of the brunet. But Theodore, quite honestly, couldn't care less as he watched the string tied around his pinky finger bounce with each pull of Zabini's hand.

Blaise, like the menace he is, enjoys bothering his best friend by pulling at the red string of his, but seeing as he couldn't actually see the string, the Slytherin has settled with just laying on Theodore's bed and repeatedly pulling at his pinky which sported the string instead.

"Honestly Nott, why are you so against finding your soulmate? We both know they're in this school so why won't you just make the effort to find them?" Blaise asks, pulling at his pale pinky once more. "Here I am, balls deep into finding mine and I find out that they're all the way in Durmstrang. Do you realise just how lucky you are?"

"Zabini stop," their other dorm mate, Elio, tsked. "Maybe he's just not ready to find them yet."

Blaise turns from his position on Theodore's bed to look at Elio. Retorting, "or maybe he just doesn't want to find them?"

"And that's okay," Elio replied with a roll of his eyes. "I'm sure he has a reason."

Blaise's attention shifts back to Theodore. "And that is?"

Theodore clears his throat, "I just don't want one."

Blaise squints his eyes, "uh huh," he lets out in disbelief. "Somehow I don't believe that."

"Okay," he murmurs, "I just don't like the concept of soulmates."

"And that's all to it?" Elio asks, fixing his tie as he listens into Theodore and Blaise's conversation.

"Yes." And when neither Blaise nor Elio seemed to believe him, he added. "And I'm tired of people pretending to be my soulmate despite the fact that I could clearly see they aren't."

"People have done that?" Elio asked, perplexed at the complex.

"For the right price people would do anything." Theodore mumbled, and when he noticed that Elio was heading out the door, he asked. "Where are you going?"

"I'm meeting Mark at the library," Elio says with a blissful smile. "I'll see you at dinner."

When Elio finally leaves, Blaise turns to Theodore with a dumbfounded look. "Mark?"

Theodore feels his pinky being pulled once more. "His soulmate."

On the other side of the castle, Mark watches as I throw my head on the table —albeit, dramatically, a groan slipping from my lips. Mark giggles, his nose scrunching along with it as he asks me what was wrong.

I lift my left hand up and into his line of sight, his giggles turning into a full blown laugh as my pinky pulls itself over and over in the same direction. "They're doing it again?"

"They're doing it again," I mumbled, lifting my head back up to look at my finger. "It's so annoying. I'm going to punch their face in the second I see them."

"That's a bit extreme," Mark says lightly. "Just tell them to stop doing it or something."

"Why do that when I can result to violence." I replied, tugging at the string as a sign for them to stop. "They do it all the time, it's so irritating."

"Well at least you know they're close by," Mark states, going back to his book. "Or else you wouldn't be able to even feel their pulls."

"Yeah." I nodded. "I guess that's something."

"What?" Mark asks, sensing a slight shift in the atmosphere. "Do you not want to find them?"

I shrug, "not really."

"Why not?" Mark follows up, abandoning his work completely.

"I just think that I shouldn't let the universe decide on who I spend the rest of my life with, is all," I say. "I want to make that decision myself."

Mark nods, humming, "I see where you're coming from." Understanding as ever. "But I also think it's nice that there's someone out there who will always be by your side no matter what, whether it be platonic or romantic, you know?"

"But that's not guaranteed, is it?" I counter. "I've heard stories where people found their soulmates but they didn't care for one another at all. I mean, at the end of the day, soulmates can't actually be soulmates if one doesn't reciprocate the other's feelings. So why try finding them at all if you're going to find out that they want nothing to do with you?"

"But what if they do," Mark argued.

"But what if they don't."

Mark sighs, "and if they do?"

"And if they don't—"

"Hi." I was cut off. "Shit! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you," says Elio, eyes wide and apologetic. "What were you guys talking about?"

"Soulmates actually," Mark says with a smile, his pupils dilating at the sight of Elio. "Why are you here?"

Mark and Elio found out that they were each other's soulmate on the train ride over. Elio couldn't find his friend's carriage on the Hogswart Express and we were lucky enough to have empty space for the Slytherin.

"I wanted to see if you wanted to have dinner with me," Elio says. "And I also wanted you to meet my friends."

Who were, if I remembered correctly, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott.

"Oh," Mark glances at me, then back at Elio. "This afternoon?"

"Yeah," Elio nodded. And I sense that he wanted to add 'when else' but held back against it. "At the Slytherin table, Is that okay?"

"Sure," Mark says, nodding quickly. "I'll see you."

Elio breaks into a smile, bidding a goodbye as he turns on his heels. "You're coming with me," Mark says the second Elio was far enough to not overhear us. "No arguments."

Two Hufflepuffs sitting idly chatting with four well known Slytherins must've been a weird sight for anyone that passes by. But Mark was having a fun time and that's all that matters.

Or to me at least. Mark sat to my left, with Elio sitting opposite him. Zabini was on my right, with Malfoy in front of him; leaving Nott right in front of me.

"Are you taking potions?" Zabini asks, trying to make conversation, seeing as Mark and Elio were the only people in this table who actually knew one another.

"Yep," I replied, placing my utensils down. "Are you?"

"The four of us are," Malfoy snickered. "At least there's two more tolerable people in that class with us."

Glad to know Malfoy found Mark and I tolerable. "So . . ." I drew out, thinking of anything we could chat about. "What did you guys do this summer?"

"Blaise dragged us to Europe to find his soulmate," Malfoy answered bitterly.

"Oh." The better part of me was intrigued, wanting to know if he did find them. I turned to Zabini beside me. "Did you find them?"

"No," he says, a slightly disappointed look on his face. "Too many students at Durmstrang and too little time."

"Well there's always next year," I say, trying to encourage him.

Zabini hums in agreement. "What about you? Have you found yours yet?"

Elio called out my name before I could answer his friend, and when I turned to him, he held out a goblet filled with pumpkin juice for me to take. Reaching for the glass, I felt a tug at my pinkie but paid no heed to it as I took the goblet from Elio's hand. Resting it on the table, my eyes caught onto a twinkle of red glowing right in front of me.

With furrowed brows, my line of sight found its way to the seat opposing mine, and along with it, the person who took the spot. Red string wrapped around his left pinkie, just like mine. Glowing slightly under the candle light.

Realisation settles in as I slowly look up at Nott, taking in his blank wide eyed expression that seemed to be processing the same information as I was.

Just to be sure, my hand reaches upwards to rub at my eyes before my vision falls back once more to my left pinkie, then the red string that connects me to the boy right in front of me.

Theodore Nott was my soulmate.

"Can you pass me the salt?" Malfoy asks Nott from his side, causing the brunet to break out of his trance.

Our eyes met for the briefest second, unspoken understanding warming up within me. And when Nott shifts his attention to where the salt currently resides, the tip of his ears shined as red as the string tethering us to one another.

The Marauders map is a great stalker tool to have. I didn't have it per se, but I knew people who did and they were kind enough to lend it to me when I needed it. I owe Harry a favour for this.

My eyes glance between the footsteps on the map tagged: Theodore Nott, and the corridor in front of me. Trying to be as quiet as I could with each corner I turn, if I were to get caught chasing some guy who seemed to be coming my direction at eleven P.M at night then who knows the kind of punishment I would get.

Theodore was walking with purpose when I found him. He walked with enough purpose for me to need to jog after him just to catch up. A hand latches onto his wrist, pulling him into one of the many secret corridors Hogswart held.

"Hi," I said breathlessly, panting as I watched him decide between fighting or flighting. He seemed to have found me harmless, settling on just gazing down at me instead. "Just give me a second to catch my breath."

There were many things he didn't say, just observing as I tried to calm myself down. I noticed a few things then about him, he was tall, lanky even, his doe eyes and hair the direct contrast of his pale skin, and his jawline was sharp enough to cut through wood.

"Uhm—" I stood up to my full height and found that I had to peer up at him. Freakishly tall motherfucker. "—I'm not going to waste your time by beating around the bush, so I'm just going to spill it."

"Actually I needed to have a word with you," he murmurs. And I have to reel myself over because that must've been the first time I heard him speak.

"Well, I found you first so I speak first," I tell him with a tight lip smile. "You can speak after okay? Okay."

His eyes squinted and I could tell that he was frustrated with not being able to get his words in.

"I'm going to need a favour from you," I say first, his eye brows rising slightly at my words. "I need you to keep us being soulmates a secret."

"It's not you, I promise," I added quickly. "I'm sure you're a great guy, you're very handsome too but I'm just— I can't just let fate decide on who I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. It's like I don't have a choice with what goes on in my life; and I can't ... have that."

"So I'm begging you, please," I plead. "Please, don't tell anyone about what we are."

"I can pay you." I offered. And If Nott wasn't so caught off guard by how I was able to say the exact things he had planned to say 30 minutes before, he would've laughed at the prospect of being paid when he already had a fortune in his hands. "I don't have much but I could also do your work for the year, just don't," I pause, "tell anyone until I'm ready, please."

Theodore won't admit it but he feels impressed. Because deep down, the Slytherin in him would've never been able to beg for something the way I'd just beg of him. And if he wasn't so taken aback by how I basically read his mind, he would've said something more coherent than: "Okay."

"Okay." I repeated his words, nodding. And even though he didn't audibly give me a reason to trust him on it, I knew that he meant it.

A part of me thinks that that must've been why we were soulmates because why else would I so blindly trust him on this secret of ours.

Platonic soulmates. That's what Theodore and I decided on. Well not really, Theodore had brought up the idea of cutting our soulmate ties completely with a spell he'd found but the Hufflepuff in me couldn't actually go through with the idea so we decided on platonic soulmates. Or just classmates who are hiding a secret that would blow up in their faces if anyone found out.

Hogsmeade weekend came faster this year; Mark and I (along with four other Slytherins who'd found their way into our friend group) were lucky enough to make the trip.

It hasn't begun snowing yet, although the weather sure felt like it. The temperature was warmer this morning, which was why I found it unnecessary to bring my jacket, and now, in hindsight, I see that that was a terrible idea.

It was getting late, and the weather was not getting warmer at all. "Dude, are you okay?" Mark asks. Dude must sound weird to the other four pure bloods. But dude, to me, was Mark showing that he cared for me. "You've been shivering for the past five minutes."

"I'm fine," I say, a clear lie and we all know it. "I'll just cast a warming spell, don't worry."

Mark's brow furrowed, "are you sure? Here—" he shrugs off his coat, "—just wear mine."

I didn't have to look around to know that the four Slytherin were watching us. And under any other circumstances I would gladly take Mark's jacket, but that was a somewhat intimate thing to do. Especially in front of his soulmate, so, like the civilised person I am, I shook my head and cast a warming spell on myself.

"Dude stop being stubborn, you're literally freezing."

"And I look good doing it so just take your coat, Mark." I argued.

"Okay then." He sighs. "If that's what you want."It's not. Mark pulls his coat back on as he continues walking down the Hogsmeade streets with the rest of us behind him and Elio. "So where should we go next?"

A grasp on my elbow, takes my attention away from Malfoy's answer to Mark's question. I look down, finding slim hands holding onto me. My gaze trails upward to find Theodore who had halted both our steps as he shrugs off his coat.

The brunet nudges it forward, wordlessly offering it for me to take. And when I shook my head, feeling uneasy at the prospect of making him suffer the harsh weather if I did take his jacket. He insists: "It's fine," he says, nudging it forward once more, the red string on his pinkie clear as ever. "I run hot."

"And is cold blooded," Zabini snickered to receive a glare from Nott. I stifled a giggle, finally feeling at ease with the two of them. Zabini's demeanour seems to soften at my half assed attempt to hide a laugh, and tells me to: "Just take it."

Okay. Fine. I will take it. The cold was biting my ass anyways. I reached out for the jacket but was pleasantly surprised when Nott helped me into it instead. "Thank you," I murmured.

Theodore, or at least his coat, smells like a combination of things that I could only assume he likes; things like: the sea, books whether it be old or new, earl grey tea, bearded irises, and vanilla.

Nott only hums at my gratitude, listening back into Mark's conversation with Malfoy.

"You never did tell me whether you found your soulmate yet," Zabini says suddenly. "Have you?"

"No," I answered, and unlike earlier, he actually believes in this lie of mine. "And I'm not really looking for one either."

"Funny," Blaise says with a mischievous smile. "That's what Nott also said." Not exactly, but it was something along that line. "Are you sure you're not each other's soulmate?"

From the corner of my eyes, I spy the tip of Theodore's ears flushing. The pink contrasting his dark features adorably. His face showed no emotion, his brown doe eyes rolling with feign annoyance. "I'm pretty sure I'd know my soulmate if I saw them as often as I see her, Zabini."

"Wish it were that easy," I mumbled, adding onto the illusion of us not being tied to each other. "I'll let you know when I find out who they are though."

"Really?" He says testingly.

"If you're so invested in it then yes."

He smirks, "let's hope you keep your promise then, princess."

Little did Zabini know, his promise had already been broken.

Faith must've been playing some kind of sick joke. I knew that I'd be taking potions with the four Slytherin, but for me to be studying a love potion on the first day I had class with my 'soulmate' was just plain evil.

And I think, something along the lines of Professor Slughorn making Nott and I be the first to take a gander at the potion, to smell it and to describe what it smelled like to us, was even more cruel.

A glance at Nott, and another at the brewing pot in front of us, had me taking in a deep breath as I prepared myself for what's to come. I took a step forward, Nott to my side, and leaned forward to take a sniff at the potion.

The first round of scents were pleasant, home cooked meals, the smell of my clean room after a tiring day, my favourite snack and the likes of it. Then the second waft of the potion hits and I wondered whether it was what I was actually attracted to or what I was supposed to be attracted to since all I could smell was nothing but Nott.

Or at least the scent of his coat; sea salt, books, vanilla and a hint of his (what I think is) argan oil shampoo, which I assumed I could only smell because he was so close by.

"So?" Professor Slughorn egged us on with a smile. "Tell us what you smell."

Nott and I shared a look and I knew then that we could only smell one another. "The sea," I took the initiative to speak first. "Vanilla."

"Is that all?" Asks the Professor. "Is there a special someone you smell?"

Yes. Is what I didn't say, only shaking my head as I nudged at Nott's side for him to speak next.

"I'm sorry Professor but I couldn't really smell anything." Nott says barely above a whisper.

Professor Slughorn's furrowed his brows in concern. Did Nott not have something he loved? "Nothing at all?"

"Not really," the Slytherin murmurs. "I could only smell her."

Her?

Oh.

Me. I'm her.

Okay.

"Really?" Slughorn murmurs, clearly fascinated. "Well isn't that interesting?"

Nott only hums, moving away from the pot and as I turned with him, my eyes caught onto the pink tinged on his ears. Cute.

I couldn't even take a step towards my desk when Zabini swept me away, Malfoy by his side. Zabini smiles widely at my curious expression, and I wonder for a second if Nott has broken his promise and told them about our secret. Cautiously, I asked him. "What?"

"We need a favour."

"No." Was my first and final answer. Zabini only frowns, not the slightest bit faltering his quest. "I need you to steal Theodore away for a day." He says, instead. I shook my head, repeating myself, "No."

"Oh come on," Blaise pouts, "his birthday's this Sunday and we want to throw him a small surprise party."

"Which won't be a surprise if he was there," Malfoy adds unnecessarily.

"Why can't you be the one to distract him or whatever you're planning on making me do?"

"Because he'll suspect it," Malfoy answers with a roll of his eyes. "Nott's smart, he'll get suspicious of us."

"And he won't get suspicious of me?" I retorted.

"I haven't thought that through actually," Blaise murmurs. "But! We need all hands on deck to plan the party and fill it up with things he likes."

"And I can't help with that?" I ask.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. "What do you know about Nott?"

That he is my soulmate. But besides that, quite literally nothing. Okay. One point to Malfoy and Zabini, I guess. I sigh, slowly accepting my defeat. "What about Mark?"

"Mark's going to help us set up with Elio."

"Why can't you ask for the house elves to set it up for you?"

"Why can't you stop asking us questions?" Malfoy snaps.

I turn to the blond, my expression sour. "Hey you're the one asking me for a favour here, I don't think you can afford to be a bitch to me right now."

Malfoy rolls his eyes again, more attitude than ever. "So you're going to do it?"

"I never said—"

"Great!" Blaise cuts me off. "Have Theo out by ten A.M and have him back by six P.M, okay?" He says excited, and yet not loud enough for Nott, who had been sitting three desks away from our conversation to hear. "Okay! And if you guys do anything, please use protection we're way to young to have kids—"

"Oh fuck off." With a chuckle, Zabini finally leaves me alone, dragging Malfoy with him. With the two Slytherins no longer in sight, my eyes drift towards the only empty desk left and make my way towards it.

One, two, table passes, until I finally reach an empty seat and I find myself meeting eyes with Theodore. His face remains stone cold as ever, only looking at me blankly. He didn't have to say it for me to know that was curious about what his friends had said to me.

Setting my stuff down, I sat beside him and I found myself mustering up the courage to go through with Zabini and Malfoy's favour. "Hey," I start, Nott now giving me his undivided attention. "Do you want to go out this weekend?"

His expression changes for the slightest second that if I hadn't been watching him, I'd have missed it. "I thought we agreed on keeping it platonic."

"Yeah," I agreed quickly. "And that's not going to change anytime soon. Think of this as us bonding as platonic soulmates."

He guessed he owed me that, which was why he stood outside of the Hufflepuff's Common Room idly, waiting for me to come out and get on with our soulmates bonding day.

A smile came across my lips when I spotted him, looking as out of place as possible. "Hi," I said, going up to him. Theodore didn't bother replying, only standing tall as he waited for me to lead the way.

The ride to Hogsmeade was awkward —as to be expected from two people who knew little to nothing about one another. Theodore climbed out of the carriage first, offering a hand to help me off of the ride.

Before we began our journey, Theodore caught onto my wrist with his right hand, his left reaching for his wand and wordlessly, he casted a warming up spell on me.

"Thank you." I'd be lying if I said that it didn't have an effect on me. "So where should we go?"

His lips pursed, thinking. "You didn't plan anything?"

"Not really." This favour was a last minute thing, I didn't have time to actually plan things out. "I thought we could just walk around and look at things."

Theodore wasn't the easiest to read, but I knew from the shift in his features that he was judging me. He then nudges his head to the side. "Let's get you something to eat."

Theodore took me to a bakery by the end of Hogsmeade, the shop was heavily vanilla scented, people coming in and out every second. Nott ordered a vanilla danish, then another when he looked at my face.

I ordered my pastries, and reached into my bag for the sickles I needed. Before I could actually get it out though, Theodore was already pulling me to the side, mumbling a "don't bother" as the next customer made their order.

I frown, handing out the few sickles I owed towards him, he took a glance at my hand, then back to my face. "What did I just say?"

"I can't just let you pay for me."

He didn't say anything, but his expression alone suggests that he won't be taking my money anytime soon.

"Seriously, dude, I can't just let you pay for me."

"Let's go," Theodore deflects, taking a parcel filled with our purchases when the shop's clerk handed it out to us.

I followed after him, not before attempting to shove my money into his pockets and failing to do so when he shifted away from me. "You're being rude."

"Oh I'm being rude?" Theodore scoffs, and I think that that must've been the first time I hear real emotions in his voice. "For paying for you?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Paying for someone is only nice when they want you to pay for them."

"Well," he murmurs. "What's so wrong with me paying for you when you want me to pay for you."

"Don't gaslight me!"

Theodore smiles at my word, a small laugh bubbling out of him. "I'm doing no such things." And then, he adds in a mocking manner, "dude."

What an ass.

I led Theodore towards The Three Broomsticks, if he wasn't going to take my money then I'll just have to get him something in return. I ordered two butterbeers as he began unwrapping our pastries.

He handed mine to me and dug into his vanilla danish. A minute passes, the two of us eating in silence and I wondered if I should've just taken him to a movie instead, maybe then it'd be less awkward.

The butter beer arrives and I took a sip, wiping my lips with the back of my hand right after. "You have a little something—" my finger points towards my upper lips "—there."

He made quick work in wiping it off, eyes casting down as he turned his head to pick up a tissue paper. His red ears made a reappearance then, embarrassed as ever.

After we finished our meals, Theodore excuses himself as he heads towards the bathroom. I think then that this was the perfect opportunity; I called out to one of the shop's clerks and when they approached, I asked for the check.

The shop clerk, an elderly lady, frowns, "what are you talking about, love? Your boyfriend already covered it."

What? "I'm sorry, you must've gotten me mixed up with another table, I haven't paid yet."

"No?" She frowns. "The brunet, pale, about ye height—" the woman gestures over her head "—isn't with you?"

With me, yes. Boyfriend, no. "Did he pay?"

"Yes," she smiles, "just a second ago really."

If I could scream out of frustration I would. I glared at Theodore when he returned, he seemed to know what had happened as he walked with pride.

"You're not as smart as you think you are," he says, grabbing his things. "I knew what you were thinking."

"Well." I stood up, gathering my things as well. "What am I thinking right now?"

"What an ass I am." Smart ass.

"Lucky guest." I murmur.

"Is it now?" He replied testingly, taking my things from my hands.

I squint my eyes, looking at him threateningly. "I will destroy you, Theodore Nott."

"I'd like to see you try." The amount of stuff in his hands made him look ridiculous, walking out of the inn with little to no expression at all when he adds: "soulmate."

I returned Theodore to his friends by six, having snuck into the ladies room to send a patronus to Mark before doing so. Not a minute goes by when his patronus returns, a cheetah opening up its mouth to cheerfully say: "Okay dude, We're ready for you!"

I did what was asked of me and brought him to the room of requirements, Theodore trailed after me, clearly confused but never uttering a word about it.

Once we arrived in front of the door, I turn to meet his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me today was your birthday?"

He blinks. "It wasn't important."

"Your birthday isn't important to you?"

"No." He murmurs. "Why are we here?"

I push the door open, and it takes him a few seconds to realise what had happened. Elio jumps out, Mark by his side screaming as loudly as they could "happy birthday!"

Theodore stares at them for a bit before turning to me, "is that why you spent the day with me?" He asks first. "They put you up to this?"

If I heard disappointment in his tone, I didn't let it get to me. Mustering up a small smile, I push him towards his friends. "Enjoy your party, Theo."

Elio and Blaise swept him away, pulling him towards one of the corners where the snacks were placed. My expression must've been telling, of what exactly, I didn't know. But Mark seems to notice it, asking me in a quiet hush. "Are you okay?"

I nod distractedly. "Yup, why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," Mark frowns, "you look a little off."

I smile at him. Mark knows me better than I knew myself. "I'm fine," I reassured him, "just a little tired."

"Okay," Mark says, leaving it at that with a sceptical look. "Let's get you something to drink."

"Was today just a ruse to get me away from the castle?"

Theodore had found me an hour after we arrived, looking distracted as ever when he handed over a slice of cake he'd saved for me.

"What?"

"You didn't actually want to bond with me, did you?"

I thought over my options, should I lie to him or just let him know the truth. Deciding on the latter, I tell him: "yeah, Zabini and Malfoy asked me to—" the clench in his jaw caught my attention "—wait, are you upset?"

Truthfully, Theodore says, "yes."

To say I was baffled was an understatement. "Why? What's wrong? Do you not like the party?"

"No," he counters. "It's not the party, the party's fine."

A beat passes by, Theodore hesitating. And then, finally, he says. "It's you."

"Me?" Have I done something to upset him? "Did I say something—"

"I thought you wanted to spend the day with me."

"I'm sorry." I'm not sure why exactly I was apologising but it felt like the right thing to do. "But to be fair, you didn't actually want to spend the day with me, did you?"

He avoids my eyes and I knew then that things can no longer be platonic. "I think you should leave before I do something idiotic."

"Like?"

"Kiss you."

How does one respond to that? His ears aren't red this time round. The look on his face is torn between hesitancy and distress. And I was stupid enough to reach up to him, a palm cradling his face, meeting his dark eyes.

A second passes and when he doesn't make to move away, I stand up to the tip of my toes and press my lips onto his. Theodore leans down, easing the strain of my neck as he kisses back without missing a beat.

A bump of the nose causes us to pull back, looking at one another with wide blown eyes before a subtle glow catches our attention. Tied to our pinkies, the string glows red, a shot of spark passing from his end towards mine only for it to lose its light when none comes from my side to ignite it.

What the spark means exactly, I didn't know. But I will not spend another second waiting around to see what it might meant. "That was a mistake," I say quickly, gathering my things. "Goodnight, Theodore."

I didn't know why I didn't notice it at first, but as I walked away, slice of cake in hand; the feel of plastic beneath the cake caught me off guard. I bring it into my eyesight, a vanilla danish neatly wrapped with a note attached to its side.

It seems like you've got me wrapped around your finger. Do me a favour and don't let it linger.

Blaise had a theory. And that theory consists of his two friends who had yet to find their soulmates. Or so they say.

Gathered around the room of requirement were the same people who attended Theodore's birthday party, give or take five people less.

Blaise stands in the middle of the room, the rest of us lounging on the sofa as we watch him speak. "Come here you," he points at Theodore, then he turns to me, "you as well."

My nerves gets the better part of me, causing me to glance at Theodore for help despite knowing that we were both drowning in the same boat. Did Blaise know about us being soulmates? Did Theodore tell him about it? Maybe I shouldn't have trusted him so blindly.

"You two," he says loudly. "Have been lying to us!" And then, a few notches down, he adds, "I think."

My brows furrowed, feigning innocence. "How so?"

Like a magician, he lifts up his hand dramatically, then grabs Theodore's pale hand in it. And in my eyes, the string was as visible as ever. I think I know where he was going with this and there's nothing to prepare me for what's to come next.

"Pay attention to her fingers okay?" Blaise instructs. I feel faint, dizzy, all the adjectives for nauseousness as each second passes by. "Her soulmate pinkie to be exact."

This is it. This is when they find out and Mark hates me for the rest of his life because I didn't tell him I'd found my soulmate.

Mark frowns, his bottom lips caught in his teeth as he watches on sceptically.

Blaise pulls at Theodore's pinkie, the same exact motion he'd done on end for the last couple of months. And, just like it had before, my finger pulls to Theodore's direction. Blaise pulls at it again and the same set of motions repeats itself.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Elio spoke first.

"Well," I began, everyone's attention turning to me. "Because, it's not your fucking business." Mark stifles a laugh at my words. "Theodore and I chose to keep it a secret for a reason."

"And that reason is?" Malfoy chimes in.

I didn't have to say anything for Theodore to know what I wanted them to know. "We didn't want soulmates."

"And now?" Blaise follows up. "Do you still not want soulmates?"

"Honestly?" I say. "I don't know."

It takes Theodore five seconds to note Mark's arrival at the Slytherin table. And it takes him another three seconds to notice that I wasn't there with them.

Mark chats animatedly with Elio, not once pausing to explain my lack of appearance at tonight's dinner.

Maybe they've grown too fond of me, or maybe Blaise likes me more than Theo thought he did, because he was quick to ask Mark where I was. "Doll's, not having dinner with us tonight?"

"No." Mark didn't even bat an eyelash at the pet name Blaise used. "She caught a cold and asked me to bring her something when I get back."

Theodore eyebrow's knit together curiously. "She's not in the infirmary?"

If the people at the table noticed the hint of concern in his voice, they didn't show it. Well —everyone except Mark that is. A gasp falls from his lips, staring at Theodore with wide eyes. Did he fancy his best friend?

Mark catches himself, shaking his head as he explained. "She said that it was just a common cold and that it'll go away soon. She didn't want to waste Madam Pomfrey's time when she could be focusing on something more pressing."

And when Theodore's eyes narrows. Mark feels the need to clarify himself. "Her words, not mine."

Theodore stands up then, excusing himself as he tells Mark not to worry about me and that he'll get something for me to eat. Mark didn't even get a chance to remind him about my meds before he slipped away and into the kitchens.

Mark didn't stress over it though, something in him knew that Theodore would not forget my medications.

A set of knocks lands on my door, approximately fifteen minutes later. And with a groggy "come in" from my bed; the door clicks open, Theodore standing behind it with a tray of food floating behind him.

"Theo?" I rub my eyes, unsure of what I was seeing. "What are you doing here?"

"Mark tells me you're sick." Did he? "So I brought you dinner." That's ... nice of him to do.

Theodore stands awkwardly by the door, not stepping an inch into a room. A part of me wonders if he was a vampire, waiting to be formally invited in before he could actually do anything. "You can come in."

The tray of food floats over first, resting just on top of my bedside table. Theodore follows in after it, staying a few feet away from my bed. "Wait, who let you in? Through the barrels and stuff?"

"No one in particular." He says. "They left the entrance open."

That was the hufflepuff way of doing things.

"Well thank you." My palm lays flat on my bed, pushing all of my body weight to a seating position. "For this. I know you'd rather spend the night doing something more fun than doing Mark a favour."

Theodore frowns, coming over to my side. "Mark didn't ask me to do this," he tells me; his hand carefully reaching for my arm, the other pressing against the small of my back to help me sit up properly. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

My attempt to resist teasing him was futile, even sick and on the verge of dying, I still think that Theodore's reaction to things —if there was one that is— was adorable. "Awh, did you miss me?"

Theodore didn't bother to say no. He didn't have to, it was clear by the hesitant look on his face that he did miss me. Even if I'd only just seen him yesterday.

"You should eat," he says instead, the glimpse of his tinging red ears not missed by me when he handed me a glass of water. "Drink this, eat, then take your medications."

A roll of my eyes paired with an 'I know' has him standing straight. And somehow, I get the feeling that he thinks he might've overstepped my boundaries. Not knowing what to say —or do for that matter, I settled on telling him: "thank you, again. I really appreciate it, Theo."

Theodore hums and we could both sense that our conversation was ending, but, strangely enough, despite never knowing what to say in front of him, I can't seem to just let him slip away tonight.

A glance at the tray Theo brought, then another back at him, had me asking a question I might be regretting minutes later. "Have you eaten, Theo?"

His eyes fell down onto my hand, the floor, anything but my face. The corner of his lips twists, a small dent in his cheek barely hiding his attempt to bite back a smile. He knew where I was going with this. "No."

A shift to the side, a pat on the empty seat besides me. "Good." I say first. "We can share."

The string tied to our pinkie glows, and this time, unlike the first, the sparks meets in the middle, igniting brighter than it has ever done before.

Being sick gave me a lot of time to reflect. And even more time for me to realise that me saying 'I don't know' complicates things. Everyone seems to be walking around eggshells when the topic of Theodore and I came up and quite frankly I'm fucking tired of it.

Theodore likes me. We're soulmates. This should be easy. I know how I feel, I can make things work.

Like feels childish. Love feels too strong. Infatuated is what I'm not when it comes to Theodore. I care for him the same way he cares for me. That should say something shouldn't it?

What I recently learned about Theodore is that he takes up an entire table at the library. Just him alone, and the whole table that would usually host four students all because he works in a mess.

"Uhm—" he looks up at me. "—can I sit here?"

He nods and turns back to his book. Not moving a single thing to the side. I sigh, organising his mess to one side and making a mental note to tell him off about it later. But for now, I ought to get my feelings sorted out.

"I wanted to talk to you," I say first. Theo hums, signalling that he was listening to me. "Can you look at me, please?"

He looks up from his page and shoved his book to the side, giving me his full undivided attention.

"I thought about it and I don't want to be platonic soulmates anymore," I tell him.

He looks in thought. "So you came here to say that you want to sever the soulmates connection?"

"No!" I say quickly, eyes wide. "No, not that. At all."

He seems to know what was going to come next, the corner of his lips turning upwards but he stops himself, not wanting to get too excited. "What is it then?"

"I care for you," I tell him. "And if you still care for me, I want to give this soulmate thing a shot."

His eyes soften. "Of course, I still care for you." He replies. "And I'm assuming by care you mean love?"

I pursed my lips, going over what I wanted to say and being careful with how I choose to phrase it. Finally, I decided on: "Not love per se," I say first. "Just us taking a step towards it."

" 'course not," he replies. "Baby steps, right?"

"Right," I say, feeling awkward under his gaze. "Baby steps." And then, I added. "Now if we're going to make this soulmate thing work out we need to actually go out."

He nods. "I'll take you to dinner on Friday then."

"Sure." A smile creeps onto my face. "It's a date." The tip of his ears reddens at my words, cute as ever. "I can't wait to see your cute little butt then."

Theodore fixes me a look between amused and judging, he breaks after a bit, shaking his head with a small chuckle. Incredulously he says, "I can't believe I'm in love with you."

"Woah there dude, you're moving a little fast," I said with a small smile. "Slow it down a bit, will you?"

"Too late, my love." And if I had a small liking towards the guy, my feelings were definitely amplified by his stupidly dumb sense of humour. "I've already gotten your name tattooed on my buttocks."

— from bee: i havent wrote in so long, this was so fun!! i always love writing theo so this was just a blast hehe

notes/reblog/feedbacks are greatly appreciated!!

#theodore nott humor #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x hufflepuff!reader #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott fanfic #theodore nott #theodore nott imagines #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott scenarios #Spotify #theo nott x reader #theo nott x you #🧳: my writing

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jolluxstrait · 2 months ago

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MIX 1

Paring: Logan Howlett/Wolverine x reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings/tags: fluff, reader has hair but no other physical descriptions, mutual pining?, can be read as whatever gender desired, no use of y/n

a/n: first fic iv written in several years, feels good to write again. Based off of a prompt, see below. enjoy!!

[They're stuck on a road trip, and she's singing her heart out, while he pretends to hate it, but when she falls asleep, he quietly turns her playlist back on]

—

When Charles Xavier called you and Logan into his office, you had no idea what would come of it. He proceeded to explain that there was a special mission for just the two of you; going up into southern Canada to scout a possible Brotherhood hideout. When Charles offered the Blackbird to you both to use for said mission, you lept at the idea. However, Logan was quick to dismiss it.

“Yeah, no, not happening. The last time I was in that death trap Scott damn near got us all killed.”

You shoot him an annoyed glare, despite knowing that he's right. Scott Summers is good at many things, but piloting that jet is not one of them.

“Yeah, but Scott won't be flying it so there's nothing to worry about!”

You chime in, sounding hopeful that this will somehow convince Logan. In all truth, you don't want to spend any more time with the brooding man than you absolutely have to. The trip in the Blackbird would take around five hours in total. Five hours is not ideal, but doable.

“I don't care, I'm not getting back into that thing. I'll drive us.”

His voice is stern and serious as he speaks, his tone making it clear that he's not backing down. You let out a huff of annoyance at his stubborn attitude, internally grumbling to yourself over spending the next ten hours in Logan's old beat up truck. It's not that you didn't like Logan, quite the opposite, actually. But you knew, deep down, that the two of you would never work out. He was too much of a loner to ever even consider letting someone get close enough to love him and you didn't think that you could handle the rejection from him anyway. So you buried your feelings away in the farthest corner of your mind and committed yourself to just being friends with the grumpy man.

—

The two of you have been on the road for the past three hours. It's been a long and painfully quiet trip so far, the only saving grace being the soft sounds of the radio, humming quiet country tunes that float around the cab of the truck. It's the reason you're still sane, honestly. You stare out the window, head resting in your hand as your elbow is propped up on the side of the door. The scenery has been nothing but tall trees and empty roads since crossing over the Canadian border.

Logan taps his fingers gently against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song that's currently playing. The sound is an ever present reminder of the silence between you two. To your surprise, Logan is the first to break the ice.

“You're not fallin’ asleep over there, are ya?”

His voice is gruff as he speaks, a hint of curiosity in it. He continues to keep most of his attention on the road, only glancing over when you respond.

“No, just watching the trees go by..”

Logan nods his head at your answer, knowing he would be doing the same thing if he wasn't driving.

“You can change the station if ya want.”

You perk up at his offer. It's not that you didn't like country music, more that it wasn't your favorite. And honestly, after the last three hours, you were kind of tired of it. You take him up on his offer, shifting your gaze from the tree-filled scenery to the truck's radio, clicking through the stations, pausing on a few only to change it a couple minutes later.

“There's nothing good on right now.. do you mind if we listen to a CD? I figured I'd bring some since you insisted on driving.”

Despite your genuine question, your tone was a bit pointed, still slightly annoyed at him for wanting to drive instead of fly.

“Sure darlin, whatever ya want.”

Logan gives you a simple shrug, gesturing to the CD player. Even though he was acting very nonchalant about it, he was genuinely curious about what you liked to listen to. He was also hoping that the change in music would give him a much needed distraction to how focused he was on you in the passenger seat. Every rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, every subtle movement of your body as you shift to get comfortable, the way your scent lingers in the air like smog as it completely takes over the original smell of cigars and leather that usually permeates the cab. It was incredibly distracting and he found himself stealing glances at you every couple minutes.

You rustle through your bag for a moment, soon pulling a small CD case from it, taking a few moments to flip through the thin plastic sleeves until finally settling on a plain gray CD with the words “MIX 1” written on the top in black ink. With a smile, you pop the CD into the truck's CD player. A couple seconds of silence falls over the inside of the cab before an upbeat punk rock song rings out through the speakers. Logan doesn't try to hide his surprise, looking at you with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow.

“This really the type of music you like?”

“Yeah, what's wrong with it?”

You glance over at Logan, narrowing your eyes at him. Of course he wouldn't be into the same music as you. All this time on this round, dirt filled planet and he never bothered to broaden his music taste, only sticking to what he knew, what was familiar.

“It's damn noisy is what's wrong with it.”

It's a simple and straightforward answer, exactly what you would expect out of him. He wrinkles his nose as the next song plays, another similar sounding tune from the same genre.

“Yeah well, you said I could listen to whatever I wanted, so you're stuck with it.”

You roll your eyes at him as you start singing along to the second song. You run through the whole CD, getting more into the music with each passing song. Logan, despite keeping up his annoyed facade at your singing and choice of music, is absolutely enamored with you. He steals glances at you every so often, watching as you smile while you get lost in the music, his heart rate increasing at the sight. He takes in every moment of you like this, carefree and having fun, committing it to memory.

Logan knows he shouldn't feel this way about you. He shouldn't want to spend time with you as often as he does, shouldn't want to reach out and grab your hand or brush a stray strand of hair from your face, or find any excuse to touch you. Yet, the urge to do so is ever present. He knows that there's no way that you can feel the same way for him that he does about you. He's not sure if he could even bring himself to let you in, not wanting to taint you with the darkness and trauma he keeps bottled up inside. So he pretends to be indifferent towards you, to always keep you at an arm's length away for your own safety. He subtly shakes his head, pushing his meandering thoughts to the back of his mind as he forces himself to focus on the road. You let out a soft sigh as the CD pops halfway out of the player, signifying that it has reached the end. Logan doesn't move to push it back into the player, keeping his gaze on the road ahead of him. You take that as a sign that he's had enough.

“Alright.” You say, settling back against the leather passenger seat. “It's your turn to pick the music.”

Logan glances down at the radio, reaching up without a word to click the button a few times as he searches through the stations. Finally, he settles back on the old country station. You let out a soft chuckle, not at all surprised that this is what he decided. After about thirty minutes of the quiet music, Logan sneaks himself a glance at you, raising his eyebrows when he sees you asleep in the seat next to him. A small smile tugs on the corners of his lips at the sight of your gentle breathing. He can't help but notice how calm and peaceful you look in this moment, a stark difference from earlier when you were singing your heart out to your music.

Without thinking, he reaches his hand over to push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He pauses as his fingers are mere inches from the strand, hesitating for a moment before finally giving in and gently moving it out of the way of your face. His touch is featherlite, making sure not to disturb you in any way. Logan takes one more good look at you before turning his attention back to the road. As the radio station starts to fizzle out of range, he brings his hand up to change it, noticing your CD still sticking out of the player. With a soft push, he watches as the CD slides back into the slot, the same upbeat punk rock song playing moments later. He turns down the volume a bit so as not to wake you, tapping his fingers to the rhythm of each song on the steering wheel as he lets the CD play. It's still noisy, but knowing that you like it, and the images from you singing your heart out to it earlier are making Logan see the genre in a whole new light.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #Logan howlett fluff #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine x you #Logan wolverine #x men #james logan howlett #logan howlett fic

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galatially · 11 months ago

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❝𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬❞

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 "𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧" 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭 x 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 — you called and i came, the history between us too broad to ignore; when he showed up on your doorstep five years after he disappeared in the middle of the night, logan howlett decided to clear the air

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 — 5K

𝐰𝐚��𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝟏𝟖+, strong language, exes, angst, smut, soft boi™ logan, exes to tentative lovers

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — it is time to spread the agenda of logan howlett and his influence on my brain rot for most of my nerdy life. shout out to lizzy mcalpine for making "ceilings" and having me spiral over it for a year!

also also, y'all, i know. i'm horrible at deadlines. but it's what y'all love about me lol

also also first post of 2024!

as always, lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics

Your fingers rubbed moisturizer into his skin, your fingers both light and firm.

“You have so many scars.” He grunted in response. “When you tell me, am I going to have to set a house on fire?”

Logan laughed. “And why would you do that, bubba?”

“To defend your honor, of course.” You laid across his back to whisper in his ear, the warmth of your breath making the hairs on his body erect. “Can’t have you being the hero all the time. My shoulders are strong, too.”

“…listening? Logan? Logan!”

He blinked, his vision focusing on Ororo’s concerned gaze.

“What’d you say?”

A soft smile graced her lips. “I asked where you were going.”

Logan hoisted his duffle bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got some business to attend to.”

Ororo hummed. “Would this have to do with a certain someone that lives in the Canadian mountainside?” He didn’t answer as he threw the bag in the back of his truck. “Do you think that’s the best thing for her right now?”

“I just want to make sure she’s okay, Munroe.”

“And then what?” Ororo crossed her arms. “What are you going to do when you see that she’s fine?”

He threw her a hard glare. “I just want to see her. Is that so fuckin’ wrong?”

Her features softened. “You had another dream about her.”

Logan turned back towards the garage. “What does it matter? I just need to see her, Munroe.”

She held her hands up. “I can’t stop you. I just worry that you’re about to uproot this woman’s life because you can’t let her go.”

He took in a sharp breath. She wasn’t wrong; he’d spent the better part of six years raking himself over the coals at how he ended things. If he allowed them, the memories of you screaming and your brown eyes red and puffy from crying haunted him more than any battle he’d ever been in.

“Look, if you’re so hellbent on going to see her, then go. You’re an adult and you have to live with your decisions.”

He walked around to the driver’s side of his truck. “Tell our fearless leader that I’m goin’ out of town and I’ll be back when I can.”

Ororo nodded and waved, a sad smile on her lips.

He shouldn’t fucking be here.

The second Logan crossed the border, he could think of nothing else but to get to you. Thirty-eight hours and he didn’t sleep for any of them. No, his mind’s eyes played memories of you: how soft your skin was, that fig and jasmine perfume you loved. The silken warmth of your cunt. He fucked his fist like a horny fourteen year old in that dingy hotel in BC. If he focused hard enough, he could get the tone of your voice just right — those breathy, pleading moans that you let out only for him. He could get lost in the memories, pretend that he was beside you in your bed, other people be damned.

But that was thirty-eight hours ago.

Now, here he was. His hands gripped the steering wheel of his truck until his knuckles went white, silently cursing himself for even showing up. He hadn’t seen you in, what? Six years? Who the hell was he to appear on your doorstep after the shit he pulled?

His eyes scanned the forest surrounding your home. He hated that you lived so far away from immediate civilization. It took you thirty minutes to get into the nearest town for work and you essentially lived off the grid. When he’d happened upon your home that fateful October evening, he was amazed that you had a working phone, let alone Wi-Fi. Whenever you crossed his mind, he thought the worst. He used to beg you to get an apartment in the city, but you always refused.

“I’m not ready to let get of this place just yet.” You looked up at him from drawing circles on his bare bicep. “Unless you want to give up city life and live out here with me?”

He didn’t answer; even back then, Logan knew that he was bound to hurt you. His refusal to give you more than idle pleasure was a point of contention for you both. Jean always said that he could be hard to talk to because if he wasn’t picking a fight, he was evading questions. But unlike Jean, you weren’t one to back down. When he’d divert or blatantly ignore your questions, you stood your ground. You didn’t give him the chance to distract you with sudden affection. You wanted to resolve issues as soon as they were made present.

It’s something Logan both loved and hated about you.

“Fuck this.” He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. He blew out a determined breath and opened his car door, his feet moving before he changed his mind. As he got closer to the house, he noticed the red “SOLD” sign on the lawn. His chest thrummed with…pain? Remorse? Fear?

What would he do if you left?

He was on your porch now, his heart hammering against his ribcage, fighting to get to you. He raised his hand to knock on the door as it was opening, being met with the face he’d been dreaming about for half a decade.

Your brows were furrowed in confusion. “James.”

His hazy memory didn’t do you justice; your eyes seemed more intense than the last time he’d seen you. You were dressed in an oversized t-shirt — eerily familiar to an old Pink Floyd shirt he thought he’d lost years ago — and shorts barely peeking out from under the hem of the shirt. Your skin smooth and begging to be touched. Your dark coils were thrown into a bun, pieces falling out in various places. You weren’t outwardly upset but you could school your features better than anyone he knew. Your body was half-facing him and half-facing the tiny hall that led to the inside of the house. There was a solemnity to your face that he didn’t recognize.

A voice in the furthest part of his mind whispered that it was because of him.

“Y’know you’re the only person that still calls me James?”

Your features flattened. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just passin’ through Edmonton and ended up here .”

“You drove for three days on a whim?”

“I was on my way back from handlin’ somethin’,” he said, the familiar finality in his tone. His gaze went past your shoulders and into the darkness of your home. “Have you eaten yet?”

You blinked. “Not yet.”

He nodded, his blue eyes back on you. “Can I come in? I’ll make you somethin’.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve slammed the door in his face and went back to packing up the rest of your bedroom. But instead, you moved to the side and let Logan inside. He thanked you and walked inside, toeing off his shoes, and heading back towards the kitchen like he’d been doing it forever.

You looked out at his old, rusted truck one last time before closing the door and going to the kitchen. From the tiny hallway, you could hear him humming to himself; an old song his mother used to sing to him, he’d told you once. He’d put his hair up into a bun at the top of his head, a few strands falling to frame his face. His tan skin, the same skin that had scars that even his mutation couldn’t heal, glowed under the dull glow of your kitchen light. You used to always tell him beautiful he was, but he’d wave you off in that Logan way, telling you that no one was as beautiful as you.

You leaned up against the doorjamb. “Last I heard, you were living in New York. You teach at some fancy school?”

Logan chuckled, mincing up onions and garlic. “I wouldn’t say teach.”

“So, what, you get paid to hang out with fourteen year olds in upstate New York? Sounds kind of sketchy.”

“I teach hand to hand combat,” he glanced over at you, “the kids that I teach it to are like me. Mutants.”

You wrinkled your nose. “I never liked that word; mutants. They make you all sound like failed experiments.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No.” You crossed your arms. “Far from it.”

Logan nodded, more to himself than your declaration, and moved to face the stove. He dumped his vegetables in a small pan to cook. He reached to the left of him — muscle memory, you reasoned — and grabbed a jar of maize. “You’d like it. New York.”

“You think?”

Logan lifted a shoulder. “Be better than livin’ all alone in the mountains.”

You let out a hum. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Where you headed?”

“I don’t know yet,” your eyes dropped to your fidgeting hands, “I didn’t think that I’d be able to sell the house, actually.”

“Why did you? Sell?”

“You know why,” you said, your voice lowered to a whisper. “I held onto it for her and when she died, I didn’t want to stay.”

“‘M sorry I didn’t reach out. Your mother was a remarkable woman.”

You made a bitter sound. “Yeah, well, you’re good at leaving when the wind blows.”

He pursed his lips, turning around to turn off the stove. “You got any plates or bowls left out?”

“James, I —”

“’S fine, Y/N. Bowls?”

You blew out a breath and walked over to the cupboard beside the stove and grabbed two plates, handing them over to Logan. Your knuckles brushed up against his but you kept your eyes on the oak wood of the cupboard.

“Thanks.”

You rushed out a hushed “you’re welcome” and moved back to stand in front of the sink. The air was tense and you had to fight the impulse to pull Logan to you and let him consume you, if only for tonight. You tightened your hands into fists, feeling the bite of your nails as they embossed your skin.

Logan handed you a plate and walked to your tiny kitchen table in the far corner of the room. He sat in his chair: close enough to the back door and facing towards you. Where before it was to smile and regard you with tenderness, now there was unease in his eyes.

You’d forgotten that you didn’t ask what he was making, so the spread in front of you gave you pause: it was your mother’s polenta recipe. “You remembered.” The words came out airy, surprised.

“You’re the last thing that I’d ever forget, bubba.”

“Don’t do this, Logan.” You set your spoon down. “Just…don’t.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, either!” You pinched the bridge of your nose. You pushed your plate away and looked away from your former lover.

What were you doing? He showed up, out of the blue, making you dinner…to do what? The question had been clawing at you the entire visit. Why now? What could Logan possibly want from you after all of these years?

Logan leaned back in the chair, the wood creaking in protest against his broad frame. You kept wanting to speak, break the tense silence, but you couldn’t find the words. Looking at him, he seemed too still. Like a marble statue molded to the chair, anchoring him to this room with you.

“I fucked up, bubba.”

Your brows canted. “What do you mean?”

“That night…the last night that I was here, I said some things that I shouldn’t have. Made promises that I didn’t know if I could keep.” One of his large hands scrubbed down his face, his eyes still on the ceiling. “I told you that I’d leave everythin’ behind to stay.”

Your bottom lip quivered. You remembered; he’d come here that night more impassioned than usual. His hair wind-swept, his cheeks wind-whipped and red, he pulled you in for one of the most passionate kisses you’d ever had in your life. A clash of tongue and teeth against fleshy lips and curves of skin that left you a shaking mess beneath the thin sheets of your bed. You laid in his arms, running your fingers along the lines of his collarbone, when you’d asked if he’d stay. You weren’t begging, didn’t even lower your voice to a low hush to persuade him. You were as direct as you always were, determined to know where you stood in the universe that was Logan Howlett.

“You lied.”

His eyes, darkened with sorrow, finally found yours. “I lied.”

You blinked back tears. “Why? If you knew that you weren’t going to make space for me in your life, why make me believe you would? I uprooted my life for you, Logan! I was going to sell my mother’s house and ride off with you into the sunset! And for what? For you to leave me alone?”

“I couldn’t take you with me then, Y/N. Somethin’…came up.”

“I know, Ororo told me.” Logan shot forward, his eyes wide. “She came and found me two years ago. She said that there was an incident and that you almost died. Said that you kept murmuring my name, telling them to make sure that I was safe.”

He scoffed. “Always meddlin’, that woman.”

“At least she cared enough about you to come find me.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re walkin’ a thin line, bubba.”

“Don’t fucking call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore, Logan.” You stood up from the table and opened the back door. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Get. Out,” you hissed. “Thank you for making me dinner, but I want you to go.”

Logan crossed his arms, throwing you a hard look. “No.”

Your nostrils flared. “James, get —”

You’d forgotten how fast he was. He was out of the chair and in front of you in an instant, your next retort dying on your tongue. One of his large hands cupped your chin and the other slammed the door shut. His blue eyes roamed your face, searching for something.

Though he towered over you, hell, he overpowered you, you didn’t back down. “I want you to leave.”

“I’m not leavin’. Not until I say what I have to say.”

Your eyes brush along the seams of his lips, lingering, before meeting his smoldering gaze again. “Then say what you need to say and go. I’m done with this.”

Logan’s fingers gripped your chin harder, his gaze hard. “We’re not done talkin’, bubba.” There was an intensity to the nickname as it left his mouth that made your thighs clench together. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing up against yours.

You gripped the sleeve of his flannel, your pulse fluttering in your ears. The hand that had closed the door moved to the small of your back and pushed you into his pelvis. You gasped at his hardened erection against your thigh.

“You can yell at me, you can fuckin’ hit me if you need to.” He rested his forehead against yours. “But don’t tell me to leave. I don’t know where to go if I’m not with you.”

“You haven’t had me in years, James,” you said, roughly. You knew that he caught the desperation in your tone, your words. You tipped your head back and lifted up on tiptoe to press your lips to his. When you finally noticed that he hadn’t returned the kiss, you started to pull back, a pit growing in your stomach.

“I’m —”

His arm tightened around your middle to keep you still. His mouth molded against yours, hungry and desperate.

You pawed at his flannel, helping him shrug out of it. Logan cupped his hands under your thighs and lifted, wrapping your legs around his waist. You sucked a bruise along the curve where his neck and collarbone meet, relishing in the hiss he let out.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He pulled back, his gaze intense. “I need to say this before anythin’ else happens between us.” Your brows creased. “I hurt you. I hurt you and it fuckin’ killed me, Y/N, and I’m sorry.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know Logan enough to know his favorite color or his mother’s name, but you knew enough about him to know that he didn’t apologize. Didn’t matter if he was wrong or right, he just didn’t. But the man before you wasn’t the man you knew six years ago. Now that you were looking at him, you could see it all: the dark circles, the stiffness of his body that only came from being nervous.

Despite your assertive nature, you didn’t hold grudges. Those types of feelings need to constantly be fed into and that was energy you couldn’t spare. Not even for men that you fell in love with too quickly.

You put your lips to his again. He mirrored your movements and carried you to your bedroom. He sucked a bruise onto the skin between your ear and shoulder, making you let out a whimper. You ground your hips against his hardened erection.

“Fuck, honey,” he hissed.

“I need you inside of me, James.” You nipped at his earlobe. “Please.”

He kissed you, long and hard, before helping you out of your thin shorts. His thick fingers glided through your puffy folds, a guttural groan leaving his throat.

“You this wet for me, Y/N?”

You mewled in response, your hips moving against his digits, begging for pressure on your swollen pearl.

He gulped, his eyes hungrily tracing over your lust-drunken expression. His cock was straining almost painfully against the denim of his jeans but he couldn’t stop staring at you. He drew the pad of his thumb along the curves of your parted lips, sucking a breath when the tip of your tongue barely swept against the skin.

He dipped the digit between your lips, watching with rapt pleasure as you suckled and moaned around it. He groaned and curved his free hand around the base of your throat. “Such a good girl, aren’t ya?”

You shuddered. “I can be.”

“Oh, yeah?” He suckled a love bite onto your skin. “You think you can be mine tonight?”

You nodded eagerly.

Logan chuckled and threw you over his shoulder, taking what seemed like three large steps into your bedroom and tossed you lightly onto the bed. He took hold of your face and slotted his lips over yours, licking deeply into your mouth.

You pawed and pulled at his flannel, clumsily helping him out of it while trying to keep kissing him. He hummed against your lips and worked your thin shorts down your thighs before ripping them down the middle. The cool air against your bare cunt gave you gooseflesh. Your hands moved to work at his belt buckle as his own pulled at the shirt you wore.

“Was wonderin’ where this went.”

You chuckled. “You barely wore it.” You made a triumphant noise upon getting his pants undone and to the floor, looking up at him from beneath your thick, dark lashes.

He wanted to devour you. One of his big paws cupped your face and he ground out, “Are you sure, bubba?”

You took his heavy cock in one of your hands, moving up and down the length of it. You smirked at his sharp breath as you eased down to your knees. Without breaking eye contact, you took him into your mouth, a low groan vibrating against your tongue.

“Jesus,” he gripped your curls into one fist and threw his head back, “just like that, sugar.”

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, the tip of your nose pressing against his pubic mound. The hand that wasn’t giving gentle squeezes to his thigh when to massage his heavy balls.

A low groan, bordering a growl, tumbled past Logan’s lips. “You have to move, baby. ‘M dyin’.”

You moved your hand from his balls to curl around the base of him, slowly working in tandem with your mouth. You moaned around his cock, spit dribbling down the sides of your mouth. You lightly scraped your teeth along the length of him. Logan hissed and gripped the sides of your face and started fucking your face. Your eyes were rimmed red, tears streaming down your face, and yet he looked at you with the reverence reserved for altars and gods.

“‘M cummin’…’m —”

He came in thick ropes into your mouth, his hips stuttering as he was coming down. His hands fell from the sides of your face to rest them on the tops of his thighs.

You pushed off of Logan with a faint “pop” and sat back against your calves. Your eyes trailed up and down Logan’s frame; you’d forgotten how big he was. Broad shoulders and back, large hands, thick, corded muscles. He could sometimes be as foreboding as he looked.

Then, post nut clarity smacked the shit out of you.

“Shit.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, me, too.”

“No. I mean, shit like we shouldn’t have done that.” You pushed yourself onto your feet. “Where’s my shirt?”

“You mean my shirt?”

You ignored his jibe and scanned the room for the garment. One of his hands shot out and pulled you onto his lap.

“I can smell ya, sweetheart.”

Your brows creased for a few seconds before you understood what he’d meant. You gulped, your chest rising and falling in hard pants. “Doesn’t matter, James. This was a mistake.”

His eyes — those intelligent, ever-searching eyes — darkened, a hunger in them that you hated that you missed. “Was it? What’s so wrong about two people findin’ each other again?” His thumb swept along your bottom lip. “‘M all yours to do whatever you need, baby.”

Your tongue darted out, barely pressing against his skin before his mouth claimed yours. He eased you onto your back as his hand traversed the expanse of your torso. His hands pawed and kneaded at your breasts, rubbing and twisting your nipples into stiff peaks. Your back canted towards his touch. His mouth suckled at your right nipple, his other hand still playing at the other.

“James,” you pleaded.

“What, bubba?” He chuckled darkly. “Use your words.”

Every word that flashed in your mind died in your throat. Only incoherent pants and groans left you. Logan switched to your left breast and one of his free hands cupped your mound. Your eyes screwed shut. The rough pad of his thumb brushed up against your clit, sticky with your slick.

“So wet and I’ve barely touched you.”

Your hips bucked and he rubbed the bundle of nerves again. Slow, tortuous swipes that sent shocks to your system and tightened your belly with need. Just before the coil snapped, his cock drove into you. Tears fell from your eyes and a choked gasp ballooned in your chest.

“Fuck, honey, s’good.” Logan’s voice was hoarse and desperate. He fucked into you like a man possessed; his big hands gripped your hips, surely leaving bruises behind. He moved one hand to curl at the base of your throat. Vignettes of memories past played in your mind’s eye and you let out a ragged keen, moving your hips to meet his thrusts. His name passed your lips. “Yeah, baby?”

You gripped one of his forearms. “‘M close.”

Rough skin swept across your clit. “Let go for me, bubba. C’mon.”

Your back canted as a guttural moan ripped from your throat. Logan pulled you into his chest, whispering my good girl and I’m here in your ear as you came down. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. He’d never left you behind six years ago and this was just another evening for the two of you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you buried your face into his chest.

“Hey.” He lifted your chin to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I hate this,” your voice quivered, “I hate that you came back. I hate that I still — ” You shook your head. “We shouldn’t have done that, James.”

Logan cupped your face in his hands. “What do you want me to do? I’ll do anythin’ you ask me to, Y/N, you have to know that.”

“Do I?”

He pulled out of you and gathered you in his arms as he tucked you both into bed. His deep, even breaths reverberated up your spine. You sat in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.

“I never meant to hurt you. Hurtin’ you was the last thing that I wanted to do and there’s nothin’ I could do to fix that.” He pressed his lips to the nape of your neck. “Just…talk to me. Please.”

“You broke me, Logan, do you know that? I broke all of my rules for you and it broke me. I was already grieving my mother and you made me grieve you when I never had you to begin with.”

“I know,” he rasped.

“Do you?”

“When Storm came to visit you, she wasn’t jokin’. I almost fuckin’ died.” He ran the backs of his fingers up and down your spine, his tone faraway. “I was slippin’ away, could barely focus on anythin’ in front of me for too long. Then suddenly, your face was the only thing I saw. I could picture you so clearly, down to the micro expressions that I didn’t even realize I’d paid attention to.” He rested his chin atop your head. “I’d made sure that I never thought of you too often or I’d leave everythin’ behind to come back to you.”

“And yet, here you are.” Your voice wobbled at the end. “You broke the one rule you shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, well, rules are meant to be broken. I don’t regret showing up. Even if this is the only thing I could get, I’d fuckin’ do it all over again just to see you, bubba.”

You turned over to face him, your brown eyes hard. “Yeah, but bodies weren’t, James. You shouldn’t have to nearly die to decide that I’m worth seeing again.”

“You really love half-listenin’, don’t you?” He held your chin between his fingers, lifting your eyes to his. “I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left, Y/N. The only reason that I didn’t keep in touch was because I was afraid that you wouldn’t want to see me. Like you said, bodies weren’t meant to broken.”

“Neither were hearts,” you murmured.

He nodded. “And would yours consider lettin’ me back in? It’s selfish to ask, I know, but I don’t want to let you go again, bubba.”

You threaded your fingers between his. “I want to. But how will I know if you’ll stay this time, James? What’s changed in the last six years?”

Logan brought the back of your hand up to his lips. The warmth in his eyes, while not unfamiliar, made your breath catch. For a split second, you remembered that he could hear your heartbeat fluttering madly in your chest, your pulse against his forearm.

“When do you leave for New York?”

Your brows knitted together. “I should be done packing in a few days. Why?”

He pulled one of your legs over his hip, laughing when you sucked in a breath. “We’ll go into town tomorrow, pawn all the stuff you’re not usin’ anymore, and pack up the rest in the truck. We’ll make a trip out of it.”

“And where would we go after that? I’m not living in a boarding school.”

“I have a place of my own, thank you very much,” he said, smirking, “it’s not much but it’s mine. It could use a…softer touch, I think.”

You sat up on your elbow. “Yeah?”

“‘M gettin’ old, bubba. Like, obviously not so much physically, but mentally? I’ve seen wars, watched people that I care about die. Walked away when I should’ve stayed.” He threaded his fingers through your free hand. “I’m sayin’ all this to say that, if you’ll have me, I want to stay.”

You hummed, looking down at your joined hands. If tonight proved nothing else, you and Logan were tethered each other for better or worse. There would never be a moment where you wouldn’t think of each other and that scared you. But if you knew nothing else, you knew that you loved him. You loved James Howlett.

“Will you want to stay? I’m not about to uproot my life just for you to leave me again.”

He pulled you close, putting his forehead to yours. “The worst mistake I’ve ever done is leave you behind Y/N Y/L/N. I should’ve told you that I loved you five years ago.” You gasped. “I love you, bubba, and I regret everyday not that I never told you.”

“Say it again.”

He took your face in his hands and smiled, the peach hue of the sun warming his face. “I love you, Y/N Y/L/N. I’ve loved you for the past six years and I will never stop lovin’ you.”

Tears pooled in the corners of your eyes. You wanted him to say these words, waited for them for over half a decade. But they were…heavier than you anticipated. Though your own confession sat on your tongue, too much clung to them; the last fight you had, your mother dying shortly after and how you resented him even more for leaving you alone at a time like that. More than anything you hated that you cared about him so quickly just for him to leave.

“You don’t have to say it back yet.” Logan smiled some. “Five years is a long time to grieve something.”

You put a hand to his cheek. “You know that I want to, though, don’t you?”

“I know,” he kissed you again, “and we’ll get you there. One day at a time.”

𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — given the fact that i haven't written in literal months, y'all have no idea how happy i am to have churned this out. happy 2024!

#galatially #Annie's1KKittiesWritingChallenge #touch me like nobody else does #logan howlett #logan howlett x black!reader #wolverine #wolverine x black!reader

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kechiwrites · 2 years ago

Text

not quite heart-shaped

simon “ghost” riley x medic!reader

synopsis: you and simon both have the 14th off, and by god you were going to make the most of it. pt. 4/?

wc: 2.3k

cw: afab + fem!reader, fluff, banter, cunnilingus, fingering, teasing, very light breeding kink, femme pet name (princess), no use of y/n ever.

an: the return of medic reader, special thanks to @weebitofaslag who with a single comment reignited my love for their dynamic. babes all my knowledge of the military comes from romance novels, mw2 campaign and my fleeting contact with the canadian armed forces. so like if i get something wrong…don’t tell me. happy valentines day!

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3

"Three." The tense quiet of the bedroom is disrupted by your offer.

Ghost stands in front of you, and despite his crossed arms his posture is deceptively casual.

He scoffs at your pitch. The standoff is common for the two of you. Basically foreplay at this point. Pretending to be irritated and annoyed with each other until you're basically begging to rip each other's clothes off.

"No way." He grunts, but doesn't provide a number of his own.

You can't keep the disbelief out of your tone.

"Less than three, Simon? You're losing your touch!"

That does get a rise out of him and he stops leaning against the bathroom door frame.

"More than three. Anything less than five is a waste of both of our days off. But you knew that, didn't you, princess?"

"I don't know if I have five in me to give, honestly." You choke out, already tugging off the sweater you wore.

"If I'm eating you out, I'm spending the day down there." He huffs.

You're breathless when you finally respond, your cool and collected demeanour crumbling in the wake of his assertion.

"Yeah okay, that's fine, but wanting to fuck me after? I may not even be conscious." When he doesn’t respond, you gasp dramatically, like a soap opera lead discovering a villain’s plot. "Maybe that's what you want! Simon! Who knew you were so depraved?" It’s easy to be silly with him lately, even more so when you’re both free of the oppressive air of the base you’re both stationed at.

"Get on the bed or get out of my house." His shirt’s already off, and it’s oh so hard to stay on the task of mocking him when the cut muscle and little bit of fat on his torso shine under the room’s low light. With the mask still on, and the dark fabric of his pants obscuring his bottom half, he makes quite the sight. The pale, wide expanse of his chest, only broken up by tattoos and healed, pink scars and sandy, blond chest hair makes your mouth water. He steps towards you, hooking the thumb under the mask and pulling it up. It feels as though the cloth is moving in slow motion, your heart beating loud and erratic with anticipation. When he stops so it rests on his nose, you exhale, not quite disappointed, but you sure as hell aren’t relieved.

“Sex in a bed?” You question facetiously, willing your brain to revert back to being a little shit. You know he can’t stand when you're being a brat, it reminds him of just how easily he’d lost control, just how messily he’d fucked you the first time, but around Simon you just can't seem to stop yourself, “You're spoiling me.” You lay back on the bed as ordered, contorting your arms to shimmy out of your bra, then your bottoms, tugging your underwear along with them. Not a thong this time, a fact that seems to disappoint Simon when he notices your regular boyshort panties entangled in your discarded sweatpants.

“Yeah, don't get used to it, I'm just tired of the smell of antiseptic.” He mutters, kicking your discarded clothes off to the side.

You snort derisively, spreading your legs so he can lay between them, allowing for him to brush the petal soft skin of his lips against your hip, your thigh, just above your knee. “Ladies and gentlemen, the last true romantic.” You mumble, patting the top of his head, lamenting your inability to card your fingers through his fine blonde hair.

Your entire body jolts when his tongue comes in contact with your clit, a full body shiver alerting Ghost to just how badly you'd needed this. He hasn't shaved and his stubble scrapes the soft skin of your inner thighs, forcing a jolt up your spine, shuddering breaths escaping your lungs as his mouth gets better acquainted with the lips of your cunt.

He drags his tongue over you in your entirety, taking special interest in the skin just below your entrance, he stays there, skimming, sucking, licking, until you're worried he'll manage to give you a hickey there, on your fucking taint. He has you dripping with his spit and your own slick, and the sound when he returns to your clit is obscene. He brings both hands up towards your abdomen, but neither continues the course to where you want them, on top of your chest, plucking at your nipples, or even around your throat, obstructing your airway. Instead, Simon's left hand pushes down on your abdomen, and his right gently shifts the hood of your clit up so he can abuse it better.

All the soldiers in all the world and you had to hook up with the one who eats pussy like that?

"Fuck." You wince, and you twitch away from him as best you can, which only makes him suck harder, like he’s giving you ‘two for flinching’. You groan loud and unashamed, assured by the privacy afforded by not fucking on base for once. Your toes curl and relax over and over, the periodic tremble of your hips against his mouth has him holding you down as best he can, determined to pull more sounds from your wide open mouth. Your whole body tenses and you let out a litany of curses only disrupted by stutters of his name, all while you clench around nothing. He’s mumbling into you as you come, but whatever he’s saying ultimately doesn’t fucking matter when the vibrations of his voice make you want to cry or scream or kick Simon in his stupid masked face.

There's barely any hangtime between your orgasm shuttering through you and Simon circling his arms around your thighs before he tongue fucks you mercilessly, letting the tip of the muscle broach your entrance while he drags the edge of his teeth over the still buzzing flesh of your labia. He hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you onto his face, until you get with the program and begin rolling your hips, pressing your clit against the bridge and tip of his nose, allowing his tongue to push deeper within you.

Your body is already dripping its satisfaction all over his chin, and this time with breath barely in your lungs it takes longer for him to get you into a place of desperation again. But by God, does Simon Riley get you there. This time he takes a break from the constant contact between your cunt and his tongue to slip one of his thumbs into your entrance, fucking you with slow and deliberate strokes, like a promise of what he’ll do to you later when he finally fucks you. Long, greedy swipes of his tongue jar your brain like a hit to the head. You try to struggle away, levering up with your arms before he tugs you down again like a fucking ragdoll, like you trying not to lose your fucking mind is a slight inconvenience to him. He lays wet, panting, open mouth kisses over the pulsing heat of your cunt, and when you you raise your head to - fuck you don’t know - curse his entire bloodline, you can see he’s helplessly grinding his hips into the mattress, seeking some sort of friction while he tongues at your folds, while you soak him to the knuckle. It’s hot, hotter than it has any right to be and you flop back down, turning your head into his pillow to muffle your moans. Old habits and all that. Unfortunately, the pillow is steeped in Simon’s scent, and your eyelids drift closed when you inhale deeply. Your breath stalls and you ride out yet another climax on his tongue, this time very grateful for the way he fingers you through it, even if his thumb isn’t nearly big enough. The bed beneath you bears the brunt of your orgasm this time, damp sheets attesting to your fervent enjoyment.

“What a mess you’ve made.” He speaks, once you stop huffing, voice disturbingly even, like he didn’t just factory reset your body. Which is…incredibly irritating.

“You know technically as a doctor I outrank you.” You snip, nose in the air.

“So?” He lifts his head, but his eyes are still locked between your legs, not quite able to decide if he wants to move from where he is so clearly comfortable.

“So…” you mock him, squeezing your thighs around his neck, until his stare is redirected to your face. “you should be fucking nice to me, asshole.” He digs his thumbs into the back of your knees, until you release him. Slowly, he drags himself up, over your body until he can lay on his back next to you.

“You know, I really should have finished inside you that first time. Knocked you up and had you taken off base.” And wouldn’t that have been a fun conversation for you to have with your CO. ‘I’m so sorry ma’am, he wears a mask and has big hands and knows my kinks. I had no choice, ma’am.’

“Stop talking or I’m gonna sit on your dick.” You whisper, shutting your eyes against the harsh beam of the light overhead. Your heart rate is finally starting to settle, and you’re grateful for the moment of reprieve, the few moments he gives for you to stitch your mind back together, to regain purposeful use of the human language.

Shoulder to shoulder in his bed, and no longer occupied with singing Simon’s praises, your mind begins to harmlessly wander, unhelpfully cataloguing that you aren’t even halfway through what he’s planned for you. You also start to filter through your responsibilities due in the coming days. It’s automatic at this point, a system you developed during school, when papers and projects and your social life all constantly contradicted each other. You’d come, at the hands of yourself or someone else, and your orgasm cleared brain began building a calendar. Nothing today, of course, you’d cleared your schedule and no one had questioned why. Most people wouldn’t question anyone taking off Valentines.

The “holiday” never really stuck out to you in the past, for one reason or another. Work, med school, family stuff, hell sometimes you just didn’t fucking feel like it. But this year, today, you can’t help yourself.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Simon.” You puff, keeping your eyes trained on the ceiling, letting your brain make patterns out of the popcorn ceiling.

“Ah,” he vocalizes, voice gruff. “Right.” he shifts in his bed, and you figure you’ve got about 30 seconds before he gives you the dusty combat boot. Your face burns with embarrassment, why the fuck did you say that? When did he ever give you even the slightest inclination he gave a shit about some overblown, capitalistic, aggrandized-

“Here.” A bag of jellybeans is unceremoniously plopped onto your bare chest, right between your tits.

“Where were you hiding these?” You gawp, struggling to string together a sentence as you examine the bag of colourful candies. It has a bow on it. You finger the pre-tied ribbon, stuck on with an adhesive pad.

“Under the bed.” He grunts, rubbing at his eyes and the bridge of his nose, like he’s fending off a headache, but you think he may just be embarrassed, if the pink tips of his ears are anything to go by.

“This is sweet.” You choke out, and you have to sink your teeth into your already swollen lower lip to stop from giggling hysterically. “Thank you, Simon.”

“Mng.” He makes the noise in his throat, forgoing the English language for the easy comfort of grunts, watching you tear the bag open and chew on a handful of the brightly coloured beans. All at once, like some kind of animal. The flavours don’t quite go together, strawberry and buttered popcorn and root beer. Others you can’t even begin to pin down. But you're too frazzled to eat them how you usually would, your favourites first, then making combinations with whatever’s left, guided by the suggestions on the back of the bag. And ultimately, it’s not altogether too unpleasant. It works, in a fucked up, saccharine sweet kind of way. Kind of like you and-

“Alright, put it away.” He rasps, turning over to cover you with his weight once more, sliding down to get started on orgasm three.

He plucks the bag out of your hands and drops it on the nightstand near you, devoid of any knick knacks or photographs, just a beat up 70s style alarm clock that acts as a pedestal for your candy.

“My beans!” You shout, trying in vain to secure the confection for further enjoyment. You give up your fruitless endeavour when Simon sinks his teeth into the flesh of your breast on his way back down to your pussy.

“I didn’t get you anything.” You moan, pressing the cool palms of your hands to your overheated face, soothing the mix of embarrassment and giddiness stirring in your mind.

“I’ll live.” He grouses, bending your knees, holding your thighs up and together with both palms at the back of your knees. You can’t see his face. Have never seen the whole thing, but you’d bet all the jellybeans in the fucking world, that Simon Riley’s cheeks are pink.

the beans were soap’s idea for sure. poor guy’s definitely heard them fucking more than once. support city girls, reblog what u like. happy valentines.

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