#it's do many little things that feel like they should be nothing

[ylangelegy]

is it casual now? (teaser) 🫀 seungcheol x reader.

★ seungcheol x makeup artist!f!reader. ★ teaser word count: ~8,000 ★ genre/warnings: mdni. 18+ content. situationship/friends with benefits, light angst, use of pet name ('love'). soft dom!seungcheol, making out, biting/marking, protected sex. let me know if i missed anything! ★ footnotes: this has been on my backburner for months. it's admittedly a full-blown story in need of hard editing, and so i'm posting this in hopes of bullying myself into working on the whole thing. should it come down to it, though, i like to think this can stand on its own. enjoy. <3

Seungcheol has been in the industry long enough to know that everybody had vices.

Trainees, rookies, veterans. It didn't matter. There were dangerous, risky vices. Alcohol, drugs, smoking. There was dating, too, of course. Dating fans, dating fellow idols.

Seungcheol didn't do drugs. He smoked socially, but he would rather not. And he drank, sure, but never to an unhealthy amount. Dating, however—

Did it really count when there was only really ever one person he treated like a vice?

You've been in his life since the group debuted. Nine years, give or take. And then, at one point, he just... tried something with you. And it clicked, fell into place, and now you've been sneaking around for the better half of three years. It's the one place Seungcheol feels like he can breathe, can get away. But it's also the biggest secret he's kept.

You're his makeup artist, after all.

When the two of you started off, you both insisted on nothing serious. To 'keep it casual'.

That worked perfectly for Seungcheol. He likes to think it's still working for him, as he raps at the door of your apartment and waits for you to open up. His wristwatch says that it's midnight, but it doesn't matter. He knocks a little louder, growing a touch impatient.

You open the door, and you're greeted with Seungcheol looking reproachful. "Yah," he chides. "Why haven't you been answering my texts?"

When you rub your eyes with the back of your hands and look over your shoulder to glimpse at your wall clock, Seungcheol almost feels apologetic. Almost. “Cheol,” you say exasperatedly, slowly. “It’s the middle of the night.” 

"So you were sleeping then, hmm?" Seungcheol says. The corner of his lips tilt up, just slightly. He leans against the doorframe, taking a brief amount of time to glance you over. As he does, a small wave of tiredness finally washes over him— just how late had he kept himself up working on new music? "I sent you texts hours ago."

"You didn't even read them." He reaches up, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He sighs, the sound almost exaggerated. "How cruel of you."

You let out a low hum at Seungcheol’s fingers brushing against your skin. “Mmm, I fell asleep with my phone in my hand,” you admit, the words coming out more like a soft sigh than anything else.

You seem to finally drag yourself out of your sleepy state to give Seungcheol a once-over. He knows it shows all over— the exhaustion in his eyes, his stance. He’s tired, and you can tell. You’ve always been able to tell. 

You step aside a bit and he takes that as his cue. Seungcheol moves past you, a small hum in the back of his throat. He toes off his shoes and shuts the door behind him with a soft click. In spite of himself, the moment he's inside, he reaches for you. 

One arm is loosely slung over your shoulders, pulling you in close. He rests his chin on your shoulder, the tip of his nose against your neck.

"You fell asleep..." he gripes. "Do you know how many texts I sent you? I sent five.” 

“Five”” you repeat as you bear Seungcheol’s weight. Your hand instinctively raises to stroke the base of his hair behind his neck, and he thinks he could melt then and there— your soothing touch, your light tone. “Oh, how ever will you live?”

Seungcheol huffs into the crook of your neck. The feel of your fingers in his hair does wonders to combat the tired, stressed part of himself. Slowly, his shoulders relax, and he sighs, the sound long and deep.

"Don't get snarky with me," he mutters. But there's no bite to it at all, just a quiet sense of contentment in his voice. "You could've at the very least read the messages." He moves, presses a kiss to your neck. "Would've taken ten seconds."

“I was asleep,” you protest, but— whether or not you notice— your head is tilting around a bit to press a lingering kiss on to the side of his face.Seungcheol's stomach flutters. You're sweet like that. Always have been, always will be. He hums under his breath at the kiss, his hand that's on your shoulder moves up to cup your cheek.

“That’s my penance,” you say drowsily. 

"One kiss isn't nearly enough," he tells you. 

He pulls back from your shoulder to look at you, now. The eye contact, the way he regards you, has a more focused weight. He takes a moment to look you over again— hair mussed, face still flushed faintly from sleep. "Two,” he says in a tone that brokers no argument. 

“Greedy,” you mumble, but both of you know it doesn’t matter. 

Not when your free hand finds purchase at his side and you use your fingers in his hair to pull him down so you don't have to stand on your tiptoes. Not when you press your lips together into a kiss that's soft and sweet, almost sleepy.

All it takes is the sound of your voice for Seungcheol to be pulled in— when you tug at his hair, he follows, his chest against yours. He bends down, his own hands coming up to the sides of your face.

He melts against your mouth, his eyes closing in an instant. But it’s done as quickly as it started. You pull away, your face still inches away from Seungcheol’s, as you smilingly mumble to him, “There. Two kisses.” 

His eyes open again once you pull away, his grip on your face tightening just slightly. "Three," he mutters back, and then he leans back in. 

You hum against his mouth, the sound breaking free from the back of your throat. You’re both so tired from your respective work and it shows in the kiss. No heat, no fire. Your tongue swiping over his lip makes Seungcheol hum, quiet and low in his throat. He's usually so used to being the one who takes control, making the first move, but here with you, in the early hours of the morning— there's something else to it.

He pulls you closer against him, his hands moving down to your hips. Against your mouth, he murmurs, "Four," before his tongue slips in, just to get a taste. Just to linger, just to savor, but not take over.

“Cheol,” you huff, though your reprimand is tempered by the way Seungcheol is intent on keeping the kiss going. “You’re— mmph— being greedy—” 

"Five—" he sighs against your mouth. "Let me be greedy a second more."

One of his hands moves to the back of your head, fingers tangling up in your hair. This is what he likes, this is what he always comes to you for. Something that's simple. This, he can deal with. This, he can handle.

It’s never a second more with Seungcheol. He’s always out the door when he can go, when he has to. He’s never been a glutton for time, and so it’s enough for you to sense that something is wrong. 

You break away from him. 

Seungcheol has to resist a whine when you pull back, his eyes fluttering open in a daze. Your hand has moved to his face and you’re looking up at him with a small frown and a quiet query. “Long week?” 

He lets your question hang in the air for a moment, the hand in your hair loosening its grip, fingers just idly combing through the strands.

He glances at your face— the furrow of your brow, the hint of concern in your eyes— and it makes him sigh. He turns his head to press a soft, quick kiss to your palm.

"Long year," he corrects.

You look like you want to say more. Seungcheol almost begs you not to. This— whatever the two of you have— it’s an outlet that won’t break him, won't ruin him, won't tarnish him or the group's name. He just wants— he needs—

You know exactly what he needs, even if he doesn’t always know himself. “How do you want your fifth kiss?” you ask instead of commenting on his obvious fatigue. 

Your question makes Seungcheol's head empty out in an instant.

It takes him a moment to think, to consider. His mind, hazy and tired as it is, struggles to come up with an adequate answer. All he knows is that he's comfortable, that he's tired, that you're here. And that's all he really needs, in the end.

He lets his hand fall from your hair, to the nape of your neck. "... Soft," he murmurs. "Soft and easy."

You’re back up on your tiptoes to give him what he asked for. A sweet, slow press of your lips against his. It’s a kiss that lovers give each other, even though you’re the furthest from that. 

It's easy, easy, easy for him to fall into the kiss just like that, a shudder running down his spine when your tongue doesn't invade him. It's sweet, it's chaste, it's simple. It's exactly the kind of kiss he needs after a week of work.

His hand on your neck moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing over the skin there. He breaks away for a mere second, a fraction of a beat, to catch his own breath, but he kisses you right back after. 

"Six," he whispers desperately. "Again."

This time, you laugh against his mouth— a slightly muffled sound, not any less amused— but you give in, still. When you separate for air again, one of your hands rests on his chest to keep him away. “You have to let me breathe, Cheol,” you huff. 

Seungcheol has to resist groaning outright when your palm on his chest keeps him from coming in for another kiss. You're adorable like this, in the middle of the night, with sleep in your eyes and annoyance in your voice.

He knows he's being needy, taking advantage, but at the same time? It's all he seems to be able to do. Greedy, he hears you call him, and it's true.

"I'll let you breathe when I get my seventh kiss, then," he grumbles.

He can see the annoyance blooming on your expression, but he’s saved by one thing and one thing alone: The fact that you can get pretty greedy sometimes, too, especially when Seungcheol was involved. 

"Fine," you say haughtily, feigning annoyance. "Just one more kiss."

Seungcheol's eyes glimmer with something akin to mischief. His hands move to your face again, his own lips curving up in a smirk. You give him an inch, he wants a mile. It's his style. "One more kiss. That I can work with."

He brushes a thumb over your cheek again, his grip in your hair loosening only to brush some stray strands away from your face. "Only fair that I get to pick the way, then," he says, his tone low.

He's going to make the most of this opportunity, and you're letting him.

His tongue darts out briefly to lick over his bottom lip. "Open your mouth."

When you let out a noncommittal hom and oblige, parting your lips, he knows he’s gone. Seeing the obedience in your face makes Seungcheol's stomach do a little bit of an excited flip. You're like this, this, even when you're tired, when you're barely awake.

It's a little addicting.

"Good," he says softly. It's all the warning you get before he's got his mouth on yours again.

He kisses you— devours you, his tongue parting your lips, sliding into your mouth, taking. The kiss is almost bruising and seems to throw you off balance, but you quickly recover by pressing flush against Seungcheol and holding the sides of his arms. If he were a better person, Seungcheol would let this be the last one. Would let this kiss end and call it a night. 

But then the smallest of sounds escape you. A whimper, a soft noise that only makes all sense fly right out of Seungcheol's head. It's not fair, he thinks, that you still have a hold on him even in the middle of the night.

All it makes him do is pull you closer— press you up against the wall with his entire body, his hands still gripping your face as he kisses you deep. Harder than he usually would, rougher than he normally did.

He swallows the sound, his tongue still in your mouth.

Your fingernails are pressing into his biceps now. Your tongue is sinking into his lower lip; not quite biting, but enough to drag his focus away for a moment. "Seung," you sigh, and it’s like music to his goddamn ears. 

He was Choi or Seungcheol when he was in your makeup chair. Cheol, when it was just the two of you. But Seung was something different entirely. 

A small moan, low and quiet, gets caught in Seungcheol's throat when you bite into his lip, when you whine out his name like that. He knows what it means when you call him like that— knows what he's in for.

He relishes in it. In moments like these when he gets to be like this. When he doesn't have to be responsible, when he doesn't have to be a leader. He gets to be just Seung.

There isn't a single part of his body that's not on fire right now, not when he's got you pinned against the wall, not when you're all satin and soft against him. His grip on your face tightens, and now his lips are no longer on your mouth, but on your jaw, moving down to your neck, your throat.

A quiet, needy little ah falls out your lips when he nips at that spot on your pulse point, and there, there is exactly when he knows that he's got you exactly where he wants you. Pinned by his body, shaking and shivering like he's touching you for the first time.

If he was feeling a little less riled up, a little less needy, he'd keep up the teasing. But he can't, not now. His hands move from your face to your hips, moving under the satin of your pajamas. It's not enough, never enough.

Every sound that leaves your mouth, every little please, just, already sets a fire in his brain. Every part of his mind turns to static, white noise, as he keeps his lips on your throat, your neck, biting and nipping at your skin.

“Seung,” you hiss, your hands flying to his shoulders as you press your back on to the entryway wall, willing yourself not to crumple. “I’m going to get a noise complaint again—”

“I'll pay the fine,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips against your collarbone now, his hands still on your hips. His brain is starting to grow fuzzy, his thoughts less coherent, but this was the goal.

To get you like this. Soft and shaking and desperate. To make you his for the night, for just a little while. To hold some sort of control over something in his life.

“You can't just keep paying for— ah— the fines,” you’re babbling. “They're going— t-to kick me— Seung, fuck!"

Whatever you’re trying to say dies out when Seungcheol nips at your warm skin. The rational part of him, somewhere deep, deep inside, knows that you're right. He can't keep paying your fines for complaints of loud music and loud sex.

The part of him that's currently working on painting a bruise on your collarbone doesn't seem to care all that much.

"I'll pay," he repeats, between leaving a few more marks on your skin for good measure. "As many times as I have to—"

“Jesus Christ,” you cuss, your chest heaving as Seungcheol’s hand moves higher and higher up your shirt. “My neighbors are so fucking sick of me, and it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?” Even through the haze in his head, Seungcheol can't help the low scoff that he lets out. He wants to say that he couldn't care less about your neighbors— wants to say that your pretty mouth makes up for the noise, but something else catches his attention. The brush of his fingers on bare skin. 

His eyes go wide, his brain suddenly clearing.

"You're not wearing anything underneath your pajamas," he deadpans, his voice coming out in a low drawl.

Of course, that adds up. You hadn’t been expecting Seungcheol, after all, so he can’t blame you for foregoing the underclothes. Still, it only stokes the growing flame in the base of his stomach. Especially when you move your head back against the wall so you’re looking right up at Seungcheol, the ghost of a smirk on your face. 

“Wanna check for yourself?” you taunt. 

A low groan falls out of Seungcheol's mouth as soon as you ask that. Like clockwork, his hands go to the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up slightly. Just a little bit, just to see if you're really not wearing anything beneath.

"You always like to tease," he says, his voice low. That hint of a smirk on your face is only serving to drive him that much crazier. "Go on, then. Show me, since you want to act all cocky."

You give him half an eye roll that’s more affectionate than anything else before reaching over to the back of your pajama collar. You pull the top over your head in one deft, swift movement. Seungcheol's eyes go wide for just a moment, taking in the sight of you, undressed, in front of him. It never stops shocking him, never stops making his heart thump a little harder, his breath coming out a little more labored.

“Happy?” you half-joke, your voice low. 

He looks at you, up and down, before his eyes go back to your face. His hands move from your hips to your waist, fingers tracing over the sides of your chest as he shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says. "But I will be."

His hands keep tracing over your skin, his touch light— almost feathery, as he keeps his eyes fixed on your face. There's something about seeing you so exposed like this that's driving him absolutely insane, something about you being entirely at his mercy that's making his eyes grow dark.

He leans in, bringing his lips just past your ear. "Turn around," he murmurs, almost like a command.

He sees how you swallow hard, how you take in the familiar darkness in Seungcheol’s gaze. You know him, have known him for years, and that comes with trust. Unflinchingly, you twist around in his arms to press your chest against the wall. 

He has you practically trapped, all against his chest and the wall. His eyes look at you up and down, taking in your bare shoulders and back, the way you've submitted to him so perfectly.

His hands go to your hips again, and his eyes look over your back, following the line of your bare spine. "What do you say we find a use for this wall besides me just pushing you up against it," he murmurs. "Hm?"

“Yes, please,” you whimper, and as soon as you agree, Seungcheol's hands tighten on your hips, his grip almost bruising as he pulls you a little closer to him. You're not going anywhere, not when he's got you like this.

He leans in, his body practically pressing up against your back, his chest against your skin. He bites down on your shoulder, pulling a strangled whine out from somewhere deep in your throat. "You look so goddamn pretty like this, love," he murmurs against your skin.

His hands move from your hips to your chest, tracing the skin there before he brings them up to your throat. He presses his fingers against your pulse point, feeling the thump thump thump of your heartbeat.

He can feel your heart thrumming against his hand, can practically hear you shaking. It's driving him absolutely insane— you, underneath him, trembling for him. The knowledge that he's got you like this, the fact that you're letting him take control, letting him do whatever he wants.

He moves his mouth to that spot on your neck again, the skin that's so sensitive that it makes you whimper and shiver. He always finds it so easy to tease those sounds out of you, and always relishes in doing it.

His hands stay at your neck, his fingers still pressed against your pulse point. This had always been one of Seungcheol's little habits— a single finger on your pulse point, as if he liked seeing which actions would make your heart rate spike, which words would have it hammering.

Seungcheol presses his lips on your skin again. "You're so loud."

He marvels at the way you ball your hands into fists, the way you shake all over with poorly concealed want and need as he keeps nipping and marking. "‘M not," you gasp, lurching forward against the wall. "‘M perfectly— hng!"

Everything is working in his favor.

You're shaking, and your heart is racing, and every noise you make is just more fodder for him. God, he loves it. Loves being the one to make you absolutely tremble and shiver like this. Loves the fact that he's the only one to make you feel like this.

"You're mine," he says again, bringing his mouth closer to your ear. He bites the shell of it, hard, before letting out a low hum.

This is his favorite place in the entire world— right against your back, feeling your body heat against his chest, his tongue running over your skin. He loves how reactive you are to him, how sensitive you are, how your body just melts under his touch.

"Say it," he mutters against your skin. "Who's in control?"

There it is. The million won question.

The whole reason you started these rendezvouses in the first place. He had been spinning out of control, and you had been lonely, and you clicked into place like magnets. 

You give in, like you always do. The words are a soft whimper, almost a shout in your otherwise empty apartment. "You. You're in control, Seung."

That's all he wants to hear.

He digs his fingers into your jaw and wrenches your head so it's turned to look at him, his lips inches from yours. Even if there's a little pain, nothing in him is stopping. "Good," he mutters, his breath hot against your lips. "Good girl."

The kiss that follows is absolutely messy, the kind of kiss where it's just tongue and teeth and raw need. It's worlds different from the soft and easy kisses that Seungcheol asked for earlier, when he first came in complaining about five unanswered texts.

"Seung," you groan as you pull away for air. "Please—" 

When you moan his name, it's like something snaps.

He growls low, his fingers slipping into the waistband of your shorts, gripping the fabric hard enough that there's a very real chance of them ripping. "Please what?" he mumbles against your neck. "You need to tell me what you need, love. Use your words."

"I hate you," you whine, and Seungcheol nearly smiles. He knows you’re not fond of begging, but he needs to hear it from you. At least, he wants to. 

"You know what I—" you’re saying, but dammit, his control is already razor thin as is. He rips off the last fabric of clothing on you until you’re completely bare, pressed entirely up between the wall and him. 

Somehow, your mind still has some shrivel of coherence to complain, "I liked this set, asshole!"

He grins against your skin at your words, chuckling at your whine, at the way you're just reacting to him. You can act annoyed, you can act like you don't need him, but he knows. "I'll buy you a new one," he hums, finally letting go of your shorts and letting them fall to the floor in tatters. "One for me to rip to shreds all over again."

That thought alone makes his blood sing.

It takes you a great effort to turn around, but somehow you manage. Seungcheol is still fully clothed and so your bare chest presses against the front of his shirt. The sight of you, naked, his hands at your hips, pressed right up against him, against his chest like this— he's gone.

And then you’re asking him, low and sweet as he has you caged in, "Where are you going to fuck me tonight, Seung?"

He can't even manage a word for a moment, his hands holding you so tight that he's definitely going to leave marks on your skin, his eyes fixed on your face.

He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry at the question. "You want me to say it out loud, hm?"

You go to steal the upper hand for a minute or so, and you do it so effectively. Your hand rises almost lazily to his neck, your finger instinctively finding his pulse point. He feels his heart rate speed up as he watches, just watches, you do it. You stand on your tiptoes to raise your lips directly to his ear. 

All he can feel is the thunder of his heart racing against your hand. You seem to notice it, too, if the smile on your face is any indication. 

"How about you just show me instead?" you say, and he’s convinced he’ll pass out then and there. 

"You're a brat," he mutters through gritted teeth, his hand moving up from your hips and up your spine. "A brat who needs to be taught a lesson."

He takes a shuddering breath, almost completely lost in your little game, before he snaps back to himself. Seungcheol's hand leaves your hip and goes to your hand, gripping your wrist hard. "On the sofa," he says, and it’s nothing short of a command. 

He practically drags you on to the piece of furniture, watching intently as you fall back with a small oomph. Seungcheol stands on the edge of the couch as you prop yourself up by the elbows to watch him right back. 

The sight of you underneath him— your hair splayed against the cushions, your eyes half-lidded and fixed on him? It's absolutely perfect. It's the kind of thing that he wants to keep in his mind forever, the sight he wants to always be able to remember.

He lets out a noise under his breath as he undoes the button of his jeans, the sound of the zipper going down obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Gorgeous,” he breathes. 

He gets his jeans undone and kicked off, his shirt following them not long after, and then he's on top of you, caging you in, his hands either side of your head, staring down at you.

The look in his eyes isn't something he really gets to show often— that raw need, that want, how desperate he is for you. He wants you, God, he wants you so badly, and you're letting him have you.

He dips his head to your neck, his lips against your skin, his breath hot against your pulse point, still absolutely obsessed with that spot. His hands find your wrists, pinning them back against the couch, while his knee finds its way between your thighs, pressing up against you.

You arch and squirm underneath him, visibly distressed with the facsimile of friction that you’re getting from his knee. “Seung,” you pant, grinding your dripping core against his knee. It sends a jolt of electricity through him. “Please— don’t wanna wait any more—”

“Where’s all that snark now, hm?” he teases, his teeth running over the skin on your neck. But he’s not any better off, his own self-control slipping through his very fingers as his hips grind down against you desperately. 

"Been driving me insane, love," he whispers, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your neck. "Been dreaming about this for days. Missing you—” 

A low keen escapes you, and he can only echo it as you tug at the last piece of material separating you. “Can we get this off already, please?” you huff as you hook your fingers at the waistband of his boxer shorts. 

He groans against your skin, his teeth finally letting go when he lifts his head to look down at you, the expression on his face looking like he's fighting for control. "God, yes," he groans, lifting his hips just enough for you to tug them off him.

He kicks them off once you’ve yanked them down, and his hand— which has instinctively gravitated to your pulse point— feels how the beat absolutely skyrockets. One of your arms goes around his shoulder and the other, surprisingly, clutches his jaw.

You’re looking right at him as you say, "Fast and hard, Seung."

"Yeah?" he says, just the slightest hint of a surprise in his voice. "You want me to be rough with you, love?"

Seungcheol was usually a sweet lover. He liked taking his time, liked being gentle and responsible even in bed.

But there were particularly rough weeks, terrible days, where he just needed a means to an end. Where the sex was an outlet, where the best thing you could be for him was his. 

He waits for your permission, because he still always remembers to ask no matter how far deep you’re in. The agreement comes in the form of the best three words. 

"Ruin me, Seung."

You know him too well. You know how he works, you know how he thinks, and you know him better than anyone.

He groans in response to your words, his head dipping down to drag his teeth gently over your collarbone. He's trying to hang on to his control, he is, but it's a losing effort.

"I will, love." His breath is hot against your skin, his hands finding your hips. "Just give me a minute—"

He shifts, just for a moment, to find the condom in his jean pocket. He goes through the motions until he's back on top of you again, one hand coming up to grip your hip again, the other coming up to rest against your throat. He looks down at you, his eyes almost glowing. 

"You trust me?" he mutters. His hand at your hip tightens; his hand at your throat barely clenches around your pulse point, his eyes never leaving yours.

You can feel it, see it. The way the little threads are beginning to unravel and fray. The way this was no longer Seungcheol of SEVENTEEN; not the leader, not the idol. This was something different entirely, someone else completely.

"I do," you whisper back, your eyes so full of adoration for him that he has to bite back the urge to scream. "I trust you, Seungcheol."

His full name is what really does it for him, because then he's pushing in, and you’re gasping, whimpering, trying to adjust around him and the fact that you’re practically clenching him on the get-go. Seungcheol eases in, nice and slow, because you’re too tightly coiled for him to do more than carefully bottom out. You’re both heaving, your breaths coming out as gasps; your own breaths are sharp, harsh, because Seungcheol is still choking you a little. 

His head dips down to your shoulder because he needs something to hold on to, anything, while his mind spins. His head is dizzy feeling you like this, feeling you around him so tightly. He's trembling, his thighs shaking, but he's holding himself back as long as he can.

When Seungcheol gets as far in as he can possibly get, you let out twin groans. He’s completely sheathed inside of you and you’re fluttering around him in a way that’s dangerous. 

“Y’can move, Seung,” you reassure him after a moment, the words coming out strained with desire. “As fast and hard as you want.” 

You sound strangled, just like he feels, and it's taking him a mammoth amount of control to hold himself back. He groans against your shoulder at the sound of your voice, the words you say. He wants to move, to thrust, but he's trying to have some semblance of composure. 

"Love," he says, his voice wrecked. "I—"

His voice breaks. It breaks, because there is only so much he can take, and he's beyond that point now. There's a tremor in his thighs, his hands clenching in the cushion below you.

You drag him right back down, with the sound that you let out that’s halfway a whine and a sigh. One of your hands goes to rest in the space between Seungcheol’s shoulder blades, as if to steady the two of you. 

Your voice is surprisingly firm when you speak. "Let go," you command. And then, softer, "I need you."

Your words, your voice— it's in complete conflict with the situation you're currently in. And yet, it works. He lets out a sound, one that's somewhere between a growl and a whimper, his breath hot against your skin. And then he's moving and he's holding nothing back.

He's hard, brutal, and he's taking. His teeth on your shoulder; his breath against your neck; his nails digging into you.

It's a relentless, dizzying pace. Seungcheol bullies into your weeping cunt, fast and hard, and it draws out the most obscene sounds from you. Gasps, whines, an occasional scream when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. What has him seeing stars is the fact that you can't seem to settle on a name to moan. "Seung— Seungcheol— Cheol—"

Yes, you're saying, yes.

Seungcheol loses himself, utterly and completely, in you. You're on the edge, he can hear it; he can feel it, and God, he wants to hear you say his name. Every single one of them. 

It almost sounds like a mantra, your voice, as he takes and takes and takes, his breathing harsh, ragged.

You go through all of the names you have for him, breathless and wrecked, until you can't even say anything because his hips are snapping into you with a ferocity that's rare but not unwelcome. Your pornographic moans reverberate in your otherwise empty apartment, and Seungcheol thinks he might go insane. 

"'M close," you choke out. "Cheollie, baby, I'm— ah, fuck— Seung—"

His breath catches at your words, his eyes closing for a moment as he groans. You, you, in all your perfect, glorious, undone state. It’s a sight he wishes he could capture, freeze in time.

He lets out a whimper, his words almost slurred when he responds. "Love— I—"

He's never been this rough, never this intense. You're the only one, the only person he's ever let himself go like this with. The only person who he's ever let see everything, take everything.

He's on the edge, he's there, he's—

"C'mon," he whines, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand clenching hard around your hip. "With me, love, please."

It's a miracle that you can even nod, can even find your voice as Seungcheol keeps on going with his erratic, stuttering thrusts. "With you," you gasp. 

He snaps into you, then, and you arch up with a scream of his name. There’s the familiar white-hot flash of pleasure; the impossibly tight clench of your walls around him.

He stays buried in you for several long moments, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his ears. He has never felt so utterly spent in his entire life, never been so completely, utterly drained of energy. He's weak against you. He’s weak because of you. 

"God," he finally manages to mutter.

He lifts his head, just enough to be able to look at you, but he can't even muster a grin. He's spent and he knows you know that.

His hand comes up slightly, to brush the hair off of your forehead. "I think..." he says, his voice thick and hoarse, "I think I ruined you, love."

You let out a breathless laugh, one that you have to push out of your heaving chest. "You—" you try to say, but the words don't form, not at first. You take a few moments to take in some air, to gulp past the lump in your throat. "You're a fool."

His lips twitch into a tired but genuine smile at the sound of your laugh. It’s a soft sound that he's always thought sounds beautiful, especially coming from you.

A hoarse, broken laugh of his own escapes; his hand coming up to rest at your jawline, his thumb gently tracing over the warm skin there. He's still catching his breath, but he's slowly gathering himself.

"Am I a fool?" he asks quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. "What does that make you, then?"

You’re a fool, too, he thinks to himself. For letting me have this. 

Instead of answering him, you press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s the only answer he’s going to get from you for now, it seems. 

He lets out a soft huff, moving his head back just slightly, his eyes closing. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he says quietly, his voice still rough with fatigue.

"Every time," you respond. Your own voice is strained, almost tired, but there's a hint of amused exasperation. "You say that every time, Cheol."

His eyes opened once again to look at you.

"Because it's true," he says simply, his voice soft and sincere, the hand resting at your jaw moving to brush your hair back from your face. "It's always true, love."

He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes tracing over your face, taking in every inch of you. His eyes pause at your lips for a moment, his tongue gently wetting his own, his gaze finally moving back up to meet your eyes.

You thread your shaking fingers through the back of his hair and answer his unspoken question. "Kiss me soft and easy, Cheol," you whisper.

The moment the words leave your mouth, he's in action.

He leans forward without a second thought, the hand not buried in your hair going to rest on your hip, his lips meeting yours in a soft, gentle kiss.

There's no heat in it, no want or need. Just a soft press of his lips against yours, gentle and slow. 

It's languid and unhurried. Like there's nowhere either of you have to be after this. For a moment, you can pretend that this is normal— that Seungcheol will not have to leave, and that you’ll not have to change into new pajamas because he'd broken yours, and that you can be... well, something, anything aside from what you are now.

But it's wishful thinking, you both know, so all Seungcheol can do is kiss you. He lets out a soft sound, almost a sigh, as his tongue slides into your mouth, his hand on your hip tightening slightly. His other hand is in your hair still, his fingers gently tracing over your scalp, his body almost melting against yours.

He will have to leave. He always does. But for now, he's here, with you, and you feel perfect, and—

Five minutes, he bargains. Five more minutes.

And then things end, not really by your own accord.

The sharp, shrill sound of Seungcheol's phone ringing breaks through your haze. You pull away, a bit jolted at the foreign sound— at something other than your words, your breathing, reverberating in the room. It takes you a beat too long to realize someone is calling him— his phone in his discarded jeans— in the godawful middle of the night. 

He lets out a loud groan, the sound tired and drawn out, and he can't help but rest his forehead against your shoulder once again, letting out a resigned sigh.

"God, save me," he mutters, his voice rough. "What time is it?"

You chuckle lightly. "Go on," you urge softly, not because you want to but because you have to. "Answer."

Seungcheol lets out another loud, drawn out sigh, his shoulders slumping in obvious defeat. He reluctantly lifts his head from your shoulder with a grumble, but he can't quite stop himself from pressing a kiss to your cheek just before he shifts up and off of the couch.

Once he’s reached down to grab his phone from where it's stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, he answers without looking at the caller ID. "Yeah?"

"Hyung!"

It's Soonyoung— of course it's Soonyoung— calling.

"Are you still at the company?" the younger member asks. "I think I forgot my headset in one of the practice rooms, and Minghao said you didn't go home with them."

"It's midnight, Soonyoung." 

You shit over on the couch, careful not to make any sound. Not to give Soonyoung any suspicion that Seungcheol might be somewhere where he shouldn't be. You press a small, reassuring kiss to Seungcheol's hip as Soonyoung goes on to whine, "Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's the expensive headset, hyung. If you're still there, could you check? Please?"

Seungcheol lets out a huff— a mixture of resigned affection and irritation— at the feeling of your lips against his skin. He can feel the exhaustion deep within his bones now, and all he wants to do is go back to snuggling into you for the night.

But he can't say no to Soonyoung, especially not at this time of night.

"Fine," he grumbles, letting out a huff. "Which practice room?"

You can hear the moment Soonyoung practically brightens with triumph.

"Third floor!" he says happily, and you bury your face into Seungcheol's side to keep yourself from laughing. "You're the best, hyung! I'll buy you a meal tomorrow for the trouble!"

He reaches down with the hand not holding his phone, pressing his palm to the top of your head, pushing lightly down. A warning of don't laugh. "Just be thankful I'm your hyung, kid," Seungcheol grouses.

Soonyoung ends the call soon enough, saying some things about sending Seungcheol a photo of his headset so he knows exactly which one is missing. When it's back to just the two of you again, you tilt your head up to look at Seungcheol. 

"You're really going back for it tonight?" you ask, even though you already know the answer. 

The corner of his lip twitches into a half smile at the way you look up at him. His eyes takein the sight of you— his hand on the back of your head, his fingers gently twisting strands of your hair.

"Of course I am," he sighs. "I can't say no to him, love."

You shift upward so you can sit side by side with Seungcheol. Both of you have yet to put on any clothes, but you’ve at least gathered your bearings enough to form coherent words now.

"You can't say 'no' to any of them," you tease as you press a gentle kiss to his cheek. There's an almost blinding affection in your tone as you say, "You and your goddamn boys."

Seungcheol reaches out, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you closer to him. Briefly, he presses his lips against your hair. His eyes are almost tender as he speaks.

"They're my boys," he says, his voice soft.

You let the words hang there for just a moment. It’s an admission, one that both of you have known for the longest time, but it's also a reminder. It’s the reason why you and Seungcheol can never be more than this—because he has his boys, and he would never do anything to jeopardize them.

You press your face against the column of his neck for just one more precious moment. You’ve never been selfish about Seungcheol, but there were nights when you thought about it. Just… thought about it.

The thought never wins.

"Let’s clean up, get dressed," you whisper into his skin. "So you can head to the company sooner."

He lets out a soft, almost painful exhale. He knows what you're thinking, what you're feeling; he's thought about it himself, as well. He hates having to leave you, hates having to say that he has to leave you. But his boys are his boys, and one day all this will be over, and then...

He can't think about it right now, though.

Instead, he nods, pressing a light kiss to your temple. "Yeah."

It takes about ten minutes or so for you both to gather everything together. Seungcheol still looks tired, though for different reasons now. He’s essentially traded one exhaustion for another.

As he puts on the shoes he left in your entryway, you lean against your doorway with your arms crossed over your chest. "I’ll be holding you accountable for my pajama set," you warn him. "And for tomorrow’s noise complaint."

"Yeah, yeah," he huffs, taking a step toward you. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten."

His face softens as he reaches you, his hands coming up to grab your elbows, gently pulling you closer to him. "Sorry," he says. "Again."

 "You’re not sorry, " you sigh pointedly, more out of spite than anything. It’s the truth—he’s not really that apologetic about losing control every now and then, about your neighbors knowing you’re being pulled close every so often.

When you bury your face into his chest, he lets out a low, gruff chuckle, his chin resting gently against the top of your head. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against him, just like every single time before.

"You’re right," he murmurs. A quiet, affectionate admission. “Not sorry. Not even a little.”

He holds you there against him, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows himself just a few more moments before he has to leave. You both stay there, allowing yourselves that moment, until the tension in Seungcheol’s shoulders fades and your annoyance at your torn pajamas ebbs. It could’ve been five minutes, maybe less, but then Seungcheol’s phone pings with a text—surely Soonyoung asking if he’s found his headset.

You’re the one who takes the step back, putting some distance between you. "Drive safe," you tell Seungcheol. "Text me when you’re there."

Resigned. That’s the only way to describe the smile that tugs at his lips. "Yeah," he says. "I will."

True to his word, Seungcheol does indeed send you a text about an hour or so after he'd arrived at the company, informing you that he was there and had found Soonyoung’s headset.

He's still exhausted, and all he wants is to be back. Back inside of you, back with you. But he can't do any of that. At least, not right now. Not at this point.

I miss you already, is the only other thing he adds to his text.

Your text comes in only moments later, like you had been waiting by your phone. 

you're a fool. head home. take care.

A soft sigh escapes him the moment he reads your text, his eyes flickering over the words you'd typed, the harshness of it. It's another layer of protection for the both of you, but it's still not easy to read.

He's about to respond with something snarky, some light-hearted joke to tease you a bit, but he stops himself at the last moment. He knows that you're right.

He needs to head home. He needs to take care.

And he’s an absolute goddamn fool, in more ways than one. 

[fruithoughts]

‎‎‎ㅤㅤHow to catch a hufflepuff?

‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤjeonghan x fem!reader  

01.ㅤۗㅤ𝙼ember .  ⎯⎯⎯  jeonghan.

02.ㅤۗㅤ𝙲𝚆 .  ⎯⎯⎯ one sided beef, he tries to a dick but he's too in love lol what a loser, MANY PET NAMES(pretty girl, doll, puppy...), reader is a muggle, smut at very end, smut with plot, rough sex.

September, 1 

— Are you still not over yourself? — A new year at Hogwarts begins, and just like that, Yoon Jeonghan it’s back to his favorite hobby of tormenting his favorite girl.

— Hogwarts should get over itself! It’s insane that we still have to write with quills — the Hufflepuff answers, obviously frustrated and with a good reason to be so, it’s 2024 and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry it’s still stuck on writing with quills? In individual papers? This fact alone it’s crazier than most spells they’ve ever teached.

— You say it as if the muggle option is much better — he lies straight through his teeth, knowing damn well that pens are, with no doubt, much easier to use than quills. Jeonghan is Jeonghan, don’t take him too seriously or you might actually punch him in the face. Much like he expected, his false observation is pointed out by the girl sitting right alongside him in this train stall almost immediately after it leaves his mouth, the Slytherin has always had too much fun bothering the school’s sweetest girl who just so happened to be cursed with world’s biggest puppy eyes.

It wasn’t friendly like this back then, though. No, not even close.

These two despised each other with a burning passion, well, Jeonghan did; for the far majority of this nemesis thing, the hate was very much one-sided. Coming from an insanely racist family definitely rubbed off on him and when his academic life expectations were ruined by the fact that the entire school seemed completely in love and constantly in awe of that stupid muggle girl, he decided right there to make her life a living hell. 

Which he succeeded in doing, kind of. Her life was surely miserable when around him but she didn’t seem to care about their relationship as soon as she was with her friends, housemates, just anyone at all, Jeonghan felt invisible at times, and it infuriated him to no end. Last year was the worst era for sure. The bitterness had been going on for so long, they were both exhausted and having to work together on an astronomy assignment was the last straw, so out of nothing but pure rage; they settled on an alliance for long enough to finish that thing. But it didn’t end there, of course it didn’t, they continued talking even after the assignment, they weren't friends then, absolutely not, but they started interacting like normal students for once, asking for notes, doing small talk every little in a while.

Their push and pull habits never truly died, but it wasn’t out of hate now, they were clearly having fun with this whole enemies till death tell us apart game. So much fun in fact, Jeonghan spent his entire break missing their banter like he was going crazy. It didn’t even cross his mind that he would think about that girl after the year ended, but oh, boy, did he do it.

 Maybe that was the reason they were going together in the same train stall for the first time in all of these years they’ve known each other, maybe Jeonghan lied and his friend’s stall isn’t full like he said it was, maybe he just missed his shiny eyed sweet girl, maybe.

September, 12 

— Do you have any interests other than being the center of attention? — she asks, it’s a fair question. The walk in between classes always brings out the worst out of everyone, huh? — I like pissing you off sometimes — Jeonghan answered.

Watching that cute little face transform into an annoyed and tired one never fails to make the Slytherin feel a rush of pride, he just adores it, he just adores her — Can you answer seriously at least once? Instead of being a lil bitch? Perhaps? It’s that too difficult for you? — she said imitating the tone he usually used to brother her, school’s sweetest girl being a bully, who would’ve thought. 

— Woah, woah, woah, I've been nothing but condescending and mean to you and this is how you treat me? — Jeonghan grabs his chest dramatically, his expression telling any bypassers that this man has never, in his entire life , felt as offended as he’s feeling right now — Come on now, puppy, it’s this a way you should treat a dear friend?

There it is, the classic Jeonghan urge to frustrate his pretty girl for no reason at all.

— Keep talking and I'll poison your food — the Slytherin chuckled at the threat — You wouldn’t be able to even if you tried, you’re not allowed in herbology class without the presence of a teacher — he pointed out without missing a beat — How do you still remember that? — she asks incredulously. I was made for you, of course I remember, the bastard thought to himself.

Like always, Jeonghan regretted coming to class the very second the professor opened his mouth, choosing to busy himself with going through his girl’s notes instead. They were mostly doodles or borderline intelligible for him, her handwriting was neat but her logic? Questionable, to say the least. But he loved reading whatever she wrote anyways, getting a little too happy whenever he found anything evolving his name or a silly doodle of his face. Once every twenty or so minutes he’d get distracted by her side profile instead, this was the only class where they sat together, so he shamelessly stared at her every time. For just a second, she looked back and smiled, as warm as the sun. He felt strange, he felt like a child again, liking her felt rather lovely, but did she like him too? 

October, 18 

It’s a tradition at this point, students of all houses gathering together in secret to play quidditch in their pajamas every friday night. Organization is barely existent, rules? Optional. This whole thing is a mess, it really is one of the worlds most confusing mysteries on how the teachers haven't found out about this yet(They have, but they pretend they haven’t because it’s the only time all students get fairly along with each other)

Mingyu begging Seungkwan to be the judge just off the chance that possibly, on a day where Kwan felt extremely nice, he could cut him some slack(it has never happened). Watching them from a far was arguably nicer, Jeonghan thought; sitting isolated from all of the other students with his trusty Hufflepuff by his side, both sat there in comfortable silence, this one was new for them.

— What bad music have you been listening to these days, ugly thing? — he inquires, as nice and cordial as always — Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy? — she answered staring daggers into his face, oh, if only Yoon Jeonghan was as unbothered and cool as he pretends to be, maybe then he could stop the way his heart pathetically races at the sound of her voice. 

— I always wanna know what’s going on up that little head, it’s usually just air, but sometimes we get lucky, don’t we? — the Hufflepuff rolls her eyes at his statement while the asshole who said it only grins — I could put on some songs I've been listening to, if your highness so desires — she suggests, and Jeonghan isn’t one to say no to his pretty thing. 

It started off with a soft guitar melody, much like most of the songs she listened to.

Depollute me, pretty baby

Suck the rot right out of my bloodstream

The girl always had a type for softer sounding things, for gentle things, it made  Jeonghan feel unsure of himself at times. How could the sweetest girl in the school like the company of such a bitter guy?

Oh, dilute me, gentle angel

Water down what I call being grateful

Was it normal? Was this how things should be? What even were they at this point? Acquaintances? Partners in crime? Friends? 

Oh, you kissed me just to kiss me

Not to take me home

The school year had barely started and Jeonghan could swear he was balding from stress since week 2, why is he acting like this? Why is he sitting far from his friends and housemates just to spend “alone time” with the girl he swore he hated less than a year ago?

It was simple, it was sweetness

It was good to know

There were many things in this world that the Slytherin would never agree to admit. He refused to believe in just how fast his mind changed from last year. Everything happened too fast and I couldn’t see it coming, that’s why I didn’t stop it; is what the man in question kept telling himself, clearly because is the truth and nothing but the truth, clearly NOT because he could never bring himself to terms with the fact that he has always looked at the “stupid muggle girl” in the very same way he’s looking right now.

You look perfect, you look different

I don't wonder about your indifference

— Spending time with you is giving me brain damage — he speaks up, for no reason other than to listen to the sound of her laughter, which works — Don’t blame me for your psychosis — the hufflepuff answers while giggling.

If I said you could never touch me

You'd come over and say I looked lovely

She yawned and stretched her arms out, arching her back, as graceful as a swan. It’s that feeling again.

Oh, you kissed me just to kiss me

Not to make me cry

He lies down on the concrete, both hands behind his head.

It was simple, you are sweetness

Let's just sit a while

She lies with him.

Depollute me, gentle angel

And I'll feel the sickness less and less

The night was beautiful, birds flying through the dark sky, he could hear his friends playing quidditch in the distance, his pretty little thing resting her head on his shoulder as they lay on the cold floor and watch the stars. It felt gentle, it felt nice, it felt perfect. He knows they won’t talk about this tomorrow.

Come and kiss me, pretty baby

Like we'll never have sex

Friends shouldn’t make each other feel like this.

October, 29

— I’m just saying, it’s a Sunday evening — Jeonghan felt like getting to the point of his argument after rambling for about 20 minutes on end — And? — she inquired, eyes still on her book, which made the Slytherin close his own, he hasn’t read a single word ever since he opened his mouth, just using his habit of reading as another cheap excuse to spend the night in the library with his lovely friend — We could do something else, you know… — he suggested, knowing damn well this isn’t going anywhere, his girl did not play about her poetry books. 

— Like what? — she engaged, also aware of the fact this is a one way street — Literally anything else, maybe have dinner somewhere — he slouched against the hardwood chair — Dinner? The thing that killed Jesus? — her answer received nothing but a very judgmental look from a very judgmental Jeonghan who didn’t stay quiet about his discontent for long, like always — You’re such a disaster — he says averting his gaze to anywhere else so she couldn’t clock the painfully obvious heart eyes he was giving her.

— Why do you spend so much time here anyways? — after about 32 seconds of nice and peaceful silence, he asked again — Reading is fun, even if it’s reading about being a loser — the Hufflepuff responded already setting the terrain herself so Jeonghan couldn’t have the pleasure of calling her out on only reading melancholic books.

— We could never live together — the Slytherin states as if it isn’t the only future he could fathom to imagine — What if our books got mixed in the bookshelf? I might have a heart attack. Imagine receiving visits and have them wrongfully assume that I read poetry? I would rather die — anybody from a mile away can tell this man has thought about this very scenario way too much for his own good — And yet you’re the perfect amount of dramatic and pretentious to be a poet yourself — every once in a while he would notice that she talked like a book, he hated it, it was better when she talked like an chronically online alien who’s only life mission is to make sure he has at least one bad day a week.

Jeonghan, ever the most mature student of Hogwarts, sticked his tongue out in his friend’s direction, which was answered with the exact same action back at him — What are you even reading, ugly? 

— The world’s wife, by Carol Ann Duffy — at the end of that day, after his pretty girl had already left to her dorm, for the first time in history; Yoon Jeonghan rented a book from the library.

November, 1

Looking at her made him feel all sorts of things, even from across the room. From an overwhelming sense of warmth just by watching his little flower engage in silly conversations with her friends after she’s done writing down notes to erratic heartbeats and goosebumps when she catches him staring and tilts her head, looking at him just like a confused puppy while mouthing “why are you staring?”. She made him feel all sorts of feelings he wishes he didn’t fall victim to, all sorts of fantasies he wished he didn’t understand, but Jeonghan was no saint, especially when it came to his little angel. 

There were only two things in his mind today, which was an improvement in comparison to yesterday when there was only one, i’ll let you guess what it was, but right now there were two; 1. The argument with Josh, and 2. Her.

Jeonghan isn’t one to hold grudges against those he loves the most, as a trickster himself; he isn’t used to taking things personally, but Joshua… Joshua had gone too far. Just when the Slytherin was ready to finally pour his heart out to somebody who he deeply trusted and loved and open up about his feelings, he was met with the most terrible response! It just wouldn’t leave his head…

— She’s perfect for me, everything about her is perfect, I think about her all of the time and it’s messing me up — Jeonghan pathetically went on and on for what could’ve been anywhere from 30 min to 2 hours, poor boy was just so confused about the simplest of feelings — And the obvious conclusion to take away from this situation is…? — his Gryffindor friend tried helping — She’s ruining my life — and it didn’t work — You’re in love, you stupid idiot — so Josh decided to be a little more direct. He was right, like always, but that didn’t stop Jeonghan from sulking the whole entire night. 

It was infuriating, what even happened to him? All it took was a pair of shining eyes and sweet smile and he’s completely done for? It’s not like the guy in question ever was the kind of student who engaged in class or was interested in anything the teachers had to say at all, but this is another level, it annoyed him to no end. That stupid girl just held his mind and all of his thoughts in her hands as if it was nothing, that stupid girl with her stupid unique personality and her stupid hauntinly beautiful face and her stupid cute outfits and the stupid boy who could not take her out of his stupid brain. 

He left a letter at her desk after class, she would only find it the next morning while he was two classes away from being interrogated about said letter. 

November, 15

Hogsmeade was full to the brim, but somehow, this moment felt very intimate. 

Maybe it was the alcohol in their systems, maybe it was the casual way they didn’t even consider sitting with their housemates before claiming the little table by the window just for themselves, maybe it was the way they were both sitting while leaning completely forward, chins resting on their arms, faces just a few inches away while yapping away the end of exams season, it felt childish, it felt nice, it felt sweet. 

— You don’t think I'm manly? — Jeonghan questioned as if this was about to become his villain origin story — You’re manly… Just in a peacock kinda of way — she answered giggling like there was no tomorrow, he loved everything going on here. Her flushed little face decorated with a big grin, her nose crunching up everytime she smiled, her voice slightly louder and whinier because of the alcohol, the slurred way her words came out sometimes, it was all perfect.

— Can I tell you something, puppy? — he whispers, knowing he isn’t anywhere near drunk enough to not remember this tomorrow, he doesn’t really care — There’s nothing in this place that I adore more than you.

He watched in awe as her eyes grew so much bigger, lips forming a little pout of shock, that specific cartoonish surprised look she always had when anything happens while she’sdrunk, looking both sides before leaning in and going “Really?” which is immediately followed by a little giggle.

In moments like this the Slytherin swears there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to have his girl all to himself, nobody else deserves this view. Isn’t all of this desire so ugly? Isn’t all this wanting so gross? Isn’t it all his? Just the thought of leaving Hogwarts and never seeing his pretty little thing again was enough to give him a full body shiver followed by an ever so present nauseous feeling.

 — If I have to remember you for longer than I've known you, I might lose my mind a little — Jeonghan mindlessly admitted, a sly smile slowly makes its way in his friend’s face — Don’t you think you already lost it? — she asks.

— Maybe a little.

December, 24

— Won’t your friends be worried? Do they know or did not even tell them? — Jeonghan questions while trying to look at everything everywhere all at once. It was his first time spending Christmas night in the muggle realm, he wouldn’t admit it in a million years, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was — Why wouldn’t I tell them we’re going out? — the Hufflepuff answers his question with a question — As far as I remember they were very defensive about you becoming friends with big, bad Jeonghan, have they moved on from that? — his question only got him a smack on the arm.

— They haven’t cared about that for a while now, and you interrupted me! Again! — she stated before angrily letting go of his hand, which she had been holding so they wouldn’t go far from each other and get lost, yeah… that was definitely the only reason — My sincere apologies, your highness — not taking her attitude for granted, the Slytherin quickly holds her cold hand into his own much bigger one, it was ironic in a way, the Hufflepuff who’s body is always cold and the Slytherin who’s body is always warm — Now I don’t wanna talk anymore — apparently, she didn’t accept his apology, but didn’t let go of his hand either. 

Jeonghan wasn’t sure if it was his sick mind making him hear things, but he could swear that as time went on, the sweetest girl in Hogwarts had become more and more of a brat, just for him tho. Maybe he was a bad influence. 

— Go on, keep talking about the anime girl with the blue hair, I'm listening — did he understand most of what she was talking about? No. But she was happy to share her thoughts about Hatsune Miku’s new song, so really, who was he to say no? For all Jeonghan cares she could break his brain in two, it was only ever hers to mess with anyways.

Walking through the local christmas market was much more pleasant then the pureblood snob would ever imagine or admit, but she could tell that he was having a great time, and that was enough for both of them. Jeonghan has always had a terrible case of resting bitch face, so she really couldn't give less of her mind to anybody who stared at them weirdly, the Slytherin himself barely even noticed, too focused on this cozy new place.

They ate good food, took pictures with her digital camera, petted some strays here and there, it was a perfect evening. And just when they thought things couldn’t get any better…

— Come on, it’s not that deep — the bastard insisted while dragging his pretty thing along his arm to some bar’s doorstep, there was a mistletoe there — Is it not that deep or do you just want to kiss me? — the Hufflepuff teased, her flushed face betraying the casual tone she spoke in.

Finally at the bar, they stood there. Jeonghan, with that infuriating little grin in his stupidly beautiful face, looking down at his friend who had her arms crossed in front of her chest the second they arrived, looking back at him with the an annoyed expression and an angry little pout that forced him to resist, with all of his might, to the overwhelming urge to melt directly to the floor.

— That’s for me to know, — he said pulling his doll into his arms, a hand going up to her face to make sure no stubborn hairs got in the way of the moment — And for you to wonder.

Much to Jeonghan’s surprise, maybe he really wasn’t the manly one in this relationship after all. Because when the Hufflepuff straight up yanked him by the collar of his jacket to meet his lips, he could swear that he was made to be manhandled by a pretty girl. Ever the profissional, he relaxed into their kiss almost immediately, holding the back of her head firmly in his hands so he could take some control.

It was just as good as he imagined it would be, pillowy lips massaging his own, his puppy just so pliantly allowing his tongue to explore, it was sugar sweet and addicting. 

Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was a blessing, the girl wasn’t exactly sure while she was getting dragged around for the entire two and a half they spent going around in the christmas market. The sly prick just couldn’t control himself, whenever he saw a mistletoe, it was time. Jeonghan was so obvious, he started actually tricking her into thinking he was just interested in places. He would look around, engage in conversation with the sellers, get some nice food then the second they were about to leave, he would just pull her towards a certain spot, his girl already giggling and whining about getting tricked again. These two lost count of how many mistletoes they used to their advantage in just some hours, but at last, it was time to go. 

Surprisingly, Jeonghan wasn’t really nervous about spending the night in his friend’s apartment, they have gotten extremely close after all. The thing bothering him was something else. 

He wore some white t-shirt and fluffy pajama pants she found somewhere in the depths of her closet, probably due to a friend forgetting them. She was wearing a leopard print shirt and some black fluffy shorts, he loved the way she dressed much more than he could handle, it was too cute for him to handle. Their pajamas were the comfiest things they’ve ever worn in each other’s presence, you can only be so casual in School.  

After whining about who got to choose what they watch before sleeping, they settled in any Netflix cliche christmas movie because of how often she made fun of the scripts in those movies, and she was right, they could’ve played a cliche movie bingo and checked all of the places before the movie hit the 40 minute mark. 

Of course the film in question was nothing more than some background sound to their yapping session, what else could it be? Their conversations just flowed so easily, each topic and scenario just slipping through their fingers, eventually they got to the best part, talking about the people they both hate. At first it was the usual; “How long do you think that friend group is going to last?” and “Do you think that couple is going to get back together?” then it eventually turned into; “Do you think your friend group will last a long time?” and “How long do you think it will take before we miss our professors?” and…

— What are you gonna do after Hogwarts? — the Hufflepuff asks innocently, causing a mental turmoil to burst in Jeonghan’s head. He snaps before even thinking, and it’s probably for the best.

— What are we gonna be after Hogwarts? — the air caught in her throat was almost visible, the way her breathing got heavy, the way her eyes seemed to wander even though she didn’t break eye contact, this was a difficult conversation to have. After this they’ll either come out of this apartment as partners or as strangers, it was a tough pill to swallow. 

— We don’t ever talk about it, we don’t ever dare bring it up but we both know what’s going on, don’t we? The year is ending, flower — he had that look in his eyes, that look he had at hogsmeade, she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it, but there it was again. Jeonghan had never looked so soft, in some oversized t-shirt and fluffy zebra print pajama pants she would never witness him wearing in any other situation, his hair as soft as ever, strands romantically sitting in front of his face as he reaches a hand to hold her cheek, the most gentle touch.

— I know we started this just messing around, we’ve been messing around since last year and it felt nice, it was fun, it was new and becoming closer was so rewarding that we just couldn’t stop it — he recalls the beginning of their alliance — But it’s not so light anymore, is it, dear? The tension became too much, I know you think about me too, I know you feel me it too — he spoke his heart out, voice as soft as the look in his eyes, all of the words that have been drowning him for the past few months were finally bubbling to the surface — I wanna stop it, we played around and it was fun but I need something solid now, I need to know where we go after this is over — he kept going, his eyebrows furrowing as his breathing got more erratic. 

— We don’t have all of the time in the world so I need you to be honest with me right now — Jeonghan leaned in, he could almost see all of her thoughts and emotions right on those shiny eyes he fell in love with all those years ago, in all of this time; his sweet girl had never changed, but unknowingly, she changed him. 

— Do you want me too? — the Slytherin asks.

A rushed “i need you too” was the last thing he could process before the Hufflepuff was yanking his face into a heated kiss, hugging his neck so she could sit on his lap, Jeonghan was in heaven. 

His pretty girl softly pulling his hair to make him gasp into her mouth, his hands trying to be everywhere before he settled on holding her hips to keep her from moving too much. His sweet girl was a little too desperate for his taste. Why were her panties completely soaked and sticking to her core when he finally dipped his hand into her shorts? Was she getting hot and bothered the entire night and just taking it instead of asking for his help? — Own, did I leave my baby waiting for too long? My poor lil thing… — the motherfucker spoke up as condescending as always, only causing her to whine as he teasingly cupped her warmth through the moist underwear — Don’t worry, puppy. You know I’ll make it up to you — and “make up” he did.

As soon as the bastard found her bedroom, it was game on. At this point they’re unsure of how much time have gone by, one arm holding her waist firmly in place on her plush bed while the other held one of her legs up so he could have more access to the little pussy he spent so long dreaming about, he needed to eat his girlfriend out properly, let her know he’s the one for her, that no one would do it better than him, even if his efforts make his jaw hurt like crazy the next morning.

Jeonghan was having the time of his life, hearing her soft voice turning into a higher pitch whenever she whined about him teasing for too long, that she was ready to take him. And of course, being as annoying as ever, he couldn’t let the humiliation be just that, no, he made her repeat it every time — What was that, doll? — he looks up as if her sweet moans interrupted his holy feast, his chin soaked with her juices, his lips glistening with her honey, this view could kill — I need you, Jeongie… — she finally had the strength to answer, making the devil grin. 

He had no intentions of stopping, no, he needed that little cunt on his face until he suffocated. The bastard kept going after the first, the second and for a miracle, the third orgasm was his last straw, and even though he could devour his stupid girl right there… — My pretty baby did so well for me, didn’t she? — he gave her a much deserved break before getting down to finish their business. 

It felt as though there was nothing else in the world, nothing other than them. Passionate slow kisses, arms cradling one another as their hands caressed each other’s bodies, this moment could last all of eternity and neither culprit would complain, not even once. Feeling his hard on pressing against her thighs was driving the Hufflepuff a little bit insane, tucking on his waistband made her mouth feel awfully empty.

The Slytherin didn’t even remember that being hard was so damn painful, a soft touch of her hands on his crotch was enough to make him hiss, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his lips together, the sight was pretty enough to make one cry, he’s was just such a beautiful boy, how could she not want to have him in her mouth? — Please, please, pleas-

— You don’t have to — he tried shushing her, not wanting his baby to do any work — Want to… Wanna make you feel good, Jeongie… — that whiny tone made his knees buckle quickly, mind racing far too fast for him to stop himself before just sitting back on his knees and letting his pretty girl have her way with him.

For someone who was in full control just fifteen minutes ago, Jeonghan surely sounded like a bitch in heat. Biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood but letting go before it happens so he can moan like a whore just before the pleasure becomes too much and causes him to throw his head back, looking at his girl was too much to ask from him, everything was too much. Looking just so pretty trying her hardest to fit his thick base into her mouth, not paying any mind to all of the gagging, working so hard to please her Hannie, he could bust just from this fact alone, the man was losing it. 

His appreciation for her hard work did not go unappreciated for long, not when he got his doll on all fours for him, shoulders pressing down on the mattress while he pounded that pussy into another dimension not even ten minutes after getting the head of his life. The squeaking of the bed, the sound of skin slapping, the begging for more whenever he grabbed her hair roughly and used it as a leash to pull her body into his, his chest pressing against her back while he praised his pretty thing for being “such a good puppy for him, taking all of his cum”, only for the moans to go louder when he slammed her face back into the bed, the soft squelchy sound coming from where their bodies kissed, the music in this room was Jeonghan’s favorite. 

These two were wild animals for a long time, their muscles would most definitely feel their efforts tomorrow, but right now, after having the best orgasms of their lives, the lovebirds were in absolute peace, staying in the bed for much longer than expected after sex; just holding each other, just loving each other. After a nice shower, a change of sheets and some instant ramen, tho? Ready to go to sleep, if anything; desperate to go to sleep. Jeonghan felt a slight shift on the bed alongside him, he could feel his preciosity leaving his grasp just before he succumbed to the tiredness of his bones, he reluctantly opened his eyes; she’s on her phone? 

— Did I fuck you so good that you’re writing poetry? — he asks, it’s a fair question — Shut up, Slytherin — the Hufflepuff answers just before hitting send message into her groupchat, telling her friends everything they could possibly need to know about the past two hours or so with just 11 words.

[kettlefire]

Maybe a Bit High (DpxDC)

Really, Danny shouldn't have been there. He had so many other things he should be doing. He wasn't even supposed to in Gotham!

Danny wished he could be safely tucked in bed right now. Or having another fight with his mom. Or dealing with another one of Sam and Tucker's squabbles.

Truly, anything was better than this. Then, being on the run, in a completely different state. Not recognizing anything anywhere and having to somehow find his dad somewhere in this city.

So yes, with Danny's luck, he had assumed the commotion by the docks had something to do with his search.

And of course, with Danny's luck, it had absolutely nothing to do with him.

Maybe things got a little out of hand. Really, Danny wasn't equipped to deal with a drug bust. His experience with crime tends to be of the ghostly nature.

Really, how do people even do these without getting a little bit high?

Was he even high? Could halfas get high? Was the powder he accidentally ingested the drugs? The one he got a giant mouthful of? Or was it the strange purplish liquid that coated like half his body?

Really, Danny wasn't in the frame of mind to try and figure all that out. It sounded more like a Jazz and Sam question.

God, Sam was going to be so bummed out for missing out on Danny's first trip. Not that Danny could even tell her what drugs these were...

Maybe he should go to a hospital?

Or maybe he should mess with this crane. Like, it looks fun! Wait, but people aren't supposed to use heavy machinery when high...

It's fine... probably. It's not like Danny was that high. Right?

Yea, he's fine. Besides, he's a halfa! He's like ninety percent sure he couldn't even get high. And Tucker would be so on board with his idea.

Hold on, the storage units look more fun. Danny couldn't help wanting to find out what was hiding behind all those walls.

Oh, but the sky looks so pretty from here! Even with the city lights and the light smog, Danny could make out the twinkling stars.

Maybe he should go for a fly. Even if he was high, technically, that would be fine, right? Flying is like walking for him. And it's not illegal to walk high! Just to be high...

Okay, okay, a flight it is. It'll atleast keep him away from civilians, and then he'll find his dad. Yes, Danny still needed to do that.

He couldn't lose his objective. He just needed to take a breather, and then track down his dad. Track him down somewhere in this large, bustling city.

It'll be fine, totally fine. Danny was totally not panicking. His current trip was truly not going downhill.

Was he forgetting to breathe? Wait, no, Danny was still Phantom. He didn't need to breathe, he's fine. It's fine...

Unless it wasn't. What if it was all in Danny's head? What if all this halfa stuff was all just a part of his really weird trip? What if he tries to fly and just ends up drowning in the river?

Okay, okay. Focus Danny, focus. He just needed to find his dad. That's it. His dad would know what to do. His dad could fix this.

Oh, and there he is! It was a little hard for Danny to focus his vision, but he knew the silhouette anywhere! It had to be his dad! Jack has such a distinct shadow!

Danny wasn't sure if he called out Dad or not. He also wasn't sure when he had decided to move. Did he fly or did he run?

It didn't matter. His dad knew, anyways. All Danny was focused on was the feeling of hugging his dad again...

And the strange armor his dad was wearing? It must have been something Jack rigged up to protect himself during these dire times...

But god, Danny couldn't tear his focus away from the texture of it under his fingers. Zeroing in on that alone.

It's fine. Even if he was high, Danny could just explain it to Jack. His dad would understand! Danny was just trying to be a good hero. It's not like he was doing drugs for fun!

Besides, being curled up on his dad's shoulders feels too good right now. Whatever that pointy thing on Jack's head was wasn't a big deal. It was something a little intangiblity could fix!

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1943 - wounds and whispers

chapter summary: After an attack on the battlefield, Logan wakes up to you as his nurse in Italy during World War 2.

word count: 8.8k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this one is short, and the ending is a bit abrupt, but i kind of wanted it to be that way- war is unpredictable. also, the ending is a tad bit different from the other endings, you'll see when you read! anyways, next chapter is when things get a little bit more interesting...

warnings/tags: mentions of injuries, fluff, angst, war, character death(s)

series masterlist - chapter 3 → chapter 5

A mere 43 years later and Logan was already in his second war since you died that last time. Part of him almost wished that he could die, maybe then he’d see you and get to hold you forever. But that just wasn’t in the cards for him; not when he had this healing, not when he was already 111 years old.

Logan's mind was swimming in a fog of pain as consciousness crept back in. The last thing he remembered was the deafening blast of gunfire and the sharp, searing pain that tore through his side as he charged forward in the midst of the chaos. War was hell, and he’d been through more than enough of them to know that. But this—this felt different.

His eyes fluttered open, the bright lights overhead blinding him for a moment as he groaned, trying to push himself up. His muscles screamed in protest, his entire body feeling like it had been torn apart and put back together again.

“Easy there, soldier.”

The voice was soft but firm, and it froze him in place. Logan’s heart skipped a beat, recognition flooding through him even though he knew it wasn’t possible. His vision focused, and then he saw you. Standing right over him, your face illuminated by the dim lights of the field hospital.

It was you.

Logan’s breath hitched, his mind spinning. He’d seen you die—he’d held you in his arms not long before everything faded. The memory of that night, the pain in your eyes, the blood pooling beneath you—it was burned into him. He’d lost you again. But now here you were, alive, standing in front of him like nothing had ever happened.

His throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak. “Y/N?” You probably didn’t hear him, given the quiet tone of his voice.

You smiled softly, stepping closer to him, your hands working with practiced care to check his wounds. “You’re lucky, you know,” you said, ignoring the way he looked at you, as if he'd seen a ghost. “The shrapnel didn’t hit anything vital. You’ll live.”

Logan swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving yours. He felt a pull, the same pull he’d felt every time he met you in a different life. But this time, it hurt even more. Because this was the first time he’d seen you since the last time you died, and now, here you were, again, as if the universe had decided to toy with him once more.

“Y/N…” he whispered again, his voice rough with emotion.

You glanced at him, your brows knitting together in confusion. “How do you know my name?”

Logan hesitated, his heart pounding. He couldn’t tell you—not yet. Not about the lives you’d lived before, not about the times he’d watched you die. He had to keep it together. You didn’t remember him, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

He cleared his throat, managing a tight smile. “Lucky guess,” he said, his voice strained, trying to mask the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him.

You gave him a curious look but didn’t press further. “Well, lucky or not, you should be more careful out there,” you said, turning your attention back to bandaging him up. “You’re not invincible, even if you act like it.”

Logan nearly chuckled at that. If only you knew. But instead, he gritted his teeth as you finished patching him up. The pain from the wound was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He’d spent so many lifetimes with you, always losing you too soon. Always feeling like there wasn’t enough time.

And now, here you were again, standing so close to him, your hands gentle as you worked. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing with memories of you—of your smile, your laugh, the way you’d always found him, no matter the time or place.

But this wasn’t the past. This was 1943, and you didn’t know him. He had to play it cool, keep his distance, even though every instinct in him was screaming to reach out and hold you, to make sure you didn’t slip away again.

“Thanks,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.

You gave him a small nod, satisfied with your work. “Well, you’re still not cleared to leave yet, so you’re not gonna get away from me that easily.” You grabbed a small flashlight from your pocket and leaned in a little closer, shining it into his eyes to check his pupils.

Logan grunted, feeling the warmth of your proximity. It was almost unbearable how familiar you felt, even though you didn’t know him—at least not in this lifetime. His eyes followed your movements, the way you focused on him like he was just another soldier you had to patch up. But to him, you were everything.

“You know,” you started, your voice calm but a little teasing, “you really shouldn’t be throwing yourself into the line of fire like that. Kinda hard for us to patch you up if you don’t have any parts left.”

Logan gave a low chuckle, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ll heal,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was rougher than usual, like the words were struggling to get past the weight of seeing you again, alive and breathing.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Heal, huh? Well, you’re not invincible, soldier. Trust me, I’ve seen men think they’re untouchable, and they don’t last long in a place like this.”

Logan looked away, trying to focus on anything other than the sound of your voice. He didn’t want to make this harder on himself than it already was. “Guess I’ll just have to be more careful, then.”

You chuckled softly, finishing your check-up and tucking the flashlight back into your pocket. “Yeah, you do that.” There was a hint of amusement in your tone, but you were still clearly all business. “Now,” you looked at a clipboard in your hands, “James, you have a different name you’d like to go by?”

Logan grunted, his gaze fixed on you. The name ‘James’ felt foreign now, like a remnant of a past he didn't quite belong to anymore. His eyes flickered to the clipboard, then back to your face. The memories of every life you'd lived flashed through his mind, each one ending the same way, with you slipping away from him.

“Logan,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he intended.

You looked up, scribbling something down. “Logan, huh?” You nodded, writing it down. “Suits you better than James… I think.”

Logan gave a small grunt, a mix of acknowledgment and the emotions he was keeping buried. He couldn’t tell you how much it hurt hearing you say his name, knowing you didn’t remember him at all. Every time he heard your voice, it was like a punch to the gut—a reminder that no matter how many times you came back, he was always starting over, and you… you were always slipping away.

“Glad you approve,” Logan muttered, his eyes drifting away from you. He was trying hard not to stare, trying not to let the overwhelming rush of memories take over. You looked the same, almost exactly as you had the last time—before George pulled that damn trigger.

You didn’t seem to notice the tension radiating from him, too focused on the task at hand. “Well, Logan,” you said, setting the clipboard aside. “You’ll need to stay here for observation, at least for the night. Make sure your body’s handling the recovery properly. We’ve seen some soldiers who think they’re fine, and then—” You made a gesture, mimicking someone fainting, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the floor, suppressing the mix of emotions threatening to boil over. That small smile—the one you always had, no matter how many lives you lived—was painfully familiar. Each time, the same softness, the same warmth. But this time, it cut deeper because he knew how this would end. You’d be gone. Again.

“You’re real good at this, aren’t ya?” Logan said, his voice low, trying to sound casual despite the weight of everything between you two, or at least, everything he carried alone.

You shrugged, your smile widening just a little. “I’ve had a lot of practice lately. War isn’t exactly kind to anyone.” Your eyes softened for a moment, like you were remembering someone, but you shook it off, standing straighter. “But, yeah. It’s what I do.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he fought the urge to tell you everything, to scream at the universe for pulling you into his life only to tear you away. But he couldn’t. Not this time. He had to play along, had to act like this was the first time he’d ever met you.

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Guess we’re both used to it, then. War and all.”

You glanced at him, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Yeah?” There was a pause as you sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. “You seem… different from the other soldiers I’ve patched up. Seen a lot, huh?”

Logan leaned back slightly, his hand brushing against the place where the ring still rested in his pocket. He hadn’t taken it out in years. “More than you’d believe.”

There was a quiet moment between you, your gaze lingering on him as if trying to figure him out. “Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “let’s hope you don’t add anything else to that list while you’re here.”

Logan couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that escaped his throat. If only you knew what was on that list already. If only he could tell you how many times he’d seen you die, how many times he’d watched your life slip through his fingers. But instead, he just nodded again.

“I’ll try,” he muttered, though the words felt hollow.

As you stood up, preparing to check on the next patient, you paused, glancing back at him. There was something in your eyes, something almost familiar. But then, you smiled again—kind, unaware of the history Logan held with you—and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Logan exhaled slowly, the ache in his chest growing heavier. He had to stay strong, had to keep his distance. But deep down, he knew he was already caught, already tangled in the same painful cycle.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the engagement ring he’d never had the chance to give you.

Maybe this time, he thought. Maybe this time, you’d survive.

But Logan knew better than to hope.

---

You checked in with one of the doctors when Sandra, your friend and fellow nurse, put a hand on your shoulder and turned you to face her.

“Does he have a nice voice?”

You snorted, shaking your head at Sandra. "A nice voice? That’s what you want to ask?”

Sandra grinned, unbothered by your sarcasm. “Well, I saw the way you were looking at him. Thought maybe he had some mysterious, deep, soldier-thing going on.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a clipboard from the nearby desk. “He’s just a patient, Sandra.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Sandra leaned in, lowering her voice. “You didn’t exactly hurry out of that room.”

You shot her a look. “I was doing my job.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. “So... does he?”

You sighed, unable to stop a small smile from creeping onto your face. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a little. He’s got that gruff, low thing going on.”

“I knew it!” Sandra nudged your shoulder, her expression smug. “You’re into the mysterious types.”

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, flipping through the papers on your clipboard, though none of it really held your focus. Your mind drifted back to Logan’s face—his eyes, the way he carried himself like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. There was something about him, something that felt... familiar. But you brushed it off. That wasn’t possible.

“I’m not into anyone,” you said quickly, snapping back to reality. “Especially not a guy I’ve known for like five minutes.”

Sandra raised her hands in surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” But the teasing gleam in her eyes suggested she wasn’t done with the subject.

You gave her a half-hearted glare before heading off to check on another patient. But as much as you tried to focus, your thoughts kept drifting back to Logan. The way his voice had this gravelly edge to it, how it felt like he was holding something back every time he spoke. And then there was the way he looked at you—like he recognized you, like you were someone important.

But that couldn’t be right.

---

You came to check on Logan later that night before you’d head back to your quarters for some rest. The makeshift hospital was quieter now, just a few murmurs from patients in the distance. Your shift had been long, draining, but something about checking on Logan felt... different.

You pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly lit room. Logan was sitting up on the bed, his expression unreadable as he stared at the floor. His posture was tense, like he was carrying the weight of more than just a few injuries.

“How’re you feeling?” you asked softly, keeping your tone professional despite the strange pull you felt toward him.

Logan looked up at you, his eyes locking onto yours for a moment that seemed to stretch longer than it should. “Better. You know, thanks to you.”

You gave a small smile, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze drifting back to the floor. “Still, you’re good at it.”

There was that same heaviness in his voice, like he was holding back more than just gratitude. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something about him felt... familiar. It was strange, like you knew him somehow, but you brushed the thought away.

“You should get some rest,” you said, checking the bandage on his side. Your fingertips lingered on the spot where the bloody wound had been earlier, but there was nothing—just smooth skin, as if it had never been there at all. Your brow furrowed, lips parting slightly in disbelief. You’d seen the gash when they’d brought him in, deep and ugly, impossible to heal so quickly.

Logan’s muscles tensed under your touch, and when you glanced at him, his expression was guarded, like he was bracing for something.

"That’s... impossible," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It was bad earlier. There should at least be... a scar."

Logan shrugged, trying to act indifferent, but the movement was stiff. "Guess I got lucky."

You pulled your hand back slowly, still frowning. “Lucky doesn’t cover it. I’ve never seen anyone heal like that.” You tilted your head, curiosity edging into your voice. “How?”

His jaw tightened. "It happens."

“That’s not much of an answer.” Your arms crossed over your chest, and the edge in your tone softened just a bit. “You’ve got to admit it’s... weird.”

Logan gave you a look, one that made you feel like he was sizing you up, trying to figure out how much he could say. Or maybe how little. "Weird, yeah," he muttered, voice low. "Not much I can do about it, though."

You knew a deflection when you heard one, but you let it go—for now. You weren’t sure why you felt compelled to trust him, but there was something in his eyes, in the way he spoke, that made it impossible not to.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, you shook your head with a faint smile. "Well, however it happened, you’re lucky I didn’t call the doctors in to see this miracle." You gave him a teasing look. “You’d be their new favorite science project.”

A ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I’d rather avoid that."

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. There was something strangely easy about being near him, like you’d known each other for years. You glanced at his hands—rough, calloused, like they’d seen more battles than you could imagine—and wondered just how much he’d been through.

"Why do I feel like there’s more to you than you’re letting on?" you asked softly.

Logan’s gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable in his expression. "You ever meet someone and feel like you’ve known ’em before?"

His words struck a nerve, sending a chill down your spine. You swallowed, the strange familiarity between you two suddenly harder to ignore. "Yeah... I guess I have."

Logan nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. He rubbed his thumb against the curve of his knuckle—a nervous habit, maybe. Or just old memories surfacing.

"You should get some rest," you said quietly, almost reluctantly. It felt wrong to leave, like there was more to say, even if you didn’t know what.

"I’m not good at rest," Logan admitted, voice low.

You gave a soft laugh. "No one is these days."

As you stood up, Logan’s hand moved slightly—just enough that the tips of his fingers brushed yours, barely a touch but enough to make your heart skip. You looked down at him, surprised by how natural it felt, like you’d been standing this close to him a thousand times before.

For a moment, it seemed like Logan might say something—something important. His hand hovered near his pocket, where a small, heavy object pressed against the fabric. But then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as if he’d changed his mind at the last second.

"Goodnight," you whispered, your voice softer than before.

Logan gave you a short nod, but his eyes followed you as you stepped away, like he was memorizing the moment—like it might slip away from him if he looked away for even a second.

---

The next morning, when you went to check on Logan, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, buttoning up his shirt over his white beater.

“Hey—wait.” You stepped in front of Logan, your hands instinctively finding his forearm as he finished buttoning his shirt. “You’re not cleared to leave yet.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, something passed between you—like the echo of a memory, distant but familiar. He gave you a half-smile, the kind that looked more like a grimace, and kept working on the last button.

“Gotta go,” he muttered. “Don’t do well sittin’ still.”

You crossed your arms, not budging. “Doesn’t mean you get to walk out of here half-healed.”

His gaze darkened, jaw clenching as if biting back words. You could tell he didn’t like being told what to do, but there was something more in his expression—something haunted, buried beneath that tough exterior.

“You think I can’t handle it?” he asked, voice low, gravelly.

“It’s not about what you can handle.” Your eyes softened, a hint of frustration slipping through. “It’s about what’s smart. I’ve patched up enough soldiers to know that leavin’ too soon isn’t.”

Logan’s lips twitched, like he might argue, but then he stilled, studying you with a strange intensity. The weight of his stare made your breath hitch for a second, but you refused to back down.

“Stay,” you insisted. “At least for another day. Let the wound close properly.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, like it was more trouble than it was worth to argue with you. “You always this stubborn?”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. Part of the charm.”

Logan huffed, a reluctant laugh buried somewhere in the sound. He leaned forward slightly, his knees brushing yours where you stood between his legs. The air felt heavier—charged with something neither of you could quite name.

“Y/N...” The way your name left his mouth was different. Familiar, almost reverent, like he was tasting the sound of it after a long time.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “What?”

Logan’s hand drifted toward his pocket, hesitating just for a beat. He seemed to think better of it and instead leaned back, propping himself on his palms like he was trying to keep his distance.

“Nothing.” His tone was gruff, evasive, but you knew there was more he wasn’t saying.

You stayed where you were, close enough to feel the warmth of him. “You’re not really going to leave, are you?”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Shouldn’t stick around too long.”

“Why not?”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustrated. “I just shouldn’t.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, like they carried the weight of something unsaid—something important. But before you could push further, Logan shifted on the bed, brushing past you as if putting space between you would make it easier.

“Look...” His voice softened just slightly, almost apologetic. “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’ve been through worse.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you have to go through this alone.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment, the walls he kept up seemed to crack, just a little. He looked at you like you were someone he wanted to hold onto, but couldn’t—like you’d slip through his fingers if he let himself get too close.

You leaned in just a bit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let me help, Logan.”

The way his name fell from your lips sent a flicker of something through him—something dangerous, vulnerable, like it meant too much. His breath hitched, and for a second, you thought he might tell you whatever he was holding back.

But instead, he gave you a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You already have.”

It felt like the conversation was teetering on the edge of something, but neither of you were ready to tip it over just yet.

“You win,” he muttered finally, his tone rough but resigned. “I’ll stay... one more day.”

You grinned, victorious. “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Maybe I’ll even let ya accompany me to the mess tent for lunch.” You held up a finger, playful but firm. “But only if you’re good.”

Logan gave a soft huff, the closest thing to a laugh you’d gotten out of him all day. “You makin’ the rules now?”

“That’s right,” you said with a smirk. “I am the nurse, after all.”

He shook his head, amused despite himself. “Fair enough.”

You lingered a moment longer than necessary, and Logan didn’t move away. His hand twitched near his knee, like he was thinking about reaching for you. It wasn’t the kind of gesture that strangers made—it felt too familiar, too intimate, like muscle memory.

“See ya at lunch, then,” you murmured, trying to shake off the strange pull toward him.

Logan gave a small nod, but his gaze stayed on you as you turned toward the door. Just as you reached it, you glanced back over your shoulder.

“You better not sneak out while I’m gone,” you teased, though part of you wasn’t sure it was really a joke.

Logan’s lips quirked at the corner, but the look in his eyes was heavy, weighed down with something you couldn’t quite place. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

---

By the time lunch rolled around, you were half-expecting Logan to be gone—off on some stubborn mission to leave the hospital before you could stop him. But when you returned, there he was, sitting up on the bed and rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his forearms.

"Kept my end of the bargain," he said, giving you a crooked grin that was more shadow than smile.

“Guess that means you earned lunch.” You gestured toward the door, and Logan pushed himself off the bed with an ease that didn’t match the severity of the injury he'd arrived with. You gave him a skeptical glance but decided to let it slide—for now.

The two of you walked through the makeshift hospital in comfortable silence. You noticed how other soldiers gave him nods or muttered greetings in passing, even though none of them really knew him. Something about Logan just demanded respect—maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the way his eyes seemed to see right through you.

At the mess tent, you grabbed two metal trays, handing one to him. “Hope you’re not picky. The food’s... not exactly five-star.”

Logan smirked. “I’ve had worse.”

You sat together at a small table, away from the loudest group of soldiers. For a moment, it was almost peaceful, like the war outside didn’t exist. Logan picked at his food absently, and you couldn’t help but study him—how his hands moved, how his jaw clenched like he was always bracing for bad news.

“So... you’ve done this before?” you asked, breaking the quiet. “The soldier thing, I mean.”

Logan glanced at you, something flickering in his expression. “Yeah. A few times.”

A few times. The way he said it made it sound like more than just a couple of tours.

“Must’ve been rough,” you murmured, stirring your soup. “I can’t imagine coming back to it over and over.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on you, and for a second, you felt pinned under the weight of it. Like he knew something you didn’t. “You get used to it,” he muttered, but the sadness in his voice told a different story.

There was a beat of silence, and then you leaned forward slightly, your curiosity getting the better of you. “You ever... think about what you’d do, you know, if you weren’t here? If the war wasn’t happening?”

Logan stared at his tray, his jaw tightening like he was biting back something painful. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Once or twice.”

The way he said it made your chest ache, and before you could stop yourself, you asked, “What would you do?”

Logan’s thumb brushed along the edge of his tray—a nervous habit, like he was weighing whether to tell you the truth. “There’s someone,” he said slowly. “Someone I thought about settlin’ down with... a long time ago.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. “What happened?”

Logan looked away, his expression hardening like a door slamming shut. “Didn’t work out.”

It wasn’t the whole story—you could tell that much. But you didn’t push. There was something in the way he said it, like the loss was still raw, even if it had happened years ago.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, unsure why you felt the need to say it.

Logan gave a small shrug, like it didn’t matter. But you knew better. It did matter. It mattered a lot.

---

After lunch, the two of you lingered outside the tent, neither of you in a rush to return to the chaos inside. The sun was warm on your face, a rare moment of peace in a world that had been anything but peaceful lately.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said suddenly, glancing at Logan.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’d you expect?”

You shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. Maybe someone more... closed off. But you’re not as much of a mystery as you think.”

Logan chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You’d be surprised.”

You bit your lip, studying him. “You feel... familiar,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like we’ve met before.”

Logan went still, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off with some sarcastic comment. But instead, he looked at you with that same haunted expression you’d seen earlier—the one that made your chest tighten.

“Maybe we have,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

The words sent a strange chill down your spine. You stared at him, trying to piece together what he meant. But Logan didn’t offer any more answers. He just stood there, watching you like he was waiting for something.

Before you could ask, Sandra’s voice called from the distance, snapping you both out of the moment. “Y/N! Doctor’s looking for you.”

You sighed, giving Logan a small, reluctant smile. “Duty calls.”

Logan nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Better get to it.”

You hesitated for just a second longer, something inside you screaming that there was more to this—more to him. But instead, you gave him one last smile before turning away.

---

When Logan was alone again, he pulled the ring from his pocket, turning it over in his fingers. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in a way that only hurt more now.

He’d carried it through battles, through lifetimes, always hoping—maybe this time. But hope had a way of slipping through his fingers, just like you always did.

Logan clenched the ring in his fist, his jaw tightening. He knew better than to hope. He always did. But still... here you were.

For now, at least.

---

The next day you begrudgingly cleared Logan and showed him to where he would be staying before he got called away for another fight. It was a small quarters, shared with some of the other guys, but it was better than the hospital bed.

You should know. Sometimes you’ve taken power naps on those beds—when the hospital got too busy or you needed a break but couldn’t leave. They were uncomfortable as hell, but after long hours, you didn’t have much choice.

Logan tossed his bag on the bunk, eyeing the cramped quarters. It wasn’t much—just a room with a few cots and a flimsy curtain dividing it from the rest of the barracks—but he didn’t seem to care.

“You’ll be all right here,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe.

Logan smirked, glancing at the bed like it was just another obstacle in his way. “I’ve had worse.”

You gave him a sideways glance, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah, I’m starting to see a pattern with you.”

He chuckled, low and gravelly, the sound doing strange things to your heart. His presence was so... solid. Like he’d been through hell and back, yet here he was, standing in front of you like nothing could break him.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you added with a smirk. “There’s always a chance you’ll end up back in the infirmary if you’re not careful.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that made the muscles in his forearms flex under his rolled-up sleeves. “You worried about me, nurse?”

“Maybe I am,” you teased, keeping it light even though part of you was serious. “I don’t want to have to stitch you back up.”

He laughed again, softer this time, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than just casual. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll heal.”

The words hung between you, something unspoken settling in. There was always something deeper with Logan, like the surface of his words barely scratched at the things he carried underneath.

Before you could respond, a couple of soldiers passed by, giving Logan nods of acknowledgment as they went. You noticed the way they looked at him, like he was someone who’d earned their respect without even trying.

Logan pushed off the wall, moving past you toward the door. “Thanks for the room,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I could use a drink.”

You laughed. “Well, good luck with that. This isn’t exactly the Ritz.”

He stopped just outside the door, turning back to you. His eyes were sharp, but there was something softer underneath. “You wanna join me?”

You paused, surprised by the offer. “Are you askin’ me out, Logan?”

His lips twitched into a half-smile. “Just tryin’ to be friendly.”

You let out a small huff of laughter, shaking your head as you grabbed your cap and followed him. “Fine. But if you’re looking for whiskey, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of your boots crunching on the gravel road filling the air. The base had quieted down a bit as the sun dipped lower, the day easing into a calm that didn’t come often in a warzone.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Logan from time to time, trying to figure him out. He was so... different. From anyone you’d met. From any soldier you’d treated. And yet, he felt so familiar.

You found a small spot near one of the mess tents where a few crates had been stacked up like makeshift seats. Logan grabbed a canteen from his jacket, unscrewing the cap before taking a long drink. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“That better be water,” you joked, taking a seat beside him.

Logan handed you the canteen, smirking. “Try it and find out.”

You took a cautious sip, then immediately coughed, the burn of the alcohol catching you off guard. “God—what is this?”

“Something I picked up,” Logan said, eyes gleaming with amusement as you wiped your mouth. “Figured it’d help take the edge off.”

You gave him a playful glare, handing the canteen back. “Next time, a little warning, maybe?”

Logan shrugged, grinning. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re trouble, Logan.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the crate. “Been called worse.”

The two of you sat there in comfortable silence for a few moments, passing the canteen back and forth. The alcohol burned, but it wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever tasted—not by a long shot. And it did what Logan said it would—it took the edge off.

You studied him for a moment, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, even when he was sitting still. “You feel familiar,” you said quietly, your voice almost drowned out by the soft sounds of the base around you. “Like we’ve met before.”

Logan’s expression shifted—just for a second. His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away from you and toward the horizon. “Maybe we have,” he murmured, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

The words sent a strange, unexplainable shiver down your spine. You opened your mouth to ask him what he meant, but before you could, he stood up, stretching his arms over his head like he was shaking something off.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost like he was forcing it. “You ready to head back?”

You blinked, still caught in the haze of the moment. But you nodded, standing up and brushing the dirt from your uniform. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two of you walked back toward the barracks in silence, the air between you feeling heavier now. Something had shifted—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. But you knew it wasn’t nothing.

When you reached the barracks, Logan stopped at the door, turning to look at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice rougher than usual, like he was wrestling with something inside him. “If... if things ever get bad, you find me. Got it?”

You frowned, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Logan, what—”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “You find me. No matter what.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay. I will.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, then nodded, like he was satisfied with your answer. “Good.”

Without another word, Logan turned and headed inside, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket.

What did he mean? Why did he look at you like he knew something you didn’t?

You lingered there for a moment before finally heading to your own quarters. But even as you lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, Logan’s words echoed in your mind.

You find me. No matter what.

---

The next few days were a strange mix of routine and tension. Logan stayed around the base, mostly keeping to himself, but you found yourself crossing paths with him more often than you expected. Every time, there was that same intensity in his gaze, like he was watching you, waiting for something.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. But it did make your chest tighten every time you saw him.

One evening, as the sun began to set, you found yourself wandering toward the edge of the base, needing a moment to clear your head. The war, the patients, the constant pressure—it was all getting to you. And Logan... well, Logan wasn’t making things any easier.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Need some company?”

You jumped slightly, turning to find Logan leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jeez, you scared me,” you said, placing a hand over your heart.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said, pushing off the tree and walking over to stand beside you. “You looked like you could use some company.”

You sighed, glancing out at the fading sun. “Yeah, I guess I could.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there beside you, his presence solid and reassuring. After a few beats of silence, he spoke.

“You doin’ all right?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It’s just... a lot sometimes, you know?”

Logan nodded, his eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. I get it.”

There was something in the way he said it—something that made you believe he really did get it. Like he knew exactly what it felt like to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.

“Thanks for asking,” you said quietly, your gaze still focused on the horizon.

Logan was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “I meant what I said before,” he murmured. “You ever need anything... you come find me.”

You turned to look at him, the seriousness in his voice catching you off guard. “Logan... why are you doin’ this? Why are you looking out for me?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he spoke, his voice low and rough. “Because... you’re important. More than you know.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Important? How? Why?

Before you could ask, Logan stepped closer, his eyes locked onto yours. “Just promise me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me you’ll come find me if you need to.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I promise.”

Logan held your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your head spinning with questions.

You’re important. More than you know.

What did that mean? Why did Logan feel so... familiar?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you stood there, your mind racing. Logan had secrets—secrets you weren’t sure you were ready to uncover. But one thing was clear: whatever was between the two of you, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---

On another day, you spotted Logan on the outskirts of base, sitting against a truck’s wheel with a notebook in hand.

He looked almost peaceful, maybe the most peaceful you’d ever seen him since he got here. Judging by the way he was moving his pencil, you assumed he was drawing something. You hesitated, not wanting to disturb him, but your curiosity got the better of you.

"Didn’t peg you for an artist," you said, walking over and leaning against the truck beside him.

Logan didn’t look up right away, just kept sketching, but there was a small smirk on his lips. "You learn a lot when you’ve got time," he muttered.

You glanced at the notebook, catching glimpses of rough lines and shadows. “What’re you drawing?”

He paused, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to show you, then turned the notebook just enough for you to see. It was a sketch of the base—a surprisingly detailed one, with the buildings and surrounding trees, even some of the soldiers milling about.

“Not bad,” you said, genuinely impressed. “Didn’t know you had this in you.”

Logan shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Like I said, a lot of time.” He looked at you then, and for a brief moment, there was something more behind his eyes, something deeper. “Keeps me grounded.”

You studied him, wondering what that really meant. Logan had always been a bit of a mystery, but there were moments—like now—where it felt like there was so much more to him than he let on.

“You ever thought about doing something with it? You know, beyond just sketches?” you asked, half teasing, half curious.

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m not the ‘show-off my art’ type. It’s just... for me.” He glanced back at the drawing, his expression softening in a way you didn’t often see. “Helps me forget.”

You nodded, feeling a tug at your chest. “Forget what?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “Everything.”

The weight in his voice told you there was more to that statement—more than you could guess. You’d learned over the past few days that Logan was carrying his own kind of burden, just like you were. And yet, somehow, it felt like his was so much heavier.

“Must be a lot to forget,” you said softly.

Logan’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, you thought he might actually open up. But instead, he just gave a noncommittal grunt and went back to his sketching.

You watched him for a while, feeling the comfortable silence settle between you. It was odd, but Logan’s presence had become... something you looked forward to. Even with all the unspoken tension, being around him made things feel a little less overwhelming.

“I never thanked you,” you said after a while, breaking the quiet. “For, you know... looking out for me.”

Logan’s pencil paused again, and he glanced up. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you insisted, your eyes meeting his. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

Logan shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable with the gratitude, but his eyes softened. “I told you. You’re important.”

That word again—important. You wanted to ask him why, wanted to press him on what he really meant by that, but something in his expression told you he wasn’t ready to answer. Not yet.

“Just… stay outta trouble,” Logan said, his voice dropping into something rougher, more serious. “I’d rather not have to pull you out of any more messes.”

You smiled, trying to keep things light. “I’ll do my best. But, you know, being a nurse in the middle of a war, trouble kinda finds me.”

Logan let out a soft huff of a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

The sky was growing darker now, the last traces of sunlight fading. You knew you should probably head back to the barracks soon, but something kept you rooted to the spot, standing beside him. The air between you felt charged, like there was something unspoken hanging there, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Logan,” you began, your voice quiet but steady. “Why does it feel like you’ve been watching me? Not just looking out for me, but... like you’ve known me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. His eyes shifted, as if he was deciding whether to answer that. You could feel your heart thudding in your chest, waiting for his response.

“I haven’t,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

The way he said it made you frown. “What does that mean?”

Logan’s gaze held yours, intense and searching. There was a flicker of something there—regret? Pain? Before you could figure it out, he looked away, his fingers tightening around the edges of the notebook.

“It means… I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Not again.”

Again. There it was—a crack in the wall he’d built around himself. But before you could push him on it, Logan stood abruptly, tucking the notebook under his arm.

“You should get some rest,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “Long day tomorrow.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift. “Logan—”

But he was already walking away, his back stiff and his pace quick. You watched him go, your mind spinning with more questions than answers. Something was going on with Logan—something bigger than you’d realized.

And you had a feeling you weren’t going to let it go until you found out the truth.

---

The next morning you found out that Logan had already gone on some mission to Sicily. You weren’t sure why you felt sad, maybe a bit betrayed that he left without saying goodbye, but you did.

You had only known him for a few days, but somehow it seemed longer.

You couldn’t just stand around and dwell on Logan leaving without a goodbye. There was work to do. You made your way to the medical tent where a doctor had been prepping for a surgery. As you stepped inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic hit your nose, grounding you in the moment.

"Y/N, glad you’re here. We’ve got a soldier with a bullet wound to the abdomen," the doctor said, his tone brisk. "I need your hands steady and sharp today."

You nodded, pushing thoughts of Logan to the back of your mind. "Got it, Doctor."

The surgery went on for hours, the steady rhythm of your breathing matching the precise movements of your hands as you assisted. It was intense, but you had no time to be distracted. Life and death were real here, and your job was to fight for life.

When the surgery was finally over, the soldier stabilized, you stepped outside the tent to catch your breath. The sky was still overcast, and the damp air felt heavy. You leaned against a wooden post, your hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Logan was gone, but the memory of him lingered. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unsaid. There had been too many moments—too many heavy, unspoken words between you. You tried to brush it off. It had only been a few days since you’d met him, after all. But somehow, it felt like more.

"Y/N."

You looked up to see one of the other nurses approaching. "Yeah?"

"You’ve been requested to assist with another unit. They’re setting up a temporary hospital closer to the front lines. It’ll be rough, but they need experienced hands."

You hesitated. The front lines meant more danger, more chaos. But the soldier in you—the part that was here to help, to make a difference—knew you couldn’t say no.

"When do I leave?" you asked, straightening up.

"Tomorrow morning, first light."

You nodded, giving a small smile. "Thanks for the heads-up."

That night, you tried to sleep, but your mind kept wandering back to Logan. To his last words before he’d left—"I don’t want you to get hurt. Not again." What had he meant by ‘again’? It kept echoing in your mind, nagging at you.

---

The next morning came quickly, and before you knew it, you were being packed into a truck heading closer to the front lines. The landscape passed by in a blur, and the closer you got to the new camp, the louder the sounds of war became. Shells exploded in the distance, and the ground seemed to vibrate with tension.

You spent the next few days in a haze of blood, bandages, and exhaustion. There was barely any time to think, let alone dwell on Logan. But still, every once in a while, your thoughts drifted to him—wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe.

It was late one night, a few days into your new assignment, when the unexpected happened. The sirens had started to blare, lights flashing around camp. That could only mean one thing- you were under attack. And judging by the loud engines overhead, none of you were going to make it out alive.

---

Logan had gone with other soldiers to Sicily for Operation Husky. He didn’t want to leave you, but part of him thought, hoped, that maybe he was your bad luck charm.

Logan stared at the coastline of Sicily, but his mind was elsewhere. The mission was straightforward—get in, clear the path for the troops, and secure the area. But no matter how focused he tried to stay, thoughts of you kept creeping back in. He wondered if you were safe. He hoped, for your sake, that you weren’t thinking about him as much as he was thinking about you.

It was torture, being away. But deep down, Logan believed it was better this way. Maybe him being around was what doomed you every time. You had died three times before, and each time, he had been there. Maybe this time, distance would keep you safe.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting you. The thought of your smile, your laughter, the way you challenged him—it made him ache with something deeper than just desire. It was like an old wound that never healed, no matter how fast the rest of him did.

One of the soldiers called his name, pulling him from his thoughts. “Logan, you with us, man?”

He grunted in response, nodding toward the others. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Good,” the guy said. “We’re heading out.”

Logan followed, but his thoughts drifted again, back to you. He had promised himself he wouldn’t get attached this time. But it was too late for that. He’d been attached since 1854, since that first smile, that first laugh.

---

It was a few days before Logan made it back to base, one closer to the frontlines. The mission had gone as planned, but something gnawed at him, an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake.

As soon as the base came into view, Logan noticed something was off. Smoke still lingered in the air, and there were fewer people around than there should’ve been. His gut twisted. Something had happened while he was gone.

He found one of the soldiers he recognized, grabbing him by the arm. “What happened here?”

The guy’s face darkened. “We were hit. Bombing raid. Caught us off guard. There... there weren’t many survivors.”

Logan’s heart dropped. “Where’s the hospital unit?”

The soldier hesitated, eyes flicking away from Logan’s intense gaze. “It was one of the first targets. No one made it out.”

Logan felt like the ground had dropped from under him. “What do you mean, no one?” His voice was a low growl, almost dangerous.

The soldier shook his head. “I’m sorry, man. They didn’t stand a chance.”

Logan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The world around him blurred as the words sank in. You were gone. Again.

Without saying another word, Logan turned and walked toward what was left of the hospital tent. He had to see it for himself, even though part of him knew it was true. There was nothing left but rubble and debris.

His chest tightened, the weight of it crushing. You were gone. And he hadn’t been there to stop it. Again.

Logan stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the wreckage. He felt that familiar, burning anger rising inside him, but it was mixed with something else this time—grief. Deep, raw grief. He wanted to scream, to punch something, anything, but all he could do was stand there, numb.

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small velvet box he always carried with him. The engagement ring. The one he had never used.

It had been almost ninety years since he bought it. And still, he carried it, hoping one day he might finally be able to give it to you. But every time, every life, you slipped through his fingers.

Logan swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. How many more times he could lose you.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with emotion.

He had thought putting distance between you two would protect you. But it didn’t matter. You were gone, just like the other times.

And now, once again, he was left with nothing but memories and that damned ring.

in this chapter logan is 111 years old and reader is around 24-27 years old.

[citrus-writing]

In Your Skin - yandere! feitan x reader

summary: Feitan carving his initials into darling

warnings: violence against reader, implied past abuse

taglist: @rotten-pomegranate on Tumblr

---------------------------------------------------------

Over time- weeks and weeks spent under his watchful eye- all the fight you once had in you has been worn away. By now all you can do is try to read his expressions and guess his mood and try to be good. You do your best to do whatever he says, but the truth is that by the time he has to tell you, you’re already too late to avoid his anger. You do your best to do what he wants- wear the clothes he likes, partake in hobbies he seems to like seeing you engage in, talk about the things he likes to talk about; there isn't much he likes to talk about, but you try. It's never enough.

You look over at him, sitting alone reading a book in a language you don't know. His face is hard to read, especially at such a glance, but he looks almost cute- it’s strange to think of him as attractive, but that’s the truth; to you, he’s cute, handsome even. Should you feel disgusted for thinking that? Ashamed? Embarrassed? You’re not sure. You don't even know what he would think if you told him- but you do know that his face wouldn't betray any emotion, and he’d find a way to make you regret saying it. 

When he looks at you, you look away fast. You hear the book snap shut and you know you're in trouble. Was it looking at him that made him mad? Or looking away?

"Come here," he calls, and you hurry to obey- whatever he had in mind, you knew hesitating would only make it worse. You come to stand in front of him, eyes fixated on his shoes because you don't dare to look up at him. If you looked at him, what would you see? Not knowing what expression he wears sends terror straight through you. The thought of what expression he wears as you cower is ever worse. You can feel his eyes boring through you. “What you were looking at?” he asks in that signature slightly broken english. 

You don't know what to say, “nothing, i uh, wasn't really looking at anything.” 

He moves to get down from where he’s sat, grabbing you by the wrist. “Liar.” he hisses. You don't say anything as he pulls you from where you were standing towards the basement. You know you said the wrong thing, you always do, and now you have to pay for it. 

Once you’re at the bottom of the stairs he pushes you towards the little operating table at the center of the room, one you’re familiar with by now. The first few times you’d thrashed and kicked and screamed for him to let you go. Now, you don't say anything at all, stumbling to the table and feeling tears sting at your eyes from the horror of your situation. How many times could you mess up before he killed you? You must be on thin ice by now. Was this it? Would you even care if it was? 

He straps you down to the table, fingers tracing over the skin of your wrists and ankles as he secures the leather straps. It’s almost gentle, almost a lovers caress. You watch him look at you, head slightly tilted but face unreadable. He speaks first, “you were staring.” Was that what this was about? That you had been staring at him in the living room earlier. “Then you lied.” 

You can't stop crying, the various tools hung up on the walls glare down at you- and you remember some of them, the way they had felt, the way they had pierced your skin and the way they had made you scream in pain. You nod your head anyways. “I’m sorry.” 

He frowns, looking down at you like you’re not making sense, “don't be.” 

He picks up a clean little blade- so clean it gleamed in the light, with such a sharp and smooth edge that you imagined you’d barely feel it. It's a stark contrast to the other weapons down here- all dirty and jagged, all perfectly crafted to inflict as much harm as possible. This little weapon isn't like that at all- you find the mind to wonder if it’s new, even. 

Then he turns back to you, his face is unreadable, but his body language is a little off. Normally, when he brings you down here and straps you to the table, he’s angry. Even if he doesn’t tell you or show it, you can always tell he’s angry at you. But not right now. 

He traces his free hand from your cheek to your collarbone, peeking out from the collar of your clothes. His fingers are cold, tracing over you in a nearly gentle manner. You try not to shiver. The sound of your clothes being ripped apart by the clean little knife starles you from your spell. He only cuts through the collar of your shirt, only exposing a few extra inches of skin, from your collarbone to the top of your breasts. 

Your breathing begins to speed up, a new kind of panic setting in. Feitan had done a lot to you in your time here, but his touch had always remained tactile, like he didn't really feel one way or another about touching you. You should have known when his fingers brushed over your cheek that this was different. Of course you’d considered the possibility- that he’d brought you here for something more than killing you- but as time had worn on, that fear has started to subside. 

You don't have time to dwell on the details of what he was about to do, or why, when he brings the blade to your skin. Of course, struggle is impossible with you bound so tight, but you have to try, don't you? You try to kick your feet, try to move your hands, try to scream. 

Through tears you can make out his face, he’s lowered the cowl he wears enough for you to see what expression he wears- and though he hides it well, there’s some demented sort of smile tugging at his lips, though he seems to try to hide it. 

When he allows you up from the table, you realize that you haven't been there for very long. You also notice that he’s left you completely unmarred besides the area below your clavicle- which feels mangled, burns and bleeds, and you don't dare raise your hand to test the skin there. 

He picks something up off of a nearby table, holding it out to you- it’s a hand mirror. You can hardly lift your arms to take it from him, too afraid of what you’ll find etched into your skin. He’d never bothered to show off his work before, confident you would see it next time you showered or looked in the bathroom mirror. But he wants to see your reaction to this one. You hold up the mirror to look at what he’d written into your skin. 

FEITAN. Written in capital letters, weeping blood, etched deep enough into your skin you know it’ll leave deep angry scars. 

Your eyes dart to the man standing in front of you, and you're shocked to find him closer to you than he had been before, inches from you, lips wrapped into a smile so twisted and cruel it makes your stomach churn. 

“You’re mine.” 

[halfwayhearted]

Lamine being soft with his gf when she’s sad :(

In Agreement — Lamine Yamal.

Pairing: Lamine Yamal x Fem!Reader

Summary: He just happens to make everything better.

Word Count: 395+

Disclaimer/s — Mentions of bad day, just comfort and fluff.

A/N: Kind of short, sorry… thank you for requesting :3

Lamine is already worried when his request to come over is met with a simple thumbs up and a heart emoji. If it were any other day, you’d say yes along with suggesting many different ideas for things you could do together. You just… didn’t.

When he reaches your front door, he shoots you a quick text to let you know he’s here. That’s when he hears the sound of your slippers sliding against the planked floors. You swing the door open, force a smile, and step aside to allow him in. “Hey.”

His grin falters, “Hey. Were you doing anything?”

“Not really,” you mumble with a shrug. “I’m not sure what we can do. I’m sorry. We can just settle for—” you stop talking when his arms reach for you, pulling you into him. You could actually cry.

“You don’t have to apologize for not having anything planned. I should be the one doing that; I came last minute. I just wanted to see you.”

“I know, I’m glad you did. I just—I don’t know.”

The boy hums softly, the sound making a shiver run down your spine. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“Nothing…” you trail off, biting your bottom lip when you realize it’s no use lying to him. You knew he knew that you were upset. So, you sigh and slump your shoulders, your grip on him tightening just a little. “Today was just stressful. I feel like everybody expects too much of me, it’s catching up to me, I guess. I’m overwhelmed.”

His lips pull into a frown. “Anything I can do?”

“No, not really. You being here is enough for me.”

“Good, I’m glad. How about this: you go and lay down, and I’ll, I’m sorry, raid your pantry for snacks and whatnot. I just want you to rest.”

He was so, so sweet and soft-spoken, it quite literally made you forget about the awful day you’ve had. “I’d like that. Raid away.”

Lamine squeezes you once before letting go, but you don’t let him walk away just yet. You reach for his hand, stopping him in his tracks. Your boyfriend looks down at you in confusion; it’s not until you speak that he smiles.

“I’m lucky to have you,” you state, “Y’know that?”

He’s nodding his head and grinning sheepishly. “You know that I’m really lucky to have you, too.”

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @planetpedri + @spidybaby + @sakashq ! ౨ৎ

[ghostieblr]

Melting Glaciers

Because the universe is unfair, it gives Derek Hale a kitten. One that is just as black as his wolf fur, and just as scary looking until you manage to get close to her by a painstakingly long process of trust exercises and find that oh, she's the most adorable thing in the world, too.

See, Stiles is a realist. When constant skirmishes with one certain older werewolfman, where his life was equally threatened and saved by this said werewolfman, made his little Stiles happy to the point of constant little deaths in the not-so-privacy of his bedroom, he'd choked down the realization of not being so straight as he'd mistakenly thought. At the time, the sorrow of it had more to do with the fact that his crushes were always so unattainable rather than the fact that it was a man he was crushing on, one that his dad had arrested too. And then when his dad was brought into the fold of the hidden layer in their world, and he saw his dad recognize the real Derek, he knew he had his dad's permission.

His dad's always been a realist, too. Stiles' affection is anything but secret when it comes to Derek, because he deserves all the good things in the world, and despite his design to push and prod until the person Stiles is talking to comes undone and shares their secrets, Stiles has done anything but that with him. In the beginning, it was curiousity. It was his desire to know the unknown, to gather all the facts, to know enough to get over Derek Fuckin' Hale. Somewhere down the line, but very close to beginning, his feelings turned warmer, though. Glacier of ice melting into rivulets of water, carried away on a sea of emotions he'd denied himself to dip toes in for far too long.

And now that Derek's brought home a kitten he found abandoned near the Walmart, and named her Princess of all things, Stiles has been forced to take a fucking dive into that sea.

He makes a choked off sound when Derek, in the middle of the Loft, takes off his soft-looking, cozy green henley, and Stiles is assualted with the very vivid view of his gorgeous abs.

Derek opens his arms and Princess, deeming it her cue, climbs atop him, her little claws her little helpers, and Derek's enchanting smile Stiles' doom. Once she's nestled against his chest, he looks at Stiles. Another sound falls from Stiles' mouth, without his permission. It's a whine, he thinks; a call for help.

"You okay?"

O-K-A-Y. Four letter word, where sometimes the last two alphabets are unnecessary. Just like this question.

"What do you think!" Oh no. He needs to calm down. Princess is looking at him, her green eyes wide and anxious. Stiles whispers, hisses really, "Her! You! Henley!"

Derek looks at his little princess, then looks back at him. "You are not making sense, Stiles." Looks back at Princess, says, "Your Tata is acting crazy." Princess meows, as if in agreement, and oh fuck, seriously universe? Why should Derek look so damned adorable when he's just paying attention to his kitten like many others do! Hell, Peter was doing the same thing in the last pack meeting, and Stiles had thought nothing of it. But Derek does it, and it's like Stiles has discovered a whole new world of kinks. What the hell.

During Stiles' inner freakout, Derek has managed to sit on the couch, and now he's petting Princess, who is still attached to his chest like a barnacle. Why isn't Stiles a kitten?

Wait.

"DID YOU JUST ME CALL ME HER TATA?!"

Princess hisses quite venomously at him, probably at the volume of his voice, because Derek winces too. Oops. But no, not oops!

This is serious business.

He points a finger at Princess. "Don't talk to me like that young lady," he waggles his finger for emphasis. She follows it with her eyes, looks at Derek once, then settles down and watches him with wide, unblinking eyes. What an attitude on this one. Just like her dad, really. Who is... looking at him, the corner of his lips tilted up in amusement. "You. Words. Explain."

"Words are usually his thing," Derek tells Princess, who meows once in acknowledgment. Then he lifts his eyes towards Stiles and pats the free seat beside him. Stiles sits. "I am more of an action person."

And then Derek takes Stiles' hand and puts it on top of his other one, the one Derek's been using to constantly pet Princess. Stiles' breath stops for a moment at the touch.

"Is this okay?"

"More than," Stiles admits, and watches with awe as Derek's eye sparkle under the waning sunlight, the way his mouth stretches further up into a grin, unabashed and unbelievably pretty this close up. Stiles forms a grin in response too. "So," he says, playfulness creeping away the shock. "Since I am her Tata... I vote to name her Princess Leia."

Derek's laughter in response echoes through the Loft, and Princess makes her displeasure known at the vibrations on her comfy spot by jumping onto Stiles' chest. They remove their hands at the movement, and Stiles puts his hands back on her, lets her burrow in his chest. She's already in his heart, anyways.

"Stiles," Derek says when he's calmed down, only a minute later. Stiles isn't even offended; The sound of Derek's laughter is like eating candy. Like pure bliss. "That's already her name."

Stiles blinks.

Derek calls, "Leia, come to dad," and she goes.

"I love you so, so, so much, you don't even know, Derek Hale," the words come out, and he... is not afraid they're out there, because Derek has, once again, Princess Leia on his chest, and his left arm comes around Stiles' shoulders to pull him in towards himself.

Derek kisses the top of his head, and Stiles melts, and he is a realist, so when Derek replies, "I love you, too, so, so, so much," he knows he's done for life.

Stiles' heart will belong to no other, but Derek Hale.

As if reading his thoughts, Princess Leia meows, and Stiles amends his mental declaration: his heart will belong to no other, but Derek Hale, and the family they create.

[mrsackermannx]

— HOMECOMING | SATORU GOJO

wc: 1.1k

cw: moving in together, implied childhood trauma/abuse, comfort/fluff, light descriptions of sex, established relationship, nervous reader.

author’s note: doing a little draft clearing <3

Moving in together managed to show all kinds of sides to Satoru’s girlfriend of almost two years. You planned every room, insisting on a theme for each to make it ‘fun’—which Satoru loved. His childhood had been nothing but sterile decor, too much white, or light beige, but you wanted cosy and he was completely onboard.

Warm lights and plants made everything seem closer and cosier, rendering the 360 penthouse windows mere spectators.

It felt as if every decision you made was done carefully, so you could fill every space with love and prepare it for the memories you would make together. As it came together it made Satoru’s gut pull with an unexpected feeling, walking into each room was like walking through the great mysteries of your mind, and embrace of your heart.

It made him realise that he was really starting his life with you, so he’d pick you up and spin you around with every step of progress.

You too saw different sides to Satoru, like when he insisted on driving to the only store who had the paint you wanted 60 miles away before the final one was gone. When he didn’t realise how rich he really was when getting an interior decorator isn’t the first thing you arrange, but when you tell him “I want it to be ours” he pulls you in a for a kiss and whispers, “anything you want.”

The next day when you’re shopping for bed sheets and you pick up some ones you think he might like, but he clicks and then softly hums, “Babe, they’re recycled polyester,” as he compares two paint splotches with one eye cocked shut.

Your mouth parts in surprise, “H-how can you tell-“

He sighs into a smile, cocking a brow at you, “Aren’t they?”

He was right.

But it’s the first week of living together that completely blindsides Satoru. When you sleep in one morning and he catches you walking almost silently around the apartment, afraid to make noise, afraid to exist.

He’s almost perplexed, frowning with his thumb to his chin, wondering if he should even call your name in case he startles you. You knock into a piece of furniture and your eyes widen like this is it, hell is about to break loose. Your breath quickens and you hurriedly realign it, before carrying on with quietened and now shaky movements.

The sight pulls on his heart, no—tugs on it until it feels like it’s not cemented in his chest. What had your first home been like? He needed you to know that this one was nowhere near the same, so he stops peeking in the doorway and says your name softly to get your attention.

But you still startle, yelping but then trying to laugh it off. But your palm is glued to your chest and your eyes are wide. He says your name softly, once more. You swallow and nod. When he says it a second time you draw closer, footsteps so soft he barely hears them, he feels like he’s coaxing an injured animal, suddenly wondering if his tall, broad frame is too overwhelming.

But then you place your hands on his forearms, stroking the veins that rest there, and press your cheek into his chest. “Hello,” you murmur in apology. He frowns, carefully wrapping his arms around your waist.

You hold onto him like somebody is trying to pry you apart. The sensation that erupts in his gut is so consuming, that he rocks you to keep himself together too.

You stay like that for a long time. Every squeeze and gentle caress carries silent words like, “You’re safe.”

But still, Satoru doesn’t ask. He tries not to ask you too many questions about anything you do in the apartment.

One morning after an especially late night, your shared laughter rings through the kitchen, Satoru’s whipping up a compote of berries for the plates of pancakes you’re arranging when you accidentally swipe your glass of orange juice.

Satoru startles so little it’s almost imperceptible, but your hands fly to your ears and you’re so stricken by the sight you look like you might just collapse. “I’m so sorry,” you chant, ducking to grab the shards of the broken glass.

But Satoru’s already leaning over and grabbing you, “It’s okay,” he says firmly, and you worry so much that he sounds upset. He’s not upset with you, he’s upset with how you have been failed.

He sits you carefully on the couch and kneels below you, you immediately cover your face with your hands. “Give me a moment.”

You sit curled up on the large pink couch, sinking into the array of blankets and pillows Satoru keeps arranged. He hums little songs to himself as he cleans away the mess, and before you know it he’s cuddling up beside you with one plate of pancakes instead of two.

He leans over and kisses your forehead, and says, “Let’s share?”

You nod silently and he makes a triumphant “hmph” sound, carefully cutting into the pancakes and bringing the heaped spoonful to your lips.

As you take the first bite, so warm, and fluffy and tasty it makes you feel so cared for your eyes grow glassy. Satoru pretends not to notice, humming to Chet Baker’s Let’s get lost, playing on the vinyl in the kitchen.

With every other bite he has one too, humming in content as he leaves the plate on the coffee table and helps you clamber onto his lap. “Thank you, Satoru.”

He cups your cheek and then kisses the tip of your nose, “It’s okay, sweetness…” His voice trails away, staring at you like you’re simultaneously the most bewitching and confusing thing he’s ever seen. “How can I help?”

You dither for a moment, reaching for his hand just to anxiously drum your fingers against it. “Just keep being you.”

Your words seem to reassure him. They reassure him to softly push your back against the couch and spread your thighs. He settles there like his true home is your body and not the place you’re even in, he takes his time to unravel you, making you burst until he realises he’ll have to get the couch cleaned. He shifts your hair from your eyes, loving you so good that you cry a little from how much pleasure he’s giving you with even the most minimal effort.

From then on, Satoru notices the day that you don’t jolt as he hugs you when he steps into a room, when you don’t flinch at loud sounds or startle when his voice fills the room

He asks you and then you begin to always say; because it’s only you.

He grins, enamoured and content, pulls you into his arms and whispers back. “Exactly, and you’re the safest when you’re with me.

©mrsackermannx: do not repost, plagiarise, translate or modify my works.

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰɪᴠᴇ [1, 2, 3, 4] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 9.8k

There isn’t any conversation surrounding Pepper’s visit, or the divorce, but it’s all around you regardless.

Random items disappear from the penthouse–a Pollock (your present takes its place), some throw pillows from the study, and a few Turkish ceramics you never knew existed. The phone rings far more than you care for. Tony has far more meetings than you care for. A bespeckled lawyer and his blonde associate nearly become housemates, spending hours behind the frosted glass door. Natasha makes a few appearances as well, which confuses you the most. You find the spice in her perfume too bold.

On her third exit in as many weeks, you question Tony on it. He absently traces patterns on your calves, seemingly not paying attention to you or the film on screen. 

“Should I be worried?” you hide your sincerity behind a glass of wine, twirling the stem between your fingers. The red liquid mirrors the motion inside, spidering against the walls.

“About Natasha?” he asks incredulously. 

“Yes,” you draw out, “and you–all of it, really.” 

“Now why on Earth would you be worrying about me?” 

You would love to point out the obvious and address the building-sized elephant in the room that says  ‘you’re recently sober and just got a divorce’ but the look on his face tells you it’s unnecessary. 

Tony finds a way to answer the unasked anyways. 

“It’s a shit ton of paperwork, and signing things, so it’s annoying, yes but I am fine. Scouts honor.” 

He kisses your hand and grins with all the confidence in the world. It’s so fucking arcane each time–close to magic in how it undos every worry and mirrors his gleam. 

You wished it had more permanent effects. Something long-lasting and memorable. Easy to spread over the evening and into the early morning hours, when he’s inconsolable in your arms. You could turn it back into magic words. Banish whatever miasma racked his body and go back to peaceful nights (because you had those at some point, right?).

Being able to ask the hard questions doesn’t mean shit if the answer’s always a dismissive work of fiction. You never learned what caused their separation, or sent ‘everything to shit’ as Tony put it. Not because you didn’t ask, no that question came the same night Pepper did.  Apparently it’s the same driver of every modern American divorce–money. Tony summarizes the event as a fatal disagreement over corporate shares, though like always you feel you’re being told an official story. Clean cut with all messy details chopped away. 

“You don’t have a signature stamp at this point?” you joke.

“Oh no,” Tony’s hands brace your ankles to pull you closer, “ every squiggle needs to be authentic and fresh.”

“Right, how could I assume anything less.” Your eyes roll but you let your legs drape over his lap. 

“Seriously, I’m doing fine–things will calm back down soon.” A gentle squeeze drives the point home. 

A thought crosses your mind. An insecurity, really, but one you haven’t let go since meeting Pepper.

“If it’s like, I don’t know,” you hesitate under Tony’s raised eyebrow, “–I can head back to my apartment if it’s too much.”

Stark Industries was still footing the bill even though you spent less than 10 hours there in the last two months. There’s a fear in overstaying your welcome, or whatever it is you were doing here. Either way, you figured it was less than ideal to have your girlfriend around during a divorce. 

“If what’s too much?” 

“I don’t know, if you need your space right now or–” you answer exasperatedly.

“Honey,” he gives a hearty laugh, “if I ever start asking for space, call a doctor.”

All resistance becomes futile.

You keep your apartment (for unnecessary security), but more time lapses between visits. You issue a long overdue farewell to bartending. Even being driven, the commute to that side of town is hellish and the whole thing got more pointless with each day. You drank in the fruits of this life, but not without a tiny bit of unease. It’s unease that you bury down under all the other feelings. The affection, the simplicity, the serenity. So you swap mixers for paintbrushes and solitude for the man you love. 

Other subtle changes require a quicker adjustment, but you’re getting dangerously good at adapting. With Tony’s birthday past, you recognize a pattern to Harley’s visits. Every three months like clockwork. You begin to anticipate them well enough, and start appreciating his occasional presence during your early morning tea. By his third appearance, you brew two cups.

On the first visit he barely utters a word. You were ready for some witty insult that never came, and offered him a cup in silence. You want to ask why he arrives so early just to sit in his father’s kitchen, but opt for peace instead. 

Once Pepper’s placard is gone in the parking garage and Natasha stops showing up (at all hours of the day, atleast), he’s there a second time. 

“How he’s doing with the,” he trails off, peering at you over an empty mug as the sun starts to break. He doesn’t need to motion at the empty space for you to pick up his meaning.

The official story is dancing on your tongue. The one you’ve told two times over at this point (Jarvis, Natasha). He's perfectly fine, better even. It was a piece of cake then, but now you can’t seem to look Harvey in the eye and speak in half-truths. 

“Honestly,” you sigh, “Good–not good, I don’t know.”  You were dying under  the irony of it all. Consoling Tony in the darkness of morning and then watching him make million dollar deals by noon. You don’t know how he’s managing any of it, and if any of this qualifies as okay. 

Green eyes blink slowly through an overgrown fringe. Barbers were clearly scarce in the last three months, wherever he spent them. Exhaustion forces a yawn before he speaks again, pinching his nose. 

“Figured as much.” Harley stands for the sink.

He goes through the labor of washing the ebony cup, a rare quirk amongst the obscenely rich. You’d learned they are very reliant upon their quiet servants. You wondered if he did it out of modesty or good manners.  

“Do you know why they separated?” If he was in the mood to talk about Tony, you weren’t going to pass up the chance.

“Uh, something with the company, her share or whatever. Always about the money with them.” he answers casually, tossing a look over his shoulder. 

It’s genuine enough, but all too similar to the rehearsed lines. You half-expected him to call you nosy. 

“No real loss there.” Harley adds, a hint of disdain in his voice

“Not a fan I take it?” The flimsy tag finally crumbling under your ministrations.

He chortles as he slumps back into the bar stool. 

“Pepper can be, uh,” A yawn and an eye rub take precedence, “overbearing, yeah that’s a good word for it.”

“Yeah, can’t imagine that worked well for Tony.” You murmur into your tea.

“Oh it most definitely did not.” Harley laughs again. “Not for a guy that does the opposite of whatever you tell him.”

His laugh is infectious (like father like son), and you smirk even though instead the mental picture makes you cringe. A lull passes between you. Outside, morning traffic begins, trickling upwards to interrupt the quiet. It cues Harley to get back to whatever it is he comes here to do, while you move on with the day. 

As an advantage of all the free time, you get to invest more time in your estranged friendships. Being around old friends turned out to be surprisingly good. You had anticipated more awkwardness, but there was something comforting about not having to wear a mask for once around someone besides your boyfriend. 

At this point, you slowly filled in a few close ones about your relationship with Tony. Clearly you were in this for the long haul, and keeping things under wraps was becoming futile. The general consensus was positive, thankfully. Obviously, that’s due to a great deal of details being omitted. The act left a sour taste in your mouth. Not from the content–how easy it was. You hated to repeat such behaviors, but it was less complicated this way. You wouldn’t have to labor through justifying your relationship, or hear concerns you didn’t already have. 

Tony’s reception was, oddly, less positive. He didn’t care much for your old ‘starving artist’ clique. He thought you should take advantage of his access to New York’s greatest–the real pioneers. It took little arguing from you for him to drop that thought entirely, and he conceded to just be happy to see you happy. 

Like good friends, they tease about your newfound love. One asks when they’ll get to meet ‘Mr. CEO’ and you have to brush it off casually. You like your worlds better separate. 

A sweltering autumn soon becomes frostbitten winter. This gives you less light to work with, resorting to find shuddering shoulders in complete darkness. You don’t think it’s worth searching for warmer pastures or a simpler life. No, you order a cashmere robe and get used to seeing by touch. 

Late nights in the tower turn out to be a great place to hone such skills. The halls are narrow and void of any windows, so you ghost the pads of your fingers around for customary shapes. A cushioned nook and a neglected book lull you into a nap one evening and you wake past the sunset. If you were able to sleep so late undisturbed, Tony must be preoccupied. You planned to tiptoe into the kitchen without a sound, but your ears catch words murmured behind the glass. The door is cracked slightly, just enough to let a streak of light breaks across the hardwood floor

“–fifteen, ten, maybe if we’re lucky.” 

The bespeckled man’s words are measured, precise as usual. You can almost picture his lips barely parting to utter syllables behind round-trim frames. 

“Jesus christ–the fuck am I paying you for? Because I am paying you, like a metric shit ton” 

At Tony’s voice, you press closer. 

“I’m not the idiot getting a divorce.”

“Okay, okay, let’s just stay focused here.” Natasha raises her voice above the two men, and you hear a chair drag across the office.

“Uh-uh, don’t think you’re getting off scot free–we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you did your job a tad better too.” 

“I will say it was ‘lot easier to spread the financials between two people.” 

Social norms concerning privacy start to get to you, urging your feet to pivot and take you back upstairs. Your escape goes undetected, and you seek refuge in the shower. 

You wash the day away under warm jetstreams. Part of your mind is stuck replaying everything, wondering how he was handling it all, trying not to indulge in the urge to check the sink drawer. In a flash, you toss the thought away. It’s easy to not overthink at this hour. Especially when coconut vanilla soap tugs you back towards exhaustion. You make it back out to the bedroom, where you find Tony removing his shoes at the end of the bed.

He smiles at the crack of light from the bathroom. Tony’s days were getting longer while the rest of the hemisphere’s got shorter. He would say he missed when life was simple, but he can’t remember such a time. Life growing up was anything but simple, then the older he got the more it sucked out every ounce of his energy. Everything after became, well, everything after.

Picturing a new future keeps him going. One in a coastal city, something global like New York but much, much warmer. He fights the urge to picture your silhouette amongst the waves. It’s not guaranteed. He might find himself in this dreaded cycle all over again. Then his coconut scented fantasy would be tarnished. 

No, it’s better to cherish the present with you. Like right now, watching coconut scented water droplets descended down your legs and shoulders. Even though he knows he won’t be here long. Truly, he’d wish you weren’t awake,  knowing he’d have to leave soon.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You teased, abandoning your towel as you pulled the dresser open.

He’s easy to rile up, and you know exactly what you’re doing–bending over slowly to pull your panties above your hips. You can’t help it when he stares like it’s his first time seeing you, every time. 

“Please don’t tempt me.” 

Tony’s voice is low, barely above a whisper. He’s unmoving on the edge of the bed, hands braced beside his thighs as his eyes follow the movements of your hands around lacy black fabric. Truly he’s perplexed. Who knew watching someone get dressed would be just as much of a turn-on. Or maybe it’s just you.

You toss one of his faded band tees on, and he thinks this might actually be better than any sun-soaked dream (it’s definitely just you). 

You cross the bedroom, the loose cotton brushing against your skin with each step. As you approach, you snake your arms around Tony's neck and straddle his lap. His large hands ghost up the smooth skin of your thighs, leaving a trail of warmth as they make their way to your back. The moment your skin touches his, Tony’s eyes lock onto yours, but you can tell his focus is elsewhere.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, raking your hands through brown coils.

You assume his mind is still on the conversation downstairs, but the grin spreading on his face says otherwise. His lips move to pepper your exposed neck with kisses, still smiling.

“Really wanna know?” 

“Sure, hit me.”

The ghosts across your veins turn into full blown grazes. 

“You, in a bikini, drinking margaritas somewhere with no extradition laws.” 

You chuckle at the notion and swat his shoulder when his teeth find your pulse point. 

“Hey, you asked,” he laughs into your skin, gripping your hips tighter, “besides it’s your fault–’smell like I’m damn near there already.” 

Tony’s mouth turns hungrier and hungrier, moving feverishly across every exposed inch until the flesh is tender and you're panting in his lap. It’s just encouragement, so he doesn’t pause for a moment as his fingers slip behind your lace. They work at the wetness already ruining the fabric, dragging it across your length and making your shiver. 

Okay, sure, maybe another period of minimal alone time was getting to you, maybe. Sue me, you thought. Honestly, Tony should be more grateful to have such a willing partner–and you told him as much. Unfortunately, this elicited a need for Tony to instill a sense of gratitude in you.

In the next second, you're tossed onto your back, wrists pinned tightly above your head. His other hand pulls your panties down your legs and you try not to make a joke about the futility in getting dressed. Instead, you soak his weight against you, the roaming hand between your thighs and teeth on your neck. 

Marking you is the obvious goal-sucking harder with each breathy whimper. He wasn’t kidding earlier, either. You smelled good enough to devour and he intended on doing so. His danced along your folds, a cufflink scratching the supple skin at the top of your thigh.  They are never anywhere long enough to give you any real pleasure. Just to take more breath from your lungs and feeling from your legs. 

You squirm against vicuna dress pants, trying to gain more friction on his hand. Instead of catering to your needs, he stops all together and the noise you make is almost pathetic. Who are you kidding, it’s fully pathetic–it couldn’t have been over two weeks, and pleas can hardly form on your tongue for more. 

Tony reels back with a smirk that flips your stomach. A scheme is brewing behind darkened pupils. His eyes stay on you as his hand returns to your center, slow and heavy over your clit. 

He doesn’t relent when your wrists strain and hips buck against him. No, a tighter grip and knee over your hip hold you steady enough for his fingers to work faster. You want to chastise yourself for how much you missed this–then two fingers slide into you and there isn’t room to think of much else.

He moves quickly and silent, like a serpent, finding that perfect rhythm that makes your eyes flutter. Your soft moans fill the quiet space. He’s too steady, not changing a muscle as your peak comes closer. The most desperate you get, writing against his palm to get even one extra inch of depth, the slower he moves. 

“Did you have fun sneaking around?” 

Your eyes flutter open in the dim bedroom, Tony’s sly grin shining above you. It cuts straight through the fog of pleasure taking you over. 

“I don’t know what you’re–” you start to bluff. 

“You’re not very sneaky, you know? Or a good liar. That’s a particular skill set that you, my dear, sorely lack.”  Slow and teasing, he slides two fingers back into you.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I was eavesdropping a little.” He finally moves with purpose again, but of course not enough.

“A little? Let’s not start underrepresenting things, hm?” 

Before you can debate him further, he withdraws and you think you might honestly cry if this continues.

“Okay, point taken, would you please stop torturing me now?” 

“Now, why would I reward bad behavior?” he asked, lowering his gaze.

“If it helps, I wasn’t trying to.”

“It doesn’t.” 

His palms grip your hips, flipping you onto your stomach and lifting your waist upwards. The sudden movement leaves you breathless, searching for balance on your forearms until they’re pulled behind your back. 

“You know exactly which nerve to press, don’t you?” he breathes into the base of your neck, chest flush to your back as he hands work at his zipper.

How ironic, considering he spends the next hour tuning your body like an instrument. Knowing exactly where to press, where to ease off, until you finally unlock, bare and moaning into the mattress.

Afterwards, you fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart. 

You’re half way to sleep when Tony slinks out of your arms. At first, you don’t bother stirring. Then, the soft draw of the dresser catches your ear. 

You flip over onto your stomach to get a better view. You watch Tony’s shadowy figure attempt to quietly dress. For a rare sight, he abandons the tailored suit for dark Levis and a t-shirt. It hardly looks like him, in the best way possible (ignoring the obvious question of where the hell he planned on going in that. Less larger-than-life, more real. This, now this was someone you can imagine running into at the grocery store. The sharp edges of his suits always added a degree of gravitas to everything.

“Where are you off to?”

“Going to see a man about a horse.” 

He leans down for a bright smile and a quick kiss before he leaves, and you let sleep suppress any thoughts about what that could possibly mean.

You awake to a sun that has long outran the horizon. The sheer curtains were already pulled back, with the smell telling you Jarvis made a feast for breakfast. Tony’s side is empty. Which is no surprise there, but you don’t expect him at the kitchen table. 

He grins behind a newspaper as you approach. Jarvis is busy with the espresso machine, muttering curses under his breath. 

“Tell me, what are your thoughts on cyclamen–oo, or actually, narcissus, yeah, that’s better.” Tony asks like you've been having some sort of conversation before five seconds ago.

Jarvis clicks the tamper in with a satisfied click as you stare back confused. You’re two blinks away from falling back asleep and desperately craving something stronger than green tea. 

“What are you-Is-Are those restaurants?” 

“Oh, morning ma’am. Shall I prepare you a tea, perhaps breakfast?” Jarvis turns at the sound of your voice, wiping damp grounds from his hands.

“Good morning, but no, just some coffee, please.” You try to sound natural. It’s weird giving someone else orders. 

“Nope, flowers. We could do something simple like a peony but I don’t think that matches the whole vibe with the satin garlands.” Tony continues. 

“Tony, hon, I have no idea what you’re on about right now.” you groggily slouch in the chair beside him. 

“We, my dear,” the newspaper is folded and plopped onto the table for dramatic effect, “are having a Christmas party. The proverbial ‘we’ in this situation being the company, of course.” 

“A Christmas party?” you muse with a laugh.

“For tax purposes, a gala. For my purposes, and therefore to make it fun, it is indeed a party, yes.” 

Espresso warms your veins as you listen to Tony ramble through plans for catering, guests, decanters and a whole bunch of other shit you can hardly keep up with. Good thing that responsibility falls to Jarvis, who jots away on a worn notepad. Once your eyes fully open, the thought starts to excite you. Your yearly festivities normally boiled down to a bottle of chardonnay and some loosely Christmas film like Die Hard. “Plus, if I auction some art, it works out even more.” He punctuates his brilliant plan with a bite of a muffin. 

“That’s not like a massive trigger for you?” 

High-volume social events dropped off the radar recently, for good reason, you assumed (not that you minded a break from fake smiles and cold handshakes) . Instead, Tony dragged you along to more intimate dinners with whatever broker or councilwoman he needed to charm. Your role as plus-one never went anywhere, but doing so at Tony’s your home would give you more confidence. 

“What are you, my sponsor?” he teases but you're less amused at the thought. 

“You don’t even have a sponsor.” You know so, because Tony believes Narcotics Anonymous is a, quote, ‘sad-ass glorified tea party’. 

“I have Jarvis.” He’s completely serious, and Jarvis hides his laughter behind a stack of plates.  

You don’t want to point out the obvious cognitive dissonance. That a man who spends his nights in petrified somnolence might crack under the pressure of dozens of inebriated colleagues. Not now, in a moment of peace. Not in front of Jarvis. You’re not sure how much sound slips out into the hall.

Tony watches the worry creep over your face from the edge of his newspaper. With a sigh, he abandons it again.

“Look, all you have to do is look pretty–which is no sweat for you, maybe drink a few apple cider cocktails, and relax. I’ve got everything else perfectly handled.”

He gives you a look, both reassuring and decisive. It’s a simple message meant to be taken without debate, ‘trust me’. 

You get one more peaceful morning drinking tea in the dark with Harley before the holiday season.

The event overtakes your life from Thanksgiving onward. You really don’t know how this sudden festive fervor spawns, but it slowly creeps into everything. From the elevator music, to miniature elves by the door, to candy canes everywhere, and more Christmas ties than days in December (you can’t be sure he’s not switching them multiple times a day). 

You weren’t a total Grinch, not by a long shot. Tony just so happened to be creeping into that weird overly festive zone reserved for suburban moms and kindergarten teachers. 

“Tony, what’s all of this?”

Vivaldi plays faintly on the record player. There’s a delicately placed mistletoe just off of the elevator, accompanied with a haphazard trail of roses leading out onto the balcony. You navigate through a candlelight kitchen juggling a heavy box of resin. 

“Tony?” you call out again once the box makes contact with the counter,

“Out here!” 

You follow the voice and rose trail to the balcony. Unsurprisingly, he’s donning a god awful Christmas sweater, grinning and pointing to the wool like it’s runway fashion. A small table holds two covered silver platters, and a tall bottle of champagne rests in a bucket of ice. It’s the kind of overtly romantic display you’d gotten since night one, but it never fails to sink your breath straight in your heart. Something about the way he’s standing there, beaming like a nervous, lovestruck fool, tells you this isn’t just a normal gesture of affection.

Still, your lips part to thank him, but he stops you instantly. 

“Just wait–” he pleads, “I got like thirty minutes of practice into saying this and I can’t fuck it up.” 

His voice is rushed enough that you believe. Clearly the words were threatening to jump out of him. It sets you a bit on edge, trying to anticipate what this was about. You indulge him anyway and nod. 

Tony crosses the balcony to take your hands in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Okay, I know things haven’t been copacetic around here. And I know I’ve asked for a lot–more than I ever thought I would–and you know sometimes it feels like I’ll never be able to return what you’ve given to me, but I swear I’m going to make this worth it.” 

He squeezes your palm, tired brown eyes searching yours for something, any sign that his words meant a single thing. It’s a fast-winded speech that makes you wanna laugh at the irony. Tony, the man who’d move the stars if they had a price tag, somehow feeling the need to repay you.  Yet his voice is raw like a frayed nerve. Exposed to the cold winds whipping against the tower glass. 

“Tony, you’ve made it more than worth it, everyday.” You smile, though it’s worth wondering what’s driving him to say all this. The words ring true regardless.

“Not nearly enough,” he says softly, “but I’m going to–I’m going to give you the world.”

In that moment, you see it: the weight of everything he’s been carrying. Your ribs seem to tighten inside your chest. That unspoken fear you’ve both been trying to avoid–it was far easier twenty seconds ago when you thought it was yours alone. You realize now that the fearless man you saw in fact was scared of something (losing you, primarily). Yeah, you comforted him through nightmares, but even then he managed to carry an aura of control.  

This wasn't about  holding onto the life you’ve built together, the one that’s felt so fragile lately. And for the first time, you see how much that matters to him, too.

He starts to say something else, dropping your hands. His fingers fiddle behind his back, seemingly nestled in his back pocket. He stares like he intended to say something else, lips parting and closing right back. In the next second, he seems to shift gears, pulling you into a hug. 

You welcome the warm embrace, as the chill has started to gnaw at your bones. He plants a kiss to the top of your head, and you want to stay in that feeling for the rest of your life.

Sadly, he does eventually pull away to admit dinner on the balcony would be quite miserable, and the two of you move inside. 

You could spend the rest of the evening overthinking about what all that meant, but you don’t bother. Why go through that mental labor, when instead you could drink $500 champagne, carefree while your handsome boyfriend flirts with you like it’s the first date. 

You don’t think about it then, or later in the night when your legs are pressed to your chest and you can’t recall a single thing he said. You focus on what he’s saying then–filthy words about who you belong to, and exactly where you belong–a whimpering mess underneath him.

Even when it turns possessive (more so than usual), when your throat is littered with marks and his hand stands to leave another on his hip, you don’t think of it. But it’s the only thing on Tony’s mind. When another orgasm rips through you, all he can think about is how much he needs you. He whispers ‘you’re mine’ over and over and over as you fall apart just so your broken moans can still echo–so he can hear just how true it is. How could you, with such a dutiful guide at the helm?

Afterwards, when you’re drained of every ounce of life, it still doesn't bother you. You don’t wonder if tonight might be another night he slips into plain clothes and disappears until sunrise. You can’t muster a single thought as his arm slinks around your waist to pull you closer. 

You simply close your eyes, and let sleep take you. 

Eventually the days tick by to the gala, and you’re somewhere between impressed and overstimulated with all the ensuing holiday glamor. 

Though, you can’t say he doesn’t go all out. 

The first floor of Stark Industries is transformed from a cold minimalist space to Ebenezer Scrooge's worst nightmare. A makeshift stage sits at one end, complete with enough tinsel to suffocate a horse and twinkling garlands. Piles of fake snow anoint the corners, and a particularly large one sits beneath a 12-foot tall Christmas tree in the middle of the lobby. The open bar even serves drinks in frosted holiday glasses. He even has the guards wearing reindeer ears. 

By ten p.m. the vast floor seems smaller than a shoebox, packed with guests in evening gowns and tailored tuxedos. Initially, you’d planned on wearing a new piece for the gala–something to make the overwhelming festivity Tony demanded. Once it came time to get dressed, your eyes caught the sanguine dress. You hadn’t gotten the chance to wear it since your first date. It had felt too exquisite for any other occasion, but for some reason you were drawn to wear it tonight. 

You wish you could say Tony had a good reaction–or a reaction at all. From sunrise until the doors opened, he’s caught up in planning and preparations. Matter of fact, you were two hours into the gala and had only seen glimpses of him shaking hands in the crowd. It takes away from the expected familiarity. You imagined this night to be simple, easy for you to blend it with Tony on your arm, in his home your home. Instead, you wander like a lost gazelle, feeling every pair of eyes on you. You want to blame the dress. Revealing and bright red.

In the blurry swarm of faces, bright auburn stands out. Natasha wouldn’t be your first pick, but she’s the only familiar face and you need a respite.

You squeeze in next to her at one of the corner tables. The spice of her perfume permeates your nose but you can look past it for the moment. She pays you no mind at first, legs crossed and head turned to the crowd. You don’t mind one bit. It’s quieter towards the back, and you have no issue with it staying that way. 

Natasha sighs deeply, almost in boredom, maybe annoyance, but not with you. 

“I don’t know how you stand him.”

“How do you figure?” you respond absently, picking apart at a stray piece of tinsel.

“One of the richest men on Earth-I know he’s got the ego to match it.”

“You’d know better than I would, wouldn’t you?” you answer. You’d gotten the sense Natasha and Tony back way further than him and Pepper a while ago,

“Touche, but I’m not dating him.” she shifts to take another sip from her glass, “though, I’m not really sure why you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you really love him, or are you just after a family fortune?” Emerald eyes points like knives, her tone blending from casualty to scorn.

“W-what,” you stammer, “Of course I love him–Tony pursued me.”

“Please, he’d pursue anything with a pulse,” Natasha chuckles, “and relax, I’m just finally getting around to doing my due diligence.” 

“Your ‘due diligence’ is being a cunt?”

“Ooh! I see you’re a feisty one–you did sit here after all, you know.” she muses.

“Just needed a break from the crowd,” you mummer, rising. 

“Stay then–relax, like I said.” she gestures towards your now-empty seat. When you sigh and retake your place, she smiles. “I like you, you know.”

“We’ve barely spoken.” you declare, a dry chuckle spewing alongside. 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know a smart person when I see one.” 

“Smart?”

“Smart decisions, going out with Tony, not screwing that up, though I’ve been told you’ve come close a few times.”

“Who–”

“This isn’t an interrogation, like I said, I like you–I don’t really care what happens between you two.”

“Then what is this?” you flag the nerdy tuxedoed waiter for a glass of water. 

“You said it yourself, we’ve barely spoken. My job is to keep Tony’s business running smoothly, and that’s become a lot harder since he won’t make a single decision without considering the ‘y/n’ of it all.” 

You scoff, unimpressed. “We don’t talk about his business.”

“Oh, I know,” Natasha remarks, “A bartender has no idea how to run a billion dollar corporation, and even less of an idea how to advise one.” 

“This is the part where you tell me I have no business being with him, right?” The waiter drops off a tall pitcher of water for you both. Once your glass is full, he passes along a message that Tony’s speech starts soon. 

“Dear god no,” Natasha laughs, “I imagine you’ve heard that enough–and he’s much more pleasant since you came around. Besides, you’re living the dream.” 

“Is that so?” You have to give a laugh of your own (considering you had a bit of jealousy buried for her). 

“Oh yes, filthy rich, live in a penthouse, never work another day in your life, loving husband–maybe not my dream, but still a dream.” 

You don’t know if she’s trying to be funny but your next laugh is genuine, and she joins in.

“What is your dream, then?” you question.

Natasha’s grin stiffens, surprised. Contemplation passes for a second and you worry that you’ve underdone the last three minutes of camaraderie. 

“Ballet teacher–but that stays at this table.” She gives you a matching pointed look.

“My lips are sealed.” You do try not to giggle, but it’s odd to imagine her frigidity in a warm lit studio surrounded by tutus. 

“Did you mean it, what you said about Tony? That things are...okay?” Natasha asks, referring to Tony’s sobriety. It’s weird how everyone dances around it, especially someone so usually straightforward as her. 

It was weeks ago when you parroted that claim. And you only call it that because the question annoys the fuck out of you. It’s entirely subjective, and you give in to the optimistic look in their eye and tell them what they want to hear. He’s fine, better even.

Maybe it’s because she’s being nice, or because you already gave up this facade with Harley, but you can’t be bothered to pretend you know what’s going on with him all the time. Besides, clearly you weren’t doing a good enough job for her to ask you about it again

“I want to say yes, but I don’t know, I guess?” you admit, staring into the crowd. 

Natasha’s mouth parts to speak again, only to have the microphone’s feedback interrupt her. The host–some Nobel prize winning chemist Tony invited to pull donors–clears his throat before starting his introduction, and the noise draws to a lull. Natasha excuses herself, presumably to find Tony before his speech. You decide to stay at the back of the lobby, with a good enough view of the stage. 

Supposedly this entire sordidly festive affair had a true business purpose, some big announcement Tony was making on the ‘future of the company’. He didn’t explain much more than that, and you’re certain the technical logistics were beyond you anyway. 

After a long, boring welcome, the mic is passed off to Tony. It’s the first time today you’ve been able to see him fully–draped in a jet black tuxedo and bright red bowtie. 

It whines again in his grip, and Tony pauses once the cheers die down, glancing at the expectant faces below. Thick cards press into his palm, each written meticulously inked by Natasha last night He clears his throat, glancing out past the lights into the crowd. He hopes they can’t see how heavy the stillness starts to weigh on him like before. The sudden quiet, all that attention. Including yours, somewhere out there. His heart stalls at how must look to you up here. Larger than life probably, or maybe you weren’t looking at all (he hopes you aren’t). A hundred odd pairs of eyeballs, and he hides from yours. 

Tony knew what he had to do, and was quite confident in his choice. But he can’t risk looking you in the eye while he does it. Ironically, his decision had very little to do with you, and everything to do with Pepper. The edge of his mouth still twitches. 

“Tonight…” he starts, turning the twitch into a warm smile, “…I’ve asked you all to be here in celebration, to celebrate Stark Industries, and talk about the future of the company,” He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders as if trying to loosen some unseen knot.

There’s a small, brief ripple of confusion among the front of the room, murmurs. Something shifts in his expression—just a flash—before his eyes catch something and harden. A gesture is made to the guard at the end of the stage. His hand tightens around the mic.

“To keep things transparent,” he says, stuffing the cards into his pocket, “the real reason I threw this party, asked you all to be here, is because I want everyone to see how much this means to be.”

Your ears perk up. Natasha swears under her breath, glancing at you before sharply leaving the table, tapping away at her phone. Tony can’t hide from your gaze anymore, and he finds your confused face in the back corner. Before you think about a path to escape, the crowd follows his attention, taking their eyes from the billionaire to the nobody fiddling with tinsel alone.

“I want to celebrate the love I have for this woman, and take this opportunity to share it with everyone.” 

What the hell is he doing?, you think. He can't be doing this here, like this. 

“The truth is,” he pauses, feeling his phone buzz off the hook (most certainly Natasha telling him to stop), “I’m getting married, and Stark Industries will be welcoming a new partner in its operations.”

The room erupts in a chorus of oos and awes, all to the tune of your racing heart. It takes you a second to process. He means getting married to you. You never even talked about marriage, the future, anything like that. Yeah, maybe in passing the idea came up, but at no point did you accept a marriage proposal. 

Everything feels nauseatingly blurry after. Random individuals come over with their congratulations, while half the crowd stares and the other half still bothers to listen to the rest of Tony’s speech. It’s a bunch of nonsense about restructuring and profits, and you’re too confused, pissed, and too fed up with fake smiles to bother standing around to listen. 

You suffer through two more superficial conversations about the marriage you were only made privy a few minutes ago. Finally, you escape to the restroom. You find an empty stall to hide in, trying to process what was going through Tony’s mind.

He couldn’t be serious, could he? This wasn’t real–it was some ploy or tactic. He didn’t genuinely intend to marry you. You didn’t like to think of the long-term for the same reasons you didn’t think about the short-term. This was unpredictable, you learned that. You learned to be okay with that. You could soak in the pleasures indefinitely without ever worrying about how it might all end. This, this brought it into a sharp focus you weren’t ready for. 

You’re not even certain he’s fully divorced yet. 

Once your palms finally dry, and the threat of a panic attack fades, you step out of the restroom. You don’t even know what to think, and the sterile walls weren’t helping. Glancing back toward the gala, you spot Tony scanning the room—until his eyes find yours. You don't hold his gaze long; instead, you turn sharply toward the elevator. You hear your name faintly called from somewhere behind, but you keep moving down the hall, ignoring it.

He breaks into an awkward jog to catch you. You keep your eyes forward.

“[Y/N], look I know this wasn’t what you were expecting, and I can explain I just need–” he starts,

“You’ve lost your fucking mind, Stark,” Natasha heels stomp angrily down the hall, stepping in front you to point her finger in Tony’s face, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Alright, alright, not you right now–cut it out!” He smacks her hand away flippantly, “I’m not entirely sure you and Matt haven’t been drinking the kool-aid either.” 

Tony huffs and straightens his bowtie and you step back from Natasha’s heat. Behind the three of you, someone gets their hands on a karaoke machine and a terrible rendition of Santa Baby follows.

“The whole point of this bullshit was to go public and get out of this shit so explain to me how this gets us anywhere closer to that?” She grits.

Tony throws his hands in the air, “Maybe it doesn’t, but your dumbass plan wasn’t any better.”

“You think marrying her is going to help you? You know I was joking when I said that, right?” 

Suddenly, a spotlight seems to beam over you. Neither party stops their death glare to fully acknowledge you. That wasn’t a proposal–you were just some pawn in their game.

You don’t even know what the hell they’re playing for.

“This is a great time to remind you who signs your checks.” 

Only then do her eyes bother to glance at you. 

“This isn’t gonna end well, and you know it.” She concedes, still stern. After that, she stomps back off into the crowd. 

Tony turns towards you, but you're already back at the elevator, watching the buttons finally reach L.

“[Y/N], please–” 

The doors ding open and you don’t stop to hear anymore. Despite your feverous attempt to close the doors, Tony makes his way inside. The door just barely misses his coattail, to your annoyance.   

Even worse, and completely on par for the evening, the jingle bells elevator music plays the moment the doors shut. 

A hard, awkward beat passes. You’re pinching the bridge of your nose, sparsely emptied of any more energy for this night (mentally or otherwise). 

“You look fucking stellar, by the way, love that dress–”

“Tony.”

“Right, you’re right, sorry.”

Neither of you spare another word from the elevator to the bedroom. Tony follows behind, closing the door softly as you toss your earring onto the dresser. You’re waiting for him to speak again. Explain, deflect–hopefully just explain, but he doesn’t. He sits at the end of the bed, eyes trained to you in the mirror. 

“Why didn’t you ask me? Alone? Before today?” you sigh, “

“I wanted to, I was going to, the other night on the balcony I just–” he answers quickly, but trails off in a way that has you turning to face him instantly.

You don’t doubt that for a second. Truthfully, the level of effort and random heartfeltness of the night gave you some clue. But, when it never came you just chalked it up to Tony being Tony. Painfully romantic in most conditions. 

“You just what, didn’t want to?” There’s anger, though you know it's hypocritical. 

“No I just,” he exhales, dragging his fingers through slicked back hair, “I knew you’d say yes.”

“You knew I’d say yes? What the hell does that mean?” Your necklace joins the rest of your jewelry with a loud clink. 

“This is coming out all wrong–”

“You think?” The six inch heels are the next thing to go, throwing haphazardly in the closet. Tony rises to cut you off in front of the door, eyes pleading for understanding you’re not sure you have. 

“I saw the look in your eye, I’d done so much to make sure you’d say yes in that moment because I needed you to–not because I wanted it and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.”

“You don’t know that I’d say yes.”

“You would,” he says with that practiced charm, all sunny but hollow. A trademark Stark move—confidence teetering on arrogance. When you hesitate, he’s ready with another word, a gaze intense enough to hypnotize. “You know you would.”

You laugh, looking away as if it’s absurd. “Are you really so sure?”

His hand slips into yours, gentle but firm, thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that makes it seem like he’s talking to you, only you, and not the thousand voices in his head screaming at him to get this done. 

“I know you’re scared, but” he says, leaning into your warmth. “Don’t leave me hanging here, please.”

“You sound so desperate, it’s kind of sad.” 

But there’s a softness to your voice now, a hint that he might be getting through. For a moment he was worried he wouldn’t be able to get away with this again, that you’d learned all his tricks since the boutique. 

It’s enough of a crack in your resolve for him to keep pushing. He slips closer, voice low. 

“Look, I know I keep asking a lot of you, but, There’s a pause, just long enough to let the ache in his voice sit, before he adds, “this could fix everything, everything can be okay.”

There’s a sliver of doubt in your eyes, and that’s what he clings to. 

“And when was the last time everything was okay, Tony?” You watch him in the bureau’s mirror. 

 “It could be. All I need for you to do is say yes, so I can fix this,” He squeezes your hand, the hint of desperation all but veiled now. 

And when you finally exhale, when that flicker of sympathy slips in, he knows he’s won.

It’s good enough. Better than he hoped, honestly. The relief slides into him like a tonic, loosening the tight lines in his jaw. He keeps his hand on yours, knowing the warmth of it will serve to distract from the creeping dread, from the hollow pit that’s been widening ever since the stakes got so high he couldn't see the top of them.

For Tony, this is all still just a means to an end. One step closer to true liberty and the life he was supposed to have. If he had to lie and disappoint–cheat and charm, then he’d do it. It would be worth it. In the end, the sum of his achievements would outweigh his sins.

He reminded himself of that a month ago, the night before he decided to have the gala. When the bedroom door closes, a sigh of relief escapes. He was lucky that you didn’t catch the conversation with Matt and Natasha in full. What he had in the works was sensitive, and he couldn’t have that ruined by anyone knowing the details in advance. He couldn’t lose you again, not when he needed you most. 

There is a shred of guilt as the elevator whirs down to the garage. You’re probably thinking the worst, understandably, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Only to pray his love was enough to placate you for now. 

Especially when he doesn’t even want to fucking do this. Each day seems to come at the loss of his autonomy, another suit on his payroll telling him what’s best for his life. It’s more deplorable when the people closest to him come up with the shittiest ideas to fix this. He can truly thank Pepper for his recent migraines (and a bunch of old ones). Filing for divorce was quite a move to try to get what she wanted, and throw him to the mercy of the Securities and Exchange Commission at the same time. If you listen to Matt, Tony’s mere minutes away from a cold cell. If you listen to Nat, Tony’s plummeting stock will be the sealer of his fate. And as of right now, two of the smartest people he knows can’t come up with anything that doesn’t come at the cost of you or his company. And he can’t live with either. 

Since, both their solutions arguably suck, he tells a lie or lack thereof to find a third opinion. Or a hail mary. However it’s called, it’s a long shot that he can’t be certain won't jeopardize him even more. 

The drive to Hudson Valley is peaceful, to the point he forgets his world is on fire. It’s late, or early, depending on who you ask. Few cars grace the road and he finds solace in the solitude. The radio is ignored for the repetitive rumble of the tires, until paved tar turns into rough gravel. 

When Pepper sent over the address, he wasn’t too surprised. She always rambled about moving out of the city, dreaming of cabins in the woods and sprawling hills. Tony could never wrap his head around living anywhere else. In retrospect, that was another early omen. They never even shared the same dream. 

He can’t say it doesn’t look impressive. A dark a-frame that strikes beautifully against the earthen spruce. Maybe that is why she had him drive all the way out here and not somewhere in the city. Part of masterplan to show him what she presumes he’s missing out on. 

The porch lights flicker on once he parks, and he makes his way up the stone path to find Pepper sitting just outside the door. She’s preoccupied with a thick novel, acknowledging Tony with the raise of a finger. 

It’s strange, being alone with her for the first time in years. She’s not dressed in Valentino but tattered college sweats he had forgotten about. Seeing her at the penthouse all those months ago was troubling, but this was different. Here, it’s too quiet. Even though he’s a few paces away from the table, he can hear the tension of her nails against the pages–the swirl of wind through her hair. Sure, she can’t control the environment but he knows this is a calculated move too. To make him wait, make him uncomfortable. Every other sense sharpens in the absence of constant noise. Norway spruce and duplicity. 

He’s losing his nerve and he needs this over. 

“Why the hell’d you make me drive this far out anyway?” He tries to keep a level voice, knowing she wouldn’t hesitate to use his irritation against him. 

“It’s the one place I’m certain your little spy hasn’t found yet.” she murmurs.

Okay, fine, so he’d used his son to spy on his ex-wife. Big deal, he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t doing the same. Plus, Harley had offered to keep an eye on her. It was a matter of security, not personal (mostly). 

“Can we get on with this?”

“I suppose,” she sighs, tossing the book onto the table. The thud reverberates, stark against the stillness of the valley. “But I’m not sure what it is you want from me–you did call me after all.”

“I did.” And he’s regretting it every second.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“You can start by accepting the deal Murdock sent, and let this be over.” 

Pepper chuckled, crossing her legs. “What are you playing at, Tony?”

“I’m not playing at anything–this needs to be over, you need to move on.”

“Oh please, don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs, “this is all very rich considering you’ve held me in litigation for months, you rejected my offers over and over, so why the sudden change of heart?”

A cold chill and burning annoyance pull him closer to the table. 

“Yes, because I should just give you forty-five percent of my company–I can get it gift-wrapped too if that makes it all the better.”  

“That’s right, your ego won’t let you admit I’m the only reason you have a company to speak of.”

“Can’t you find an ounce of compassion in that gaping pit you call a soul, for me?”

“Such harsh words from someone who needs something from me.” Pepper smirks and stands once the heat recedes from Tony’s face. 

“Take the twenty percent, finalize the papers, and end this, or else there won’t be anything for either of us.”

She circles the table to stop in his view. Tony wishes he had a time machine.

“Let me guess, someone’s under a little heat.” she muses, voice high and dripping in sugary venom.

“Little is an understatement.” He steps back, hands tight in her pockets.

“And why would I give up my shares to help you?”

“This entire thing started with you, and the second it wasn’t convenient you ran. The least you could fucking do is help me out of it.” Tony snapped. 

“Right, and if I don’t?” 

She still laughs, because it’s all a good game to her. Entertaining to see him against the ropes–desperate enough to reach out to her. For once though, it’s calming. It soothes his anger and reminds him why he agreed to this at all. This time, he had an ace up his sleeve.

“Then I’ll tell just that to whoever needs to know–you know I have the evidence. You’ll go down right alongside me.”

In the quiet solace, for a moment, she’s outplayed. Her smile falters and brows crinkle. Truthfully, as much as he’d love to, he could never sell her out. But she had a terrible tendency of assuming the worst of him, and he was banking on that. 

“Please do, I’m sure they’d love to hear what I know about Obadiah.” 

Oh, so that was her ace.

A soft buzz vibrates his back pocket. He doesn’t need omniscience to know it’s you. He can picture it clearly–you, traipsing around the penthouse looking for signs of life. He knows you hate that feeling, and he hates to cause it. 

There’s a more pressing issue; not giving Pepper the emotional reaction she wants.

“You wouldn’t do that.” Spare words from some forgotten bin. 

“Not if you don’t force my hand.” 

A painful pause ensues. The valley’s fauna recognize the tension, silencing out of respect for the sound of Tony’s plan shattering. A true stalemate. Not what he came for, but his throat swells thinking about the aftermath from a war of attrition. 

He can’t let that get out, above all else. That’d be his dissolution. Stark Industries, everything he worked for would vanish. You, without question. You never see him the same again. The crafted image he sought, the life he was creating with you for you, it’d be wasted effort. 

“What’s it gonna take for you to help me?”

After another migraine-causing conversation, Tony slumps into the driver seat, shoulders heavy and eyelids even heavier. Fifteen minutes have passed since your text, and he wonders if it's better not to answer at all. 

[ everything okay?  ]

[ be home soon ]

Ignore. Deflect. Move on.  

The drive back to the city is less pleasant. Actually, it’s a nightmare that he disassociated through the moment he entered the garage. He was, tragically, fucked. There was no telling if he had the capital to replace whatever Pepper took, and he certainly couldn’t risk everything by going public. And if he didn't give Pepper what she wanted, he might be looking at a depressing future behind bars. And that was not an option. 

So he’s at the mercy of the ginger Judas who put him on the path in the first place. Go figure. There’s self-blame for entertaining this option at all. For not guessing she’d snake her way into the upperhand like always. This wasn’t a beast he could defeat with regular tactician and planning. No, he needed to surprise her–usurp her. Piss her off the way she pissed him off. Go against the grain and act in a way that she couldn't predict. Something she couldn’t maneuver around. 

So, when the mic graced his hands, and the coached words on his marriage, the marriage  he never asked you about. The marriage he couldn’t ask you about because he wasn’t ready either. 

He said fuck it, and did it anyway. 

He knew you would’ve said yes then, so you obviously would answer the same afterwards. Even if you were predictably, and understandably pissed, you loved him, and he intended to use that. Grand gestures were his thing after all. A huge public soiree was more on brand than some private dinner. And, he was Tony Stark. The man who got everything he wanted. Why would your hand be any different? Certainly it fell under the same bracket (and really, an argument could be made that he had your loyalty regardless–this was just a title). 

It was justified in his mind the moment the words hit the mic. It just sounds right– Y/N Stark. Like he should have made it that way a long time ago. For a second, the ceaseless pit of vengeance is taken over by something more. 

It;s even easier to justify when he gets a wave of childlike excitement over it. Imagining the ring on your finger, the life he could have with you. Palm trees and salt waves on a remote coast. No more Stark Industries, no more nightmares about cold federal prisons, just you and him. 

Then, in the crowd, he spots what must be Pepper’s lookout. A short, brayish man stays still while dozen roar in congratulatory apologize. Pepper should’ve coached him better, a clear sore loser in a room full of winners. 

The real reason he’s doing this comes back. Tony makes a quick signal to the guard behind him, and moments later the man is escorted upstairs. He used to hate doing this. But he soon learned that humanity gets you nowhere in this business. Still, he almost tells his team to go easy. Then he remembers the cold look on Pepper’s face at the valley while he plead for mercy like a sad dog. 

Fuck that. The man knew the risks. It’s not Tony’s fault they didn’t play in his favor. 

Out of whatever kindness was left, he makes a note to have his body dumped somewhere nice. 

PART SIX SOON

[moinstar]

Lesson 54 spoilers

"...So, tell me. What is it you're plotting, exactly?" Raphael eyed Diavolo with mild irritation in his tone.

He smiles apologetically, caught in an act and felt the need to explain now. "So, you can tell something's up, huh? I was afraid of this."

"It's odd enough that we're the only ones here. And then after we were attacked, your response seemed unusually tepid. There are so many red flags..," the gray-haired angel sighs. "Of course I can tell that something's going on."

Moin speaks up. "I'm guessing that has something to do with me?"

"Yes, it does. Though it's nothing you should feel bad about." Diavolo reassures, though it's not bringing relief to the burgundy-haired human girl.

"This is about your magic power, Moin. And what has been happening to it." Mephisto stresses it strongly.

"Yes, your power has been growing greater by the day. And then there was the incident with the hostile demon in Meowcao. That's when we realized that you weren't in full control of it." Lucifer added.

Simeon nods mildly, carefully regarding Mephisto, Lucifer, and Diavolo's statements. "And when Raphael was attacked earlier, it looked like Moin cast a barrier spell of some sort, but without an incantation. I'm guessing that in the heat of the moment, the spell must have gone off subconsciously."

"What exactly is happening to Moin's powers, we need a definitive answer to that question. Then we can take action if necessary. However, we thought we needed to spend a bit more time observing things from afar." -Diavolo

"Right, our theory was built on too many assumptions. They needed to be verified." -Lucifer

"...So you used the SF as a chance to do that." -Raphael

"That's right." -Diavolo

"Ah, that must be why there was a second preliminary test. You presented everyone with a problem that no ordinary student could solve." -Simeon

"In any case, Lord Diavolo, Lucifer, and I were the only ones to pass the second test." -Mephisto

"So, it worked out exactly as you'd hoped, then." Raphael gapes his mouth a little, coming to a realization. "...Unbelievable. You mean to tell me that the fiery rock that nearly hit Simeon and the beast that attacked us were both YOUR doing?"

"No, that was the work of demons who oppose the royal family. We'd never resort to such cheap tricks." -Mephisto

"However, we knew that if we were to hold the SF finals here, those demons would see it as a good opportunity to strike... That I cannot deny." -Diavolo

"Yes. We did know they were here, and we didn't try to stop them." Lucifer sighs defeatedly. "So in that sense, you might be able to argue that it was "our doing"."

Moin's eyebrows furrowed at this. If Diavolo knew about the opposition, why didn't he do something about it? Why did it have to go as far as almost risking their lives since that incident in Meowcao?

"There are still many lower tier demons who think that harming an exchange student would be a good way to damage Lord Diavolo's reputation. They had no idea they were being lured here, the fools," Mephisto scoffs with a smirk.

"Even so, if you'd only told us this in advance-" Raphael notices Simeon who hasn't been talking for a while now. "...Um, Simeon?"

Simeon smiles. It was that frightening smile back when he used to scold the brothers. "Ah. I see... Thank you for making things so very clear." Everyone except Moin pales at the sight. She knew that Simeon would never direct his anger towards her. "For the sake of argument, I'll overlook the fact that you chose to test Moin's powers. Because I can see how that might be the only way to draw out certain aspects of these powers. Tell me though, why was it necessary to lure the Demon King's enemies into attacking us? What if Moin or Raphael had been hurt? What would you have done then, hmm?"

"It's only thanks to Moin that we're okay. Because she protected us, even though it meant putting herself in harm's way," Raphael added in.

"What's more, I'm a human now: weak and frail. Should I assume none of you cared about what might happen to me?" -Simeon

"I wouldn't call you "weak and frail"..." Lucifer mutters.

"Sorry, did you just say something, Lucifer?" Simeon pointedly smiles at him, daring to continue what he has to say.

"No, nothing."

"I didn't know it was possible to project so much anger while maintaining a smile..." Mephisto whispered to Diavolo as he takes a step closer to him.

"I'm too scared to move a muscle. It's been a long time since anyone's made me feel this way..." -Diavolo

Moin turns to Diavolo with an expressionless gaze. "I'd like you to avoid such methods in the future..., Lord Diavolo." His face immediately shifts to the one who's worried and hurt genuinely, sensing that Moin is indeed mad and felt betrayed at this whole discussion they were having. It's spiraling down rapidly that Diavolo almost forgot to consider her feelings and wanted to comfort her. But as he was about to speak his reassurances once again and offers his hand, Mephisto butts in with a disdainful remark.

"Well, I'd like it if you could learn to control your powers. Then we wouldn't be in this situation."

Something snapped in unison. There was a moment of defeaning silence, as if another wrong answer would cause an explosion, figuratively. Simeon could tell that it was the last straw. The revelation hurt her than they thought it would. And there was another person who wasn't helping the situation get any better. He could feel the gears of emotion running around her head and that she's barely holding to what she might impulsively do: tears, anger, or running away. She really wanted to do those three options but before she could react, Simeon shields Moin from them, hiding her behind his cloak.

"...Lucifer, Diavolo, Mephisto. You need to think about what you've done today."

[anomaly-076]

mixing whb with tkdb again... What do you think each ghoul's biggest fetish is?

Sorry for filing up your inbox so often 😭😭😭

Tkdb boys idiosyncrasies (18+)

‎‧₊˚✿Masterlist✿˚₊‧

♦ Don't worry at all! I'm glad someone's interested in my writing! ^^ I also went all out with their full idiosyncrasies like all the WHB demons have, so I hope you don't mind ^^ ♦

  ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Jin

Master/Servant play

A Prince of Frost, who'd do anything to keep his peace. The only ones allowed into his chambers is his trusty servant Tohma and you. He might be cold, but should you tempt him, things will heat up fast.

Tohma

Capnolagnia (smoking)

Timophilia (gold, wealth and high social status)

If you feel a pair of observing eyes on yourself while in Frostheim, rest assured it's the Prince's advisor. Fear not, however, he's merely making sure you cause no trouble. He's usually the center of attention during Frosteim's balls.

Lucas

Crurophilia (legs)

In search for his twin brother, Lucas finds little to no time to relax between studying and training. Many other students, including his good friend Kaito, have said he simply needs some healthy distraction.

Kaito

Mazophilia (boobs)

Katoptronophilia (mirror sex)

As confident he is, the moment you're around reduces Kaito to a babbling mess. Give him a few moments and he'll compose himself only to attempt charming you.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Alan

Sthenolagnia (muscles and displays of strength)

Asphyxiophilia (choking) - after he overcomes the fear of hurting others on accident

A gentle giant with an air of danger who is like the older brother of all his fellow Vagastrom students. Some gossips say he's done some bad things in his past, but nobody dares or knows to say what.

Leo

Autagonistophilia (being in front of an audience/camera)

A small social media influencer with a tongue sharper than most blades. Him and his partner in crime, Sho, are the primary source of trouble in the Vagastrom dorm with Leo being the sole insinuator.

Sho

Amaurophilia (blindfold kink)

The students of Vagastrom are known to never pass up a good fight and Sho is no different. You're likely to either run into him at his food truck or in the Vagastrom garagaes, tending to his bike Bonnie.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Haru

Doraphilia (texture/feel of fur/animal skin)

The naughty and energetic president of Jabberwock who carries his son Peekaboo around everywhere. If you're not shy ask to pet him, he'll let you, and then he'll also let you pet Peekaboo too.

Towa

Dendrophilia (plants) - plants need love too, ig (sorry, again T-T)

A romantically oriented ghoul with a very light-hearted and curious nature. Don't let that fool you, though, his hugs are that of an anaconda about to strangle its prey. He's so in tune with the nature he eats flowers and the weather reflects his emotions.

Ren

Fictophilia (fictional characters)

A gamer who, despite being chosen into an outdoorsy and hardworking Jabberwock, has the right opposite personality traits. He's an overthinking homebody and will refuse to do even the slightest tasks unless he gains a reward or an achievement for it.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Taiga

Anthropophagy (cannibalism) sorry

Erotophonophilia (murder)

The lunatic president of Sinostra, with very particular tastes. Anyone who's seen him eat will tell you he doesn't mind getting his face dirty while devouring his meal. His impulsivity makes him very trigger-happy.

Romeo

Hoplophilia (guns)

Romeo is a perfectionist and expects nothing less from his partner either. Curiously, one of his closest Sinostra residents is Taiga, who is nothing of that sort. After spending some time around Romeo, you will find yourself getting whipped into shape.

Ritsu

Hybristophilia (criminals, people who committed crimes)

Dikephilia (justice)

Always striving for justice, yet always seeming to condone criminals' behaviour as evident by his lack of interference and defense of Sinostra's president. Perhaps his moral compass more arched than expected?

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Subaru

Chirophilia (hands)

A legacy-bound actor who constantly worries about minuscule things. His compassion knows no bounds even if it might place him into a dangerous situation. His fellow students would say he simply needs a reassurance from someone he trusts.

Haku

Stigmatophilia (tattoos and piercings)

Capnolagnia (smoking) - you couldn't pry this HC from my cold dead hands

Some students might describe him as nothing but nice, and yet some account him to be a mischievous flirt. Both are true, but only his chosen person gets to fully experience how real those rumors are.

Zenji

Metrophilia (poetry)

A truly gifted poet constantly seeking for another source of ideas for his erotic poetry collection. Loves seeking out new partners to inspire his writing and doesn't shy away from describing acts between him and his partner in his poems.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Edward

Hematolagnia (Drinking/seeing blood)

Odaxelagnia (biting/being bitten)

The ever so thirsty president of Obscuary, though barely few students could testify to seeing him in the flesh. His chambers are only for the most resilient due to the lingering smell of death and mess of clothes, his or someone else's.

Rui

Voyeurism

Calygnephilia (beautiful women)

To many students and employees he is known as a bartender. To many female students, he is known as an irresistible flirt, but who really knows what happens at his bar after the closing hours?

Lyca

Autozoophilia (being/acting like an animal) - for him it's his wolf form

Amychophilia (getting scratched/scratching)

A young werewolf, who is still struggling to navigate living in the human world. He's very curious and eager to learn. He may come off as a bit intense, but those are only his wolf instincts coming out.

  ⋆˚✿˖°

Yuri

Piquerism (cutting/stabbing someone with a sharp objects)

His personality strongly resembles Henry Frankenstein, which is a reputation he gladly upholds. The image is even enhanced when his assistant is around. In the surgeon's eyes, humans are only interesting or mediocre specimen.

Jiro

Free use kink

A stoic and reserved medical assistant, who isn't opposed to most things. His mobility may not be the best, but he will try. He may not feel strong happiness or pleasure himself, but seeing his partner experience them is enough for him.

[xvxblahhhxvx]

A ramble/analysis about the significance of the bar in The Day I Picked Up Dazai

Ok, so I just reread the day I picked up Dazai, and read side b for the first time, and man do I have many, many thoughts, but one thing in particular struck me, and that is the bar. More specifically, the reason why they go in the first place and why it is significant. (spoilers for the day i picked up dazai side a, obviously)

The first time the bar is mentioned is when Odasaku and Dazai are having a discussion about death and why Dazai desires it. Oda says that "he is a fool for wanting to die" and that anyone is fool for dying before going to "that place." He doesn't specify what it is though, and Dazai thinks he's making it up at first. The way Odasaku speaks about it, it's as if it's some magic place, a place that only some can see the true value of. This intrigues Dazai, because one important thing about him is the fact that he's always searching. Always looking for something interesting, some reason to keep living, some proof that life isn't the boring place he believes it to be.

The second time this place is brought up is when Odasaku and Dazai are in the cell, and Oda is trying to convince Dazai that he should escape with him. He mentions that the place is nearby, and that they should escape and go. Now, Dazai is truly curious about it, and it works. He says, "how long has it been, I wonder? To have somewhere I want to go...I have a feeling that even if there is nothing at that place, it will be fine as it is." He's excited, and looking forward to the place that Odasaku has been, for lack of a better term, hyping up the entire light novel. Even if it may not be so interesting after all, like Oda said it might not be.

Still, when they arrive at the bar, Dazai acts a little disappointed at first. The place Oda took him to was really just a bar after all. Odasaku even admits that he lied, that where could he take him to that he wouldn't already know, and that he was merely teasing him. Dazai is taken aback at first, but in the end, he finds value in the place. They sit for ages, talking about everything and nothing, playing poker, and drinking. And despite being disappointed in the beginning, it ends up being enough for Dazai.

And now, for the actual point of this ted talk, the reason why this is so significant is because to me, the bar represents Dazai's search. He is always looking for something interesting to keep him alive, but the fact of the matter is, there is nothing. Oda says as much to him when he dies; nothing in this world is going to fill the void of loneliness inside of Dazai. But the fact that he took Dazai to something as simple as a bar, a place he said he was a fool for not going, the place that intrigued Dazai so much signifies that Dazai would only find something in a place as simple as a bar. That for all his searching, the answer might just be playing a game of cards and talking to a friend while having a few drinks. Dazai feels so far removed from human connection, but in truth, that is the one thing that could even attempt to fill the void, even if just a little. He will keep searching, keep looking for some external factor that may allow life to interest him, the thing that he would be foolish for dying before seeing, but the answer might just lie in spending the night in a simple bar with a friend.

[pomegranatecrab]

Rhodey/Tony/Steve, anyone?

Steve buys an apartment with his back pay.

It’s small, but it has two bedrooms. He converts one into a studio, and he should be comforted by the peeling paint and faded colour, covered in thousands of little fallacies, so very akin to the room he shared with his mother, where he would count each mark and stain while he was in bed, struggling to breath. Instead, the memories that the walls incite are sour.

There’s nothing stopping him from moving the minimal furniture out into the hallway, and sanding back the walls by hand. The man at the store had suggested an electric one, a round device that he had politely turned down. When he strips down the walls, Steve is still at a loss. No colour feels right for the room. There’s two windows where Steve is considering putting a house plant between, yet, no inspiration strikes. A spattering of dust floats in the air, a thick smell permeating the room. Steve opens a window, and frowns when someone knocks on the door.

He’s never met the man on the other side before. Tall, dark skin and carrying himself strongly. A wry smile paints his lips.

“Steve Rogers?” He offers a hand, the other hooked in the tag of a six pack of beers. “I’m James Rhodes. Tony’s talked a lot about you.”

Steve blinks.

“Tony Stark?”

James nods, peering shamelessly past Steve and into the living room. “Still moving in?”

Steve steps aside, nodding stiffly. The beers are from a brand he doesn’t recognise, and James is dressed casually, but his rigid posture gives him away.

“Army?”

“Airforce,” James says, peeling off his shoes and leaving them neatly by the door. “No work talk, I’m off duty.” He eyes the lack of TV critically.

“Do you have any board games?”

Steve would have felt like a killjoy, if not for the gleam in James’ eye, casual and easy-going. Like a wave could crash in and he’d simply ride it to shore.

“I have a pair of dice,” Steve says.

It’s one of the only things, along with his shield, that they let him take from his own belongings. A nice wooden pair that Bucky had carved for him, right down to the uneven dots adorning each side.

“Perfect,” James says.

He steps into the connecting kitchen, running an admiring hand over the arched doorway, a coil of rich timber that reminds Steve of the sprawling houses that he’d seen in movies at the theatre.

“Have you considered removing this cupboard? It’d make good space for a breakfast nook.” He peers around the back of it, considering. “Built in, but it wouldn’t take too much rewiring. Tony and I can help you out.”

“I’ll think about it,” Steve replies, eyeing the unit critically. It would be nice to have the place feel less crowded, unique, even. It’s probably the last thing he needs, but a construction project might keep his mind occupied, at least. There were only so many times that he could think about drawing instead of picking up a pencil, and only so many laps he could take around the park.

James nods, and swipes a cup from the dish rack, rinsing it once beneath the tap before placing it in the middle of the counter. Steve watches as he takes a beer, expertly popping it open with a spoon.

“How’d you do that?”

“My sister taught me,” James says, sliding a beer over to Steve, “it’s simple physics. You just hold your hand slightly over the cap, and voilà.”

Steve tips his head, impressed.

“Now, you roll the dice,” James demonstrates, “and whatever number I get, in this case six, I have to get this cap in the glass six times in a row. If I don’t, I drink. If I do, you drink.”

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” Steve asks.

He’s also certain he won’t miss, no matter how high he rolls.

“Yeah, but it’s friday and I can,” James replies, almost cheekily, though his face is deceptively grave.

“You can laugh,” James says after a beat, composure finally cracking.

“At funny things,” Steve retorts, relaxing, the tension held in his shoulders eased by the friendliness, the firm hold of comradely, on offer to him.

“Call me Jim, or Rhodey.”

They spend a good couple of hours playing, until Steve swallows the last of his beer, and Rhodey checks his watch.

Steve’s heart sinks. His day no longer felt droll and empty with Rhodey’s visit. It had been nice, at least, while it lasted.

“What’s your phone number?” Rhodey asks, pulling out a sleek little rectangle with a smooth surface. It alights at his touch, and Steve spots a vaguely familiar face, belatedly realising that it was Tony Stark, beaming up at the ceiling.

“I don’t have a phone.”

He had been given one when he woke up, but left it on a park bench when it hadn’t stopped incessantly ringing.

And he had no idea what a data plan was, or why he was supposed to get one.

Rhodey smiles.

“I’m sure Tony will help you out there. Here’s my address. You should stop by on Sunday. We’re having a barbecue.”

He’s out the door with another kind smile and firm handshake, leaving the faint smell of expensive cologne behind him.

—-

By the time Sunday rolls around, he still hasn’t decided on a colour for his studio, or if he really does want a breakfast nook in his kitchen.

What he has decided, after a great deal of going back and forth with himself, is that he will attend the barbecue that Rhodey invited him to. Steve refuses to think about Bucky, or his mother; dead for decades while he experiences the future. He doesn’t think of quiet dinners with his mother, or sitting in dense forests with Bucky, his small fingers expertly carving the skin from a rabbit, roasting it over the fire, a fond suspire caught in Steve’s throat as Bucky complained about boredom, wishing for Nazi’s to gut or superior officers to prank. Mostly, he remembers the smell of bodies. The nauseating amount of blood had been like drowning in a sea of pennies, a thick, overwhelming metallic smell, a horrible collision with urine and excrement.

He thinks of Bucky, who didn’t even make it to sixteen.

He pulls on his shoes, and thinks of how he had to warn Bucky about keeping his feet as dry as possible in his boots, to never assume that it was mud, or something wet in his socks. He had heard too many stories from the first war about flesh peeling off, rotting and grotesque.

Steve ignores the military uniform hanging neatly in his closet and opts for jeans and a white t-shirt, pulls the punnet of strawberries from the fridge that he was sure were going to be laughed at, before beginning the long walk to Rhodey’s residence.

Rhodey lives in an incredibly beautiful two-story house, with a sprawling property that Steve figured would cost more than he would ever see in his lifetime. There’s a small porch at the front, adorned with plants hanging from the ceiling, a mat at the door and a small, ornate table with a package of bird feed on it.

He knocks on the door, and is surprised when it’s opened almost instantly.

Rhodey grins at him, wiping his hands on a yellow apron.

“Steve! Glad you could make it. Are those for the barbecue? Perfect, they’ll go perfectly with the charcuterie board.”

Relieved, Steve hands off the strawberries, peeling off his shoes and placing them in the neat little shelf by the door, already filled with a variety of joggers, leather shoes and a strange pair with holes throughout them.

The air smells like steak, sausages and something spicy.

Rhodey leads him briskly through a wide hallway with gleaming wooden floors into a large kitchen, where Tony Stark stands, arms akimbo.

“I thought flambéing would be easier than it looked,” Tony says, with a winning smile.

It’s not the wet, dormant smile of a greedy businessman; his blue eyes are warm, and he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows, a faint flush working his way up to his neck. He looks very normal.

“Just do us all a favour and stick to chopping, a severed finger would be better than cleaning the gunk in that pan,” Rhodey replies.

Tony shrugs, and turns to face Steve properly.

“Hi, Steve. Nice to properly meet you,” Tony says, offering a hand.

His palm is calloused and warm, with long, bony fingers that his mother would say are perfect for the piano.

“I hear you’re in the midst of a construction project.” Tony opens the punnet of strawberries, and opens a cupboard beneath the bench, pulling out a beautiful wooden board, covered in rich oils that paint the surface into a bubbling ocean. Rhodey passes him a package of brie and a small knife, which all get neatly organised on the board.

“Maybe,” Steve says, scratching at the back of his neck.

There’s a cool breeze trailing in from the deck, the huge doors thrown open, curtains flapping gently.

A British voice, possibly belonging to the pale set of legs lounging half out of sight on a chaise longue, rings out.

“Master Anthony! I’m sure somewhere along the way I drilled some manners into that head of yours.”

“Are you sure?” Tony says, whisking the small platter out the door. “I don’t recall.”

Steve follows, assured by Rhodey’s benign smile as he inches around the barbeque. Rhodey lifts the lid, smoke escaping the confines and filling the air, and pokes at the sausages sizzling away alongside a row of vegetables.

“I enjoy my days off, but I don’t enjoy watching your abysmal attempt at cooking,” the older gentleman says, arranging his feet on a small table.

“Jarvis,” Rhodey replies, “stop flirting.”

Jarvis sniffs.

“Anthony, I wasn’t joking about your manners.”

Tony claps a hand over his shoulder, grinning. “Jarvis, this is Steve. Steve, this is Jarvis. He’s known me since I was in diapers.”

“You were just as stubborn about those as you are about bread,” Jarvis demurred.

“I’m not a snob for not eating white bread,” Tony defends immediately, handing a cracker piled with olives, tomatoes and cheese over to Steve.

The cheese had an interesting layer of crust, a creamy, white texture underneath.

“Are too,” Rhodey says, “you couldn’t see the looks of disgust sent my way when I dared to grill cheese on white bread.”

“There’s a perfect way to make grilled cheese, Rhodey,” Tony says, “it’s a sacred art.”

Steve’s lips twitch, and Tony grins widely at him, nodding towards the cracker.

“That’s brie. It’s okay if you don’t like it, it can be a bit rich.”

He eats it in one bite, the rich flavours exploding across his tongue immediately. Steve had been used to stale, thin waifs for crackers, and in the army, hardtack, eaten in the dark to remain ignorant about the presence of weevils. These crackers were crumbly, with hints of thyme and garlic, and complimented the tangy tomato and olives, the interesting taste of the brie eluding his palate until the last minute.

“I don’t mind it,” Steve says.

“Have you had a chance to try any other new food, Steve?” Rhodey asks, smiling charmingly, one hand pressing warmly against the small of Tony’s back as he shuffles past, offering another loaded cracker to Jarvis, before holding the other to Rhodey’s lips.

“Not really.” Steve scratches his head, darting his eyes between the three of them, no judgement in their eyes, merely curiosity. “I don’t really know where to start.”

Tony clicks his fingers. “We can remedy that, Steve. Can’t have you going to any old Cantonese restaurant. I know a place. Tiny, no signage, just a window filled with roasted duck. Best you’ll get in the city.”

Rhodey wipes his hands on his apron, a dab of oil on his lip from the olives, wiped daintily off by Tony’s gentle finger. He sucks the remnants off, and turns to gaze at Steve inquiringly.

“It’s a date, right?”

Rhodey nods, before Steve can even open his mouth.

“We’ll pick you up Wednesday night. That work for you?”

Steve, who so far had a grand total of zero friends in the future, nods reluctantly. It sounded better than sitting alone, firmly telling himself he doesn’t need company, or someone to write letters to, or listen to music with, or go to a baseball game with.

“I’ll be there,” Steve says, forcing what he hopes is a personable smile on his face.

Tony and Rhodey angle identical grins at him, exchanging a silent, pleased glance.

Steve blames the blazing sun for the prick of heat that spreads rapidly down his neck.

[gustavgunnarsson]

There were just so many things hidden in the darkness that humans had no idea about, but it was only after he’d become on of those things that Gustav started to wonder how people walked around so oblivious to it all. He blamed the modern age; all it’s digital distractions took away focus and the freedom to not believe gave them a false sense of power and courage that really was baseless to the point of being hilarious. They were so fragile and easy to manipulate and control… Money, clothes, shiny trinkets… All these things had control over them and yet they thought that a simple statement was enough to get them their way. Wren’s demands were strongly worded pleas that fell on deaf ears.

“As delicious as your fear smells, I don’t need to scare you. And I definitely don’t have any plans to kill you. Not when you have given me the greatest gift…” Gustav smiled down at Wren, his hand hovering over her cheek for a moment only to drop it. His grin turned to a scowl of disapproval. In what seemed like an act of defiance, she threatened him with something that actually made him feel concerned. “Lifeless?” He tutted. “ You still don’t believe me, do you?” He hissed, pulling his lips back into a humorless smile that bared his fangs. “ I have…familiarity with being both dead and alive. You know not what you threaten… There is no fantasy here –” he paused, making air quotes in spite of how silly it made him feel. “ – No ‘roleplay’. I am undead. For too long I’ve felt nothing… No amount of spending could thrill me the way you have tonight. No amount of blood shed at my hands… At my will…”

Moving away from her, he lingered towards the dresses he’d offered to her prior, running his hands across them. “ It would be a shame to kill someone so …special. There’s something different about you, Wren. I don’t know what it is yet, but I intend to find out. And luckily… I have all the time in the world to do so.” He smiled, this time it was genuine. Turning to her, he looked her up at down, her taste still on his tongue and the memory of her warmth fading slowly. It was enough to make him want to be engulfed by her again if only to feel alive and warm once more. But the look on her face told him that his attempts wouldn’t be met with the eagerness and lust they had before. 

Sighing, Gustav resigned himself to the bitter cold of his sorry state for the time being, knowing that in time he would have her again. Instead he gestured to another door, his palm stretched towards it politely. “ There’s a washroom just there — should you feel like getting cleaned up.” He offered with a smile that was almost disarming. “ I apologize that my desires got the better of my patience… I would have liked to dance with you down there. You seem like you’d be fun at a party. But alas, as I cannot trust you to cause a scene, we’ll just have to wait for everyone to leave before I can let you roam. Until then can I bring you a drink or something to eat? I assume that you’re a bit… worn, after our little entanglement.” He chuckled. 

What made her confusion worse was the ridicule she was faced in the unknown. He was making fun of her, indulging in the fact that she was out of her element and even worse, scared. It felt like digging the knife in deeper, a blunt and painful blade. It made her bitter with anger and she became mad at herself for not knowing the answer as if she had the means. There was nothing worse than being caught off guard or so she thought, until now when met with the twisted delight he got from her uncertainty. A harsh breath came from her nose in contempt. Trained, marked, memorized - all of these words felt like watching him build the walls of an invisible prison. The very things she hated all spouted from his lips, a new and suffocating fear rising to the surface. Ownership and possession were some of her greatest fears, and some of the words he liked using the most.

She especially resented being mocked amongst many other things, now missing the opportunity to counter for lack of better words. In the conception of the idea, it felt utterly stupid. Denial was the first emotion to set in, perhaps disbelief. Stuff for the movies, it wasn’t real. Certain memories trickled in now, like the cut on her lip and the sounds he made as he tasted it, calling her human. They’d been enthralled in each other for some time, it felt, long enough not to notice a single sound - where now none existed. There were no sounds of feet, heightened conversations or laughter, no sounds of bustling drinks and silver plates and platters. Just silence. Maybe the fear of the unknown mixed with her thoughts now because it only seemed to encourage his pleasure. “You’re lying.” She hissed, very aware of the closing space he put between the two. “You’re making up stupid shit to scare me, that’s not a real thing - let me go.”

Her eyebrows pressed together in frustration. It all felt like a rush to her nervous system, and not being able to verbalize disorganized her breathing. His hand gripped her wrist and she suddenly became aware of the resistance behind it, even if the strength was not enforced. Her short movements against the action did nothing, not even his body moved from how much her arm wiggled, an immovable force. “I don’t want to.” Her words felt muddled, reduced to a less clever response than before. “Don’t keep me here, just kill me.”

Something infinitely worse than the idea of dying was the thought that she no longer belonged to herself. To be in possession of someone else was making her stomach turn, as if it were marinating inside of her alongside the disbelief of this discovery. “I’d rather die than stay here. You want to make shit up and fantasize and role play, do it with someone else. Don’t leave me here.” It almost sounded immature, she didn’t want to believe him. “Don’t do it.” Her arm wriggled against the stone of his grasp. “I wont give you what you want. If you come back here and touch me I’ll be lifeless. There’ll be no joy in it and you’ll wish you would’ve just killed me.” Her nose was flaring but her eyes stung with fear. “I’m not scared to die. Just do it now. Don’t make me wait. Please.”

[running-in-the-dark]

had my first real appointment with my new GP today (the time last month when I had to go in because of my middle ear infection doesn't count) - it was fine! not great, not bad, just fine. they had to take my blood too and surprisingly, the kinda rough nurse got a lot nicer once she realised how scared I was (usually they just tend to start talking to me like I'm a child).

then I saw that a package I was waiting for got delivered while I was at the appointment - to one of my neighbours. except it didn't say which one. there's 5 other families in this house, so that was a bit scary. I decided to just ask the people in the other ground floor apartment, and luckily they did have my package! the lady that opened the door was really nice. I'm glad I managed to do that - it was hard, tbh. really scary. but I just had the thought that I should at least ask those people and then basically ran out immediately so I wouldn't have time to think about it (and it worked).

we're getting closer to finishing our kitchen. just a couple things left now, like the hanging cabinets (that's the part that scares me a bit - I already don't trust those anyway, but if I know I'm the one who put them up... well that kinda makes it even scarier 😬). I'm excited for it to be done though - I really need to unpack the rest of our stuff before the chaos makes me go insane.

it seems that this period of having a slightly higher level of energy is over, unfortunately. I knew it wouldn't last, and it was like a month this time! that's impressive. but I'm still pretty upset about being back to having to sit on the couch most of the day. it's not great timing, there's so much to do still :( and I'm just permanently exhausted again, so it'll take forever.

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you