#like he knew he should just. be able to. he'd never not been a natural at something. is this how dorian felt?

[lynxalon]

MY LAST CLOSING THOUGHT ABOUT TONIGHTS CR EPISODE!! CYRUS TO DORIAN. FISH IN A BIRDCAGE. THAT IS ALL.

[bananayuyu]

Tell Me No {1}

Pairing: professor!Yunho x f reader

Genre: smut, dark academia vibes

Word count: 6.3k

Summary: You'd always been a picture perfect college student. So when Professor Jeong gives you a grade that threatens your flawless track-record, you'll do just about anything to raise it.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, age gap not specified but it's obviously there, reader wants him bad but is kinda in denial, dry humping, heavy petting, lots of praise

A/n: Professor Yunho always hits, I've seen so many fics on here that I've loved but I just had to make my own. I hope y'all enjoy <3 (I'm working on a part 2 and part 3 for this now, lmk if you want to be tagged!)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | Read it on ao3

Professor Jeong was remarkably smart, remarkably tall, and remarkably well-liked. There wasn't a thing he could do, it seemed, to upset anyone. His third year as faculty, he was already surpassing all expectations the Dean and Vice President had set. It was a revelation: all his students absolutely adored him, every single one. All, except for you.

It was late fall, and the weather was starting to turn. Leaves were falling in clouds of red and yellow, and the air was crisp in the mornings. The entire week the sky was overcast, not a ray of sunshine to remind you of the warm season just past. It felt gloomy, calm, and focused on campus, and it should have been the perfect start to your favorite time of year.

It should have been. But as you sat in your Contemporary Literature class and read over the marks on your most recent paper, you felt nothing but rage.

63%. That's what he'd given you. That, and a slew of notes in red ink along every margin, telling you just how poorly you'd screwed this whole thing up. You didn't much care for contemporary books, that was the worst part; this was a class you were required to take as a part of your literature degree, and one you'd dreaded taking, no matter how many raving reviews you'd heard about the professor. It was an added slap in the face that he was so damn harsh with grading, when you really couldn't give a fuck about the books you'd been assigned to read.

It only took a week of class before you understood. His good looks, his sense of humor, his easy and flirtatious nature, those were the things that made every student love him. Class itself was a slog, but you'd been expecting that at least, and made it through your first two papers with decent grades. Only three papers and a final exam were graded in his class, and you panicked every time you handed one in, not knowing if you'd be able to pass with at least a 70% and get your much needed credits. But so far it had been fine; you'd never needed to ask him much, never seen a reason to visit office hours. You had no desire to talk to this good-looking professor, even if your mind wandered in his class. It was all too easy to picture him in all his naked glory, but a part of you knew your dreams must be too good to be true, and you'd hate to have the illusion shattered.

It wasn't out of character for you to crush on a teacher. And it wasn't that you hated him. But what good was a hot professor if he was going to fuck up all of your plans?

"Hey, did he screw you too?" a voice behind you asks. You didn't bother turning around, knowing the aggravating man it had come from and exactly the conversation he was hoping for.

"Yes, obviously," you answer. Professor Jeong's a fucking asshole, you add to yourself. Dad's gonna fucking kill me.

Here on Daddy's money, you were that girl. And though it was an obvious perk, it came with one severe expectation. You would be done in four years, and never get below a C. There would be no making up credits, no re-dos. Summer was meant to be spent interning, not making up for stupid mistakes during the year. Your dad's words ring clearly through your mind as you sigh into your desk.

"Wanna go get coffee and bitch about prof for an hour?"

"No, Marcus, I have shit to do," you respond.

"One day you won't be such a bitch to me," he replies, before slinging his backpack over one shoulder and shoving his long hair out of his face. "I'm gonna go to his office hours tomorrow and give him a piece of my mind," he says as he walks past you.

"Good luck with that," you joke, staring down at the floor.

You'd been able to wear your favorite boots today, and your legs covered in black tights were a sight for sore eyes. But none of it could be enjoyed, these little beauties of life that usually brought you peace. The potential of failing this stupid class was looming, and now more than ever you were thankful for the weather, for sunny days always made your bad moods even worse, making you feel almost guilty for your negativity.

"Come to my office hours tomorrow, I have to head home now," you hear Professor Jeong tell a clearly panicked classmate, who sighs with defeat and slumps away. You look up, taking in the small room, a class with only thirty desks, dark and windowless, with bookshelves lining the back wall behind a large mahogany table. The few lamps at the front illuminated the tired and frustrated bodies of your peers as they exit to the front corner, and there is no part of you that wants to join that sad parade. There had to be a way out of this, a way to avoid your worst nightmare. There was no way you'd let your hard work of the last two years go to waste, all to be replaced with beratement from your Dad and a forced position in his company.

You'd never been overcome like this, or so determined. Something in the red ink on your perfectly printed paper had switched a flip. Paper in hand, you sling your book bag over your shoulder and storm to the front of the classroom. The last student had just slipped out, and your professor was turning off the lamp high on the right-most bookshelf, his back to you.

"I need to talk to you," you say. The force in your voice shocks you, and you take a deep breath to recover.

"My office hours are tomorrow, you can co-"

"No, I need to talk to you now."

He turns to you, peering over his shoulder before his chest has time to face you too. Instantly his gaze is piercing, a deepness in his brown eyes that you'd never noticed before. His suit is perfect and sharp and intimidating, and your knees feel wobbly as your guts roll. Who were you to be demanding such a thing from him? You had no idea where it had come from, other than the primal fear of a life lived under your Dad's severe control. Your degree was your chance to escape, and you'd stop at nothing to secure your freedom.

"I have to head home now, I can't talk to you." His voice is stern but soft, and feels like a warm breeze blowing past your cheeks and neck. A shudder runs through you, one you try your best to hide.

"Just five minutes, I'll walk with you out of the building," you reply. He lets out a frustrated sigh through his nose, crossing his arms and staring at you deeply. With a subtle shake of his head he straightens up again, grabbing his own bag off his chair and zipping it closed, before slipping it over his head. He pushes in the chair, and moves to the other lamp, looking back to you once more before clicking it off. For a brief moment the room is blanketed in complete darkness, and all you can hear is the soft rustle of trees outside blowing in the wind.

He opens the door, holding it until you exit, and locks it swiftly behind you.

"I was wondering when you'd finally come talk to me," he says, walking the opposite direction you expect, towards the back of the building. His long strides are hard to keep up with, and you balk at what to say now. There was something eery about his words, but something too that told you to keep going. This may just work, if you were willing to push through your nerves.

"My grades on my last two papers were reasonable, I didn't see any reason to come and argue with you about thos-"

"No, what I mean is, you obviously hate my class," he cuts you off.

"I- I don't, sir, I promise-"

"You don't need to lie to save my ego, I can easily tell when a student doesn't like the work I assign for them," he sighs softly.

"I just don't care much for contemporary books, I'm much more interested in historical literature. And literature written by women tends to interest me more, too," you reply. You'd reached the end of the hallway, the back double doors much shabbier than the front, but still adorned with wood carvings and leaf-shaped handles. Professor Jeong pushes the left door open with ease, holding it in silence until you exit again, rejoining you in your decent of the steps.

"Yes, I have heard this complaint a time or two, and I saw this coming from you, I know your type," he replies cooly, walking fast and still making no eye contact.

"I'm not any type of person, I don't know what the hell you're talking about," you snap, covering your mouth seconds later in regret.

"No, please, lay it all out, I am all ears. It's only about two minutes to the train station, so you'd better make use of it."

"You're seriously going to accuse me of being some "type" of student who complains about how all the books we read are by men, when your main critique of my last paper was that the perspective I took was predictable and the same as so many students before, and that I really should look outside of the box and be more creative with my thinking? When you assign the most boring, predictable, inside the box books known to man? What the hell do you expect, me to invent some deeper meaning to this whiny basic crap I'm reading?"

The words tumble out of you with force, another student you passed looking bewildered, ducking their head down and walking into the grass to avoid you. Adrenaline wracks through you, your heart pounding hard enough you could feel it in your head. You weren't sure what you were thinking, launching into such a personal attack of the books he'd assigned. But once he said to lay it all out, your mind couldn't think to do anything else. You try to walk in a straight line beside him, try to keep up with his strides without completely losing your breath. A distant strike of lightning is followed many seconds later by the low rumble of thunder, and your head snaps up in your anxious state, your whole body on high alert. Seconds stretch by, as the air feels suddenly colder and your sweater far too thin. You were waiting for his professional, academic response, knowing almost surely humiliation was about to greet you. But when you finally look up, his lips are turned up in a smirk. Your eyes go wide, wondering if he was laughing, if he found your statement so pathetic and stupid that all it did was make him chuckle.

"You're funny," he deadpans, looking up to the cloudy sky. "And no, I'm not smiling, not at all." His smirk grows wider, almost to a full smile, before he turns from you and steels his face, his expression back to his typical stoicism as his eyes meet yours.

"You think your paper deserves a second look?" he asks, as you cross the bike path and walk through the strip of pine trees, before starting down the stairs to the train station.

"Absolutely, sir, I just want a second chance, maybe I can explain to you further what I meant in certain sections, help you understand- I- I'll rewrite sections if you'd like, anything for a better grade-"

You are cut off by the man in the ticket booth.

"Heading home, Mr. Jeong?" the man calls jovially, waving a large hand in his direction, a pale yellow ticket between his fingers.

"I'll take two today Mr. Choi, thank you," he replies, smoothly walking up to the booth and slipping the man two one-dollar bills.

"Have a nice ride, enjoy your evening!" the man calls as you both walk towards the platform, your boots scuffing on a crack in the stone tiles, eyes too focused on the tall broad back in front of you to notice the ground.

Already a train was approaching, and by the look of your professor, it was obvious this was his. You aren't sure why you're still following; you pull up for a second, eyes wide as you take in the scene around you. The station ss teeming with people, many students and several faces you think you vaguely recognize, but amidst it all his head of black hair ss visible, so much taller than anyone else around. He walks forward a few steps before looking behind him, noticing your absence and squinting hard, trying to find you. The train was now pulling up, and his eyes were flicking between it and the direction he'd lost you, looking the least bit frantic, if that was even possible for him. As soon as the train stops people launch towards the doors, handing the ticket-man their yellow slips and hurriedly finding the seats they want.

When the crowd thins enough and he can see you again, Professor Jeong makes his way to you quickly.

"Whatever you do, don't you dare get on this train car with me," he utters, slipping one of the tickets into your hand and closing it in his. "Don't get off at Fortsmith station, and don't wait for me by the red phone booth outside."

As he walks towards the door his head turns to meet your gaze one last time, and something deep and mischievous glints in his eyes. As he enters the car, ducking low to fit through the small door, you run up behind him, handing the man your ticket too and slipping inside. A moment later the ticket-man jumps in too, sliding closed the door and locking it, sitting in his designated chair.

"How many stops to Fortsmith station?" you ask him, peering over your shoulder at the nearly packed car, only one empty seat next to a man that looked leeringly at you, in a way that made your skin crawl.

"12 stops, ma'am," the man answers, his accent thick.

"How- how many minutes is that, approximately?"

"About 40 minutes, ma'am."

You sigh, stepping out of his way. "Thank you," you add, nodding to him slightly, before turning back around to find a place to stand. When you turn, though, a different seat is empty, one you could swear had been filled by your professor just moments ago.

When you look to the right, you find him sitting by the leering old man and watching you intently. And quickly you slip yourself into that now empty seat, breathing a sigh of relief for your poor heels.

The ride was smoother than you had expected, but the stops were arduous, and each time as people filed on and off, you felt your nerves growing and shaking you. This seemed so strange, that your professor was letting you follow him, giving you the ticket and directions so you wouldn't get lost. Had your little outburst really piqued his interest? Was he only winding you up to shit on you later, in the privacy of his own home, when it was only you two? Suddenly, you realize you know nothing about this man. You aren't even sure if he lives alone, if he has a family, if anything about this little excursion iss a good idea, or if you're walking right into the den of a lion. A deep shudder runs through you when the announcement for 'Fortsmith' comes through the speakers. Only another minute, and you'll be wobbling your way out of here. You'll be in a completely foreign part of the city, not one person knowing where you were.

The station is much smaller, not underground like the University stop, the train only at a full stop for maybe thirty seconds before whisking itself off again. Only one other person steps off with you two; the woman makes quickly for the north exit of the station and disappears into the pouring rain, the cool outside air hitting you and making your body go rigid.

With a quick glance around, you spot the phone booth. It was just to the left of the south exit, visible through the glass panels of the door. As Professor Jeong exits he opens his umbrella, standing patiently by the red booth as you made your way in his direction, your body shaking. Once you exit he begins walking beside you, holding you close under the small radius of his umbrella, his large hand on your back feeling like it was searing right into your skin.

Its a short and quiet walk to the quaint street he lives on, large trees covering the sides of the small boulevard and ivy covering the stone walls of most of the houses. Each was small, only a few with a second floor, including his; it was exactly the type of place you'd expect him to live, the heavy front door creaking as he pulls it open and walks in ahead of you, quickly closing his umbrella and setting it down, and closing the door with a gentle thud once you enter.

A draft hits your wet legs and causes you to shiver again, and you wrap your arms tightly around yourself. Inside it is dim and hazy, and soon he was pulling out a set of matches and lighting a candle on his mantle, the living room coming into view once the warm light started flickering.

"This is my office, wait in here," he says, opening a door just down the hall. When you walk in there is only the soft light of the early evening to guide you, the floor so hard to see that you reach out your hands and shuffle slowly. Once his desk comes into view you spot the ornate lamp just behind it, and carefully reach around to click it on, the room suddenly awash in a gentle pinkness.

Not unlike his classroom, the walls are covered with stacked bookshelves, but in here it was every inch, not a single bit of free space available. You walk slowly to the closest shelf, your eyes scanning over the spines. Shock rips through you as you see the authors: Dickinson, Austen, Bronte, so many of the historical women you adore. Above that shelf is a collection of more contemporary works: Cline, Hooks, Mock, your eyes just about bug out at seeing the names, breath hitching. Here was a stunning collection of so many of your favorite authors, an entire giant bookcase dedicated to the work of women, and women alone.

"You found my favorite shelf, I see." His voice is low and buttery and doesn't shock you, only makes you feel like melting into the floor. But you can't help turning suddenly and clinging to yourself, the room still feeling chilly. "You aren't in trouble, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Why did you bring me here?" you shoot back, taking in a quick breath.

"Why did you come when I told you not to?" he replies, walking close and handing you a cup of steaming tea, the notes of lavender and honey hitting your nose.

"You- you obviously wanted me to come, you told me exactly where to get off-"

You cut yourself off at the sight of him smirking again, and shake your head, the shock of the situation finally hitting you.

"I shouldn't be here, should I?" you suddenly panic, shoving the tea back in his direction, making for your bag on the floor. But as you crouch and grab it your hands feel like stone, not willing to move an inch. You don't want to leave, not at all, as much as some part of you is telling you to stop this and head back to campus, now. You stand back up quickly, feeling awkward as you smooth down the bottom of your oversized sweater, turning to him again.

"Is this wrong?" he asks, gesturing between you with the mug of tea.

"I- I don't know," you sigh.

"I made you tea because you looked cold, are you sure you don't want it?"

You stare longingly at it, his hand easily wrapping around the entire thing. With a hard swallow you push yourself to take a step, grabbing the tea from him and finally taking a sip, your chest instantly feeling warmer.

"Why did you let me follow you?" you ask, turning around and sitting yourself on the smooth top of his desk , crossing your legs. His legs cross too as he leans back against the shelf behind him, a longer piece of his black hair falling in front of his eyes.

"I've been hoping to get a chance to chat with you, ever since I read your first paper."

"So even though you could tell I hated your readings, even though I'm that type of student you seem to have such great distaste for, you still wanted to talk with me?" you ask.

"I kept hoping you'd come to office hours, but you never did," he sighs. "You might hate my class, but you're obviously passionate about literature. You'd be surprised how rare that is, amongst all my English students."

"You've only had a few like me, then?" you ask.

"I've never had any student like you."

Silence hangs in the air, and you sip at your tea to fill it, savoring the way your body is relaxing. You stare at him, trying to read it all. Why the hell would he say something like that to you? Alone in his house, no indication of another soul residing here, you feel oddly comfortable. It had never crossed your mind that you could possibly end up in a situation like this.

"You're determined to get at least a C, aren't you?" he asks.

"I have to," you reply. "I can't- I just have to."

"For your scholarship?"

"No- well, sort of, in a way," you sigh, thinking of your Dad. "It's a long story, but I have to."

"Let me give you some advice then. Just because you don't much care for an assignment, don't throw in the towel and do the bare minimum. Your other work is too good, it makes it obvious when you've barely spent any time on something."

You stop short, tea clasped tightly in your hands, your eyes wide.

"Do you write, any fiction or poetry?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good, you have an immense talent for writing, you must nurture it."

It was the last thing you were expecting, and the words send shivers of warmth through your limbs, your mouth hanging slightly agape.

"God, do you have any idea how remarkable you are?" he asks, his head suddenly shaking, his arms crossing.

"What do you mean?" You try to keep your composure, but his last words feel like a metaphorical breaking of a boundary, and suddenly your cunt aches and your feet feel tingly. Were you really that easy to break? Liking praise this much was something you'd always felt shame about; your cheeks redden as your heart rate slowly picks up, and you are sure your flush is obvious, even in the faintly pink light of the room.

"You're just- you're remarkable, there's no other way to put it. Like I said, I've never had a student like you," he says.

"Then why torture me with such a bad grade?" you ask, taking another sip.

"I'm not torturing you, it was deserved," he replies. "You wrote that whole paper the night before it was due, didn't you?"

You turn your eyes away in lieu of responding, not wanting to admit that he was absolutely right.

"I know everyone says I'm a harsh grader, but what about next year? You'll have two semesters with either Haas or Park, and both of them are stricter than I am, both expect near perfection. I'm preparing you as best as I can for next year, so your whole degree doesn't blow up in your face at the final hurdle."

"You really care that much?" you fake pout, chuckling a bit and biting your lip.

"Yes, yes I do. You're too smart to not make it out of that University with a degree." His voice is genuine, not an ounce of sarcasm present. Something about how sure and even it is adds to the heat in your low guts, and you squirm slightly, trying to relieve the pressure building between your legs.

"Come here," you say, setting down your mug and holding out your hands in front of you.

"What?" he asks as he pushes off the bookshelf, uncrossing his arms as he starts walking. In only three steps he's just inches away, towering over you as you spread your legs slightly. You're hit with his smell, something musky and rich that you can't name, and all it does is add to the heat inside you, sweat beginning to form underneath your sweater.

"Will you read my stories and poems, if I show them to you?" you ask, tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket, your eyes locked together.

"I won't hold back in my reactions," he says, sighing deeply to try and keep the growing firmness in his pants at bay. Being this close to you was not something he'd planned for, and his head spins as your soft eyes look up so longingly, his own guts doing somersaults at the precious sight.

"I wouldn't want you to," you say, smiling, unbuttoning his jacket and exposing his white button down, making work of the buttons there too, from top to bottom.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute," he chides from above, but he doesn't move an inch, doesn't do a thing to prevent your movements. You notice quickly he isn't wearing an under shirt, met with the creaminess of his skin as you expose his chest, working slowly down to the lowest buttons. You pull his shirt free from where it was tucked in his pants, loosening his belt to help you, before pulling the sides of the shirt wide and finally revealing his naked torso.

Now you understood. He was a nightmare, but in all the ways you least expected. He was better than your dreams, hotter than you could imagine; the flat plane of his chest was broad, and his tummy was the perfect mixture of muscle and softness, a small dark line of hair snaking down from his belly button and into his pants. And his pants, when you finally look down, you see it; his bulge is straining against the fabric, long and hard and thick, and immediately you start salivating, running your tongue along your bottom lip to collect yourself.

"Good god," he groans from above, his pupils blown, losing the fight to not be affected by you. Your small, soft hands running over his torso feel heaven-sent, and in seconds he's rock hard, shamelessly staring down the low cut of your sweater, letting himself look at you the way he's been wanting to for months.

"This- this is what you want?" he asks, breathless, running a thumb down the side of your cheek, turning your head up further to meet his gaze head-on.

"You- you just kept saying such nice things, and it made me feel all weird right here." You grab his hand and pull it towards your crotch, the warmth and wetness immediately evident even with your tights in the way.

"Fuck," he groans, tipping his head back and sighing. Though he knew it was already risky bringing you here, lines were now being crossed that were objectively wrong. He tries to pull his hand away from your core, but he can't, and when he looks down at you again, your eyes are wide with want and need, conflict screwing all of his thoughts into a tight knot.

But before he can stop himself, his open lips meet yours. The kiss is immediately deep, all the tension and heat you'd just created washing through you both. He starts applying some pressure with his hand, rubbing his fingers up and down against the warmth of your cunt, and you moan into his mouth, suddenly breaking the kiss when he hits your sensitive spot, your mouth falling open. With no support behind you, you grab onto his arms, pulling him closer as you move to kiss him again, his right hand wrapping around your back to hold you up.

His lips are soft and sweet in yours, and you can't help biting at the plumpness of his lower lip, making a quick breath escape his mouth before he dives in harder, the hand on your back moving up to your nape as he pulls your face impossibly closer. You reach your hands out to feel over the bareness of his torso again; his skin feels hot and smooth, his abdominal muscles clenching as he leans into you more and takes all the effort of steadying you both. Balanced on the edge of his desk you feel shaky, so you reach around his hips and pull them closer, forcing him to remove his hand as your cores meet in sudden ecstasy, the hardness of him feeling all too delicious against your soaked cunt.

Immediately you're grinding against him, savoring every bit of pleasure you can get, while his wide torso cages you in and his soft lips move to your cheek, then your neck, trailing down until he's biting at the soft skin above your collar bone. The choked moan that leaves you sounds almost like a cry of pain, but it was really just the shock, the unexpected pleasure you were getting from every little movement of his.

He pulls his mouth away, suddenly nervous he's taken a wrong step, gone too far. His hair falls in his face as he watches you shamelessly grind against him, your eyes still screwed shut in ecstasy, stopping at nothing to get all of the pleasure you can from it. It takes you a few moments to register the absence of his lips, and when you do you look up at him through hooded eyes, wondering why he pulled back.

"What do you want?" he asks, working hard to rip his eyes away from the sight of you grinding on him.

"Just wanna be good for you," you say breathlessly, swallowing a moan. "Wanna- wanna make you feel good."

"You are making me feel good, angel, I'm so fucking hard," he sighs, looking down again and starting to rock his hips slightly, in time with yours. The added pressure and friction send jolts of pleasure through you, and suddenly your head feels a bit fuzzy, your hands and feet tingling with delight. "You gotta tell me to stop, I can't- this, fuck, we shouldn't be..."

"Please don't stop," you cry, holding onto him for dear life, focused entirely on the feeling of him against you, his strong arms in your hands, his hot breath on your face, his hardness giving you more pleasure than you could ever dream of. "I'll rewrite my entire paper, I'll do anything, just please, don't stop."

"You don't have to promise me that right now," he says, holding you tight against him. "You're too good, let yourself have this."

With his permission, you let go completely, all thoughts leaving you as the pleasure becomes overwhelming, your spasming cunt sending shockwaves of pleasure up through your entire core. His lips are on yours again, and he kisses you deeply, savoring every taste he can find, all but devouring you as he keeps up with your pace, rocking his straining cock against you just how you need it. You feel fully enveloped by him, by his smell and his words, by the feelings of complete safety and desire that he's lighted within you. You never expected this conversation with him to go so well, to head in this direction. For the first time in your life a teacher saw what you hoped they would in your writing, and his admission of his admiration for you left you wanting every bit of praise and pleasure he could give.

Finally, you feel it building deep, a volcano about to explode, your core tightening and threatening to snap. The feeling is searingly hot and delicious, your legs starting to shake, his hands moving to hold onto your thighs as you desperately shake and hump against him, chasing your orgasm to completion. You rip your mouth from his to scream, all the glee and nerves of your evening coming to a head, your body going rigid as it rips through you, your climax so intense and long lasting that you can't quite believe it's real.

"Good girl, let yourself cum," he whispers in your ear, helping you through it. His cock is achingly hard in his pants, but the feeling of you coming in his arms takes all his attention, the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. It's hard to tell when it ends, your legs still so shaky, but eventually your rubbing ceases, and he stops his thrusting too, just holding you in place as you pant and center yourself, adrenaline and happiness coursing through you.

"You okay?" he asks.

"More than okay," you sigh, slumping into him, making you both laugh. It's light, airy, the sound an absolute joy to your ears. You look up, face flushed and cheeks high in a smile, and he leans down to kiss you, a soft and patient kiss that makes butterflies dance in your stomach.

"I didn't mean for that to escalate like that," he says, sighing.

"I did," you say, and it makes him laugh harder, his high cheeks and beautiful smile greeting you. You've never seen him look so sweet, so happy; your stomach suddenly clenches with a feeling of utter admiration, and it's so deep that tears spring in the corners of your eyes. You blink them away, not wanting to cry in front of him, but you can't help the look on your face. His smile is gorgeous, and internally you're melting at just how perfect he is.

You stay locked together for a long time, the minutes passing by as you both breath deeply, more kisses planted on your forehead and cheeks that make you giggle and squirm. Eventually you come down, your legs finally not shaking, your body coming back to the temperature of the room. The cool air is making you sleepy, and you yawn as you pull away from him, gently moving him back so you can stand and stretch your legs, gathering yourself.

It's silent, slightly awkward, but nothing in you feels scared. Though your legs are back to freezing, you feel a warmth in your chest and stomach that won't leave, and when you look up to him, his face is soft and still and utterly lovely.

"I really didn't mean for that to happen," he says, clearing his throat and finally breaking the silence.

"It's okay, seriously, I- I wanted it to," you sigh, holding his gaze.

"I really think you're amazing, it's not just that you're beautiful, I- I want you to go places, I want all of your dreams to come true. With writing, and everything else too," he says, running a hand through his hair.

"I know," you respond, nodding and smiling. "I know."

It's all you can think to say, when so much is running through your head. Now that your heart rate is more normal you can actually think straight, and though you don't feel scared, there is some level of uncertainty dancing in the back of your mind. Where would this lead? And what could possibly come of it? Your own hormones and emotions had led the way earlier, and now you weren't so sure it had been the best choice. But you also couldn't fault yourself for doing it, because you knew that if given the chance, you'd absolutely do it again, as many times as he'd be willing to. Class now might be a nightmare, your active imagination supported by this memory. But that didn't sound all bad, either, frankly. It might be fun to make eyes at him and watch him stutter, to see just how much you could affect him in front of all your peers.

"Are you wanting to head home now?" he asked.

"I probably should, I have a lot of homework to do. And I need to get some dinner."

Twenty minutes later, the delivery arrives, and you sit in his living room sipping at your favorite soup, a casual conversation about your other classes filling the air. It had always bugged you when people asked about school, but for some reason with him, you felt giddy to brag, excited to share every grade and project you could. You felt seen, felt actually supported. It struck you over and over how strange it was to be feeling this way with him, of all people.

"Rewrite that paper, you have a week," he says as you stand in his open door, the streets and lawn drenched from the rain, but the sky now clear.

"Rewrite the whole thing?"

"I expect it to be up to the standard of your other two papers."

With all of the other work you had, it should have been frustratingly hard to finish it. But there was something about thinking of his face as you worked, of his hands, of his chest and his abs and his cock....

You finished the paper in record time, turning it in only four days later. And the next day in class it was lying on your desk when you entered, bright red marks along the front again.

91%.

You looked up at him, and though it was subtle, there was no question there was a glint in his eye as he winked.

next part ->

[preqwells]

downtime | logan howlett x reader

summary: logan had been meaning to show you the wooden cabin he'd visit when given the time— he didn't anticipate how enraptured he'd be with the the absence of chaos in his life

cw: slightly suggestive

domesticity looked good on logan in your eyes.

chopping wood for the fire you two would burn at night, making sure the weeds didn't interfere with the tomatoes you had been growing, and sometimes even fishing despite his lack of patience for it. his jeans hung low around his waist, hair speckled across his chest through his open-collared shirt—you had to admit, you liked this side of him. you two had decided you wanted to get away for a while since logan wasn't particularly needed at the moment. he had been wanting to show you the cabin he frequented when he wasn’t busy, daydreaming to himself with the thought of what your reaction would be to it. you weren't surprised at the nature of the wooden cabin. it was secluded and neatly tucked away in a corner of a vast forest that no one would dare to enter unless they were in for a rude awakening. maybe you were kidding yourself with the idea that you two might be able to go off-grid for a while, but it was a thought you both were willing to entertain.

you smiled to yourself as your eyes tore away from the much-welcomed sight of your boyfriend leaning back on the couch, hulking thighs spread as his head lolled back. your attention trailed back to the deer he had caught earlier in hopes you could do something with it. "should i slow-cook it? maybe even make it into a pot roast?" you suddenly spoke up from the kitchen, your lips pursed in thought as a lighthearted scoff left him, his eyebrow quirking up for a moment. "askin' the wrong person. never been known to be much of a chef, sweetheart." he gruffed out, too tired to allow his eyes to roll into the back of his head at the thought of even picking up on anything remotely related to cooking. "mm, you're right," you said through a small chuckle, your eyes still examining the raw meat, "could always just set up the grill out back. chop it up, make 'em into kebabs… but we don't have any skewers. if only there was something that we could use…" you playfully trailed off as you pressed your index finger to your lower lip as if conjuring a thought. logan quickly caught onto the fact that you were talking about using his claws as kebab skewers to which he shook his head in response, shooting you an amused glance.

he rose to his feet, floorboards groaning under his weight with each movement. "ha-ha, you're hilarious. damn near a comedian." he retorted as he made his way to you, placing his empty beer bottle on the counter before his arms wrapped around you, giving you a small squeeze. his front pressed to your back, your heart fluttering at the sudden contact. the contours of his muscles molded into your frame nicely, warmth emanating from him as his breath fanned against the nape of your neck. "well… i was thinking about signing up for the local comedy club. could be my big breakthrough, y'know?" you sighed in faux contemplation as you felt the softness of his lips pepper kisses from your nape to your pulse-point, his hands lingering on your waist. his thumbs found the belt loops in your jeans, tugging on them absentmindedly. "y'right, bet the squirrels and mornin' birds would love to hear the material you been practicin' on me." he murmured into your skin, eyes fluttering shut as he deeply inhaled your scent. seeing as how sensitive he was to scents, there were lots of scents he couldn't stand. hated the smell of gasoline, hated any kind of gaudy perfume— if he thought about it for too long, his nose would probably scrunch up out of disgust. yet he was particularly fond of your scent, fresh linen and cotton. your scent was as pleasing as your personality. you were good for logan. kind, compassionate— you smoothed out his rough edges. god knew he had too many.

domesticity looked good on you in logan's eyes. the wood you'd carry to the fire pit for your late-night chats recounting the events of the day, the tomatoes you'd complain about that wouldn't ripen and sometimes even fall off too early from local wildlife taking their swipes at it, and your insistence on him learning some proper patience for fishing since you still had a taste for wild-caught salmon. his hands found the hem of your flannel, sliding under the fabric as his fingertips grazed the softness of your skin, traveling down past your navel. warmth flooded your cheeks as a sheepish smile played at the corners of your lips, your hands on the counter to brace yourself. "logan— logan! i still have to marinate the meat." you hastily whispered before a breathy moan escaped you as his tongue rolled over your skin, teeth nipping at the crook of your neck. "mmm, don't worry 'bout it." he spoke into your neck before gently lifting you onto the counter, his eyes filled with affection. he didn't know how it happened, honestly. couldn't pinpoint it even if he tried to recall what you did that caused him to be so smitten with you. he quietly admired you for a few moments, taking in how hues of orange from the sun setting filtered through the window and cascaded onto the side of your face, his hand raising to cup the swell of your cheek. you didn't know it, but logan had made a quiet vow to himself to do everything in his power to make sure you were safe, in this life and the next.

he'd show you tonight how much he adored you, in more ways than just one.

[weirdmageddon]

i love these tags this person is so right

actually, can you imagine if dave was raised by B1 roxy?

i wanna get into this actually

(ok i had to spend a few hours rewriting this because IT DIDNT FUCKING SAVE AFTER FIVE HOURS OF WRITING WHEN MY COMPUTER UPDATED WHILE I WAS AFK so it would mean a lot to show this post some appreciation. i LOVEEE hearing what other people have to say)

even though these things mom does are presented in an extravagant, kitsch, jokey way, her intentions always came from a place of sincerity. she is simply Funnie

but rose reads too far into it and assumes things that aren't there, that her mother is passive-aggressively feigning interest in rose's interests simply because the things she does are so extra. "why do all of this if not to mock me"

im telling you right now if dave lived in this household he wouldn't assume antagonism, he'd go,

don’t forget who LITERALLY patented tangible jpeg artifacts as their post-scratch adult self and scattered shitty scummed up statue of liberties all over the planet. theres no way some of that overboard artful shit wasnt post-ironic / circling back around to genuine funny sincerity

dave's natural state is funny sincerity like roxy. he's had the natural capacity for this type of humor from the start and this is the direction he goes towards when he grows out of his brother's shadow by the end of the comic. dave and roxy share an earnest “so bad its good” type of humor

(lots more under the cut; the length of this meta analysis just got unwieldly with all the pictures and whatnot)

despite the alcoholism, roxy is a supportive mother. she's not the ideal guardian but hells of a lot more supportive of her kid than bro is. if she knew dave's interests she would totally indulge in them with some over the top silly goofy haha shit as a genuine gesture simply because she loves him

rose isn't too keen on it though. but she is more similar to dirk in her natural state of thinking of overthinking shit and assuming the worst, like the tags said

and yes dave got the sweet cuddly yet sometimes backhanded ouppy gene from roxy, probably even moreso lol

roxy's even said rose "sounds like girl dirk"

side tangent here, but this is something i wanna talk about.

i dont think bro should ever be in custody of children ever but if theres anyone who would be up to the task it's rose probably. i know she'd be able to keep up with him. not only does she have a defined personality (dave is more malleable and absorbs his environment like a sponge), if anyone can pick apart B1 dirk's batshit brain and probably be right on the money it's her. lil cal has been pumping patriarchal nonsense into bro's head and rose would be able to bring the fucking facts to the table without losing her own and being a living example of a badass little girl. i also don't think bro would try to force masculine roles onto rose like he did with dave, seeing as she is a girl, so she would actually have more of a leg up and get some passes that dave was never afforded. and rose wouldn't stand idly and accept any bullshit; she is no doormat. and i think this would earn bro's respect

but anyway, from this, couldn't we conclude roxy "sounds like girl dave"?

yeah okay. we havent even gotten into their penchant for funny typos or misspeaks, deliberate or otherwise

so, dave's environment

the sentiment "god you hope you can be as good as your bro at this some day" might have been genuine at the time when he idolized bro but of course he's not able to express that in any sort of sincere fashion because he's in dirk's fucking household. and this level 10 irony shit isnt doing dave any favors

his role models were the Internet and a vague idea of what Bro was like. So he built up his facade based on irony–not the literary definition of irony, as Rose might be quick to point out, but a popular concept of irony based on the idea that things that didn’t make sense actually made sense in some roundabout way. As a master of irony, Dave probably reasoned, he could see in a way other people couldn’t why a world that was scary and didn’t make sense really did make sense, and could therefore convince those people that he was superior to them. And he would wield his knowledge to maintain the appearance of superiority by calling everything ironic and pretending he didn’t care about things that didn’t make sense, and he would use walls of vaguely rhyming words to keep everyone at arm’s length so they wouldn’t discover his insecurities (source)

roxy's style is the embodiment of post-irony. being raised by mom lalonde would be like being raised by joel vinesauce ok

what can i say ….. (getting meta about this actually, hussie got these jpeg wizard wallpapers from a spyware website. link takes some time to load because internet archive)

rose is quick to read post-irony as actually being a joke/insincere, which in bro's case would be true. but i believe dave's natural instinct, outside of the influence of bro, is to read post-irony as genuine, which is exactly how mom serves it. we see this as early as act 3 from him; he understands her motives better than rose does herself:

and in act 6 intermission 2 i think it's pretty clear

but the thing is, it's always genuine from her. dave wouldn't have to second guess it because he's not one to naturally second guess someone's sincerity; that was learned due to his bro being virtually unassailable

there two types of ironies at play here:

seems like a joke, is actually genuine (roxy)

doesnt seem like a joke, is actually a joke (dirk)

you can make the argument that the second is is more psychologically destructive because it makes you question the reality of what is genuine sentiment and what isn't. dave never knew what was genuine and what was irony so he just sort of existed in this sincerity-ironic limbo and always did the opposite of what he genuinely felt on principle even if it always did originate from a genuine place.

"it just a joke bro i was just being ironic i dont actually x" is so much more trust-breaking and psychologically damaging than "wait are you being serious" / "i am being so fucking fr rn davy gravy" / "ok thats actually pretty fucking awesome. giant ass wizard statue" / "RIGHT"

how much about dave would change do you think? his character arc would be completely different for one thing, i think he'd have it good aside from mom's alcohol issues. he'd be left with the sweet and funny parts of him that we see at the end of the comic. the fake coolguy stuff is out, but this remains. this is dave in his element and we see it as early as act 1

he'd probably have no shades growing up in the lalonde residence* either cause those were given to him by bro straight out of the crater as an extension of his own cool image. and john gave dave ben stiller’s aviators for his 13th birthday to replace them so he could “spread his wings”

dave said he was wearing them for the ironies but i kind of doubt it. maybe post-irony but there was some reacharound to it being genuine because dave never put those pointy anime shades on his face again.

*though... it’s kind of hard to imagine him without his shades at all? B2 dave still got stiller’s shades from stiller himself so maybe getting them is a universal constant. i can imagine mom getting him them as a birthday gift cause shes pretty wealthy and probably could buy it out in an auction. but also itd be cool if john still gave him it as a gift

dave is actually a lot more genuine and easy to read than he lets on even when grappling with his upbringing with B1 dirk (again, see this post). this can be seen all throughout he comic but a good example is the evolution of thoughts about his interest in the preserved dead things in his room:

if B1 roxy was dave's guardian he probably WOULD have pursued paleontology because she wouldve indulged him in it and probably find it cool and worthwhile to pursue, instead of allowing dave to flounder under ironic detachment, being poisoned by irony to the point of gaslighting himself into believing he doesnt actually believe he thinks this shit is cool. even if it was indulged in this such a way; a superficially kitsch and ironic appearing presentation, it comes from a genuine place and inspires genuine interest. just read the comments.

basically, i think if B1 roxy raised dave, their relationship would have a surface level appearance of being bizarre or over-the-top but they’d have an unsaid mutual understanding that it’s completely in earnest and just build on each other's funny and absurd gestures of affection. rather than seeing it as one-upping each other, it'd more like collaboration of some silly bullshit that you take a step back and look at full and just say, "fucking incredible"

speaking of paleontology, mom had the proto-ectobiology lab. maybe they'd be able to use the equipment to appearify paradox ghost imprints of the dead shit to create paradox clones of things from the cambrian era??? sounds like a fun mother son bonding activity. and theyd actually put the sciencey shit in the household to use

oh god i know exactly the kinds of music shed listen too also growing up as a teen in the 80s. she on that (post)-punk/art rock/new wave/new romantic mtv stuff. XTC shit fr. this is a B-52S HOUSEHOLD. maybe the associates for the campy melodramatic flair. so he gets to keep the record on his shirt cause he is an enjoyer of the shit in her vinyl collection. dave would still gravitate towards musical expression and music itself but of more variety outside of just rap, with an 80s-90s, even 70s flavor due to mom’s influence. see this for perhaps a glimpse. ​she probably visited new york city a lot for business trips and because the music scene was cool as hell around that time, imports came straight from jfk airport, she probably got in on that a bit and have remnants in the form of vinyls and cassettes. in this way she could be distributing void to dave (influencing him with forgotten / presently irrelevant music). now he can REALLY rave about bands none of his friends have heard of. “hey davy grvay watcha listenin to” (he holds up vinyl cover) “omg snakefinger”

btw dave lalonde would look like this to me

[v1rtualsalvat10n]

𓆩♡𓆪 how to tell you goodbye

— weeks after his mysterious disappearance, lu shows up at your door with a message for you.

notes :: TW FOR DUBCON. uh yeah I find the idea of him apologizing for doing what he has to do very hot. f!reader sorry guys this is self indulgent

You don't remember how long it's been.

But you know it'd been long enough for you to stop wondering if he was actually coming back or not, and try to cope with that fact. He was gone - there was very little doubt in your mind about that. He'd stopped responding to calls and messages, his socials went cold, his friends, at least the ones you knew, hadn't heard anything either.

He disappeared. And the last thing you ever heard from him was that he was planning on doing something... real. But he never told you what. He could be dead for all you know, and there was nothing you could do about it.

It took a pretty big toll on you. He was one of the few friends you had, and just like that he was gone. Just when things were looking up for you, your support system just had to vanish into thin air. You missed him, fuck, you missed him more than anything. You missed your little coffee shop dates, the weekend parties, playing games in your apartment when it was lonely, sitting in the park together just talking for hours.

You miss those little looks he gave you when he thought you weren't looking, the way that some of your mannerisms made him smile, the nights where your conversations would get real and you'd cry on his shoulder when it was too much for you. You miss how he'd let you.

You missed the moment when he made you look at him, and wiped your tears with his thumb, letting the tension between you two linger for longer than it should. You missed his warm, shaky breath against your cheek. But you missed the most that moment when you felt his lips on yours, just for that few seconds.

You didn't miss the way he seemed to have regretted it after.

But you remembered that the clearest of all... watching the guilt in his eyes set in as he moved away from you, standing from your couch and rushing for his bags, saying that "it was getting late" or some lie like that. You remembered how he didn't even look back at you as he walked out of your door.

And that was the last day you saw him. He texted you the next morning.

"Hey, I probably won't be able to see you for a while. Working on stuff. Gonna do something real with my life."

What the fuck did that even mean? It made you angry, irrationally so. It probably only made you angry because you thought it was your fault. But god dammit, that felt valid! You felt like you had a fair reason to be pissed. It was no secret you liked him - it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out either! He'd do something like that so carelessly, and then just throw you out?

You hated it. Maybe you'd feel better with an explanation, but the truth of the matter is that he kissed you and then mysteriously disappeared, not to be seen again. And how were you not supposed to make assumptions in that situation?

And so you'd spend your days by yourself. With no more Luigi to rely on to keep you from spiraling, you'd been curled up in your room by yourself, scrolling through his social media posts, rereading your message logs to see if there's something you'd missed.

You had a jacket of his he left at your place, and every night you'd wrap a pillow in it and breathe in the mix of cologne and his natural scent until it lulled you to sleep.

It wasn't enough. You wish he'd come back, but even if he did, what was there to say? Even if he apologized, you didn't know that you'd forgive him.

That is, until he actually did come back.

No, surely that was just wishful thinking - that knock was probably a salesman or someone stupid like that coming to bother you. You dragged yourself up from your bed and slowly approached the door, groaning to yourself before putting on a fake smile to answer it.

And sure enough, there he was. Cold and scruffy looking, his clothes ruffled and his hair matted, bags under his eyes. He pushed you inside, and slammed the door behind himself.

He kissed you again. But this time he didn't hesitate, and he wasn't gentle - he threw himself onto you, your lips messily colliding with his as he leaned into it, diving his tongue into your mouth. His hands slid down to your hips, grabbing the waistband of your sweatpants so tight it was like he might fall off the Earth if he let go.

The kiss was sloppy and desperate, and he hungrily pushed it as far as you'd let it go, which was admittedly pretty far. But then the shock faded, and you pressed your hands to his chest, shoving him back. He was weak enough that he fell back into the door, leaning against it to prevent from fully toppling over.

"What the fuck?!"

You'd never yelled at him before. Never even thought about getting upset with him. His face turned fearful, as he steadied himself and tried to walk forwards again. You took a step back for the one he took forwards.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are, fucking with me like this?!"

His expression shifted. He just stared at you, blankly, either too tired or too numb to show any emotion anymore. And fuck, that only made you angrier. "You think this is funny? I was worried you could be dead, and now you just- show up, months later, looking like this? Why didn't you say something? You just- just-"

"I'll explain everything. Just... I really... missed you."

"Yeah? You didn't miss me enough to at least give me a heads up that you were alive!" You hid your face in your hands, sighing deeply trying to contain yourself. What reasonable explanation could there possibly be? You couldn't reason with him surely.

You hear him step forwards, and he places his hands on your hips again. You reach down to pull him off of you, but the moment you move your hands away from your face, he's pressing more kisses to your lips. He holds you tighter, his arms wrapping around you. "Get off me," you growl, but he doesn't listen.

He kisses your neck, his warm breath shaking profusely. "Luigi," you say, and he can't even look up at you. You yank one of his hands off, only for him to put it back on you with more force than the last time. "I said get off!"

"Let me make it up to you," he begs you, his gaze meeting yours as he walked you forwards, pushing you onto the couch. You try to stand, but he's quicker, and he straddles you, hovering over you and pushing you down by your shoulders. He stops looking you in the eyes, too embarrassed at what he was doing.

"Luigi, stop! I'm trying to talk to you, god dammit!" He doesn't listen. He can't. He's already straining his jeans, grinding his hips into yours. It's warm. He's warm, and fuck, you can't lie to yourself. You missed this feeling. You missed the feeling of something real being there with you. You missed him.

Your body betrays you, and you softly rock your hips forwards into his, swearing under your breath. He smiles softly, cupping one of your hips in his hand. "It's okay. I know you missed this." He looked at you, a weird sincerity in his eyes, considering what he was actually doing.

"I'm not messing around. This- this isn't funny. Let go of me." At some point you had stopped struggling without noticing, and you squirmed again, causing him to push more of his weight down onto you. He spoke softly to you. "Shh, it's okay... It's okay, I promise I won't take long. Promise, promise."

He muttered some words in Italian, something that sounded along the lines of a prayer as he rutted into you, yanking your hips up to get more friction. "Stop it," you say again, covering your face with one of your hands.

The truth is that you'd dreamed of this moment for so long. So very long. You'd dreamed of what it would feel like when he finally touched you, his skin on yours, giving you all he had to give. But fuck, not like this, not like this-

He finished with whatever he was reciting, and slipped his fingers under your waistband, along with the one of your panties and tugged them down. You pressed your thighs together, but he was stronger than you and pushed them apart, leaving you exposed for him.

"You're beautiful..." He stared down at you, leaving a crimson shade on your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I just... I felt like I had to tell you goodbye." Your eyes widened as he said that, and you shook your head. "What are you talking about? Luigi, I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere either. You don't have to do this, please-"

By the time you finished, he was already unbuckling his belt, the sound of the buckle clinking against itself making you shiver. He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, rubbing himself against your folds. He was big. Bigger than you expected. Big enough that it looked like this might leave you sore.

You tried to scoot back, but he reached for you and pulled you closer than you were before, gasping at the feeling of your wetness against his cock. He'd longed for this forever, maybe even since the moment he'd first laid eyes on you. It felt like heaven to him, despite how dirty he felt - despite the fact that he knew it was wrong.

Something about you looking down on him for this only made him harder.

He lined himself up with your entrance and parted you with just his tip, his nails sinking into your hips as he did. "Fuck," he whimpered, "I'm so sorry, amore."

And with that, he slid into you slowly. You sighed in relief, only to cry out when he was so overwhelmed by pleasure that he slammed himself into you as deep as he could manage, rolling his hips into you.

Fuck. You could feel him pressing against your cervix. His breath shook as he panted heavily, shutting his eyes tightly as he pulled out nearly all the way, only to slam back into you. He swore, leaving bruises on your sides from how hard he was holding you. It hurt but you didn't care.

He kept up this brutal force, moving all the way out just so he could thrust deep into you again. It took him a while to speed up just because he was so overstimulated by it. But when he did, he fucked you like a wild animal, slamming his hips into yours, the obscene sound of his skin hitting yours filling your apartment.

You looked up at him, who still had his eyes closed out of shame. You couldn't help but imagine what he saw behind his eyelids, what he was imagining as he fucked you in earnest. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he fought against them. "I'm sorry," he muttered, over and over again. He couldn't stop apologizing.

"It's- it's okay, it's okay... fuck-! I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you... oh god..."

That was too much for him. Your acceptance, that unconditional love of yours, the fact that he could do this, and you would still understand, pushed him over, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

His hands frantically slid up your sides as he leaned down onto you, both your chests pressed together, getting as much of his skin on yours as possible. He ran his fingers up and down you, committing every hill and valley to memory. "I'm sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you. I promise you. I promise."

He kept mindlessly apologizing as he used you, controlled by his own need. There was no stopping him now, and you didn't want to. He was beautiful even like this, even at his lowest point. You knew that you loved him in this moment.

"I'm gonna cum, please, please... I'm sorry, I need it, please, baby-" He kept babbling through his tears, which fell onto your cheeks. You closed your eyes softly, leaning into his touch, pressing your lips to his.

He devoured you in an instant, the kiss deeper than before, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he neared his release. "Perdonami, ti prego," he begged, speaking inbetween breaths.

"Lu," you cooed. "Go ahead. It's alright."

As soon as you commanded him, his eyes shot open and he threw his head back as he rammed into your cervix, spilling himself deep inside of you, his body shaking as he did. You tightened around him, the feeling of him finally letting himself go enough to make you cum too, as you called out his name.

He stayed tensed up over you for a moment, his arms struggling to hold his weight as his eyes shut, and he collapsed on top of you, his face in your chest. He started to sob, gripping you tight, one of his hands going down to entangle with yours. "I'm so sorry, amore," he repeated, over and over, "I'm sorry"s falling from his lips.

You pressed him closer, free hand stroking his hair softly as he crumbled in your arms. "It's okay. I forgive you."

"Please don't hold it against me."

"We'll figure it out, okay, Lu? We'll figure it out, together. Me and you. Because I love you."

"I love you too.... No matter what happens, remember that I love you."

[redflagshipwriter]

Mamabat- enter Jason 1/2

MASTERPOST

The air was different with Cass, now. Danny felt a little anxious as he followed her to the study after breakfast. Something about her was serious-determined-protective. 

She always felt protective towards him. That was why he'd followed her in the first place. Some ghosts lied, but they couldn't do it with their aura. He knew what she really felt for him. 

“Sit?” She asked him. She gestured at the big squashy chair. Danny did without complaint. Cass perched behind him and started dragging her fingers through his hair, relaxing him.

Man. She was good at this. Top tier mothering, right here. Danny went limp. 

“I'm worried,” Cass broke the silence. She didn't sound worried. She never really did. Her voice was quiet and serious, but still kind. Her thumbs dug into his scalp. He pushed his head back against it. Bliss. “Barbara made you sad. Because you miss your sister?”

Danny tensed. 

‘I should have figured that Batman would track me down.’

Maybe he had known, if he was honest with himself. It didn't hit him like a shock.

“Tim thinks your name is Fenton,” she added, brutally sensible as always. And yup, that was it. No point in denying it. “Declared dead. In danger?”

He sucked in air through his teeth. He wasn't going to lie to her. 

“Worried,” she repeated. 

He thought about it. He really did. Danny bit his lip. 

She was liminal. That probably meant she'd come really close to death, in at least one sense of the word. Would that mean she was desensitized to it, or extra paranoid?

…It was hard to imagine Cass over or under reacting to a possible danger. She was just so steady. But would she see him as a possible danger if she knew what he was, what he really was? 

He could feel it out before he took a plunge with the whole truth.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was invasive. She didn't seem to realize that she was liminal. That meant she definitely didn't realize how much she was communicating to him under her words and gestures. 

But Danny deliberately tuned into her quiet aural communication and tested the waters. “Tim is right, I'm Danny Fenton,” he said. He knew he was too tense. She would definitely feel it. But what could he do about that? He was nervous. “I… Maybe I did die.”

Her heart dropped to her stomach. He could feel the crush of grief on her heart. 

But it didn’t wash away the thudding repetition of love-protect-my darling. There was no suspicion, no guilt, no fear. It was just pain for his sake, with no calculation about how to solve a sudden problem. 

God. He wanted so badly for that to have been how his parents reacted. His eyes started to sting.

Danny sniffled. He thought it was safe to tell her. “I died,” he corrected, and he knew he was right when Cass made a little wounded sound and leaned her body into him, aiming to comfort. “Not then, but a couple years ago. I’m different now, and it’s uh… It’s dangerous to be this way.”

“Affects?” Cass asked quietly. She started to pet his hair again. “Mood? Health?”

“...Huh,” he said, because that was a sensible question he hadn’t expected. If he really thought about his mood and emotions before and after the accident: “Yeah, uh, there’s sometimes a mood thing. I might be a little more aggressive than I was before? And I can get kind of intense sometimes.”

He had thought that was basically just a reaction to having a whole bunch of new threats in his life. But would pre-electrocution Danny have been able to actually stand and fight Skulker? He had genuinely been afraid of the jocks. Maybe… Maybe he was different. Sure, Sam and Jazz were up for shooting ghosts with Fenton tech. Would he have been if he was just human? 

…He didn’t really think so.

Oof. Well, that wasn’t exactly great for his sense of self.

Cass shook him lightly. “Health?” she repeated.

Danny forced down that revelation to deal with later. He didn’t like acknowledging that he was kind of a chicken by nature, but historically, there wasn’t much evidence of bravery pre-mortem. “Uh, my heart rate is really slow, body temp is low, so I can’t really afford to go to a doctor for a checkup,” he said. “Uh, sometimes I’ve got none at all and my hair turns white.” He paused there. That was- that was enough, yeah? He was going to be honest with her because she deserved honesty from him. But that didn’t mean he had to explain the whole great beyond and his inhuman status.

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass said, after a long silence.

Danny short-circuited. “Wait, what?” He craned to look at her. “Who?”

Cass darted forward to kiss his forehead. “Little brother,” she said cheerfully. “Want to meet him?”

Uh, yeah. Danny nodded vigorously, wondering what the hell she was on about. “Do you mean he died?” 

“Died,” Cass agreed, getting out her phone and tapping away at it rapidly.

“Not like, heart stopped for a minute on the operating table and he was revived, or what?” Danny pressed.

“Dead in the ground, came back later,” Cass said. “Dead for months. Now, very crabby.”

Danny balked. “What?”

“White hair too,” she said. Then her face did something funny. “I think he dyed it recently,” she said. 

Danny huffed a laugh. “If it’s the same thing as mine, you can’t dye it.” He saw her look over his head for white streaks. He didn’t correct her line of thought.

He hadn’t thought that anything could top the anticipation of meeting Batman. But Danny had to admit the rest of the day was a wash. Apparently Jason couldn’t make it until the evening, about an hour before patrol.

Danny nearly paced a line into the carpet. He had enough energy to do that now, even without ecto. He was getting soooo much food here. A guy couldn’t even stress out for an hour without someone coming by to make sure he had fruit and yogurt or a hot drink.

He didn’t need someone to come and tell him that the much anticipated Jason had shown up. Danny knew it when he went to take a sip of cruelty-free chocolate milk (hand delivered by the most frightening child in the world) and choked on vapor.

Damian gave him a glare and snatched the drink away. “Are you incapable of drinking beverages?” he demanded. His face looked so goddamn cross but he was just worried.

Danny managed a smile. “No, went down the wrong pipe, sorry.”

Damian didn’t seem to even see the fog, so- so that meant that either he was really unobservant or he wasn’t liminal enough to see it the way people did in Amity. That was a small blessing. Danny appreciated it and he took back his drink to have something to hold onto.

That was a whole ass ghost. That was a whole ghost coming onto the property, one that felt big and mad and old. Danny smacked his lips, disconcerted. 

He, uh, didn’t know what to expect from this.

[allfearstofallto]

How easy it would be to escape them

Yandere! Genshin Men x Fem! Reader

Ft: Diluc, Childe, Scaramouche

TW: Yandere Themes, Stalking, Mentions of Punishment

Diluc - Difficulty Level: Very Easy

Do you think he doesn't regret what he's done? That he doesn't stay up all night, fighting internally with what he thinks he should do with you? Taking you was a spur of the moment thing, something that happened without a lot of thought put behind it. He just knew he needed you close. He needed you to be near. He needed you with him.

Because of this you're already able to push him around a fair bit. He gives you almost everything you want except for freedom, pure red eyes practically begging for your forgiveness.

He won't let you go if you just ask, he's not that lenient after all, but if he were to wake up one morning and you were not there, he'd go through so many emotions at one time. The manor would be searched from top to bottom, every nook and cranny searched for you. When you're not found a part of him feels calm, it feels satisfied. He stole you without your permission, so he's happy that you're finally free like you wanted. But there's also a tragic, gripping pain in his chest. You're gone, and he knows that he has no right to ask for you back. If you manage to leave Diluc, you'll probably never see him again.

Childe - Difficulty Level: Medium

His playfulness is simultaneously a ploy and his actual personality, such is the nature of him. He's so easy going most days, so funny and kind that part of you forgets that he's forced you into this. Until he has one of those bad days and you see the true strength and fury of a harbinger.

Even before you were stolen by Childe, you found him rather strange. Maybe it was the lack of light in his eyes, or how he casually talked about fighting and killing like it was nothing. Those should've been red flags, signals to stop talking to him, but his charm was laid on thick and suddenly you were stuck in his home in Snezhnaya.

Do you think you escaped because of your wit or because he let you? You'd never truly know the answer, but you thought it strange that you were able to leave his house without a single maid alerting him, without a single guard chasing you.

That sigh of relief you breathe when you're finally home may be the last one you get. Suddenly you feel so afraid constantly. You chalk it up to paranoia, but you can't stop looking over your shoulder. And then you start seeing traces of him. Fatui foot soldiers and letters with that familiar wax seal on them.

When you eventually see him, smiling at you casually like nothing is wrong, your heart practically shatters. You find yourself asking again, did you truly get away or did he let you? He always mentioned loving the chase.

Scaramouche - Difficulty Level: Very Hard

Good luck getting him to even trust you enough to let you roam the gardens without him. His home is a maze of eyes and watchful gazes, the only person you can rely on is yourself. There isn't really much you can do to get away from him, the house is guarded like a prison and Scaramouche himself is a tough man to get along with.

He loves you, he knows he does, that's what that painful feeling in his chest is, but he can't bring himself to even give you a taste of freedom. Give them an inch and they'll take a mile. Because of that you often spend time sitting next to windows, longingly looking outside at the world you're convinced you'll never see again. Not without him breathing over your shoulder.

Let yourself get away if you dare, you'd better hope your plan is air tight. Scaramouche won't fall for the same tricks twice. Fool him once, shame on him, but fool him twice and you'll learn how truly kind he was being to you before. Hope and pray to whichever Archon you worship that when you get away, he won't find you. But getting away is just the beginning. Staying out of his reach is the hardest. His home isn't the only place where he has eyes everywhere.

[estcaligo]

Sebek's scales

x reader * romantic, dramatic, focusing more on emotions than scales * Sebek's hands, eyes and ears are done, see #Caligo's stories

"Shh… there, there…" you whispered softly, your hand tracing slow circles on Sebek's back. His low groan rumbled through the quiet halls of Ramshackle, a thunderous expression of his hidden agony. His head rested in your lap, face hidden - as if from shame. He had come to you for solace, seeking comfort from the gnawing, relentless pain he had never expected to experience.

Sebek was growing scales. At last.

A couple on his neck, a few on his cheekbones, some on his back, and on his shoulders too…

It was something he had long awaited, a sign of his lineage manifesting in him. But the joy of this long-anticipated change was marred by the unfortunate surprise of unbearable discomfort. It felt like a wound trying to heal but never quite managing to, a constant need to scratch at what could not be touched - if he scratched, he'd risk tearing them apart with his strength. At this point, the scales felt more like a curse than the proud mark of the Zigvolt bloodline they were meant to be.

But it wasn't just the physical torment… it was the disappointment that burned in him, perhaps even more than the itching and pain. His grandfather had mentioned that these scales, a mark of their crocodile fae heritage, were supposed to come naturally - painlessly, without effort.

But Sebek wasn't fully fae.

Some genetic trick must have occurred, the half-human part of him must have twisted what should have been a prideful moment into a painful ordeal. A stark reminder of his mixed blood. A shameful slap in his face. It felt like another betrayal of his heritage, another sign that he was different in ways he couldn't control. And it tore him up inside, almost as much as the itching tore at him on the outside.

There were days - and long, sleepless nights - when the pain became unbearable, so Lilia, ever perceptive, suggested he spend those times with you. He knew that only you would be able to comfort him in this situation. Your boundless patience and kindness were some of the many reasons why you and Sebek had grown so… close, after all.

Lilia knew as well as you did - Sebek could only truly let down his guard in your presence. Far away from any mention of Malleus. In the presence of his liege, Sebek could never admit to weakness. Never confess to discomfort, let alone agony. He couldn't appear vulnerable - not even in front of Malleus' portrait!

So, after much bluster and loud denial, Sebek had accepted Lilia's offer. And there he was again - in your arms - his most trusted, cherished, beloved human.

To be honest, you didn't know much about the process he was going through. Much? Rather, nothing at all. You'd tried researching it, but Sebek's case was unique, and none of your studies had brought useful results. So all you could offer was your support - your warmth, your touch, your tender kisses, your embrace, your presence.

And that was more than enough for him.

At first, he grumbled and huffed, of course, too proud to fully surrender to your care (the usual routine in your relationship). But inevitably, he would end up curled in your lap, clinging to you when the pain spiked, his fists clenched tight when the itch became too much to bear.

To distract him, you would sometimes read aloud, sharing poetry. Or even snippets of random stories that would ignite his passionate opinions. His voice would rise as he debated with you, his eyes flashing, and soon he'd be pacing the room, animated and alive, the pain momentarily forgotten. You watched him with quiet joy, delighted to see your dear Sebek so full of life again. His voice loud, his gestures grand - your beloved, boisterous crocodile...

Who was growing his scales, despite the price.

You were proud of him, proud of this important moment in his life. And you swore to yourself that you would do everything you could to make this challenge easier for him. After all, he was there for you too, even if he didn't always show it.

Some said Sebek was an open book, but the more you learned about him, the more you realized - not everyone could read what was written within him.

Just because a book is open does not mean everyone can understand it.

Of that, you were certain. And maybe these scales would be like symbols, letters, writing a new chapter in his story. A chapter of a different kind of strength - forged in his unique pain and held gently in the warmth of your love. At the very least, they were writing these intimate moments now - moments you hoped you both would one day look back on and smile.

Sebek was strong. He would overcome this, just as you knew he could overcome anything. And no matter the challenge - whether scales, studies, nightmares, or war - you would be by his side.

Forever and always.

[howtheavengerswould]

how would the avengers react when avenger! reader is able to lift thor’s hammer?

requests open!

how the avengers would react...

𝙄𝙁 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙇𝙄𝙁𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙍'𝙎 𝙃𝘼𝙈𝙈𝙀𝙍? (IM TRYING TO INSERT PICTURES BUT IT WONT WORK)

Thor was most likely the most confused. What started with training ended in deafened silence as you had simply caught his hammer from midair. He would try to call the hammer back, but it simply stayed in your grip, your own shocked eyes meeting his. He would laugh, clapping his hands together and staring pointedly at your grip on the hammer, before striding up to you and plucking it from your hands. His ego was definitely bruised, not that he'd let anyone know.

Steve always knew you had the capacity to do it, you simply never tried. It was something he was curious of--who exactly would be deemed as worthy, but he had a guess, that if anyone was, it'd be you. You were definitely the nicest of the group, and he wasn't very shocked when you had lifted it from the table at one of Tony's parties. He noticed, however, how you'd stared at your hands like you'd just made a miracle, and patted you on the back, letting you know that it wasn't that surprising, and that you were indeed worthy of holding the legendary hammer.

Tony had been there when Steve had seen you lift the hammer, and his first instinct was to play a prank on the rest of the team. He'd drunkenly invite you over to his side of the couch, brazenly whispering in your ear his idea: "You should put the hammer on top of..." he'd cut himself off with laughter, but would finish his sentence, nearly doubled over, "their stuff." It would take a hot second for you to figure out quite what he meant, but when you realised, it was enough to send the two of you into a fit of giggles.

Natasha was the first victim of you and Tony's antics. The spy always woke up earlier than anyone else for training, and walking into the training room the next morning, she'd find her catsuit stuck under the hammer. Of course, no one was awake to hear the frustrated pleas of the Black Widow--other than you and Tony, of course, hiding away in his workshop, and watching from a camera. Natasha, ever the attentive woman, would spot the new camera, and march herself down into Tony's workshop... and kindly 'ask' for you to move it. She half expected Thor to be with Tony, but when she'd seen you, she managed to put two and two together. She was proud of you, of course... after the frustration and mild silent treatment ended.

Clint was next, and shortly following Natasha, he would find his bow trapped under the hilt of Mjolnir. He nearly had a fit, stomping with mild annoyance towards an innocent Thor's room, who had been so preoccupied with his findings of 'video games' that he hadn't even noticed his hammer's dissapearance. Thor, now the victim of Clint's morning annoyance, would try to eagerly rope the archer into playing with him. The pair would only be found later that night, passed out over chips and a few broken controllers. (...when Clint did find out who exactly had trapped his bow, he would laugh outwardly, and then whisper a good-natured warning in your ear, "Don't do it again, or I'm putting you in one of those holding cells until the next person finds you.")

Bruce was, of course, the unfortunate last member of Tony's incredible prank ideas. He would find the door to his lab jammed shut by Mjolnir, but of course, the culprit hadn't exactly left the scene of the crime. You'd been setting it up when he had stumbled upon you, five minutes earlier to his usual arrival time, and simply stared in shock at the sight of you holding the hammer. "So... have you been able to do that the whole time, or is that new?" You'd laugh it off together, and the hammer would definitely be used as a party trick in the future.

[twilightkitkat]

Thinking about how Logan is more open about his emotions than Wade despite what people perceive, and how Wade slowly learns to open up and confront his own emotions because of Logan.

Prompted by this amazing thread. Shoutout to @ramblingautisticman and @desperatelyneedcoffee for inspiring me to write this.

---

Most people expect Logan to be the more closed-off one. To hide his emotions behind a mask and keep them to himself.

But that's Wade's role.

Logan is honest about his emotions—when he's angry, he'll growl and thrash and let people know. When he's happy, he'll bark out a laugh and grin and let his eyes wrinkle at the edges. When he's sad, he'll cry and scream and drown himself in alcohol.

He may not be phased by smaller things, but he's honest about his feelings. (Something Wade could never do.)

Wade, on the other hand, isn't. He exaggerates trivial feelings, obvious situational ones—he'll cower in fear at a "scary enemy or pretend to be pissed over a minor inconvenience. He makes his outward, shallow emotions so loud that it turns everyone's attention away from what he's feeling inside.

(Because if people know how he feels inside, they'll see him and hate him. It's easier to be hated when you can chalk it up to "understandable" reasons, to being annoying or loud or inappropriate. It isn't easy when they hate you. When they look at you, bare and vulnerable and open, and hate who you are at your core.)

Wade has spent his entire life hiding his emotions. Even from himself.

He shoves them so deep down that they become a slightly bitter taste in the back of his throat until it all becomes too much and he violently throws them up.

Wade is like a glass bottle: he can steadily hold all his emotions inside, pretending to be OK, until the glass shatters and explodes and the shards dig everywhere and he's left to pick up the pieces.

But Logan isn't like that. He lets himself feel. He lets others see how he feels.

Even from the first moment they met, he let Wade know how he felt. How he fucked everything up. How he wasn't the hero he was looking for. How he was battling with so much grief and rage that he'd reached a point of complete apathy.

(It made Wade envious. To be able to just say it and move on.)

Logan was the first person Wade met to be so blatantly honest. To wear his emotions on his sleeve and act on them and still be strong and keep fighting.

(...Could he still be considered strong, if he did the same?)

When Wade was vulnerable, it felt like he was choking—the words tumbling out without his permission and leaving a mess behind. Even with the people he loved, he couldn't ever bring himself to fully trust them even if he knew he should. Even if he wanted to. (Even if he tried to.)

(He still remembers sitting across the kitchen table from Vanessa. She held his hand tightly, as if she was afraid he would slip away. Was slipping away. She was urging him to let her in. To tell her why he hadn't been himself. To open up so they could share the burden.

But he just... couldn't. How do you tell someone who loves you, who you turned back time to save that nothing was helping? That no matter how hard he tried to focus on Vanessa and just live a "normal" life that it all felt wrong? That he felt an itch under his skin to do more more more and nothing was "more" enough.

That he felt like he was just wearing his skin. Like it wasn't his, not since Francis twisted him into a monster he didn't want to become. That he still remembered her look of surprise and the reluctant way she cradled his face when she first saw it.

It wasn't her fault. He knew that. It was an adjustment.

...But why didn't anyone understand? The gnawing loneliness, the self-hatred, the feeling of everything being nothing and too much all at once.

He hated himself.)

But Logan let his emotions course through his veins like second nature. Wade watched as emotions twisted across his face like it was a form of art.

And, for the first time, he felt comfortable opening up. He let the words spill from his mouth, except instead of feeling the trail of acid burning through his throat it felt like relief. He finally met someone who understood him, who had gone through the same suffering. He saw his loneliness reflected in Logan's eyes and finally, finally, felt he could reach out without dragging someone down. (They were both already at rock bottom, anyway. The only place to go from here was up.)

And so he told Logan about Vanessa. About the family he wanted to save. About how, yes, he vaguely cared about the world, but none of this was to save the world. (It was for just nine people.)

And Logan... didn't judge him. He saw understanding—a tired, but real kind—reflected in his eyes. He didn't make fun of him for his selfish motivations. Didn't snarl in disgust that he could never be a hero because of them. (He saw him and didn't recoil.)

And there, sitting across the table from each other in that shitty building they'd escaped to, Wade finally felt seen. Understood. (Ironic, isn't it? To have to go to the void to open up about the void inside of himself. Wade would write a poem about it if he knew how to.)

He felt that same kinship as they continued their journey. Even through the insults, the exasperation, the annoyance, Wade could tell none of it was serious. Because Logan never really told him to fuck off. To stop.

If Logan didn't like him being touchy, he'd shove him off. (He didn't.) If Logan didn't like him asking questions and rambling about himself, he'd actually try to get him to shut up instead of just grumbling. (He didn't.) If Logan really didn't want to be here, he'd leave. (He didn't.)

Logan's visceral type of emotional honesty allowed Wade to let himself be vulnerable. Because if Logan hated him, he wouldn't be here. If Logan didn't want to hear it, he wouldn't tilt his head and listen and ask questions.

(It made Wade feel safe to express himself for the first time since he'd been strapped to that shitty operation table and torn apart until all that remained was a body not quite his own.)

Things were going good.

They were.

(Wade desperately hoped they'd stay that way.)

But then Logan pulled over the car, real and raw fury in his eyes. He yelled at Wade, his voice trembling with the intensity of it.

He picked apart everything Wade had told him. Threw it back in his face.

And oh. Oh.

Logan was honest. He was true to himself and his emotions.

And so, Wade thought quietly as the tired continued, he really meant it. It felt worse than when Logan had stabbed him.

(It felt like he was back on that operating table, small and weak and pathetic but still trying to keep smiling. To keep cracking jokes and being annoyed. Because, if he didn't, he'd break. If he didn't keep the shards of his personality clutched so tightly to his chest that they dug into his hands, nothing would be left of him.)

Logan dissected him. Using everything Wade told him. (Using the ammunition he'd provided.)

(Was Logan really looking at him with understanding, back then? Or was it disgust? The images blurred together in Wade's mind, distorting his memory.)

Told him how he was worthless. That the Avengers and X-men were right to reject him. (Ouch.) That it was his fault he couldn't salvage his relationship with Vanessa. (He'd tried. He'd tried so hard.)

That Logan saw him for what he was: a pathetic, attention-seeking parasite who clung to others instead of facing his own problems.

It really was God's greatest joke that he couldn't die.

Wade spiraled.

(Was he wrong this whole time? Did Logan really, truly hate him? He had to, if he's looking at Wade like that.)

If even Logan (the only person who could begin to understand his suffering) couldn't accept him, who could?

He felt like the ground was crumbling underneath him and he was falling and floating at the same time. He felt like he was an observer, looking in on the outside, even as his emotions crashed over him like a tsunami.

But he couldn't let himself break down. Wouldn't let himself be vulnerable. Not here. Not now.

So, he slid the mask back on and responded in the only way he knew how to.

"I'm going to fight you now."

(Even when they'd collapsed, bloody and weak and exhausted, the words kept ringing in his head. They'd let out their physical frustrations, maybe, but the words still clung to him like a blanket. There was still a sinking feeling in his gut. Dread twisting his stomach at the thought of being open.)

(The feeling never really went away.)

---

They started living together, in the aftermath.

Wade had called after Logan as he was about to leave and awkwardly asked him if he'd like to come home with him. Just long enough to find a place to stay, or even just for dinner.

(Logan couldn't refuse. Not with the sense of wrongness filling him as the distance between him and Wade grew with each step. When he heard Wade's voice, it felt like hope. It felt like coming home.)

One night turned into two, turned into a week, turned into a month until Logan had his own side of the dresser and nobody bothered to ask if he was leaving. (Thinking of leaving made Logan vaguely nauseous, now. It felt like ripping away the foundation of the home he'd painstakingly started to build here.)

Logan still had baggage. Still had days where all he wanted to do was grab a beer and stare blankly at the wall, thinking of all he'd done and all he'd lost.

But it was easier. Wade would walk into the living room, plop down next to him, and begin talking his ear off about whatever happened that day. He'd sling an arm around his shoulder, flip on the TV, and keep talking.

(Logan would lean against him, slightly. Would focus on Wade until his warmth and touch and voice drowned out his thoughts.)

(It worked better than alcohol ever had.)

Logan tried to let Wade know that he cared about him. That he appreciated it. Appreciated him.

(That Wade's presence was what made everything worth it. Made him finally feel like he was able to tread water without drowning.)

He'd cook Wade meals. (And pay attention to what he liked and disliked, making sure to cook things he knew Wade would comfortably eat.) He'd lean into his touch. Listen when he talked. Answer any questions he asked.

And so, when Logan came out from the shower one night and saw Wade curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the black screen of the TV, he approached him.

Wade had a vacant, empty look in his eyes. The kind that Logan recognized, but hadn't seen on him before.

It made him worried. He'd never seen Wade like this. (It was unsettling. To see Wade, who was so vibrant and expressive, look so bleak.)

"Is something bothering you, bub?" he asked, settling down next to Wade on the couch.

Wade finally seemed to register his presence, eyes flicking over to where he sat.

"Oh, peanut! I was wondering when you'd get out of the shower. Was it nice and steamy? I'd love to join you next time," Wade wriggled his eyebrows (or what was left of them) suggestively.

It was like a switch had flipped. Wade went from blank, like a doll with its strings cut, to animated and excited in a second. His eyes were sparkling again and he grinned at Logan like nothing was wrong.

(It was... uncomfortable. Did Wade not trust him? Was Wade hiding something from him?)

Logan wanted to question him, but Wade kept chattering and he could never really get a word in edgewise. (A part of him wondered if it was intentional.)

Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe Wade was just having a bad day. Logan tried to rationalize it, even as a pit formed in his stomach. A feeling of deep wrongness.

Except it kept happening.

Wade would get that same, desolate look in his eyes (always when he was alone, away from everyone) and Logan would walk in on him. Logan would try to see if something was wrong, but Wade would interject before he could.

(Logan knew his expression was concerned. Knew Wade could tell he was worried, that he cared about him. So why didn't Wade let him in?)

(Wade always listened, patiently, when Logan talked about his problems. It was one of the few times he'd go quiet, only occasionally asking questions and making extra commentary. He'd look at him with a grim understanding. Not pity, not sympathy, but empathy. Free of judgment. It was the first time Logan felt like his emotions were actually being received by someone, cradled and held and protected so that they didn't burn him out.)

Until, finally, one day, Logan snapped.

"What the fuck is up with you?" he snarled, and that didn't come out the way he intended but he was so frustrated by Wade refusing to just let him in.

"What do you mean, Wolvie? I'm—"

"Shut up. You're not fine. I've been alive for two hundred fucking years, I know by now when someone's lying, Wade," Logan interrupted before he could continue his usual antics.

"Look, I'm just having a bad day, alright? You know how it is. I'll be up and running after I take a nap, don't worry about little old me!" Wade's voice took on a faux-cheerful tone.

"This isn't just a bad day, bub. It's been happening a lot. You get this look in your eye, like you're not really there, and just stare at the wall." Logan stared at Wade with concern evident on his face. "It's worrying."

Wade snorts. "You don't have to worry about me of all people."

Logan furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean? 'You of all people?' Of course, I'd be worried about you, dumbass. I care about you and if you're hurting, I want to know why."

And Logan was so painfully honest. It was so clear in his eyes, in his expression, in his body language that he cared about Wade. Deeply.

It made Wade snap.

"Just shut up! Stop fucking talking. I don't want to hear it." Wade wished he had hair right now so he could fucking tear it out. He'd take any kind of physical pain just to distract himself from Logan, worried and open and trying to pry him open.

"Wade, what are you—you know you can tell him about anything, right?" Logan tried to regulate his breathing, to keep his tone calm. To not show the panic he was feeling. (It was obvious anyway.)

"What, so you can throw that back at me, too?"

What? What was Wade—

"So you can tell me I'm a fucking joke? That every superhero team was right to turn me down? That I couldn't even manage to keep a relationship with a stripper?"

Oh. Oh fuck. That was—

"That I should just fucking kill myself, but of course, it's God's best joke that I can't die, so now my pathetic existence is on you?"

He couldn't possibly think Logan meant that, right? Couldn't have been thinking about that this whole time—

"I don't want to burden your royal highness with my stupid problems," Wade practically snarled, "so stay the fuck out of it."

He slammed the door and left.

And Logan was left alone.

Logan wanted to run after him, to grab him and tell him that he didn't mean it. He was pissed off and spewing whatever came to his mind in the moment to hurt Wade. (And he'd achieved that goal, hadn't he?) He felt betrayed and responded in the only way he knew—by lashing out. (But that wasn't an excuse, not really. Not to take everything Wade had trusted him with and twist it. To betray his trust in such a personal, visceral way.)

(Logan knew that Wade meant well. That he was just scrambling to save his world and thought of the only solution that would get Logan to help. That when he made an "educated wish" he'd still try to see it out, had still asked the TVA after everything. But he was so fucking angry and so fucking tired and just wanted any excuse to lay down and die.)

Did Logan really have the right to, though?

Wade had listened to him. Helped him. Even after what Logan had said and done, he'd still cared. (And wasn't that a sobering thought. That this whole time, Wade thought that was Logan's opinion of him. That he still cared about Logan despite having his voice ringing in his ears, tormenting him.)

(It made Logan angry to think that Wade was used to it. To setting aside how people treated him and not expecting anything in return for his kindness. To loving and giving without receiving. It made him want to murder the people who set the bar so low. It made him want to rip out his own tongue.)

(It made him realize, yet again, that Wade was a better man than he'd ever be.)

...And Logan had fucked up. Immensely.

Had given Wade hope that he could finally open up to someone who came from a similar background and understood his suffering. All to tear it away in one glorious, horrible, mistake.

Logan had no right to fix things. To ask for forgiveness. (From Wade. From anyone.)

But what was the alternative? Letting Wade think he hated him? Leaving?

Logan would rather die than go back to living completely isolated from the world. He couldn't go back to waking up every day and drowning his sorrows with alcohol. Letting memories flash behind his eyes as he replayed everything he fucked up and obsessed over what he could've done differently.

(Because, without Wade, he would still be there. At rock bottom. Without a place to belong or any reason to get up in the morning. A samurai without a master. A drifter without purpose. A stray without a home.)

The thought of leaving behind the only thing he cared about anymore made him panic. He felt nauseous, like he wanted to throw up yesterday's dinner and his own heart alongside it.

He knew it was selfish and pathetic, but he couldn't let go. Couldn't handle losing the only thing that made living worth it, after everything.

(Of course, when he finally found someone who was like him, who felt the same loneliness, who couldn't die, he had to go and fuck up. What is Logan good for if not ruining anything good in his life?)

Logan knew he was selfish. And pathetic. And stupid.

(He felt his mouth move around the words. Spit venom at Wade, who was completely, utterly silent. He heard them, vaguely, but they didn't register. He was running on pure rage and adrenaline.)

(Why did he take until now to notice?)

He knew that.

But he didn't think it was this bad. That he'd end up ruining the only good thing to come out of his miserable existence.

He thought, at least, that even if he'd fucked up everything else, he could be good with Wade. Could be good for Wade. It was the one thing he prided himself on.

And now look at him.

Instead of Wade, it's Logan who was God's best joke.

Fuck, he wanted a beer.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

hi! Who do you think was the most special person for Sirius? I love your analysis

James. No question.

Okay, now more seriously: Hi, thank you so much!

But yeah, it was James and later Harry, but Harry was never James in Sirius' eyes. I think I talked about it a bit in various posts in the past but I low-key think one-sided Prongsfoot (as in Sirius was in love with James) is canon. There isn't like, much textual evidence, it's mostly a vibe thing, so I consider it a canon-based headcanon more than a proper theory, but I think there's something there if you want to read into it.

I kind of wanted to make a post about it for a while, so this ask is as good an excuse as any:

So, I want to start by saying James and Sirius are not normal about each other. Their friendship is kind of insane and it's mutual. There's a reason in PoA whenever someone talks about them they forget Remus and Peter and just talk about James and Sirius and how inseparable they are:

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?” “Naturally,” said Madam Rosmerta, with a small laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here — ooh, they used to make me laugh. Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!”

(PoA)

Their names are on the same breath for all their teachers & Rosmerta. So much so, that they had to place them in separate detentions. Not that it helped because these two found a way to not be separate for even a second:

This is a two-way mirror. I’ve got the other. If you need to speak to me, just say my name into it; you’ll appear in my mirror and I’ll be able to talk in yours. James and I used to use them when we were in separate detentions.

(OotP)

They literally couldn't spend an hour apart from each other when in school. I completely understand why you "never saw one without the other".

Every photo they took, they took so they were flush next to each other at the center of the Mauraders:

With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father; his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Lupin

(DH)

He was the best man in James and Lily's wedding, right there next to James the whole wedding:

He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day. There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions. There was his mother, alight with happiness, arm in arm with his dad. And there ... that must be him. Their best man ... Harry had never given him a thought before.

(PoA)

Sirius was Harry's godfather and as I mentioned here, it appears Sirius lived with James and Lily when they were married before they went into hiding. JKR stated Sirius & Lily were living on James' inheritance — not Remus who couldn't get a job, not Peter who didn't get an inheritance from Uncle Alphard — Sirius.

When Sirius had enough of his family at 16, he went to James. It's always James for him. He probably felt he was able to leave his family because he knew he could go to James.

Sirius' plan with the Secret Keeper switch was that everyone would think he was the Secret Keeper so they'd torture and kill him and he wouldn't be able to tell them anything. His plan was to die for James, Lily, and Harry. Sirius didn't think he'd survive the first war if Voldemort really wanted to get to the Potters and it was worth it for him. Because James, Lily, and Harry would be safe, and he expects everyone else to do so too:

“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would have killed me, Sirius!” “THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black. “DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”

(PoA)

Lily was well aware of how codependent James and Sirius were:

James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell—also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much.

(DH)

She knows that Sirius can talk James into things she can't. She knows how inseparable these two are and how important it is to Sirius to be on Harry's birthday, as she comforts him about it in her letter. I think Lily was more consciously aware of the insanity that was James and Sirius than either James or Sirius. I mean, it speaks volumes that Lily feels the need to write Sirius to talk sense into her husband becouse she knows it would work and that Sirius would do it. Because I'm sure the moment Sirius saw this letter he made the time to come over because it was for James. And Sirius would die for James in a heartbeat, without a second thought. Becouse, yes, it is how his loyalty works, but there aren't many people Sirius Black is loyal to to that degree. Even though he says he'd die for Peter, I don't think he'd do it as quickly and as readily as he would for James or Harry (after all, he makes fun of Peter in SWM in a way he'd never dare to when it comes to James).

When Sirius talks about James in the books, there is so much reverence. The same reverence Snape has for Lily and more. James is on a pedestal on which he can do no wrong in Sirius' mind — and it might've been that way when James was alive too, if perhaps to a lesser degree.

“He kept messing up his hair,” said Harry in a pained voice. Sirius and Lupin laughed. “I’d forgotten he used to do that,” said Sirius affectionately.

(OotP)

When talking to Harry about James' negative traits and behavior with in OotP, Sirius is incapable of seeing James in a negative light. While Lily disliked James' cruelty (I think she was fine with the arrogance somewhat, contrary to what she says), Sirius loved James' cruelty becouse it was James. (Sirius is probably also a crueler person than Lily, but that's a different matter). But Sirius isn't willing to see any faults in James' behavior or traits. James is a good person and his best friend and he knows, objectively, that James did bad things, but he would rather call it being an "idiot teenager" than what it was. Like, this fandom talks a lot about Snape putting Lily on a pedestal, but what about Sirius with James?

James could murder someone in cold blood in front of Sirius for no reason and Sirius would start making excuses for him on why he was actually right to do so. ("no auror, see, this was actually completely justified and the right thing to do!")

“Look, Harry,” said Sirius placatingly, “James and Snape hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other, it was just one of those things, you can understand that, can’t you? I think James was everything Snape wanted to be — he was popular, he was good at Quidditch, good at pretty much everything.

(OotP)

(I love that while excusing the bullying he sings James' praises, I can just hear the 'good-looking' he isn't saying out loud)

And even when he confesses they were berks for what they did, he spreads the blame on all of them:

“I’m not proud of it,” said Sirius quickly. [...] “If we were sometimes arrogant little berks, you mean,” said Sirius. [...] “Well . . . I thought he was a bit of an idiot.” [Harry] “Of course he was a bit of an idiot!” said Sirius bracingly. “We were all idiots! Well — not Moony so much,” he said fairly, looking at Lupin, but Lupin shook his head.

(OotP)

Sirius doesn't blame James without blaming all of them. And, he continued to justify James as he said it. (I'll add Remus is doing just as much to defend James and excuse all of his behavior, so it's not just Sirius)

“She didn’t know too much about it, to tell you the truth,” said Sirius. “I mean, James didn’t take Snape on dates with her and jinx him in front of her, did he?”

(OotP)

I wanted to note this above quote because it's interesting to me. Yes, it's Sirius not minding James' behavior again, but I find it interesting that James didn't reform completely and hides it from Lily, but not from Sirius — never from Sirius. Kind of goes with how in the letter Lily mentions how James is trying to act strong in front of her, but he probably wouldn't in front of Sirius. Their friendship was just the most important connection to both of them. James keeps secrets from Lily, the love of his life, but not from his best mate Sirius who lives with them.

(Also the "took Snape on dates with Lily" made me think James had Sirius hide nearby on at least one date with Lily to help him out and Lily, obviously, caught them. Either as Padfoot for moral support or sitting in the bushes with the two-way mirror as James holds his under the table at Madam Puddifoot's)

Sirius outright says himself James was the most important person to him:

Sirius frowned at Harry, who was still looking unconvinced. “Look,” he said, “your father was the best friend I ever had, and he was a good person. A lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. He grew out of it.”

(OotP)

I also think Sirius had zero experience pre-Azkaban, contrary to some fanon. I mean:

With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius give James the thumbs-up. Sirius was lounging in his chair at his ease, tilting it back on two legs. He was very good-looking; his dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance neither James’s nor Harry’s could ever have achieved, and a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed. 

(OotP)

Harry instantly notes how hot Sirius is and how he is getting girls' attention, and yet, Sirius only has eyes for James. He doesn't notice the girl (or any other) because he's looking at James. This is practically text at this point (mostly joking, but also, not really).

And Sirius' fixation on James started from day one, from the moment these two met:

“Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” James asked the boy lounging on the seats opposite him, and with a jolt, Harry realized that it was Sirius. Sirius did not smile. “My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he said. “Blimey,” said James, “and I thought you seemed all right!” Sirius grinned. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

(DH)

Sirius and James just met, the train barely even moved out of the station, and Sirius was upset at the possibility James wouldn't like him now because of his family history in Slytherin. It's the opposite reaction Harry had to Draco about the "wrong sort of wizard" where Harry would rather be disliked by an arrogant berk, Sirius wanted James to like him. Sirius wants James to like him so much that when James says he thought Sirius was "all right", Sirius jumps at the opportunity to prove why James should like him because he won't be a Slytherin like the rest of his family.

I low-key think this conversation affected Sirius' sorting. I think that, loath as he is to admit it, Sirius has some Slytherin characteristics, he has the cunning, the arrogance, and try as he might, he is still, so clearly, a rich pureblood from the House of Black. And he acts it. I think he was a borderline sorting and the hat took his preference. I can see young Sirius going "not Slytheirn" the same way Harry did (I like the mirroring). I think he considered that before, I think Sirius' started drifting from his family before, but I think James' words really cemented it to him.

and, just look how Sirius is with Harry. Listen, I'm the first person to jump to Sirius' defense when anyone claims he sees Harry as a James replacement — he doesn't. But Sirius' devotion to Harry (which is insane, I mean, he lived in a cave and ate rats for months, he returned to his family home which he both loathes and misses becouse it'll help the Order keep Harry safe) is an extension of his devotion to James. Sirius would do anything for Harry becouse he'll do anything for James. He sees Harry as his own person, I don't think he treats him the way he treated James at all, but his love for Harry and loyalty to him is tied to his love for James. James is the initial connecting tissue.

This post was a bit more of a rambly one than a proper essay, but I think the point comes across.

[spxfav]

Orange

Summary: Post Tobias Hankel Spencer, struggling to stop taking dilaudid and spiralling in darkness finds light in the one he loves most <3

Warnings: Anxiety, drug dependency, panic attacks, depression (I think that's it, please let me know if I missed any)

Word count: 3.2k

a/n: Hi guys! This is my first time writing something longer than a bot for Spencer, so I really really hope you'll like it! The way I chose to portray his depression and anxiety here is very much based on how I experienced it, so this is very important to me. Let me know if you'd like a part two! Enjoy!

Spencer was wasting away, fading. His dark eyes no longer shone like they used to. His pretty smile was now a rare sight to see. His nerdy contributions to conversations were now scarce - that is, if he ever interacted with anyone anymore.

He felt hollow, no longer being motivated to do anything but the one thing he knew he shouldn't. Dilaudid.

That little bottle now went everywhere with him. The flask and the demons that haunted him after Tobias, clinging to him and punishing him for whatever bad thing he had done to deserve this. And he was sure he had done something. He just couldn't understand why so many bad things kept happening to him, following him from his childhood to his adult years. Even with all the science in the world, the only explanation plausible enough was that he had done something terrible in his past life and was now paying for it.

Despite the leave Hotch let him take having ended two days ago, he still hadn't shown up to work. This was new to him. He'd always loved going to the bureau, even if it was just for paperwork. Now, he could barely read three lines out of his favourite book.

Time was blurry, a haze of sobering up and searching the high once again with pauses destined for the bathroom and occasionally to eat - when his stomach hurt enough to remind him he had to. Apart from that, he never left his bed, hopelessly wishing he could sleep without being hunted by the flashbacks of his time in that shed, of the splinters he wasn't able to remove after digging his own grave. His hands were now raw in the parts he had scrubbed out the skin to take the little wooden pieces off of him. He barely felt it. He barely even felt anything.

He knew it wasn't rational, but the empathy and guilt he felt for the man who kidnapped him was so intense it did nothing but contribute to his numb state.

So, alone, he spent his days, going through flask after flask of the forbidden liquid, cursing himself for not being strong enough to stop and wishing Tobias had never reanimated him back at the cemetery.

Naturally, after dealing with a schizophrenic mother all alone as a child, and being forced to grow up faster than he should have, he fiercely believed he had to solve this problem alone, like he's always done.

You, however, didn't. With the many gift baskets sent by Penelope and the sweet voice that was enough to make his demons dissipate - at least while you talked -, the time you spent sitting by his locked door always left him feeling somewhat relieved.

Sitting on the cold hardwood floor with sweaty damp hair clinging to his forehead, Spencer listened quietly as you talked, not giving you any hint that he was there. Part of him didn't believe he deserved those acts of kindness from you, so he hid himself in the shadows, and, as if forbidden, served as audience to your stories about events he missed. He noticed, even in his usually drugged state, that you tried your best to lighten up the stories, probably afraid to trigger something in him. If only you knew there was no need for a trigger.

x

It was a Wednesday, and the pouring rain that came through the window he forgot to close and got him and his bed soaked was almost enough to make him give up on the day, even if he had been up for only two minutes and 28 seconds.

But he couldn't. Because giving up would mean he'd have to sit in the wet sheets all day, and despite everything, he still had issues with the feeling of wet things against his skin.

Dragging himself out of bed, he gave up on the challenge of changing the sheets and settled for his sofa instead.

"I'm changing ambiens. This is improving."

The lie of getting better was more of a sentence he said as a form to attract it, though he never made the effort to stop himself from deteriorating further. That was merely an excuse for the voice in the back of his mind to scold him further. It started with his incapability of getting clean. Then, his lack of shower. After, came the barely eating and now, the sulking in bed - or in this case, the sofa.

His mood was as gray and dull as the weather, and the sound of the rain falling did little to comfort him through the many nightmares plagued naps that he eventually gave up on. This was the moment of the day he went to his bedside table and retrieved the little ornate box with the needles and the bottles of the clear liquid. This was the moment of peace, of relief.

His mind was hazy, clouded by the momentary pleasure only the dilaudid was able to provide when the familiar knock on the door came.

“Hi Spence.” You said, your honey, homey voice wafting through the apartment and reaching his ears.

Automatically, he stumbled across the living room, and, in an all but gracious way, dropped by the door. That was the first time you heard him move inside as you talked to him, and as minimal as it was, it brought a smile to your face.

“I think I heard you fall. Knock twice if you’re hurt.”

No knocks. So, he was okay. Or as much as possible.

“The day was boring. No new cases today.” You start talking, the daily briefing session that grew more and more important to his weary mind filling the previously silent apartment, your voice sounding like a melody to his stoned brain.

“But I thought of you.” His ears perked up, his spine straightening as he focused intently on the next words.

“Can you believe there was no sugar for the coffee? Not in the coffee station, not anywhere in the building.” It was silly. Stupid. But it made you think of him, and if he was on your mind, he was happy.

“That’s absurd.” He murmurs, a little out of it.

You freeze, too surprised that he said something this time. It was the first time you heard him speak in almost two weeks. It was muffled, and too low for you to understand, but it was words, and that was better than nothing.

“It is.” You say, trying not to draw much attention to the fact that he spoke. You didn’t want to scare him away.

“What happened next?” He asked quietly, almost as if talking to you was a mistake. To him, it was actually a privilege he didn’t deem himself worthy of.

“Garcia went down to a local coffee shop with Emily and they stole a bunch of packets for us. They came back running as if they had stolen a bank.” You say and chuckle, hearing the faintest of laughs inside from him. He was laughing. That was good. Amazing, actually.

“Good. Can’t imagine being without sugar.” He murmurs, and you couldn’t see the small smile on his lips at the first sign of normalcy after so long in the dark.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure when you get back there’ll be as much sugar as you want.”

Silence.

You wait, and wait, and wait, but he doesn’t speak again.

“Spence?” You ask, and the only other sound you hear that day is him getting up and stumbling away.

x

“When you get back.”

Those words plagued him for the rest of the day, which he spent locked up in his room to try and muffle your voice as you continued talking on the other side of his front door. Just the thought of it terrified him.

At first, he imagined it was out of fear of living something like his experience with Hankel again. But when he passed by the mirror in the bathroom and saw how he looked, he understood the real reason.

Deep dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Lifeless eyes. Hair greasier than it had ever been in his whole life. Pajamas stained with food he couldn’t identify. Grown out beard. He had gotten used to the smell by now, but he was sure it would be strong to anyone else.

He was disgusting. Gross.

Useless. Undeserving. A junkie.

His breathing quickened, but it was like no air came. One shaky hand moved to his heart, feeling the fast and strong beats. It felt like drums in a rock song. Like the cart of a rollercoaster against the rails. Like horses running freely.

Except there was no freedom. He felt trapped, desperate. Hopeless.

And as he fell to the ground and tears pricked his eyes, he was sure he might die.

No one will understand. No one will try to understand.

Suddenly death didn’t seem so bad. But just like it happened so many times before in his life, it was an easy way out. And nothing was easy for him.

So, fifteen minutes later, the needle in his arm was the only thing capable of taming the panic attack that still coursed through his veins.

x

When he rolled around on his bed, sweating from the nightmare, the room was spinning. Or maybe it was just his brain.

Either way, the open box on the bedside table, the not discarded needle and the torniquet still on his arm were explanation enough for what had happened the night before. He exaggerated. Again.

The day after these episodes were always the worst. Sickness, dizziness. Loss of strength in his muscles. That was also when the thoughts got worse.

It was ironic, really, that he went through almost a whole flask in hopes of drowning the voices only to wake up with them stronger than ever. It was a cycle. But then again, wasn’t all of this?

The world was a blur, a mix of living nightmares and not very healthy thoughts, and in the end, he caught himself wishing you’d show up.

Laughing, whispers of love and beautiful promises. That was how the world was around you. And even through the thick wood of his front door, he was still selfish enough to crave a glimpse of the Heaven you held in your hands; of the salvation from this twisted reality he found himself trapped in.

Spencer wasn’t the most emotional of men. In fact, before you, all his research pointed to him lacking the brain connections that allowed one to feel anything remotely romantic. He was sure he was okay without love, and he was sure he would always be.

But then you came, and it was like buying his first glasses all over again: suddenly the world was clear, and so much more beautiful.

It was hard for him to describe what he felt. He could only think of one simple way to put it. It was all orange.

x

“Hi, Spence” The melody of the notes that compose your voice echoed around the apartment, making the faintest of smiles bloom in his face.

For the past three days, you had managed to make him talk more and more. At first, it was weird. Alone in his apartment, the only things his walls had heard in the past few weeks were his terrorized nightly screams and the incoherent mumbles that occasionally made themselves present.

“Listen, I brought you something” You say and wait to see if he had any contributions. When he remains quiet, you continue. “I called your mom’s facility” His eyes shot open, and he sat up straighter on the floor. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. I figured if someone was to tell, it should be you” The simple reassurance was enough to calm him down the slightest. “I called to ask her for the recipe of those peppermint cookies you told me about a few months ago.”

The smell of baked sugar filled the small kitchen. Days like these were good. Days when his mom was okay. When she was his mom again, and he had the freedom to be the child his seven-year-old self deserved to be.

“I made some” Your voice cuts through the first good memory h’s had since everything went down. “I’m sure they’re not as good as hers, but they’re not bad either. I have them here, I could drop them off with the baskets Penelope brought and yo-“

The sudden movement of the door opening catches you by surprise as you stumble back, no longer having a surface to rest your back on.

He opened the door. He really opened the door.

Spencer stood there, looking down at you and seeming even more surprised than you did. His eyes flickered over your form, heart beating faster. God, how he missed the sight of this angel.

He looked different from what you remembered. Dark stubble covering his face, messy and greasy hair, sleeves rolled up to reveal an arrangement of needle punctures. For a moment, neither of you say a word, simply taking in the sight of the one person you each missed more than breathing. That was when Spencer realised it. He’d rather die in that shed a thousand times more than go another day without seeing your face. The pictures he had really did you no justice, not when you looked more beautiful than a diamond, with its carbon atoms so perfectly aligned, creating what is believed to be one of the most precious objects on Earth. You didn’t even compare to that.

“You made me cookies?” He asks, looking down at the little box in your hands, the faint smell of the cookies reaching his nose.

“Yes. Yes, I did. They’re still a bit warm, I baked them before coming here.” You stand up, quickly enough to drop your blood pressure slightly, but not enough to startle him.

When he takes the box from your hands and, without another word, walks inside leaving the door open for you. There’s no hesitation in your steps as you follow him in. And the sight that welcomes you is nothing but heartbreaking. His once so perfectly organized place – at least according to the system only he understood – was now a mess. There were books on the floor, take-out boxes on every table, dirty clothes on the floor.

He wafted through the chaos, eyes never leaving the box as he opened it and threw himself on the sofa. Carefully, he picks up a cookie, and after an experimental bite, a single tear rolls down his face. Then another, and another, and another until the dam breaks and he is full on sobbing on the sofa, crushing the cookie as his hands close into fists and his shoulders shake.

Your heart, shattered already, breaks even further, and when you sit next to him, you feel shocked as he falls into your arms. His arms are tucked between your bodies, his face buried on your chest, and you don’t have the heart to tell him he smells the tiniest bit. No, not now. You could tell him he needed a shower when he didn’t look like a vulnerable child, climbing on your lap.

“It’s okay… shh…” His brain barely registers your comforting words, too busy paying attention to the way your fingers card through his hair without a hint of disgust. He knew he loved the right person, especially because of moments like this. You were just… perfect. It was cliché, but Spencer genuinely could not think of any other way of describing you.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” His voice was almost inaudible, filled with a gut-wrenching guilt for doing this to you. “I’m s-sorry”

“Don’t be. It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here” Your voice, the soft murmur of reassurance breaks him even further, relieving him of the pressure of the guilt he had been feeling for so long.

That day, he cried until he fell asleep in your arms. Not for a second did you let go of him, your hands always gentle and loving as you caressed his hair. For the first time in two weeks and four days, he slept with no nightmares.

x

The sound of steps moving around his apartment was the first thing he registered when he woke up. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up on the couch, he looked around, groggy and with his head pounding from crying.

You had your back turned to him as you cleaned his kitchen, the smell of something in the oven making his stomach growl slightly. Then he notices it. No clothes on the floor. No takeout boxes around. Books neatly on the shelves. You had cleaned his place while he slept.

For a minute, he simply watches you, dark eyes following your movements around the kitchen as you wash and dry dishes. Then you turn, and the small, concerned smile that forms on your lips as you walk closer is enough to send his heart racing in his chest again.

“You’re up. How did you sleep?” You ask, stopping behind the couch as your fingers lovingly brush his messy hair out of his face.

“Fine. How long was I out?” He asks and clears his throat, voice slightly gruff.

“About three hours. I didn’t want to wake you, so I cleaned up. And made dinner. You still like lasagna, right?”

His eyes stare directly at your face, and for a moment, he considers a crazy theory.

Maybe he had died that day in the shed. He died, and the last couple of days were his time spent in some sort of imbo. But now he was in Heaven. That had to be it. As irrational as it was, how else could he explain the presence of an angel in front of him so suddenly? Besides, he always thought that if the Realm of God was a real place, if his paradise was real, you’d be there.

“Spencer?” He blinks, and the world still has a happy veil over it when his eyelids open and his irises meet your face again.

“Yes. Yes, I like lasagna.” He nods, eyes fixed on you.

Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

x

The door closed behind you, and the illusion left just as fast. The light that seemed to follow you was gone, his world buried in darkness and numbness again. Your presence made him feel so light as you talked his ears off today. He didn’t mind. Not when he smiled more in a couple of hours than in the last two weeks. Not when you two were sitting so close, cuddling on the couch. Not when your lasagna had tasted like the best dish he ever ate.

But now you were gone, and all that is left for him to do is climb back in bed. His sheets are clean now – you changed them – and the overused pajamas on his body feel sinful against the fabric. What was meant to be a good thing only served to send him spiraling again, and as most nights, this one ended with a small pinch and the sting of the liquid as he applied it on his forearms.

Who knows? Maybe the delusions would bring you back tonight.

[dotster001]

Can I ask angst when they break up with reader to try date other person just to notice they still in love with reader, but now reader is with someone else (i hope is not confuse) with Jade, Floyd, Vil, and Leona?

A/N: normally, I'm not a huge fan of writing angst...but I had way too much fun with this 😁

3k followers masterlist

Part Two

"I've got everything I can from you. So it's time for me to let you go. Good luck to you."

Jade said it with a cruel smile on his face, a smile you had grown quite familiar with the six months you'd been dating. In pure confusion, you'dasked him to clarify what the fuck he just told you. He bowed politely, and gave an "of course" before saying it in an even colder way.

He had used all your connections. He had gotten all the information he could with your relationship. So it was over.

Naturally, this was a shock, and absolutely devastating. But he didn't care about your dropped jaw, or the tears slowly starting to pick up in speed as they trickled down your face. You left the room, and that was that.

He returned to his room to call his next target, a first year student who was a prince of a small nation. As he sent a quick message, Floyd stopped tossing the basketball he was playing with, and asked, "If you're finally done with Y/N, can I have them now?"

Floyd had been in love with you months before Jade was even interested in you as a target, but had held back upon both Jade and Azul's insistence. While his brother was one of them, he had nothing but innocent puppy love for you. A part of Jade figured you'd say no to him, considering they shared a face. So he gave his consent, not even thinking twice.

Three months later, he watched you drop Floyd at the lounge, and press a kiss to his cheek, before slowly pulling away and leaving him to his work. His date, the Prince, asked him if everything was alright, and it was only then he realized how stiff he was. He smiled and gave some excuse that he bought with zero effort.

And while his date continued to prattle on and on about things he should never share with someone he's only been dating for three months, Jade found himself unable to do his job for the first time.

Floyd was happier than he'd been in years, and consistently able to do his job, on the promise of you giving him goodbye kisses. You were happier than Jade had ever seen you. The love in your eyes was something deeper, something stronger, than anything he'd ever seen when you looked at him. And something in him broke when he realized that. 

You never looked at him that way. Was it because a part of you always knew he was using you? Was it because you sensed he didn't feel that way about you? Or was it something worse?

Was he never as good as Floyd?

"I'm bored," He groaned, standing up from the place he was resting his head on your lap.

"Okay, what do you want to do then?" You asked him.

"Nah. I'm bored of this," he gestured between the two of you.

A part of you had known this was coming. Not because you'd wanted to know, but because your friends had warned you. Especially Riddle, who had evidently been through his own relationship of sorts with Floyd. But you were hoping they were wrong. Your Floyd would never hurt you like that. 

Still, even you couldn't ignore the way he watched the exchange student from Noble Bell. The way he was handsier with them than he'd ever been with you. The way he whispered in their ear when he thought you weren't looking. The way he'd nearly kissed him, but stopped at the last second when he realized you were there.

Instead of letting him repeat it, you stood up, and left your own living room, hellbent on reaching Heartslaybul, where you were in for an "I told you so" speech, but if you sat through that you'd get pity cuddles. You heard him call after you, angry that he wasn't getting the last word, but you couldn't stay there anymore.

Riddle knew when he saw the tears on your cheeks. He sighed, and instead of a lecture, he opened his arms to you, letting you sob in his shoulder, as he gently rubbed your back.

A day later Floyd was dating the exchange student, and all your Heartslaybul friends were helping you avoid the two of them. You'd lost a boyfriend, but had been made aware of the best support system in any world.

Months had passed, and you could almost forget how Floyd had seemingly used you for a fun time. Especially when the resident Queen's arms were always open to you, and his eyes always had hearts in them when they looked at you. A man who would give you the larger half of the strawberry tart, despite you knowing full well how much things like that meant to him.

Floyd, meanwhile, was bored again. He had thought he was bored of you. But after the months of not even seeing a glimpse of you, and doing everything he could to get any emotional stimulation from the exchange student who hadn't realized what he was getting into when the hot second year had slid into his life, he was realizing his blunder. There was just nothing but physical attraction, and even that was fading quickly for Floyd.

But you'd always given him the stimulation he needed. You were always fun. You were always adorable. So squeezable. But now goldfishie was the one squeezing you. He wanted to squeeze goldfishie until he popped. You were his to squeeze!

But when he saw you resting on Riddle's shoulder, his chest ached as he realized he didn't deserve to.

You and Rook had always joked that he'd steal your boyfriend one day. Vil always rolled his eyes when the two of you would snicker about it, and give you a soft kiss on the cheek, while  smacking the back of Rook's head.

So when the two of them had stood nervously before you, tightly gripping each other's hands, you were devastated, but not surprised.

You didn't want to hear their explanations or excuses. Sevens, they tried, but you knew it would be better not to hear it. You could feel vindicated, not giving them a chance to apologize for hurting you, and it would also spare you the painful details that would only break your heart further.

So after shutting the door in their faces, you'd called a certain someone for a sugar pick me up. Trey arrived with a three tiered cake, and held you gently as you cried and told.him your woes. It wasn't until you started dropping self deprecating comments about how you'd never been worthy of Vil, how you'd always known he would leave you one day, that he shuts you up with a kiss. His jaw drops and he apologizes immediately, telling you he knew it was way too soon to be making any move, he just couldn't stand you talking about yourself that way. It wasn't fair to you.

When he leaves, he apologizes again, and tells you not to worry about him. If you don't see him that way, he'll be fine. If you do….take your time. He's willing to wait for you to be okay again.

And he really is willing to wait. And when you tell him you're willing to give the two of you a shot, a month later, he smiles softly and offers to start with a simple cooking date….literally right then because he has an unbirthday party he has to prepare for, but he also wants to be around you.

While you are slowly slipping into a life of domestic bliss, the cracks are beginning to show with Rook. Anytime Vil isn't perfect, he hears about it, and now….well, Vil isn't stupid enough to miss the way Rook's eye has been wandering over to Neige.

He didn't have to be perfect with you. As he eats the flavorless salad Rook made for him, he watches Trey feed you a chocolate covered strawberry, and playfully kiss away the chocolate that stains the corner of your mouth. Rook says something bitter when he notices, and he always notices, indicating his hypocritical jealousy. 

It's amusing, in a painful way, how Rook pretends he wants what you and Vil used to have. But what he really wants is to keep his pretty doll on its shelf, and all to himself.

When he'd first expressed interest in you, you had asked him. "Will I be pushed to the side in favor of an arranged marriage, or even just someone with more power?"

And he'd laughed. Nah. No one wanted to be trapped in a marriage with him (his parents had tried), and he didn't want more power. He wanted you.

But his pride was something even he couldn't get past. And when a fae duchess with similar image issues in her own nation had come to him, proposing a marriage of convenience, he had agreed without a thought.

"You're overreacting. We can still be together.' "I don't want- no, I can't be your side piece." "For sevens sake, she has a whole harem at her disposal. It's a marriage in title only." "I don't want that. What happened to what we had being enough?" "You're being selfish, and childish." "I'm being selfish? We could settle down in luxury with what you have!" "If you can't see fit to share me, only nominally, mind you, then go." "I will!"

He was furious. You knew his life. You knew a marriage like this could change life for the both of you. What the fuck were you on about?

Over the next few months he'd begun the courtship process with the duchess, going to boring political events to cement his position within that fae court. He kept expecting you to come crawling back. He'd sneer at you and make you prove you deserved him. At least, that's what he thought at first. But the more time passed, the more he just wanted you back in his arms where you belonged. He even has arranged for his room in the fae kingdom to have an extra large bed, so that you would always be comfortable.

One morning, he heard murmurs throughout Savannahclaw. He saw the side glances, and the hasty hushes as he passed. And he knew.

He stormed over to Diasomnia. Surely you were trying to make him hurt. And the best way to do that was for you to start seeing Draconia.

But when he started yelling at the lizard, he had nothing but confusion on his face. Yes, he found you very attractive, but no, he wasn't courting you. Leona was about to yell at him, tell him he couldn't lie to him, when you entered the room…on Vanrouge's arm.

Your eyes widened, and flickered between him and the lizard, before you groaned and rolled your eyes. You whispered something to Lilia, and the two of you were about to leave when he got the urge to yell at you. 

"That scrawny twerp will never be able to love you like I can!"

You slowly turned to look at him, and sneered, before saying, "Thank God for that."

[itsvelyria]

"little things they do for their s/o"

Charles Leclerc

he was raised a gentleman, taught to treat ladies with the utmost care and respect. but as much as it was part of his nature, he liked opening doors for you. perhaps it was the tiny smile that you would give him as you passed or simply because it gave him joy to have helped you in some way. whether it was cars, restaurants or hotels, he always made sure to take that two quick steps to the door, pulling the handle and turning to you with that cheeky grin and wink. the flush that dusted your cheeks with their matching giggle always making his day.

Carlos Sainz

he didn't think too much of it, taking your purchases from you when you two were out shopping one day. it had felt so natural, one of your hands laced with him while the other carried your stuff. then it was a november night when you were stumbling back home after a late night when you had taken off your shoes, whining about blisters. he had leaned down, long fingers reaching for the heels while the others came to circle your waist, stabilising you. you had shot him a grateful smile and he replied with one of his.

Danny Ricciardo

whether he was on a plane, or in a garage somewhere on the other side of the world, your boyfriend always *always* sent you a reminder to drink water. it was sweet, the way your phone would light up at random times of the day with a message from your lover telling you to hydrate. and it was never pushy, the way it felt when your mother did, though that could just be because of the person. even during calls at 2am because he had just gotten out of his debrief session, the man never failed to show concern for your health.

George Russell

in his defence, you were always cold and always sneezing in his car. when he'd picked you up for your first date, you had been shivering by the time you two had gotten to the restaurant. picking up the car from the valet after, he'd turned up the heat, noticing how your shoulders had loosened. ever since then, he had started paying slightly more attention to the weather and adjusting the temperature in the car accordingly. it was a little thing, but it made him smile whenever you would slide into the passenger seat and feel that much more comfortable.

Lando Norris

you had just chalked it up to the way of life, hair ties were meant to go missing. until one day. when you were watching a video of your boyfriend and noticed a familiar blue elastic around his wrist. still, you had assumed it was another of his bracelets. then came a particularly hot day in Austin, you were lying on his makeshift bed, wondering if this was how hell felt like. your boyfriend had walked in, taken one glance at you and offered you a hair tie. the brown band staring you in the face had a little smiley face charm and something clicked in your head. now, you had your very own hair tie dispenser in the form of a very thoughtful man.

Lewis Hamilton

the man knew he was doing it. you were considerably shorter than he was and he respected that you had a smaller gait than him. but this also meant that in order to be able to hold your hand, he had to slow down and match your pace, which wasn't such a bad trade-off. in fact he quite enjoyed it, even if it was through the sea of cameras pointed right at him and fans waiting for him to sign merchandise in the paddocks. it was poetic in a sense he supposed, the way you made life seem to slow down so that he could truly take the time to appreciate it.

Max Verstappen

your boyfriend had a miracle brain, something that should be studied by scientists and academics worldwide. how else could one explain how he manages to know where every single one of your possessions were at all times? what you didn't see, was that he spends a lot of time watching you. his eyes couldn't drag themselves away from you the second you entered a room, tossing your AirPods or keys on the bookshelf or nightstand. quietly, he'll note the location, loving it when you would shout across the house asking where your phone was and he'll be able to tell you it was in the bathroom. the reward of your lips on his cheek wasn't bad either.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Ao3 link

the night was quiet as Soap watched Ghost flick his lighter on. it took half a dozen tries for Soap's shitty old lighter to hold a flame enough for Ghost to light his Cigarette. Soap sat on the ventilation box a handful of steps away from the half wall marking the building's edge that Ghost looked out across the base from.

he laments how long it's talking to come back. he's been 'dead' for months if the reports are correct, awake for only a few weeks of it. he should be saving his strength, trying to remold himself, shouldn't have died in the first place. but he can't seem to say away. he can see the days getting heavier for Ghost the longer this goes on, and it's his fault. he wished he could stay longer. more often. around more eyes of witness. maybe Ghost wouldn't think he's gone mad with grief, then.

he's used to this by now. he follows Ghost when the chance arises, when he's strong enough, as less than even his callsign. a whisper of a breath as he 'helps' Ghost on his paperwork, writing reports, counting days. it's going on almost six months now, and he's not entirely sure how much longer they can keep doing this.

the old hag had been right when she'd said there were things worse than death. not that he'd ever doubted. and he's felt the pain of it — torture, sickness, drowning, burning — all the typical things, but maybe this is what she'd meant. the witch had been merciful enough to let him age to his end but; knowing the nature of his personality; had ceased to allow him the privilege of a true death before his predestined time.

he'd been young then. thought it to be a gift, a non-curse. to be unkillable. of course, he learned pretty quickly that pain was still pain no matter if it ended in death, or was only meant to. the first time he found himself at the center interest of a sadist, he'd thought that was what the witch had meant. it all felt just as intended to, as sinister as its dealer. and immunity does not mean he gets to forgo nature, he must still heal, and he bends the scars cast upon him. sicknesses were worse; the high mortality ones anyway; unable to eat, unwilling to drink, wrecked with muscle spasms, and choking on blood and mucus . asphyxiation was a beast all on its own — dying, and coming back, and dying again, and no reprieve with no injuries to come back from; put a little air back in him and bring him back to life, watch him die over and over. the worse the injury, the longer it took to come back; suffocation took almost nothing, blood loss a day maybe two, worse things took longer, infection, missing limbs, whatever else. he doesn't know how it works, most of the time it was a coin toss between a few days, and a few weeks. but this one, a shot to the head, it shouldn't be taking this long. it's never taken more than a month. he doesn't know what's broken, how he broke it, and he doesn't know how to fix it.

this was worse. so much worse than he could have ever imagined. and she couldn't have known. could never have known, not in a million years, that there would be someone, anyone that would make him feel this way. there was know way she knew that meeting Ghost would make him feel like he was different. and she couldn't have known he'd get so addicted to the feeling that he'd never be able to keep away, even in death. but maybe this is what she'd meant all those years ago. because she was right, there are things worse than death. and he's found the worst one.

He tries to tell him that he's alive, but Ghost only seems to think he's gone off the deep end; refuses to get help either. he wants to show the others, but this strange non-death makes it hard to orient without a tether. up is east, down is left, inside is quadimenasional; nothing is anything, and everything is nothing without a tether. the night only makes is harder, blinder, scarier. and the day burns away his attempts like a midsummer's morning dew.

Soap stretches to perches on the wall in front of Ghost instead of where he'd sat on the ventilation unit, as he reaches out for his first breath of smoke, twists it around his grasp like rope, and lets it fill his being like water. with the second breath he plucks the stick from his mouth.

"smokin' again, L.T?" he teases, finally material enough to fill himself with Ghost's cigarette between his lips.

"should have known you wouldn't give me even a moment of quiet tonight," Ghost crosses his arms, appraising him as smoke fills his body.

"and yer as happy to see me as always," Soap crosses his ankles, rocking them lightly.

"you're not real, Johnny," Ghost huffs, reprimanding himself. and not for the first time Soap regrets what he's doing, loathes himself for not letting Ghost let go, for not being able to stay away.

"told you. I'm no' dead," he takes another drag of Ghost's cigarette and blows it in his face. Simon closes his eyes against the breath, denying Soap, denying himself.

"I don't deal in ideology," Simon tells it plainly.

"keep my memory alive; keep me alive," Soap muses.

"real 's real."

"real is real, L.T," soap tells him. the amber shades in Simon's eyes have long since dulled into burning ash, and the bags under his eyes seem to be endless when Soap looks into them. he can't help but reach for his mask, and Simon lets him easily enough. "and I'm right here"

"I hate when you do this," Simon seems to sag with the breath he leases, though he doesn't move an inch when soap sweeps a soft finger below his eyelash; not quite touching him, hasn't wanted to see his touch break on Simon's skin, hasn't in all the weeks he's been here. "wish you'd come back."

"I will, Si, I will," he caresses his hand along Simon's jaw as close as he dares without touching.

"please, Johnny," Soap lets out a surprised gasp as Ghost grabs his wrist and leans into his hand.

and it stays firm.

Ghost seems to startle too as Soap's heart stutters in his chest. he jolts back, and would have tumbled over the edge if Ghost hadn't caught him and dragged him back onto the roof.

"you're real," Ghost whispers in awe, holding Soap's face in both his palms.

"I'm here, Simon. I'm here," Soap affirms, holding him steady just above the elbow. and he squeezes just as tight, burying his face into Simon's neck, when he wraps him in a hug and buries his face in his hair.

"how are you real?" Simon whispers into his hair; it's grown longer in the weeks that soap's been following him. "I spread your ashes." and Soap can't help the tears that well in his eyes as he pulls away, just enough to see his face.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Si- I'm- I should have come back sooner. or- or stayed away. I'm sorry, Simon, I'm so sorry. I should have stayed away." it's a feedback loop that he can't break; of sorrys and sobs and regrets; and he buries himself back into Simon, holding him so tight like he's the one that left and not Soap. tight, like he can hide from what he regrets. tight, like he can make Simon save him from his own actions, again.

Simon holds him like he knows. like he knows soap can feel the weight of the world crushing him to death. like he knows Soap feels like he might float away again. and he doesn't let go. not when Soap's legs crumple and he drags them to the ground. not when soap grips him so tight it hurts his own fingers. not when the sun starts to peak over the horizon.

"you came back to me." Ghost murmurs into his temple, right into the scar marking him a dead man. he rocks them gently, soothingly. soap should have stayed away.

"I couldn't stay away," and Soap hates how true it is as it leaves his mouth. he should have. should have stayed dead. let Ghost move on instead of this. instead of torturing them both for weeks and weeks. he should have let go; moved on. but he couldn't.

"I couldn't let you go," Ghost says it like he's confessing a sin. like he thinks he's been the one teasing them all this time.

there might be more of this later

[stellarbit]

Speak Now

Word Count: 6.3k Pairing: A section for each of our boys Warnings: fluff and god I did our boys well Summary: As always happens before the Batch left after a visit, you find yourself wishing they didn't have to go. You've grown too attached to them, one in particular. You just didn't realize he'd grown just as attached. He should really say something.

The night was over. Hunter, Wrecker, Crosshair, Tech, and Echo were scattered throughout your apartment resting. It felt good to see them all relaxed enough to sleep somewhere other than the Marauder or their barracks. It felt even better knowing you were a safe space for them.

You’d avoided the question of how long they’d be around this time - as if not asking would extend their answer. Missing them and wishing they wouldn’t leave weighed on you. You knew it was selfish.

They were doing something so important for the Galaxy. The Republic depended on them. Other people’s lives depended on them.

But you wanted them too and some fragment of you needed them too. How could anyone meet them and not become addicted to their presence?

Every time they came back to you, you inevitably indulged yourself in a dream of them tossing aside their duties for a civilian life. Even if it wasn’t for you, you’d still occupy a slice of their time. Wouldn’t you?

One of the clones in particular stood out to you. You vied for extra time alone with him amongst the already limited timeframes you were granted. 

Stuck in a daydream of anxiety you stood on your balcony, arms crossed and lost in the lights of the city beyond.

Little did you know you weren’t the only one with a fantasy of a different life - one with you in it.

 The Kaminoans drilled discipline into the clones. Not much of anything served as a temptation for them. Men like Cut were aberrations of their nature, but so were all of the men of Clone Force 99. 

The same man you dreamt of even tasted Cut’s temptation. Seeing you with someone else, seeing someone else by your side, made him realize that he’d like to be the one to stand by your side. And if he couldn’t do that he at least wanted you to know he wished he could be.

WRECKER

When you offered your bed to Wrecker, having Crosshair smashed up against him wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. It wasn’t that he and his brothers hadn’t slept dog-piled together plenty of times, it just seemed natural that sleeping in your bed might come with sleeping with you. 

Something he hadn’t realized he wanted until the idea was presented to him. 

Just like the idea of sleeping beside you, he’d never had much reason to think about your romantic life. Finding out you’d been seeing someone, seeing another man holding you, catapulted the concept into fruition. 

The said man quickly became an ex that night, but it made Wrecker wonder what it’d be like to be the one by your side. To be the one making you smile every day and keeping you warm at night.

Where Crosshair fell asleep almost instantly, Wrecker lay awake wondering where you were going to sleep and what you were going to do when they weren't with you. When he wasn’t with you.

Taking Crosshair’s elbow to the ribs was the last push Wrecker needed to roll out of your bed. Wrecker tiptoed around the rest of his squad scattered about your apartment in search of you.

A cool breeze chilled the skin of his exposed chest and led him to your balcony where you stood facing the city. You were lost in thought and unaware of his presence. Seizing the opportunity, Wrecker slowly padded over to you. 

He got within a step of you and slowly extended his arms out around you. Just for a moment, though, he appreciated how lucky he was to be this close with you. To be able to even think of touching you with no recourse. Then that moment was over and he snatched you up in his arms. 

You barely suppressed a yelp as he hauled your feet into the air. Your giggling echoed through his chest. You didn’t realize he was shirtless until he put you back on solid ground and you twisted around in his arms.

The two of you stood like that, loosely in each other's arms, until your giggles quieted and only the city sounds filtered between you.

Despite your best effort at modesty, your eyes fell to the eye level pec muscles. You’d rarely seen Wrecker out of uniform, let alone half naked. A sight that made you suddenly very thirsty. His muscles flexed, breaking your focus and earning a laugh from Wrecker. 

“Like what you see?” He chuckled as quietly as he could, barely mindful of his brothers inside.

Trying to look as uninterested as possible, you rolled your eyes and stepped back enough for his hands to slip off of your waist. “Show-off,” you mumbled playfully.

You peaked around him, looking for who else was up. “They’re all asleep.” Wrecker answered the obvious question. “I-I…” He fumbled around the reason he was the only one there, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Your face heated as you realized it would just be the two of you. Getting any of Batchers alone was rare given their circumstances. While you’d attempted to before, you’d never managed to get Wrecker to yourself. 

Ignoring how giddy the idea made you, you were quick to worry after why he couldn’t sleep. “Is it the bed?” You nervously asked.

Wrecker blew a raspberry and waved you off, “Your bed is fine.” When you kept staring up at him, silently waiting for further explanation, he tried to casually add, “Just couldn’t stop thinking is all.”

Relieved, you smiled and half-heartedly said, “Oh yeah? A credit for your thoughts.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out. The two of you blinked at one another, both a little caught off by the failed attempt. Wrecker tried again, yet still he came up with nothing. 

Wrecker had never been a good liar to begin with and each lie he conjured sounded obvious. So he braced himself for the truth.

“I was thinking about you.”

“Me?” Your voice cracked with surprise.

Instantly regretting his decision, Wrecker stepped back, waving his hands anxiously. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

You grabbed his wands, stilling him and shutting him up. “You were thinking about me?” You asked, quieter this time.

Wrecker caved at your touch. Weakly smiling, he sighed and admitted, “Yeah, I think about you a lot.”

Surprise overtook you, but that didn’t stop a little smile from bubbling up. Every negative, anxious thought of tomorrow keeping you awake disappeared leaving only a stutter of half words to slip from you. 

Unable to compose your satisfaction with the news, you cleared your throat and replied simply, “Is that so?”

Your reaction widened his smile. Wrecker wasn’t sure what he expected, other than rejection, but it wasn’t bashfulness. Spurred on by the flush coming to your face, he took a step and a chance.

 He let out a soft laugh,“And I think I like you.” Lacing your fingers through his, he lifted one of your hands to his mouth. “That okay with you?”

His lips were hot on the back of your hand. Breathlessly you reassured him, “Of course,” With your free hand you palmed his cheek. Your earlier worry did begin to resurface. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

Wrecker’s chest squeezed. He didn’t want to either. He’d rather stay by your side and spend every night with you like this. It wasn’t possible yet, but at least for a night he could.

With hope in his voice, Wrecker asked, “Would you consider coming back to bed with me?”

If it had been anyone else, you might think they were making a pass at you. Between the light pull of Wrecker’s brows and him being, well, Wrecker, the thought barely occurred to you. Not to mention, it did sound much nicer than worrying yourself to exhaustion on the balcony.

So you followed Wrecker back and he slid into your bed, pushing Crosshair back with his hip. Flat on his back, Wrecker extended his arm out to invite you in next to him. Your eyes flit between Wrecker and Crosshair who was now adjusting himself around his brother.

Careful not to disturb the sniper, you gently tucked in next to Wrecker only for him to pull you in tight. He wiggled in place, nestling into an optimally cozy position, before sleepily mumbling to you, “You owe me a credit.”

You didn’t dare speak for fear of waking Crosshair, but you didn’t have to worry long. Crosshair was the one to respond from his side of Wrecker. “Shut it, Wrecker.” He cracked an eye open to lock onto you, “And not a word of this to anyone.”

CROSSHAIR

Crosshair opened his eyes, blinking back into reality tucked in your bed next to Wrecker. He sat up on his elbow, taking a few moments to remember where he was.

He’d fallen asleep so quickly, Crosshair barely remembered lying down. Not that he was surprised. He was at ease in your home, it was one of your effects on him. The other being irrationality. You made him irrational and, at times, distracted. It was the only way he could describe it. 

He cared for little beyond his squad and his missions, but an irrational side of him did wander into thoughts of you between missions. Visiting you settled Crosshair into just another routine - another fact of his life in the GAR. He didn’t care for post mission accolades, but seeing you was an indulgence he never fussed about.

Crosshair had been content to spend the rest of his career oscillating between crushing clankers and spending downtime with you and his brothers. That complacency was shot to shit when the Batch surprised you with a visit and you surprised them with a newly acquired boyfriend.

The memory of seeing that slimebucket with his hands around you heated Crosshair as fast as when he first laid eyes on him.

Fully aware he needed to cool off before he could even think of falling back asleep, Crosshair left bed to step outside. He’d passed the rest of his squad in a beeline for the still open balcony door. Something he was noting to nag you about when you came into his sights, leaning your forearms against the balcony railing and watching the city lights.

Crosshair froze for a moment, wondering how he missed the fact that you weren’t inside. Irrational and distracted, he thought to himself.

“It’s funny.” You said, seemingly out of nowhere. Crosshair half expected you to be mid conversation on a comm until you peaked back over your shoulder at him.

He walked over to you, pulling up beside you to mirror your position against the balcony. “What’s that?” Crosshair drawled.

Hiding your smile in your shoulder you shook your head and looked back out over the city. “I can always feel when you’re looking at me.”

Pushing himself to full height with a scoff, Crosshair crossed his arms and leaned back against the railing. “Is that an enhanced trait?”

You kept your eyes forward as you smiled and shook your head, as if surprising even yourself. “No enhancements.” You paused, a half thought crossing your mind before you winking in his direction. “Just your effect on me.”

The wink he expected, you were always playful and light. Your words though, short and haphazardly spoken, took Crosshair off guard. They sounded too familiar. He couldn’t tell if you were being serious.

Pinning you with a seriousness that dampened your smile, Crosshair said in a low voice, “Was that his effect?”

The mention of your ex instantly drained you. Rocking back on your feet, you dropped your gaze to the ground for a few beats, really considering how you wanted to play this out. You didn’t want to waste your energy or your time with Crosshair on that prod. 

On a deep breath you stood to your full height and faced him with a tired smile. “I don’t wanna talk about him, Cross.”

His nickname on your tongue almost softened him enough to avoid the subject, but he still pressed you. Using the weight of his hip, Crosshair moved away from the railing in defiance.

“Why don’t you?” There was a challenge in his voice he rarely aimed your way. A shred of cruel teasing bit through his words, “Embarrassed?”

“No.” The word left no room for discussion. You met his challenge with your own, countering, “Why do you want to talk about him?”

Crosshair didn’t answer immediately. That venom of his gone all at once. He held your gaze, suddenly unsure ‘why’ himself. The thought of your ex wasn’t a pleasant one, but a persistent one nonetheless.

When more than a few seconds passed and only silence and staring remained, you squinted briefly before an idea struck you.

A tight lipped grin sprouted over you. Crosshair’s eyes fell to your lips, finding nothing but suspicion in your new look. Meeting your eyes once more he dreaded to ask, “What?”

Your mouth squirmed in a desperate attempt to suppress your growing amusement. You gave him an amused once-over, your gaze trailing from his feet to his head as you stepped in on him. You were close enough now that one wrong sway would put your chest against him.

Crosshair didn’t back down. He was on edge, unsure of what suddenly changed, but he didn’t back off. “What?” He asked, insisting with more annoyance.

“Are you jealous?”

Jealousy was not in his vernacular let alone his nature. Snorting at the very notion, Crosshair opened his mouth to object. Nothing came out. 

Because maybe he wasn’t jealous, but he certainly was possessive. Combined with the irrational streak you gave him, it certainly did look like jealousy.

Having let you cherish the moment for far too long, Crosshair tilted his head sideways to return your once-over before leaning in on you. Clearly entertained, he drawled, “And what if I am?”

You were in each other’s breathing space. One tempting sway and you could taste him. Even after a shower he still smelled like mint and gun oil. Holding your resolve together with nothing but string, you asked in a less than steady voice, “Are you?”

The two of you locked into another silent showdown. On a whim of concession, Crosshair eased off of you. You thought he was going to redirect or bite back but instead he muttered, “Get over it already.”

You stifled a gasp, caught somewhere between laughter and shock. “You’re actually-”

He very nearly regretted his version of admitting his feelings. Rolling his eyes, Crosshair moved around you with your delighted look trailing him. He came to your back and guided you forward with his hands at your elbows.

You gently resisted, craning your neck back to beam up at him, “Where are we going?”

Crosshair couldn’t decide if this was quickly becoming annoying or you were looking more cute with every second your smile grew.

“Bed,” He casually said as he prompted you forward again. 

Your head snapped forward and you quiet until you got to your bed. The one Crosshair was also sharing with Wrecker.

Crosshair said nothing as he got in under the duvet, scooted back into his brother and pulled the covers back when there was enough room for you. You tried not to think about it too much as you crawled in next to Crosshair.

He pulled the covers back up over as he settled in behind you. You both fell silent, allowing the warmth of the moment to sink in.

A low, sleepy groan emanated from behind Crosshair that was followed by Wrecker’s thick arm slinging over the two of you. You went stock still, not sure what to make of the situation.

You opened your mouth to comment but Crosshair cut you short by pulling you in and mumbling, “Think carefully about what you’re going to say.”

You decided to leave it be.

ECHO

Laid back comfortably, eyes shut and good arm resting on his stomach, Echo dozed off while listening to Hunter and Tech chatter. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep until he was rolling onto his side and his chair tilted farther back. The shift in balance jolted him straight into a state of alarm and confusion. 

After a few slow breaths, Echo looked around and his brothers were now fast asleep with Hunter taking the couch and Tech on the floor. He leaned over the arm of the chair to see down the hallway. It seemed Wrecker and Crosshair were out too.

He was halfway to assuming you’d slept somewhere in your room when he heard the muffled sounds of the city. Figuring you’d left a window open, Echo got up to investigate. You’d gone through the trouble of putting him and his squad up for the night, the least he could do was shut a window for you.

Echo only hoped you felt as cared for as he did. So it was frustrating, to say the least, for Echo to meet the ungrateful scumslug who called himself your boyfriend. He didn’t come across as the brightest man in the Galaxy and insulting you in front of five trained troopers proved that.  His squadmates didn’t pick up on him calling you a ‘barracks bunny,’ but the slight wasn’t lost on Echo. All of his training to remain logical under pressure vanished when he laid your ex flat.

For the rest of the night, Echo circled back to the thought of what happened to you when they left. You weren’t defenseless, but you were alone. That bothered him more than anything.

Instead of an open window, Echo found you alone on the balcony and could only guess how long you’d been out there. Hoping to side step spooking you, Echo softly called out to you from the doorway.

He didn’t entirely succeed in not startling you. It hardly seemed to matter by the smile you turned on him. You put your back to the city and playfully gestured at him, “And why aren’t you asleep?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Echo chuckled. He enjoyed laughing so easily with you. “What are you doing awake?” He asked as he approached.

You debated being honest about the selfish thoughts keeping you up, instead choosing to shrug it off with a half truth, “Couldn’t get settled is all. You?”

Glancing back inside the house, Echo rubbed the back of his neck nervously, “I think that chair of yours might have it out for me.”

Instantly, you could see him falling back. “Oh no!” Resting a hand apologetically on your chest, you couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t warn you.”

Echo scoffed playfully, dismissively gesturing his scomp arm, “Takes more than a chair to take down this trooper.” His features softened the longer he looked at you. The city lights brightened you beyond just your smile. Seeing you safe and smiling satisfied a male side of him.

A chill ran through you and, without thought, Echo came to your side to put his arm around you. Rubbing some warmth into your arm, he suggested, “Why don’t we get you inside?”

You didn’t budge. Looking up at Echo, your smile dimmed as you considered him. He saw a sort of skepticism flicker through you. Unbeknownst to him, you were searching those hazel eyes for an ounce of deceit, or even pity, and only tender honesty stared back at you.

Echo saw your typical confidence wane when your gaze dropped. You looked guilty, but of what was lost on him. His brows pulled together in question. Clones were trained from creation to withstand and divvy interrogations. Gently extracting information not so much.

Treading carefully, Echo gently probed, “What is it?”

Shaking your head, your features pinched and you asked, "Why did you go so far for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Echo countered instantly, not needing a single second to answer. He adjusted his position slightly, reeling back for a better view of your face. “I won’t let someone talk like that to you.”

The answer didn’t satisfy you. As nice as the sentiment was, its inevitably fleeting nature tarnished the moment. Your lips tightened to a thin line. Still not meeting his eyes, you sounded bitter saying, “You can’t always be here, Echo.” 

The truth hurt and it fed the unease eating away at him. He knew what it was like to be alone and he did everything he could to never be that way.

Steadying you by your shoulders, Echo bent down into your line of sight. Exhaling, he admitted, “You’re right and I wish I could be.” Your eyes shot up as he continued, “Just let me do what I can for now.”

He stood to full height, your eyes rising with him. You blinked up at him, repeating back to yourself what he’d said. There was a chance you were reading too much into it, but his words were enough to give you the courage to say, “I don’t want you to leave.”

Echo’s eyes widened, before warming again. “Hopefully a day will come when I won’t have to.”

There was nothing to hide your blatant hope in asking, “Do you mean that?” 

Pivoting to your side, Echo slid his arm back around you. Echo cocked his head back, brandishing a roguish grin as he said, “I’ve never meant anything more. Now let’s get inside already.” On the way in, his hand slipped to your waist and he muttered under his breath, “Let’s just hope that chair can handle two.”

Tech and Hunter were still fast asleep when you made it inside. You followed him to the recliner, watching him carefully position himself. Barely keeping the furniture balanced, Echo twisted around and made enough room for you to fit in. It took you squirming over his legs and nestling into the crook between him and the chair to get situated.

The two of you had never been this close for this long and the only thing you could think about was the fact that he wore aftershave. He tucked you under his chin, unintentionally giving you the perfect view of his neck. 

You turned your face into him, pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck and mumbling a thank you to him. One he answered by pulling you closer and returning the gesture.

HUNTER

From your couch, Hunter listened to you move around your apartment. He was intent on seeing you turn in for the night, but that moment never came. At some point between resting and tracing your movements, Hunter dozed enough for you to slip by him. The sound of your balcony door opening snapped him back to reality.

Hunter sat up, thumbing his bandana out of his eye and keenly extending his senses. You definitely weren’t inside. Knowing he wouldn’t get any rest until he knew you were safe and asleep, Hunter rose to find you. Even then, sleep might evade him.

He had a feeling he’d be losing a little more sleep after this evening with you. 

When they left for another mission, Hunter focused on the objective. Seeing you was always something he looked forward to, but he couldn’t dwell on what was behind him. Anything other than setting his sights ahead put his squad in danger. Besides, Hunter knew he was going to keep the Galaxy safe and by extension that meant you too.

This time around challenged that perspective. Your jackass of an ex had been easy to chase off, but what about when they left? Prior to seeing a man mistreat you, Hunter never doubted your ability to survive on your own. By your own admission you’d done so most of your life. 

Even after the encounter with your ex Hunter didn’t doubt you. 

He doubted the people around you. People who saw all you had to offer and wanted to use that to their advantage. In the end, Hunter wasn’t sure what he hated more: the thought of you getting close to ill-intentioned people or realizing it couldn’t be him.

Finding you alone on your balcony only compounded his worries. You were alone in the cold, and it finally occurred to him that his squad took up every viable place to sleep. How was he any different from others taking advantage of you?

That resentful part of him took in the view of you against the city and wished it was a sight exclusively for him. For a moment he let himself believe it was. If only for the night.

Hunter slowly approached you and quickly realized you were mumbling to yourself. Hoping to afford you the privacy of your thoughts, Hunter cut you off by whispering, “I know you don’t think I’ll let you stay out here all night.”

You jumped at his voice, nearly colliding into him as you spun around. He was only a foot or two away, angling a smile down at you. Breathing into calm, you gave him a light shove as you glanced around for anyone else.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,”  you protested, the beginnings of a grin betraying your feigned annoyance.

“Then don’t sneak out like that.” He retorted lightly, nodding towards the open door behind him. Hunter looked at the city beyond you, wondering if he could spot where you’d been fixated. Drifting back to you, Hunter asked, “What are you doing out here?”

Your smile flinched, but you shrugged with a casual shake of your head. “Just needed some air.”

Hunter nodded, clearly only halfway believing you. While convincing you to go back inside crossed his mind as the right thing to do, he opted for spending more time with you. “Care for some company?”

Your eyes flitted between his, ultimately shaking your head. “Oh, I don’t think so.” You said, your tone scolding. Stepping into him, you pressed your hands to his stomach in attempts to redirect him inside. “You need sleep.”

He relished the feeling of your touch before tenderly gripping your wrists. You stopped pushing, but passed him a confused look. Hunter swept his thumbs over the soft skin of your wrist, acutely aware of your quickened pulse beneath his fingers.. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

You tugged your hands down, putting his hands in yours. On a tight grip you pulled him in, the force of it bringing his face an inch from yours. “Someone has to,” you insisted softly.

For all the fun they brought you it was so easy to forget that to most, Hunter and his squad were military assets. Outside of their worth in battle, little else about them mattered to the Galaxy. There was little you could offer them outside of occasional respite and hopeful thoughts and hope it meant something.

In his eyes, you saw the same thing that grew in you. Hesitancy - he was holding back, you both were. Neither of you spoke as you stood there, breathing in each other's presence. Slowly, Hunter raised your clasped hands to his lips, maintaining eye contact until his lips gently touched your skin.

“And who worries about you?” Hunter’s lips brushed your skin as he whispered.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?” you countered.

The question halted the sergeant momentarily. It wasn’t that you were wrong, but that wasn’t his primary concern. Lowering your hands, Hunter sighed. "Worrying is nothing if I can't protect you."

The weight of his admission, hidden behind the hesitancy you glimpsed before, warmed you but looked heavy on his mind. You couldn’t fight. You were no trooper and absolutely no Jedi. But you could do one thing..

His hand was still holding yours when you reached out to touch his face, your fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo on his cheek. You offered him a broad, reassuring smile, taking a moment to admire the moment.

“Hunter,” his name was a hum in your voice. “I can protect myself.” He immediately opened his mouth, surely an objection not far behind, but you outspoke him. “Protect those who can’t protect themselves and when this war is over…” You paused, taking a deep breath as you searched for the right words. “Well, I'll still be here when it is.”

It may not have been poetry, but the lightness in his smile, meager and fleeting though it was, told you that burden was a little lighter.

“Come with me.” He whispered between you.

You instinctively pulled back. Leaving Coruscant, joining him in the stars - it was absurd. “Hunter, I can’t-”

“To the couch,” he clarified with a soft chuckle..

Heat rushed your cheeks at the misunderstanding. Clearing your throat you nodded, “Okay.”

He gave your hands a squeeze, held onto one, and guided you back inside. The apartment was silent, the living room dark and you were thankful for Hunter’s senses. He led you to the couch, motioning for you to go first.

You slid into place, pressing your back into the couch as Hunter joined you, caging you between his body and the couch. A vague attempt at watching over you for the night. 

Hunter pulled his bandana down over his eyes as he settled in around you.  Speaking in a tone low enough for only you to hear, he said, “I can’t promise the next one will get off so easily.”

The words were both a joke and a threat, wrapped in his unique brand of dry humor. You lightly scoffed, wrapping an arm over his chest and drawing him closer. “There won’t be a next one. Not until the war is over,” you mumbled into his chest.

TECH

Lying in a nest of blankets on your floor, Tech replayed the evening while your apartment settled into silence. Despite having found you and spent the evening in your company, a persistent restlessness gnawed at him, preventing any sense of ease.

So, he scoured the night’s happenings for the piece that kept his peace at bay.

The search for you had been brief and relatively straightforward—a minor challenge that excited Tech. Discovering you in a lounge, especially clad in an open-backed dress, had been a surprise that quickened his pulse. However, it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the sight of a morally dubious man claiming to be your partner.

While he found no logic in your accepting amity, let alone intimacy, from a man who either lacked the capability, knowledge, or desire to measure up to you, the man was easily dissuaded and you were safe. Logically, there was no reason for lingering concern.

Spending the evening in your quarters should’ve dispelled any remaining apprehension. Your life was not at risk. In fact, there had been no mortal danger at all. Everything worked out. His search had been successful. You were safe.

And yet, he was left with an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty - a feeling he was less than comfortable with.

After returning to your apartment, Tech busied himself by installing several security enhancements and scrutinizing local crime statistics. Beyond that, there was little else he could do for you. You were adaptable and resourceful, he would not insult you by thinking you could not take care of yourself.

He also wouldn’t insult you by rejecting the makeshift bed you offered him. Though, by Tech’s surmising, that left nowhere for you to sleep. A theory proved right by you leaving Wrecker and Crosshair in your room, sneaking past the room where he lay and back out of sight.

Something wound tight in Tech’s chest. In a move of innate curiosity, he swept his blankets aside and followed in your footsteps. He was keen to see where you had gone or to just have eyes on you again.

You were a few silent steps ahead, leaving a cracked balcony door as the only indication of your path. Finding you lingering at the edge of your balcony stopped him at the door. It was the tension leaving his chest that struck him.

The physical relief was recognizable - the very same he felt each time they found you and the direct opposite of the pressure he felt meeting your former partner. The pressure was identical in the moments you were out of view. 

Tech adjusted his goggles as the pattern became clear. At the core of it all, you were the variable between the fleeting sensations. Identifying the truth of his unease came with the inevitable frustration of being unable to alter the circumstances. In the end, there was only one path forward.

He made no attempt to hide his presence, watching you stiffen as he drew near. Anchoring yourself to the railing, you leaned forward on an inhale and rocked back on the exhale. 

Unsure how to interpret your going taut, he asked outright, “Do you… wish to be alone?” Eyes fixed on the city you shook your head only once in response. Following your line of sight, Tech looked over the city and saw nothing of note.

A distant shout had him reaching for his datapad, something he left beside his nest of blankets. In lieu of reading through statistics Tech tuned his goggles to survey the street below. “The locality of your home is not what I’d deem a secure district.”

“It was probably just some drunk idiot,” you mumbled, not dissuading Tech from continuing to look around. Glancing sideways at him you had to smile at the seasoned soldier gripping the balcony and seemingly so intrigued by city life. Softly scoffing, you said, “There’s nothing to worry about, Tech.” 

“On the contrary,” Tech replied simply. Pulling his attention back to you, he kept one hand on the railing and said in a serious tone, “Your balcony makes you susceptible to intrusion and you’ve already fallen in with unsavory company.”

The last bit stung, but he wasn’t wrong. The concern, blunt as it may be, did feel nice.

Placing your hand over his, you tried to reassure him, “I’m fine, aren’t I?” His pursed into a thin line, clearly unwavering. Squeezing his hand a bit tighter, you added lightly, “Besides, you have more important things to worry about.”

Tech’s head tilted to the side, his eyes momentarily averting, but returned still as serious as before. “My duty to the Republic does take precedence, but that does not make your life any less important to me.”

You blinked once, then twice, absorbing his words. A part of you, a large part in fact, hoped the words carried more weight than just comfort. 

You must’ve looked as taken off guard as you felt for Tech to ask, “Does that surprise you?”

You opened your mouth, ready to make a denial, only to snap your mouth shut again. Once more you tried to speak but only, “A little,” came out. The two words tasted harsh, as if you were making light of the situation and of his feelings. Stepping closer, you lowered your voice and quickly added, “You mean so much to me. I just… I -” In an uncharacteristic fit of stammering you spat out, “I just didn’t think you cared that much.”

Tech’s gaze fell to where you held his hand, his brows furrowing behind his goggles. You felt his hand twitch beneath yours before it fully twisted, placing his palm against yours. For a few moments, you stood like that, hand in hand with his gaze locked on your hold.

His focus remained there, his thumb starting gentle paths as he slowly said, “I admit that I… only recently came to the conclusion myself.”

“What changed?” His eyes snapped to yours at your question.

Tech’s brows lifted and along with a corner of his lips. “It would appear the sight of you in the company of your former partner was not one I found enjoyable.”

The realization that all your hopes had rung true left you breathless. A warm flush spread across your cheeks, accompanied by a smile that not only curved your lips but also reached your eyes.

You laced your fingers into his, eagerly confessing, “Tech, I-”

“Where do you intend to sleep?” Tech cut you off with no thought to what you’d attempted to say.

Lost in the heat of the moment you took a moment to blink back into the present. “I’m sorry?”

Tech pointed a finger towards the door going inside. “You gave up every viable sleeping arrangement. Where will you sleep?”

Instead of admitting your previous intentions of avoiding sleep, you shrugged with an amused sigh. Hands still intertwined, you stepped back, tilted your head back and chuckled. “I was playing it by ear.”

“There is enough room beside me for you to fit.” Tech said matter of factly. A playful glint passed through his eyes. “Shall we find out?” You immediately conceded, gesturing for him to lead the way. 

As per usual, Tech was right. There was more than enough room for you both to fit into his makeshift bed. Tech adjusted the pillows to his liking and laid back, the both of you looking up at the ceiling in silence. Eventually Tech turned with his back to you, seeking some reprieve from the air between you.

Taking the opportunity before you, you scooted in behind him. He was nearly a foot taller than you, but somehow you fit in nicely behind him. He said little, simply adjusting back against you and positioning your arms around him. 

Just as he settled in, he started twisting in place, saying, “I should make note of such a significant moment.”

You answered his movements by tightening your arms around him. “Tomorrow. For now, sleep.”

He didn’t struggle against you, choosing to settle back again. “I fear that it will be harder than I originally imagined.”

tags: @bruh-myguy-what @baddest-batchers @jetii @hshfsjzjsgj @zahmaddog @heidnspeak

an: i realize I've missed some folks over time, let me know if you want on the tag list.