#so I had to do ao3 which I haven’t done on here before

[vigilantekisser]

Let It Be Done Unto Me

pairing: husband!matt murdock x f!reader (wc: 7.5k | ao3 mirror)

18+! cw: breeding kink (mentions of impregnation & pregnancy – both matt and reader want kids here), dom!matt, rough sex, oral!f receiving, doggy, mating press, light bondage, choking, biting, use of “good girl” “my wife” during sex, slight dacryphilia, possessive behavior, classic daredevil guilt, allusions to religious devotion, fluff

summary: some dreams have always felt beyond reach for matt, including having a family of his own. but post-party, three drinks in—turns out all he had to do was ask.

note: foggy and marci are married and have a kid here! also matt holds a baby in this one, so obv it’s totally self-indulgent : )

A/N: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY to the dilfest lawyer on earth!!! i started this completely intending for it to be just filth but my nine year delusionship with this man means everything i write about him WILL grow feelings. also I’VE BEEN SO BUSY but i alw read everyone’s sweet messages in my inbox and thank you so much for them, i’ll get through everything eventually!! dex again next

The bustling warmth of Foggy’s apartment hits you the moment you step in the door. Every inch of the space is alive with the sound of chatting adults and shrieking children, not to mention the same incongruously happy verse of “We Did It!”—the Bluetooth speaker cutting out the Dora playlist over and over. Bright balloons cling to the backs of chairs, paper plates and half-eaten cupcakes cluttering every surface. To put it simply, it’s utter domestic chaos.

So obviously, it’s hard not to smile.

“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”

“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”

“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”

You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”

“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.” 

“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts. 

You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din. 

You turn. 

Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”

Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone. 

Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.

“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”

“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”

“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle. 

“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.

One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”

He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet. 

“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.��

Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.

The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.

“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.” 

“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”

Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.

Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.

“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”

Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin. 

It’s overwhelming.

“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”

He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”

“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”

“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”

You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.

Later, by the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.

He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in slow, endless waves.

It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.

“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”

Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.

“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”

The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”

“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.

You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Please.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”

“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”

“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”

You blink.

The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence.  “What?”

“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it. 

You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”

But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.

“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.

That smile. Christ.

“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.

“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”

Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.

His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.

“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”

His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.

“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.

Fuck, Matt, get it together.

Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.

“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him. 

And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.

“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”

You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.

“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”

That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.

It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–

His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.

“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.

But seemingly, he does.

He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.

“Are you sure you want this?” 

You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?” 

“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.

“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do. 

You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.

“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”

For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.” 

Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.

“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”

An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.” 

He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”

The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.

But God knows it. And he knows it.

The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.

Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith— 

The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.

Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.

He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.

“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”

The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.

“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”

You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.

Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.

(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)

“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”

He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.

“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”

The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.

“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”

And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.

Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him. 

Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.

“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.

But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.

“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.

Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.

Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.

“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”

That earns a snap.

You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold. 

Oh. Fuck.

Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles. 

Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.

“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs. 

Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.

One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself. 

He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.

You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”

“I literally just fucking came!”

He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”

“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”

Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”

“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”

The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.

You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.

Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”

He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”

You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.

“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”

You manage a small shake of your head.

A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.

“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”

Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.

“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.

“Matt—please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”

This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely. 

“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”

The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—

You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.

Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.

“Matt— please, the neighbors—”

“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?” 

You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.

His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken. 

“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”

A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.

“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough. “I want to feel it in your throat.”

“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…

It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion. 

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”

His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock. 

“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”

You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.

Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills. 

“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.

“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”

“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”

“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”

He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”

You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star—he hums at each one.

Smiley face. That earns a chuckle. 

“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”

You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”

You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.

“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Have faith that it includes you.

He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.

“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”

He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.

“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”

The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.

“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”

tryna get a load from of this guy

[florencebirdsong]

Healing Hands

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Healer AU - Chapter 2/4

Summary: you can’t seem to get the same feeling Agatha gave you

Tags: naive reader, fingering, good girl, praise kink, dubious consent, brief orgasm denial, manipulative agatha, corruption kink, medical play(?)

no pronouns used for R, wearing non-descriptive dress

Words: 2,174

Authors note: here is some more manipulative agatha goodness for you i hope you enjoy <3

masterlist | ao3

Chapter One

You’re back at Healer Harkness’ place much sooner than you were hoping. Which was somewhere between the next day and never.

You had attempted to treat yourself, multiple times. But no matter how good it had felt you hadn’t been able to…finish it like Healer Harkness had. You had hoped that it wasn’t necessary, that it’s only effect was making the gel more potent. Not that it was the key ingredient. But the feeling inside of you, which had been so minorly tempered after your trip to Agatha’s, grew exponentially every time you tried to treat it yourself.

It has only been embarrassment at your inability to do what she said and how the feeling grew every time you thought of her that kept you away for so long. But it’s become unbearable. The few moments you’re able to not think about it have become rare and only the smallest thing flings your thoughts back towards Agatha and her hut.

So, you force yourself back down the long path before anyone notices how unwell you are.

Knocking on her door a second time is easier but waiting for her to answer is so much harder. The heat inside of you banks a little at the thought of her not being home but longing flares. It’s the same agony that’s been haunting you since you left.

The door opens and the look on Agatha’s face changes the moment she sees you. 

“Back again?” she asks as she opens the door wider and allows you inside. You duck your head as you nod. She doesn’t sound disappointed, exactly, but she doesn’t sound surprised either. “Healing or ingredients?” she asks just like the first time.

“The um- the same thing as before,” you say. 

“Oh, yes,” her eyes run down your body. “Your little problem.”

“It’s not so little anymore,”you try not to squirm.

“The treatment isn’t working?”

“I’m not sure,” you wrap your arms around yourself. It still feels so strange to be talking about this with another, even though she is your healer. “You said I had to do the thing. And I wasn’t able to on my own.”

“The thing?” she asks imperiously. “Do I need to remind you of what I said last time?”

“I don’t know what it’s called,” you admit quietly.

“Of course not,” Agatha snorts to herself. “You came, dear.” At your still vaguely confused look she continues. “Orgasmed. Climaxed. Creamed. There’s a few words and many euphemisms but the proper term is come, which is what you will use when referring to your treatment.”

You swallow nervously before making yourself speak again.

“You weren’t there to- I mean I wasn’t able to- to come,” you stutter. 

It’s easier to say than the other word since you haven’t heard it before Agatha but it still feels dirty, despite it being the proper term. Agatha sighs.

“It’s understandable given your experience but it does complicate things.”

“But- you can do it, right?” you rush out. “I mean you did last time, so I thought…” you trail off, abashed at your aggressive start. “I don’t want to feel this way forever and it truly keeps getting worse.” 

You’ve had to fight the horrible impulse to leave whatever social gathering you’ve attended to lock yourself in your room and do as Agatha said. It’s made doing much of anything most difficult.

“Yes, I can. But do you remember how often I said it needed to be done?” she doesn’t give you a chance to answer. “I’m very busy, dear. I can’t drop everything to fuck you.”

You squirm as she says that word from last time.

“Maybe if you show me again I might be able to do so on my own this time?”

“Doubtful. There is a slightly different method we will try instead. It will mean that you may go longer between doses but they aren’t as effective. We’ll need to increase the amount, and then again for how long it’s been since you’ve properly started your treatment.”

“Anything,” to not be so consumed by the thought of her.

“Very well” one corner of her mouth tilts up into what you think is the hint of a smile as she completely clears off her workbench. 

“Why didn’t you show me this the first time if I can go longer between doses?” you ask while she does.

“Because it must be done with two people.”

“But last time-I mean,” you stumble. Her resulting smile doesn’t help.

“I was showing you what to do at home,” she reminds you.

“Oh, right,” embarrassment floods you again.

“Does that mean I’ll need to come to you for each dose?” A strange twist of hope and anxiety curls around your lungs.

“Yes,” she says. “It is dire enough now that we can’t risk missing any while you struggle to make yourself come. Now, bend over.” She gestures at the workbench.

“Bend…over?” 

She only allows you a moment of confusion before her hands grab your hips and position you in front of the bench. You don’t get out much more than a squeak before a hand between your shoulder blades is pushing you down. You don’t fight her as she bends you over. She lifts the skirts of your dress up over your hips. You don’t stop her. She’s a healer. She knows the persisting wetness is a symptom of what’s been plaguing you.

Her cold hands skim over your thighs and that ache deep inside of you returns. The memory of her fingers inside of you has you squirming. You want to feel it again and you don’t know if you’re allowed to. Want can be so dangerous.

“Symptoms?” she asks as she spreads your legs wider apart.

“The same as before but-,” her fingers run through your wetness and you gasp. When she doesn’t say anything, languidly stroking you instead, you continue, “But stronger. A lot stronger. And it gets worse with every day.”

“I suspect it’s because you haven’t been coming when you apply the gel,” her finger dips into your entrance and your hips twitch when she pulls away. “You should’ve come back sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

Instead of the reprimand you’re expecting or the slightly detached voice she’s been using, she gently rests a hand on your back.

“It’s alright, dear. You’re young and naive. There’s still time to fix it. Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted in a jiffy,” she says and slides two fingers inside of you.

Trying to treat yourself so many times has made the feeling almost familiar now but being filled by Agatha makes it so much more and you don’t think it’s only from the new position. Although, the new angle does change the feeling. You aren’t sure which is more thrilling.

Agatha hums lowly.

“So wet,” she says, voice husky.

“Is- is that a bad thing?” you say, squirming as her fingers push into you again.

“I told you it was good,” she reminds you. “Now be still, dear.”

Her hand moves from your back to your hip and gives a reassuring squeeze. You force yourself to still but immediately fail when her fingers spread apart still inside of you. 

Gasping, you press back onto her fingers, grabbing the edge of the desk to try and ground yourself.

“Um- Healer Harkness?” you ask, voice higher than usual.

“Yes?” she asks, sounding very much like she isn’t listening.

“The gel. You haven’t used any yet.”

There’s a long pause as her fingers continue to languidly pump in and out of you.

“Ah, yes. Of course,” the abrupt departure of her fingers is makes you whimper. “Merely checking your symptoms without its effect.”

“Okay,” you say, only thinking about her fingers to being back inside of you.

The sound of the jar opening has you spreading your legs further apart without consciously thinking about it. Your hips jump again at the cool gel.

“Be good for me,” Agatha says and you try your best to. Her fingers slip so easily inside of you and you whimper when she curls them.

“There we go. Nice and deep.”

It’s not a question so you don’t bother trying to struggle with making words. You happily sink into the feel of her- her fucking you. You moan the next time she curls her fingers and your own dig into the desk. It isn’t enough. The building pleasure has stopped. Something’s missing but you aren’t sure what.

“Oh!” 

Her finger circles your clit and you try to jerk upwards. Her other hand threads through your hair and pushes you back down. 

“You need to come, dear.”

“I’m trying,” you whine.

“You aren’t if you’re trying to get away from me.”

“I wasn’t- “ is all you can get out before she presses down on your clit and the huge wave crashes inside of you. The hand in your hair moves back to your hip to keep you still as your arch under her. She fucks you through it like last time and you expect her to stop when you finally go limp. She doesn’t. Her pace slows slightly but otherwise nothing changes. Her other hand grips your hip tighter as you begin to squirm. The pleasure building much faster than before. 

“Hea- “ is all you get out before her finger swipes over your clit again and turns it into a broken moan.

“You need to catch up on your treatment. We’ll have to go again, dear.”

You moan. It feels too good to be embarrassed by how much you want her to keep going. The awful empty feeling of the last few weeks is gone. Replaced by spine-tingling pleasure. Why would you ever want to treat yourself when she makes it feel this good?

“There we go,” Agatha murmurs as you fully give in to her. “Such a good girl.”

Your toes curl. You want her to say it again. She only said it the once last time but surely if you behave better than you did then, if you accept everything she gives you, she’ll call you it again.

Her fingers curl every time she bottoms out inside of you and you’re a moaning mess. You don’t try to hide the sounds. You don’t care anymore. You just don’t want her to stop.

You’re suddenly empty.

“No!” you gasp, desperately humping the hair. 

“We need more gel,” Agatha says and runs her hand down your side like it’s meant to be soothing. The only thing you feel is the ache of wanting it inside of you. 

“Please,” you whimper.

“Hush,” she says.

You can’t hear anything else over your heart beating in your ears. You resist the urge to beg again. She told you to be quiet so you will be. Even if the ache inside of you feels like it’s going to kill you. 

One hand returns to your hip and you eagerly push them back towards her. She gently spreads the gel around your dripping lips and you make a pathetic noise as you try and get her inside of you. She laughs quietly and nudges your clit so you make another.

“Please.“

This time she pushes three fingers inside of you and you can’t help the guttural moan that bursts out of you. Her movements are harsher than before. Her fingers slam into you with a force you haven’t felt before and her other hand is gripping you so tight her nails are digging in. It feels amazing. Your skin stings as her nails release you. She finds your clit within a second and you see stars.

You come hard enough to arch off the table. You swear you hear Agatha moan behind you as you squeeze so tightly around her. 

She works you through slower this time, and her hands are gently by the time electricity stops zinging through your body.

“Very good, dear,” she says and it feels almost as nice as when she calls you a good girl.

Her hands stay on the the same as last time and it takes you a little longer to fully come back to yourself. Eventually, you push yourself back up. You wobble a little as you feel how wet you are down there. But Agatha hasn’t said anything so you’re sure you’re fine.

Turning to her, you’re greeted with the same blown pupils from last time.

“You’ll need to come back tomorrow,” she says.

“That soon?” you ask like you aren’t jumping for joy inside.

It feels wrong to want it so badly. Agatha is only healing you. Yet you can’t stop the want from growing. 

“Yes. Like I’ve said. We have a lot of catch up to do.”

You nod your head obediently and go to the door. You hesitate at the threshold, biting your lip.

“How many times?” you force out.

Many, you beg her to say. The idea of never experiencing this again is too awful not to be comforted by memories of it.

Her smile is sharp. “However many it takes.”

Chapter Three

[cressidagrey]

Stars all aligned - Chapter 4

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

THIS IS BAD! I have updated the tags on AO3, but I'll add it on here too:

Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

Master. Master, you need to wake up! The shadows were the ones that woke him. Azriel blinked open his eyes… and a moment later the thick cloying scent of blood hit him.

It woke him up immediately. He shot upright on the couch, shadows rushing around him. The scent of blood came from Zahra’s room. 

Nobody else was in the cottage. He knew that. The shadows would have alerted him if there was. 

Which meant that…

He was up before he could think twice about it, hurrying to the door of her room, heart beating furiously, already dreading what might have happened. What she might have done to herself.  “Zahra?” Azriel asked loudly. “Zahra, are you alright?”

A choked gasp, a pitiful moan…all he needed to hear. “I am coming in.“ he warned her. Azriel pushed open the door…and he froze at the threshold of the doorway, staring at the sight awaiting him. 

This couldn’t all be her blood. 

Right? 

Zahra lay in the middle of the bed, curled on her side. Her body shook through painful shivers and her skin had already taken on a worrying grey colour, near lifeless. 

And the bed…the sheets…they were a mess of crimson. 

Blood had soaked through the sheets, staining the mattress…It was…it was horrific.

“Go away.” She whispered, her voice weak. “Please.”

Yeah. That was so not happening. 

His heart was pounding, his chest nearly painfully tight as his eyes focused on her. On Zahra’s shaking body, on her pale face. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Azriel said softly, his voice strained. Gods. What had she done to herself?  “Where are you hurt? What did you do?” He demanded, coming closer, reaching out to touch her arms. Her throat and wrists were unblemished, if one ignored the cold sweat…just as she whimpered again, nearly violently flinching, doubling over.

Between one breath and the next…suddenly it snapped.

The golden bond unfurled to the smell of his mate’s blood, to the sound of her pain.

“I…” she tried to speak, but her words became caught in her throat, choked off by another gasp of pain. By the Mother…

Azriel could feel the bond between them. It seemed to hum in his very bones, demanding that he fix this, that he find the cause of her pain and make it stop.

He knelt on the bed, his knees sinking into the pool of blood, hands hovering above her.

“Where does it hurt?” He asked her desperately.

She just whimpered, her whole body shivering. “Can’t you just….leave me alone?” She asked brokenly, her voice cracking. “Please. It’s just…”

Azriel ignored her, carefully shifting her body until she was lying on her back. But in doing so, he accidentally brushed against her stomach, and all he could think was that he had literally never heard a scream so painful.

Her nightgown was drenched with sweat and blood…dark red right by…

„Have you had your cycle yet as a fae?“ Azriel asked sharply. But that shouldn’t…this was too much blood for that…wasn’t it?

Her eyes were scrunched shut, her face a twisted rictus of agony. She shook her head at his question, teeth clenching. “No…” she said through clenched teeth, her voice high with pain. “No, I haven’t gotten one..”

Which made no sense either because she had…because she had been a fae for nearly three years at this point. Zahra should have gone through multiple cycles by now. 

And while fae cycles were vicious, they weren’t…

They didn’t involve this much blood. Usually. 

Another whimper of pain, another tremble of that bond in his chest…and Azriel was done. 

Madja. He needed Madja.

“I’ll get Madja,” he told Zahra tightly, hands gently cupping her face. “I just need to go get her, and then I’ll be right back,” he promised her desperately, just as another choked-off moan came from her. 

The shadows came flowing out of the corners of the room, pressing against Zahra's face. Go, Master! they demanded.

Azriel’s throat closed up. He hated the thought of leaving her, even for a moment. But he gave a sharp, resolute nod. “Okay..okay, I will be right back.”

He gave her one last look, her pale face and dark hair soaked with sweat and blood, and then he was gone. 

“Madja!! Madja!” He bellowed. He wasn’t normally one to be panicked, he was an Illyrian trained from birth to be calm under stress, to keep his head. But this…Gods, this had his heart in his throat and his mind racing.

This was his mate. 

He had waited half a millennia for her and she had been right in front of his nose for three years and he hadn’t fucking seen it. 

If he had seen it earlier, maybe then it would have never gotten this bad, maybe then it wouldn’t have…

He was quite sure that he gave Madja half a heart attack, but quite frankly, Madja was used to worse from him and his family. 

And so, Madja only took one look at his panicked, wild expression and her own went serious. “What happened?” She asked as she rose from her chair.

“It’s Zahra,” Azriel said, his voice thick. He swallowed, trying to get a grip. “She’s…bleeding. So much…blood. It’s everywhere, it’s all over her bed and clothes and…gods, I don’t know what happened, but I need you to come, now.”

Madja’s eyes widened, her hands going to the satchel at the table. “Take me to her.” She said simply, shoving a few jars into her bag. 

Zahra was where he had left her, shadows worriedly swirling around her. And the sigh that greeted them made even Madja’s breath hitch. 

“Zahra, can you hear me?” Madja asked immediately. “I am going to help you, alright?”

Zahra’s eyes flickered but didn’t open. Her breaths were uneven and pained, her face twisted. “Y-yeah…” she panted, voice quavering.

Azriel knelt by the bed, one hand coming down to hers and lacing their fingers together. He could feel the damp and icy cold skin against his…her heartbeat skittering underneath her skin…Azriel was practically shaking himself with how worried he was, his whole body trembling with fear.

“You’re going to be just fine,” he murmured softly. “Madja is here, she will figure out what’s wrong.”

Zahra groaned, her fingers giving a weak twitch in his before gripping onto his hand like a lifeline.

“Hurts..” she whimpered, her voice cracking.

“I know,“ Madja said soothingly. “I’ll need to lift your nightgown, alright? Just to see where we are at.“

Zahra gave a low whine, her eyes scrunching up tighter, but she made no protest or move to stop the healer. Azriel didn’t know if she did that because she trusted Madja or because she was far too far gone to even care. Madja carefully peeled back the blood-soaked fabric, carefully lifting it up over her stomach.

Azriel kept his eyes on Zahra's face, pressing a kiss against the back of her hand.  “Squeeze as tight as you need to,” he told her softly. 

“What if I hurt you?” she forced out, but he just shook his head. 

“You won’t,” Azriel promised her simply. And even if she did…he wouldn’t care. He would have given everything in that moment to make sure that she was comforted even a tiny little bit. 

Her face was drenched in sweat, her body quivering, and she looked far too young, too fragile at that moment. 

He forgot sometimes, how young she really was. Not even a century yet. Not even…

But she still squeezed his hand tighter. Her eyes clenched closed, her breaths laboured and quick. “Hurts…it hurts so badly…” she whimpered brokenly.

Whatever Madja was doing to her…Zahra’s breathing was becoming panicked and even more pained, her whole body shaking. 

Azriel was having to restrain the urge to pull her into his arms, to tug her up against his chest and try to soothe her. To drag her away from Madja, who he knew was only trying to help and instead comfort his mate. 

So instead, he pressed another kiss to her sweat-slick skin even as she cried out sharply. The sound made him flinch. 

“Gods,” Madja cursed sharply and Azriel’s head snapped towards her. She was looking far more upset than Azriel had ever seen her. 

“What is it? “ he asked shakily, Zahra whimpering and he turned back towards her, unable to tear his gaze away from the anguished, pain-filled face of his mate. “What’s happening?

“You should have been brought to me immediately, Zahra” Madja said softly. “I could have lessened the pain, dear.”

Zahra didn’t say a word, biting her lips, her face still pulled up into a pain-filled grimace. 

“How often?” Madja asked, her voice softening.  

Zahra’s breaths were hitching, coming in shallow pants as her trembling increased. She shook her head softly, her words coming out between gasps. “Often,” she’d whimpered.

Zahra gave another moan, and her hand clenched even harder around Azriel’s. Every one of her shudders and flinches was like a knife straight into his heart.

He had no idea what they were talking about, but it couldn’t be good, he knew that much. 

“How old were you the first time?” Madja asked gently.

“15,” Zahra whispered, wetting her lips. Every single word seemed to be forced out of her chest.  “I was 15.“

15…so young. Gods, so damn young.

Madja’s face was grim, “And the last?” The healer questioned.

“It went on for 6 years,” Zahra whispered. “Until 4 years ago.”

Madja nodded tightly. “You were still human,” Madja said softly. “The scarring is…extensive. Humans heal slower don’t they?”

“Yes,” Zahra whispered.

Azriel’s heart was hammering in his chest, his mind racing to try to catch up to the conversation that was happening. He felt so goddamn useless. There was something wrong, so wrong, and he couldn’t do a thing to try and help. The feeling of helplessness was killing him.

And this…this sounded like they were implying something so awful that he daren’t voice it. 

“What’s wrong with her?” He demanded. “What do you mean by scarring?”

Madja’s hands were moving across the skin of Zahra’s abdomen, pressing down gently, something that resulted in Zahra’s whole body flinching “There is extensive scarring in her reproductive system.” The healer told him bluntly. “Like she has been injured for an extended period. Over and Over.”

Zahra let out a shuddering gasp, her head tilting to press into the pillows and away from the healer’s hands.

“Cauldron, sunshine, what happened to you?” Azriel whispered.

He hadn’t actually expected an answer. He got one nonetheless.

“I did what I had to. I always did what I had to,” Zahra whispered, green eyes begging him to understand. “We had no money and Feyre was sick and… Was I supposed to let my little sister die?” Azriel went utterly still at her words

She had…she had done something to her own body to save her sister. Something bad enough to give her scars on her internal organs. What the hell had she ever done to cause this much damage?

“What did you do?” He forced out.

Her breath was shaky. “I gave the only thing that was mine to give up. The only thing that…the only thing that that apothecary would want,” she recounted with a shudder. Azriel’s blood went cold, freezing in his veins.

He didn’t…he couldn’t possibly mean…

“He raped you.” He whispered.

He wished she would disagree…would tell him that that hadn’t happened…but what she did say…it was even worse. 

“I went to him willingly. I let him do this to me. I didn’t fight him,” Zahra corrected him, her voice weak. 

Like that made it any better. Like that…

“You were so young,” he said softly. “Gods…Zahra..” his voice broke, and he couldn’t speak anymore.

He didn’t even have the words…didn’t even have the thoughts…didn’t…

“He hurt you,” he choked out.  It wasn’t a question.

A shuddering breath from her. 

“Yes,” Zahra answered weakly. “It…I did it once for medicine. But after that…I did it for money. I came back and I let him do it to me again. And again. And when he got bored, he thought of something new, something worse and…He did things to me…I didn’t even know you could do that to another person.” 

His entire body was shaking with rage. The shadows wreathing around him darkened almost into black. 

He had never wanted to rip another person into pieces with his bare hands as much as he wanted to right now. 

Madja stilled next to them, her hands still on Zahra’s skin…trying to heal the worst of it, Azriel could feel that. 

The healer’s face was carefully blank, but Azriel had known her long enough to see the subtle signs of anger. Madja had an incredibly good mask, but Azriel was able to read people when they didn’t want to be read.

And…there was another thing…

“Do your sisters know?” he asked weakly. Did they know and still treated Zahra like they did? Ignored her outright at some points and wished she didn’t exist at others? 

The dynamic had been fucked up from the start…the first time they had met Zahra she had been in her maid uniform…clearly treated not as a member of their family but as staff. 

But they had believed…they all had believed that maybe the change from human to fae was good for one thing and that would fall away…that this could heal…that all 4 of them could be sisters, properly, now. Maybe something that went well for once. 

Now Azriel wondered how naive he had been in particular. 

He was a bastard just as she was. Azriel would never be accepted by his half-brothers either. His half-brothers had ruined his hands. And her sisters…

“Nesta…Nesta thinks I had an affair with a married man,” Zahra choked out. “Which I did. Kind of.” 

A horrible, bitter laugh tore itself out of the Azriel’s chest. “An affair…” he repeated, disbelieving. “You didn’t have an affair. You were raped.”

“I let him do it. I did it willingly,” Zahra disagreed, her voice weak. 

She had agreed, because otherwise they would have starved. 

“You were fifteen!” Azriel whispered, anger flaring up with his grief. “You were a child! You were nothing but a goddamn child. And you did what you had to to survive. You sacrificed yourself for your family’s survival!” He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to get a grip on his own emotions.

Madja’s hands were still moving over the skin of her stomach, her face set in a heavy grimace.

Zahra’s eyes were fixed on his face, her breaths still shallow and pained. “I am sorry.”

He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand her apologies. Not right now. Not for this.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to the back of her hand.

“You were just a child,” Azriel repeated, voice choked. “None of this is your damn fault.” For once… she didn’t protest. 

Zahra just closed her eyes, a few tears trickling out from between her lashes.

Madja’s hands stilled, and then the healer carefully pulled away. She didn’t say anything, and Azriel felt a new fear fill his chest. “What is it?” He asked her. “What’s wrong?”

“The scarring is…extensive,” Madja said carefully. “I am…I am sorry, but I think you may be barren.”

Zahra didn’t even flinch.

“I know,” Zahra answered, her voice flat. “I haven’t bled in years until now.” The words were like someone driving an ice-cold knife between his ribs and into his heart.

He didn’t care that she couldn’t carry his children. He didn’t fucking care. 

He only needed to know that she was safe and healthy…But to know she had been hurting for so many years…to know that she had sacrificed herself for her family…it broke his heart. 

And they didn’t even know that she had done that. 

Madja’s expression darkened further. Perhaps at the thought of what Zahra had been forced to endure, or perhaps because this new information opened up a whole other level of complication.

“That…does explain why the bleeding has been so severe,” the healer said. “Gods, child.”

There was silence in the room, Azriel still gripping Zahra’s hand in his. 

He didn’t care that she couldn’t give him children, not unless she wanted to. But the fact that she would never have a choice in the matter. That she had sacrificed not just her innocence, but the future she could have had, for her family’s sake…

He clenched his jaw so tightly he was surprised it didn’t crack.

Zahra was staring up at the ceiling, her emotions carefully schooled and hidden away. So cold and indifferent…so numb. Numb. 

He could recognise the signs because he often felt like that as well. 

Azriel wanted to hold her. He wanted to pull her up to his chest and into his arms and hide her from the entire world. From all the horrors and nightmares that she had been forced to endure.

Protecting and keeping her and making sure she never hurt again…

“I have some potions for you to take…I’ll ask Violet to make you some specially tailored for you…” Madja said softly. 

Violet was the apothecary they used for most of their potions. And also the one that Zahra did the accounts for. 

Azriel forced himself to nod. Zahra made some vague murmur of understanding, as Madja put said potions on the bedside table. 

Madja turned her gaze to Azriel, dark eyes searching his face. “You should stay with her tonight,” she said quietly. “Make sure the bleeding doesn’t get worse and call me immediately if it does.”

Azriel nodded again. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, not unless Zahra asked him to leave.

The healer rose, giving another glance at the two of them. She made a sound in the back of her throat, as though she wanted to say something, but she just gave a single nod before turning and leaving the room.

And then it was just the two of them in the room. Azriel sat crouched next to her on the bed, his hand still clamped around hers.

He didn’t know what the damn hell he was supposed to say.

“I’m sorry.” And there she was, apologizing yet again for something that wasn’t her fault in the least. 

His eyes widened at her voice, the unexpectedness of it breaking the silence in the room.

“What?” He asked, his voice cracking. “What could you possibly be sorry for?”

She didn’t open her eyes, but he saw her expression flicker slightly. “For…for this.” She said hoarsely. “For making you deal with this.”

His heart felt like it was collapsing in on itself again. “You didn’t make me do anything,” he said quietly. “And you have nothing to apologise for.”

[lieran03]

Raising Their Voice

Love and Deepspace Fanfic

The usual calm and soft men who never raise their voice suddenly did so in front of you, and that's only to protect you

Genre: fluff/slice of life Pairing: Zayne x fem!reader Words: 2.017 Warning: none!

Writing commission || Ko-fi || AO3 acc

Xavier's || Rafayel's || Sylus' || Caleb's

Based on THIS request

Everyone knows how calm and collected Zayne is, especially when he is at the hospital, working and going through the operation he needed to. He never raised his voice, not to the doctors who did something wrong, not to the nurses, and especially to his favorite patient slash person, the Hunter, who has been his childhood friend. Although there might be times he raised his voice in operation when a mess occurred, he never really got angry.

Even when his dearest always tries to bring that kind of emotion to him, wanting to know how he will react and how he will act around, he always knows it first, and that ended up with him being the one to tease her. In the end, the one who got angry was her instead of him. He likes to see the way she raised her voice, getting worked up by her own pranks, and getting irritated at him which makes her look cute.

“Your check-up is done, nothing is concerning enough, except that you must have been losing sleep lately.”

“Yeah, I guess because a certain someone wasn’t there to lull me to sleep.” Zayne knew she was talking about him. With countless surgeries and patients he needed to tend, going back home was hard.

“I admit that I’m at fault for that, but aside from that, you push yourself again.”

“Okay, Doctor Zayne is in working full mode now.”

It was another teasing remark given to him that made him shut his lips. More words are coming from him, and she will probably tease him to death. A sigh to show his defeat can be heard before he rubs his temple, feeling dizzy just by thinking and imagining how the conversation will go if he continues. The smiles on her face made him feel better, and he started to act serious again.

“Wait for me downstairs, I will end my shift in a while and we can have dinner together.”

“Is this how you pay me for missing all the nights?” Noticing that the teasing had started back, Zayne also decided to do the same.

“I just thought that the dessert shop I haven’t been able to go to now has a new menu. Sharing is always caring, right? I wanted to share the dessert with you.”

The conversation ended fast when Zayne got a call from Greyson. Knowing that there wasn’t anything else he needed to check, he bid his goodbye, adding that she told him he needed to check the patient fast. Once Zayne was nowhere to be seen, she went out of his check-up room. Although it was night, the hospital was still as busy as it could get, filling the hospital spaces.

Before she could get to the place where she usually waited for Zayne, another doctor whom she knew very well called out to her. A small smile appeared on her lips, greeting the doctor quite excitedly. After all, before knowing Zayne, the doctor in front of her was the one to take care of her and always check her up, giving her the opportunity to push her limits so she could enter the Hunter Association exam.

“Are you here for a general check-up with your current physician, or did you have an injury while doing a Hunter job?”

“I think it’s kind of like the two,” she answered with a light tone. Knowing her previous doctor, she also knows that joking with them is a normal thing. Responding to her words, a chuckle can be heard before a pat was given to her shoulder.

This time, with a serious look, the doctor said, “I hope that there’s nothing wrong with your body now. Your current physician was Dr. Zayne, right? You’re in good hands. I trust you with him, and you better listen to him too.”

A short conversation that starts with just mere greetings turns into a story time. The doctor kept making sure that he didn’t have any patients he needed to tend at the moment, and he only handled emergencies after getting older. At the same time, she also knows that Zayne wouldn’t be around just an hour after their departure, giving her a moment to have a conversation with her previous attending doctor.

“I guess we have to part here. I’m taking your time, right?”

“It’s okay, I was waiting for someone too.”

The smile she gives to the doctor eases his worries before he bids his goodbye, meeting a resident along the way and going into a serious mood. Seeing that she didn’t have anything else to do and didn’t want to make Zayne wait for her, she went straight to the place where she usually waited for Zayne. Part of her was scared to find the man already there.

What kind of response would Zayne give if she appears a bit late?

However, before she could have gone too far, a resident who was running pushed her. Normally, when others bumped into her, she wouldn’t find any problem, nor would she get affected by it. Yet, with the most unexpected times, added to the amount of force given, she couldn’t help but push down to the floor, feeling a bit lost, and look around her.

The resident’s things from his hand were thrown to the floor, an indication that the collision had just now. Even though questions still filled her mind, she started to gather the things, not wanting to get the resident into trouble. A little pain can also be felt around her shoulder, but she decided to turn a blind eye to it.

What’s important is the resident didn’t get into trouble because of her.

“Here’s your things. Next time, be careful.”

It should be just a normal reminder, especially to the resident who must be tired of working endlessly. Part of her also imagines about how the resident would get scolded for being reckless and even bumping into a patient. Trying to ease the fear inside them, she offered a kind smile, hoping it would tell the latter that she was not angry at the accident. She was okay with it.

When she thought a kind response was what she would get after that, the resident was evidently looking at her up and down as if wanting to make sure that she was not hurt. Once they confirmed something, they harshly took the things from her hand, visibly glaring and giving a low, dissatisfied sound to her, a sound that succeeded in making her back down a few steps back.

“If you’re not a patient, why are you wandering around here?! It would be bad if the person who bumped into you was any other doctor!”

“I was …?” There were no words coming from her lips, trying to understand what was currently happening to her. Did she get scolded when the resident was in the wrong?

“See? You’re not even aware that you just made a mistake! Imagine if the person you just bumped into was a real doctor, they would probably get mad at you and … ah! Whatever, you’re in the way. I was in a rush, and you just appeared so suddenly that it disturbed my work.”

“I’m … sorry?” The apology came too abruptly, that she didn’t even know the reason for her apology. Is it because she didn’t look around? Or is it because she accidentally bumped into them? Shouldn’t the resident be the one to look around to make sure they didn’t mess up? “But, I think you should have watched where you’re going, too.”

Couldn’t accept the fact that she was being blamed, words to show her dissatisfaction can be heard. At first, the resident was ready to walk away, not talking or making the issue bigger. However, the words spoken just now made them stop and look back, trying to see if what they had heard just now was real. They didn’t like how suddenly it became their fault. The glare was prominent, making her feel uncomfortable once again.

“Did you just say that I was the one making a fault here?”

The tone given shows hatred, making the situation more intense than it should have been. “I’m sorry?”

This time, not trying to cover her feelings, she purposely let out the tone she has been holding back, hoping it could portray just how angry she is right now. Whoever this resident is, they must have seen anyone except a patient as someone annoying. Something common to be seen in some of the residents who could get to Akso Hospital.

“Ah … is it because you’re a Hunter that you think you’re almighty and important? I guess it’s quite dumb and ….”

The words were never finished, and in addition, she felt as if someone was standing behind her. Before she could turn back to see who the person was, a hand finally rested on her back, as if to show intimacy. At the same time, the person who came leaning down, speaking to her in a gentle voice, and showing concern.

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

It was Zayne.

For a few moments, the resident could only watch as the renowned Doctor Zayne was putting his full attention to the girl standing beside him, making sure she was not injured or had any bruises uncalled for. Once he was sure, and he listened to the girl's plea that she was okay, his gaze finally fell to the resident in front of him, showing no amusement.

“She’s a patient here. Just because someone didn’t wear a hospital gown doesn’t mean that they’re not a patient. Is this how you would treat those who aren’t your patient?”

“N-no … that’s not ….” Zayne’s voice wasn’t shouting, yet it was firm, showing his dominance. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“You should have said sorry to her, not me.” There was nothing that came after Zayne’s words, leaving the girl to look up and see Zayne had furrowed eyebrows, not liking how the resident still denied he was at fault. “Did you hear me or not? That you should have apologized to her and not me.”

With the raised voice coming from the-collected-and-calm-Doctor-Zayne, the resident finally stammered and said his apology, running away before Zayne could say anything else, and before the girl could say it was okay. Once the resident was nowhere to be seen, she finally stared at Zayne, facing her body to him.

“You raised your voice, I guess it was the first. And it was for me, should I be happy or concerned?”

“You shouldn’t have let others push you like that … and I didn’t mean literally.” Zayne put his hand onto the girl’s shoulder, feeling around to make sure that she didn’t dislocate it by accident.

“They’re in a hurry, I can understand that.”

“Yes. But still, it was their fault. Running into a patient, blaming the patient—or not. Even after that, they still didn’t say sorry because they realized they’re at fault.” The moment Zayne assured there was nothing concerning, he finally held the girl’s hand. “I was on my way down to meet you when I saw them bump into you, I thought it was nice of you to help them pick up their things. however, from afar, I can show how irritated they are … that’s when I decided to step in. I hope I didn’t interfere with you.”

“A low chuckle can be heard from her before she swings the hands held by Zayne, finds it amusing how Zayne easily tells the story. “No, no. I was glad. If you didn’t come, I might punch them in the face, and I might get a warning for doing so.”

“I could imagine,” was Zayne’s only response, holding her hand tighter when they reached the parking lot.

“And anyway, Zayne.” Before Zayne could open the car’s door, his attention was brought to the girl who was waiting. “Your voice does sound sexy when you raise it like that. I wonder how it would sound if you got angrier than that.”

[spencer-sweets]

9-1-1 Fic Recs | Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz

[Part 1] [Part 2]

so i am back in the trenches of this ship once again. praying for it to go canon in the next couple of seasons but i am surviving on the crumbs. i made a post before with some old recs but these are ones i have read recently.

[this rec list is incomplete and will be updated as I find more fics I enjoy - last update 4/9/25]

Bobby Versus Buddie by songbvrd (ao3) Mature 10,391 Eddie huffed out a breath. “I’m having a crisis.” And Bobby, he wasn’t proud of it, but the word ‘finally’ was flashing in front of his eyes in giant, neon yellow letters, because surely, surely this meant that he’d figured it out. Finally, at long last, Eddie was having the crisis they’d all been waiting for since he’d started a thousand emergencies earlier. Bobby waited, silent and hopeful, relieved that they’d finally gotten there. “I think I’m homophobic.” Bobby blinked at him. “I’m sorry?” OR - Five times Bobby tried to gently hold Buddie's hands and tell them they were in love, and one time they got the picture.

a cute 5+1 with bobby being done with eddie and buck. got to love the bobby and buck dynamic too.

What’s Your Love Language? by songbvrd (ao3) 18 332 “Which do you think makes you feel most loved?” Eddie thought for a long moment. Too long, maybe. Then he shrugged, “Honestly, Buck? I have no idea.” Buck’s brows pinched up. “What do you mean? When have you felt the most loved?” “Don’t make a big thing of this, Buck. Promise?” Buck made a show of crossing his heart, brows still raised curiously. “I’m not sure I’ve ever… really felt loved in a relationship? I’m not convinced that I know what makes me feel loved…” OR - After finding out that Eddie doesn't know what his love language is, Buck sets about finding out for him. He begins a five week experiment, one for each love language, to figure out which will make Eddie feel the most loved.

another great fluffy fic with some slight emotional infidelity. set in season 7 and buck decides he needs to learn how to best love eddie. spoiler: he was already doing just fine.

50 Cheeky Texts by songbvrd (ao3) 20.999 Bucklecup: I really like your moustache. it’s very girthy. really solid. Eddito: girthy????????????? Eddito: did you just text me at 7pm on a wednesday evening to tell me my moustache is GIRTHY???? Bucklecup: honestly, i’m kinda surprised you haven’t blocked me yet, eds OR - Buck gets drunk-dared to send Eddie one cheeky text every day for 50 days. Eddie loses his mind. TW for the cringiest pickup lines in existence.

awwww. tho i should warn you there is some emotional infidelity going on here but it wasn't bad enough to turn me off of the fic but i thought i'd warn yall. anyways absolutely beautiful fic that made me laugh. also love the author. unintentionally bookmarked this back to back with their prev on this list haha.

know it's for the better by hyruling for fallingthorns (ao3) Explicit 24 931 “I love you, you know.” Buck smiles, and it’s Eddie’s favorite - the one that seems to light him up from within, beautiful and too bright to look at directly for long. “Of course I know that, Eddie,” Buck replies, easy as breathing, but Eddie shakes his head. --- Or: Eddie confesses. Buck doesn't love him back, but it doesn't matter. He'll keep telling him anyway.

oblivious buck and a pining eddie. eddie confesses and buck kind of shuts down mentally over it but eddie just keeps loving him. set in season 7.

Hen Wilson's Four Part Guide To Making Your Stupid Friends Date by songbvrd (ao3) 25 010 “Okay, I know we kind of all had an unspoken rule not to talk about it, but…” “Buck and Eddie are being weird as hell?” Chim asked, sucking in a breath like he'd been holding back from letting the same thought out for far too long. “Yes!” Hen hissed, relieved that she wasn't the only to see the weirdness in the room. “Now, look, they're my friends and so obviously I want them to be happy, but it's also just throwing the team vibe way off.” Bobby took a long, tired breath. “Okay. So what did you have in mind?” Several things, as it turned out. Between them, they managed to come up with the very vague outline of a plan. Or a few plans, really, depending on how many failed. OR - When Buck and Eddie aren't speaking, Hen decides to take matters into her own hands.

i feel like i should be a little bit more ashamed at putting so many fics by songbvrd on this list but... they're sooo good. always coming in clutch for some interesting plot in a medium length fic. this one is no exception to that trend - loved hen in this one and i love miscommunication and outsider POV.

Eddie vs Romance by allyasavedtheday (restricted) (ao3) 27 889 “You wanna talk about it?” Buck asks after a beat. He doesn’t drink his beer. Eddie doesn’t either. It’s a crutch, mostly. A pretence, so that if the conversation gets too deep, too fast they can blame it on the alcohol. Eddie appreciates it. As he thinks about Buck’s question he wonders where to start. He’s told Buck some of it, the important parts, but not- not what compelled him to do any of it in the first place. In the end, he can only think of one thing. Swallowing around the lump clogging his throat, he says, “I don’t think I know how to be in love anymore.” - “I think Eddie’s in love with me.” She gapes at him, mouth working for a response that doesn’t come until Chimney beats her to it. “Eddie’s what?” Maddie claps her mouth shut, stepping aside to let Buck through. Chimney’s on the floor in the living room with Jee playing with her tea set. “You’re not involved in this conversation,” Buck says, pointing at him. “It’s your fault in the first place for even putting the idea in my head.” Maddie apparently finally finds her voice, appearing at Buck’s side and looking between them. “I’m sorry, what? How did Chim put the idea in your head?” “Him and Hen!” Buck exclaims, waving a hand. “They told me I should pay attention to how much Eddie wants to be around me.” “And you took that to mean he’s in love with you?” Chimney asks incredulously. * In which Buck has a clipboard and a list and is about to romance the hell out of Eddie Diaz.

a short series of two fics that explore eddie realizing he is in love with buck, buck realizing eddie is in love with him and then them getting together. really cute and an amazing take on eddie's relationship to shannon.

I’m Bringing You With Me by CourtepointeClementine, sunlight (ao3) 30 997 Eddie props his chin up on his hand to stare at Buck in the dark. The mattress makes an ungodly squeaking noise from even this small movement. Maybe sneaking out wouldn’t actually be that easy. Eddie reaches across him and squeezes Buck’s shoulder. Buck looks over at him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Eddie says. “I took the couch,” Buck blurts out. Eddie’s hand stills where it was still gently squeezing Buck’s shoulder. “What?” “Ugh.” He dislodges Eddie’s hand and pulls the duvet up over his own face. “Why?” Buck uses the duvet cover to absorb the lone tear that is trickling down to his ear. “It looked lonely. On the curb.” On Eddie’s last night in LA, Buck does something a little crazy. While Eddie’s in El Paso, he does something a little crazy. It all comes back to the couch in the end.

eddie moves to el paso and buck does not handle it well. like at all. lots of emotional hurt for buck and of course a happy ending.

it was more than a moment (it was the rest of our lives) by smilingbuckley (restricted) (ao3) Mature 36 161 At work, Eddie gets the shocking news that his parents are suing him for custody of Christopher. His lawyer, falsely assuming Buck and Eddie are a couple, suggests they get married to give Eddie a stronger case. Buck gladly agrees. -- “So,” Buck speaks up when the waiter is gone. He stretches his arms above his head, making the shirt under his jacket ride up and expose a bit of his skin. Eddie can see the faint lines of a tattoo before Buck shifts and his shirt falls down again. “Are we getting married?” Eddie has to do a double take, “Excuse me, what?” “Well, Mrs. Reese said that it would be useful,” Buck says, like it’s not a big deal at all. Like marriage isn’t an official commitment, usually reserved for people in love that plan on being together for the rest of their lives. “I… Buck, it’s… good that you’re, you know, my fake boyfriend or whatever, but I can’t let you marry me for this.” “Why not?” Buck asks, “If it helps you get Christopher back.”

fake marriage turned real marriage fic. also fuck helena and ramon all my homies hate helena and ramon. eddies parents fuck up and try to take chris permanently and eddie and buck get married over it. season 8.

something touched me (like a knife-blade) by kithmet (ao3) Explicit 42,295 “I feel fucking explosive, Buck. Like I’m about to go off at any second. I don’t want you caught in my mess.” His eyes sting. At the very least, Buck contains the sound of it in his voice. “Eddie, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he replies, “but I already am.” Eddie self-implodes. Christopher, seeking refuge, flees to Buck—whose priorities amount to, in varying order: take in the kid, get Eddie to talk to him, and keep the three of them afloat in the process. (Oh, and Tommy’s there too. He thinks.)

this was a great fic and an interesting take on chris staying with buck and eddie getting his shit together.

everything (nothing) has changed by bizarrestars (restricted) (ao3) Explicit 48 550 After Eddie gets shot, Buck confesses his love. From there, things get a little out of hand. *** Buck breathes for a moment, then sets his shoulders. "Eddie, there's something I have to tell you." "Do you?" Eddie asks flatly, still alarmed and doing his best to hide it. "I would've never guessed." Buck swallows. "Eddie, I love you." "Are you softening the blow, or buttering me up? Because, I've got to tell you, I'm still very worried regardless," Eddie tells him. "No, you don't understand. I love you. I'm currently in love with you," Buck says as evenly as possible, and even then, his voice wobbles precariously there for a moment. He exhales. "You don't have to worry about it, though, because I've processed it and decided to—to find relief in telling you before moving on and moving forward." Eddie stares at him. No response at all. Well, at least he's not freaking out.

the note left in my bookmark: "couldn't even play my video games while listening to this smh. took too much of my attention. <3"

i tend to download fics and listen to them through a epub reader and play video games but i could not keep from pausing to keep reading manually i needed to know what was next so bad. buck and eddie being stubborn and stupid and includes some of my favorite pining tropes. i love when one of them is convinced the other cannot love them so they try to fall out of love. amazing. also jealous eddie ftw.

Juxtaposition by ProstheticLoVe (ao3) Teen+ 74 552 “What kind of partner do you want?” Buck looks him straight in the eye and with no hesitation says, “One who has my back. Someone who loves me for me. All the chaos and the weirdness included. Someone who I love. Even if I have to wait for them to catch up.” He says it with such confidence, Eddie feels like his answer was lacking. Or the one where Eddie’s too busy stuck on the idea of a heteronormative family that he misses who is right in front of him and has been all along. Don’t worry, Buck’s trying to tell him.

eddie being in love with buck but being so deeply repressed is one of my fave tropes and it is pulled off excellently here.

Away From Us by Marchling (restricted) (ao3) Mature 76 165 They turned the last corner they needed to get to Buck’s loft and the floor was gone. “Firefighters evacuate. The building is collapsing.” Eddie stared incomprehensibly to the gaping drop that should have been Buck’s hall. His heart was pounding, not because he had worked so hard to get here… Because he was terrified. “Buck!” Eddie screamed as loud as he could to be heard over the flames. His hands scrambled over the walls, testing them, trying to see if he could use a ledge or a doorknob or something to get to Buck’s door. There was no answer but Eddie screamed again, “Buck! Are you here?” --- After the lawsuit Buck is doing his absolute best to try to win back his family but nothing is working and the hope is starting to hurt. He makes the the decision to resign from the 118 via letter and leave LA to start something new in Arizona. And that would've been fine except a fire burns down his entire apartment building that morning and the letter never makes it to Bobby. When Buck isn't found amongst the survivors his loved ones have to accept that he died in the fire. A presumed dead story about forgiveness, grief, second chances and falling in love.

aaahhhh presumed dead my beloved. buck is presumed dead in a fire when he decides to run after the lawsuit. eddie and the rest of the 118 have to grapple with the death of buck. loved bobby in this one and it broke me to see his grief over losing another kid.

there is no road by littleghost (ao3) Explicit 99 788 Eddie listens to the voicemail later. Buck sounds like he’s at a grocery store, absentmindedly talking into the phone. “Oh, I guess you’re with your sisters. Sorry to miss you. I just wanted to tell you about this call we had last night, but I gotta hear your reactions, so, later. Okay, uh, I guess I’ll just call back. Or text.” It ends abruptly, without a goodbye. Eddie replays it a second time, closes his eyes as he sits in the truck. For a moment, he can pretend Buck is sitting in the passenger seat next to him. For a moment, Eddie is back in Los Angeles and his best friend is dragging him through the grocery store. The voicemail ends, Eddie opens his eyes, and the fantasy breaks. Eddie is still in El Paso, parked in front of the house he’s renting, and there’s no one in the passenger seat with him.

omgggg. so im fairly sure the title is from that song from the bolt movie so points off the bat for that decision i have it stuck in my head now. a good fix it fic for season 8 where buck and eddie keep communicating through voicemails as they intentionally and unintentionally miss each others calls. great fic that has calls in it and a lot of substance. loved it.

originally posted 4/7/25

[wetdeadroses]

Found: Hat

surely, the hat would blow away if you left it here. there was no way it was abandoned, either. every little piece of it appeared to be lovingly cared for: shiny red beads and a pair of opposing faces atop the brim, which was neatly stitched and, aside from a loose thread or two, unfrayed. the leather strap might have seen better days, but it only went to show how often the owner wore it. in short, this hat’s wearer must be sorely missing it now. you nodded to yourself with determination. you’ll just have to do a little sleuthing. it can’t be that hard, right? or, a love story told through ace's lost hat.

tags: portgas d. ace x civilian!f!reader, wingman!marco, alcohol use, lots of steamy kissing at the end, portgas d. ace is so smooth, suggestive undertones. please respect this content warning!

wc: 5.8k

read on AO3, if you prefer

seated in the sand, ace basked in the sunshine alongside his closest friends and crewmates. he didn’t often get the chance to take in the sights and just relax on an island, and he knew he would have to leave soon, so every moment counted. he was grateful for these rare moments where there wasn’t a “next”; there was just now.

“i haven’t seen the sea from this side of the land in ages,” thatch said. “forgot how hot it can get, too.” 

ace soaked up the heat that the sun shared with him as if it were his energy source. he laid back, slipping his hat off to sense its rays on his eyelids, the warmth seeping through his skin. “how many other people out there do you think are doing this same thing?” 

“no idea.”

ace pondered the thought a bit longer. how many were enjoying the same beautiful day as he? were they also smiling at the sun? something about it made him feel connected to the world in a way he hadn’t noticed before. 

“we should go grab a bite to eat before too long,” marco said as he stood up. “i’ll bet the rest of the crew is almost done stocking up the ship.”

ace drank in the beach view once more before joining his friends on the walk into town. he had been walking for what had only felt like a moment when he noticed his head and shoulders felt particularly exposed. ace’s heart nearly stopped in his chest as he grasped at the air above his hair. 

“ace?” thatch called out to him, noting ace’s quizzical expression.

“my hat’s gone.”

***

the sand was a warm welcome beneath your feet. it was a joy to be beside the sea today, and something in the air beyond the salty aroma felt especially radiant. 

you had been out running errands today when you suddenly found a break in your schedule, which brought you to the beach. it wasn’t all too often you were on this side of town, so you were making the best of this chance. the sun kissed and nipped at your cheeks, and you regretted not having prepared for this little detour. you needed to find some shade soon.

towards the end of your walk, you stumbled upon a peculiar orange hat. there was no owner to be seen, at least not in the immediate vicinity. you scanned a bit further away, shielding your eyes from the sun with one hand. you spotted a group that had been sitting here moments ago and made to approach them, but a gust of wind blurred your vision. by the time you could focus back on the spot you’d seen them, they were gone.

you stared down at the hat, considering. surely, it would blow away if you left it here. there was no way this hat was abandoned, either. every little piece of it appeared to be lovingly cared for: shiny red beads atop the brim, which was neatly stitched and, aside from a loose thread or two, was unfrayed. the leather strap might have seen better days, but it only went to show how often the owner wore it. in short, this hat’s wearer must be sorely missing it now.

you nod to yourself with determination. you’ll just have to do a little sleuthing. it can’t be that hard, right?

how wrong you were. you’d just spent the last hour walking up and down the streets, scanning for anything that would remind you of the group of people you’d seen or for any poor souls who looked like they might be looking for this hat. it was so bright it stood out as a beacon, so you had initially hoped it would do all the work for you. 

eventually, you resigned yourself to checking with nearby local businesses that might have seen the owner of the orange hat. after a few statements of “sorry, i haven’t seen that hat before,” you finally caught a clue, although it wasn’t necessarily what you were expecting. 

at the local diner that you frequented, you approached the owner with the hat in your hands. the owner appeared slightly disheveled, but you supposed it could have been a busy day. 

“i’m looking for the owner of this hat. have you seen someone wearing it before?”

his jaw clenched as he eyed it. “i hope i never see the guy again, kid.” 

your eyes widened. “why’s that?”

the restaurant owner let out a long, exasperated breath as he lifted the bat he kept behind the counter for safety. “let’s just say he owes me. you find him; you let him know he has a tab to close, alright?”

you nodded, although you weren’t so sure you would be any help. the way it's looking right now, you might be stuck with this hat for a while. 

***

“you just have to retrace your steps. chances are, someone found it, and you’ll cross paths somehow.”

ace bit back a cringe as he reflected on his day and his unfortunate first stop. sure, thatch was probably right about retracing his steps and all that, but did that mean he’d have to do this? 

he squared his shoulders as he stood outside the entrance to the diner; he’d been a… well, “patron” would only be the right word if he’d actually paid for his meal. hopefully, he had the right amount of cash to get some information and avoid a confrontation.

ace stepped through the doors, a bell ringing to signal his entrance. within seconds, the shop owner was climbing over the counter, baseball bat in hand. 

“i never thought you’d have the nerve to show your lousy face here again.”

ace raised his hands, a meager effort at peace. “i have money!”

“you should have said that first, kid.” the man lowered the bat.

ace made his way over to the counter, reaching for his wallet. “you wouldn’t have happened to see a bright orange hat lying around, would you?”

“matter of fact, i have. one of my regulars stopped in with it, looking for you.” the shop owner dug through a pile of receipts in search of ace’s bill. 

“do you know where they might be right now?” ace took a slinky, unassuming step backward, one eye on the door.

“haven’t the faintest. but you’ll know her when you see her. about yay-high,” he motioned with a hand, “awful sweet, cute as a button.” the shop owner smoothed out the ticket and read the price, relieved to have this over with. 

by the time he looked up, the bell on the front door had rung, and ace was nowhere to be found.

***

your wandering continued fruitlessly. you may as well have been a door-to-door salesperson with how methodical your approach had become - and with the number of times you’ve heard the word “no.”

as you snaked through town, you decided it must be time to take a break. along the outskirts of the market street, you elected to sit on a nearby bench and collect your thoughts. 

you carefully strung the hat around your neck, its soft material resting on your back. it wasn’t necessarily on display in its new position, but it was better than holding it in your hands like you had all this time. 

it occurred to you while you sat that the mysterious hat owner was possibly a traveler. you sighed, hoping that he hadn’t left his hat behind for you to tend to forever. you began to regret taking on such a responsibility. this was like finding a needle in a haystack. 

“hey!” a tiny voice shouted from behind you. “i know that hat!”

your heart nearly leapt out of your chest as you spun around. a little girl, possibly no older than 8, holding a plushie, was running up to you, pointing at the hat on your back.

“you do?” you asked. “can you tell me about who it belongs to?”

the girl ran around, standing before you. she nodded eagerly, smiling with all her teeth. “of course i can! he’s my hero!”

grinning back at her, you leaned in, full of curiosity. “he is?”

“uhhuh! just this morning my evil neighbor stole my fishie plushie and pushed me on the ground.” she motioned her neighbor’s action with extra special dramatic effect, plushie flopping around. “but a big, strong guy came over and saved my fishie! and he helped fix my knee, too!” she pointed at her knee, adorned with a carefully placed bandage, likely covering a scrape.

you can’t help but feel a little warm and fuzzy inside at the thought of this faceless man as the savior to this girl. a diner and dasher, and a hero to children? you had more questions than answers at this point, and craved the answers with renewed passion.

“how nice of him to help you and your fishie. i’m glad you’re both ok!” the girl held her fishie closer with a warm embrace. “can you tell me anything else about the man who helped you? he seems to have misplaced his hat, and i’ve been trying to find him so i can give it back.”

“his name’s ace!” 

“ace, huh?” you tested it on your lips. you barely knew anything about him, yet it seemed to fit him well. 

“mmhmm! and he has a tattoo on his arm, too. i’ll draw it for you!” the girl knelt on the dirt road and drew a series of letters on the ground, with one crossed out - ASCE. “i didn’t spell it wrong. that’s exactly what it says.”

“i wonder what it means!”

“didn’t ask,” the girl said. “how are you gonna find ace?”

it was certainly helpful to know ace’s name and some sort of defining characteristic about him, but that didn’t quite fix the issue at hand. “i’m not sure. if you were me, what would you do?”

the child furrowed her brow as she considered. “there’s always lots of people at the market! i can help you look, since i know him and all.”

“that sounds like a plan!” as you stood, you introduced yourself to the girl. “what’s your name?”

“it’s mimi!”

“it’s nice to meet you, mimi. let’s go find ace!”

you and mimi take a stroll through the market, scanning for any sign of ace. after about 30 minutes mimi began to slow down, her little legs clearly tired from all the events of her day. you decide to adjust your plan, buying a couple of snacks from a food stand and taking a seat toward the center of the market, right in the middle of the throngs of people.

“if we stay in one place, he might find us,” you told mimi as she gratefully chowed on the food you had given her. 

you placed ace’s hat in clear view in hopes that if he did pass by, he would notice it. before long, someone did approach you, asking about the hat.

“i know someone who is missing that hat terribly,” the stranger said. he was a slightly older fellow, with fine blonde hair and glasses.

the man wasn’t threatening by any means, as a matter of fact he seemed a kind person; but you found yourself feeling a bit protective of ace’s property. you held it just a little more closely before glancing at mimi, who you noticed had fallen asleep with her head resting on your arm, clutching her dearest fishie.

“you know who owns this hat?” you asked with every ounce of practiced kindness, doing your best to smooth out any apprehension from your voice. 

“ace is a close friend,” the man said, “and crewmate.” 

“do you know where i can find him?” you asked. “or perhaps you can return it to him?” it stung a little to think you might never meet ace, but it was more important that his hat was returned. your curiosity, and, you admitted to yourself in the back of your mind, your enchantment, would have to take the back seat.

the man watched you carefully. you couldn’t explain why, but it felt a lot like he could hear your thoughts. he smiled softly as he spoke. “i can’t say where he is at the current moment, but i’ve got a feeling ace wouldn’t be able to accept his hat without the chance to thank the person who took care of it.” 

you couldn’t help the sense of relief that overtook you. it was growing more and more difficult to ignore the rhythm in your chest at the prospect of meeting ace. in some strange way, you already knew him. 

“i should probably walk mimi home,” you started, “but i can meet ace here at the market later.”

the man stuck one hand in his pocket, his smile growing bigger. “i can do you one better,” he said as he pulled out a piece of paper. “i’ve got his vivre card right here.” he ripped off a piece and held it out to you. “you know how these work?”

you beamed at the small scrap, watching it shift in the palm of your hand. “i do.”

“good,” the man said, turning away as he spoke. “tell him marco gave it to you-yoi.”

“thank you, marco!”

“don’t mention it.” marco waved a hand before disappearing into the crowd as swiftly as he had appeared.

***

ace wiped a hand down his face as he stood at the port, conflicted. the sun was beginning to set, and he’d had bad luck finding his hat. beyond the incredibly vague description he’d gotten of you at the restaurant, nobody he’d spoken to seemed to have seen you or the hat around.

in a last ditch effort, he decided to ask a few people at the port if they’d seen it. one person, a man pushing a cart full of food, had a scrap of insight for him. ace hoped it would be what he needed.

“that hat rings a bell,” the man said. “i saw a woman wearing it on her back at the market earlier today. she was with a little girl. they asked me about you. said i never saw you before.”

“can you tell me anything else about them? what did they look like? do you know where they are now?” ace could barely contain his excitement. he had limited time before he was supposed to report back, and time was of the essence. ace wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be on the island - they could leave tonight, even.

the man gave a few details about your and mimi’s appearances, and said the little girl must live in town. other than that, he had no idea. but it was more than enough for ace. the little girl sounded a lot like the one he’d met earlier, which gave him a rough idea of where to look. he quickly thanked the man and headed towards the center of the town. you had to be there somewhere.

moments later, ace passed by marco, who was headed back toward the port. he wore his most unassuming grin as ace approached.

“still haven’t found her, yoi?” marco asked. “she’s been looking for you.”

ace sputtered to a stop, his eyes wide. “you found my hat?”

marco leaned toward ace, patting a hand on his shoulder. “make sure to thank her real nicely, alright?” 

marco walked away before ace could decipher his words. “what’s that supposed to mean?” he shouted at marco’s back.

“i think we’re gonna stick around here a bit longer,” marco called out. “the people here are one-of-a-kind.”

ace stood there, bewildered. what a load of help that was. obviously, marco was unwilling to divulge any spare details, so ace continued on his way, looking for his hat. for you.

***

the sun was drawing close to that broken line where the sky met the city, accented by the freshly lit torches of the main road. a warm glow painted the features of the streets, and you and your search partner cast tall shadows along the colorfully painted buildings.

mimi was, to put it lightly, disappointed that she wouldn’t get to see ace again. she had quite little energy left to protest with; however, as she was all but leaning on you to keep walking home. 

once she successfully directed the two of you to her house – less talking, more vague hand motions – mimi grasped your hand firmly, a confident look in her eyes behind tired lids.

“you have to make sure you tell ace that i helped,” mimi said. “that i did it because he was so nice to me.”

you pat mimi’s head. she was an excellent companion to have at your side today. if not for her, you may have given up hope long before marco crossed your path. 

“i promise. i’ll tell him all about everything you did to make sure he gets his hat back.” you smiled warmly. “i’m sure ace will be grateful.”

with that, mimi went home. once her front door had closed, and you were sure she was safe, you turned away, pulling ace’s vivre card out of your pocket. it would lead you the rest of the way. your pulse quickened with anticipation as you carefully watched the small scrap’s pull, following it with your steps.

***

ace stood where the once-lively market was. now, it was nothing but empty stands, and a few merchants loading their stock onto carts. the day had quickly met its end. how could he be sure you were still here? 

he recalled that you were with the girl he met earlier, mimi. that clue could lead to some answers. it was far too late for mimi to still be up and about, but he could at least check out the place he met her. just in case.

the street corner where he’d found mimi was closer to the market than he remembered. of course, nobody was there. ace cursed marco for his vagueness. couldn’t he have at least told him where he should look? a general vicinity would have made this so much easier. 

at this point, ace had to bet there wasn’t a single road in this entire town that he hadn’t scoured. he’d gone in circles countless times, and he had no more ideas to move forward. his feet started moving regardless. he had to keep trying, but couldn’t help but feel like this was a fruitless effort. ace didn’t even look up as he walked. 

but that was only until he heard a conversation in the distance - no, that wasn’t a conversation. he could only isolate one voice. 

“he has to be close by now. i better not have gone all this way for nothing,” the voice said.

ace turned around, his gaze lifting to search for its source. there you were, an oasis in a desert, and he’d been walking for miles, having nearly forgotten how long he’d gone without water. you were walking, yes, but your eyes were fixed on the palm of your hand, an admirable focus creasing your brow; his most prized possession resting safely around your neck. he’d found you.

the greeting ace had been rehearsing escaped him. he nearly choked on his breath when he tried to get your attention. “excuse me,” he called out, a hoarseness to his voice. he cleared his throat, fighting his heartbeat for composure. “i believe that hat belongs to me.”

your eyes widened as you turned towards him. your lips parted, but you couldn’t make out words. so you stood there, frozen, for only a second, but an hour’s worth of thoughts rushed through your head. you found it hard to believe this could be ace standing before you. he had begun to seem a fictional being since you found the hat on your shoulders.

as your body caught up to your mind, your hand jumped to your collar, tracing the strap of the hat you’d grown fond of by this point. you weren’t quite ready to relinquish it, you had to admit.

“are you ace?” you asked with a hint of hesitation.

ace often felt he had a conflicted relationship with his name. but to hear it from your lips was as if he had found out he had been saying it wrong this whole time; like it was different from the title he’d grown accustomed to. it was new, somehow, and he was drawn into that sensation. 

he hated how much he understood what marco had told him now. he’d have to thank him later.

“that’s me.” he’d never been so sure of it.

you took in the presence of the man standing before you, at last. he was sunshine and a warm summer breeze with a broad, strong stance. you saw the tattoo on his arm, as mimi described. he looked every part the person you were told he was, but there was so much more there. you wanted to gaze at him until his sunshine blinded you. perhaps then you would know him as deeply as you wished in this moment.

“i hope you understand,” you started, “i’ve worked rather hard to find you, and i have some questions i’d like to ask, if that's alright.”

ace laughed. it sent a tickle up your spine. “i understand. can i buy you a drink?”

“i’d love a drink.” before you could think, you carefully removed ace’s hat. 

you wondered if ace could read the hesitation in your features as he spoke. “please, hold onto it a bit longer. you’re certainly better at looking after it than i am, after all.”

truthfully, ace wanted to commit to memory the sight of you with his hat. he couldn’t think of a better sight. 

you smiled shyly at him as you let the hat back down. “let’s get that drink, then.”

***

the saloon was about as lively as you’d expected for a random summer night - plenty noisy, but not necessarily jam-packed, either. the energy was lively, joyous, and there were countless smiles warming up the space. 

you and ace were about halfway through your first drink, the awkwardness of introductions past, and you had calmed down enough to carry on a conversation without an underlying sense of giddiness. you wanted to believe your excitement had been from the day's exhaustion, but ace was a handsome man with a smile that left you breathless. it wasn’t easy to ignore. 

“i believe you had some questions for me,” ace said, leaning toward you across the table you shared.

“i should hope you have answers,” you said, sipping your drink as you pondered what to ask about first. you smiled broadly, a knowing look on your face. “the owner of my favorite diner was quite disgruntled when i asked him about you.”

ace shrunk back into his seat, pursing his lips in feigned embarrassment. “i’m not hearing a question.”

you huffed a laugh. “what happened?”

“i have this sort of… tradition,” ace said, picking up his glass. “it’s silly, really. wherever i travel, i have to eat somewhere without paying.” he took a sip from his drink before continuing. “it’s something my brothers and i did when we were kids. i haven’t seen them since we were little, so it's a small way of keeping them here.”

you shook your head, your grin plastered to your face. “of course, you have a really good reason for it!”

“what do you mean?” 

“it wasn’t adding up,” you explained. “of all the little things i learned about you today, that was the one that didn’t fit. so it can only make sense that you had a sentimental reason for it.”

ace’s face bloomed a faint pink as you spoke. he sat back up, resting his chin on one hand, full of curiosity. “what else did you learn about me?”

“you’re full of surprises. a hero to young children, insisting on directly thanking a stranger who found your hat.” you removed his hat, then placed it on ace’s head, leaning close to reach him. it completed the picture of him you had built up: a wonderful mystery with a bright orange hat. 

ace’s cheeks flushed to a deeper shade of crimson as you took him in. he hadn’t expected you. he thought he was used to being seen and often identified, being a known whitebeard pirate. but nobody had looked at him like you did right now. he didn’t think he would be seen.

“mimi really wanted to find you as a way of thanking you for your help,” you said. “she made sure i didn’t give up.”

ace smiled, grateful for the renewed conversation. “i heard you were with a kid. i hoped it was her.”

“i only met her today. i’ll have to let her know i found you.” 

“we can tell her together tomorrow,” ace said thoughtlessly. you smiled as you watched him squirm a little, realizing his words. “if you want to, that is.”

“i’d love to.”

the drinks began to flow as effortlessly as your conversation with ace. you could feel the heat of your buzz beneath your skin, the warmth drawing you closer to him.

a group of men entered the saloon, filling the space with their laughter and chatter. you identified one of them as marco, the one who gave you a piece of ace’s vivre card.

“there they are!” marco called out as he saw you and ace. he approached the table, crossing his arms as he took you in. “the woman of the hour, yoi. i can’t tell you how happy i am that you found ace’s hat.”

“hello, marco,” you greeted. “thank you again, for your help.”

ace’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he watched your exchange. he knew marco had been up to no good when he saw him earlier. “what did you do?” 

“relax, ace. i just pointed her in the right direction,” marco explained coyly. “isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

you nodded your confirmation, a bit bashful at marco’s flirtatiousness. ace was speechless.

“i’ll let you two get back to chatting. it was great to see you again.” marco flashed a wink at you as he walked away, rejoining his friends.

ace’s mouth hung open as marco left. he turned back to you, his expression inscrutable.

“the two of you must be quite close,” you said, observing ace as you held the paper from earlier between two fingers, “for him to have your vivre card.”

ace continued to say nothing, his eyes darting between you and marco across the room. there appeared to be a lot of math he was doing to understand what happened.

although watching ace turn into a blushing mess was indeed entertaining, you continued, in effort to regain the peace from before. you held out the piece of ace’s vivre card. “i don’t imagine you intended for marco to hand this out to strangers.”

ace smiled at you softly. “you should keep it.” he wrapped his hand around your open one, closing your fingers over the paper.

your pulse quickened from the sudden contact. he was tantalizingly warm. 

“why, are you planning on losing your hat again? or maybe it’ll be something else next time?” you toyed with him, hoping to catch him on the tail end of his fluster.

ace leaned in close, bracing himself with his other arm. “if that’s what it takes to see you again.”

it was your turn to squirm under ace’s gaze. it was both a relief and a torment to know you weren’t imagining the chemistry you were feeling. it still could have been the booze, but you wouldn’t brush it off so easily. 

with a sudden rush of confidence, you closed the space between the two of you, nearly standing out of your seat. ace could feel your breath on his skin as you spoke.

“i think,” you said, “it should take less than that.” your nose brushed against his before you sat back in your seat, only a whisper of touch as you let go of his hand. your heart was pounding now, but you had made your statement. 

there was a flicker of something in the shine of his gaze. something a bit more starved than you’d anticipated. it was gone with a blink, but the hint of it sent a wave of need through you. 

“it’s a bit loud in here, wouldn’t you agree?” ace straightened, watching you carefully as he posed the question.

you could have floated out of your chair, but thankfully, you remained earthbound. “it is,” you crooned, “hardly the noise level one might crave for good conversation.”

ace chuckled as he stood, holding one hand out to you. “let’s get some air.”

you took ace’s hand, ignoring the hollers from marco and the others as you followed him outside. 

the air outside had cooled, not so much that it was cold, but in the way that summer nights fade from hot to, well, less hot, and the soft breeze wrapped around you, a welcome embrace. your steps were unhurried as you followed ace’s lead through the streets.

before you could register what was happening, ace suddenly pulled you to one side, guiding you to a dimly lit alley. you let out a small “eep!” at the movement as ace spun you around towards him.

“i never thought something as silly as losing my hat would lead me to someone like you,” ace said, his voice soft. 

you swallowed your nerves as you straightened. “you’re lucky i was here, you know,” you said, tilting your head at him. “not many people would have walked in circles for hours to return a lost hat to a random stranger.”

“you’re so right,” ace chuckled. “i could tell when i saw you. your determination is something to be feared.”

you smiled up at him, staring into his eyes. “is it?”

“absolutely. i was so taken aback when i met you that i forgot what i wanted to say,” he held your gaze. “you surprised me.”

your expression flooded with mischief as you listened. you reached for ace’s hat, taking it off his head and placing it on your own. you’d avoided putting it on your head all day, not wanting to cross that boundary when you didn’t know who it belonged to. now, you took that small leap with a challenge in your eye.

“then let’s try again, shall we? i want to know what you were going to say.”

ace froze briefly, fighting the heat rushing to his face, and perhaps other places. seeing you in his hat turned him upside down. you were a beautiful thing to behold. but he wouldn’t back down from the challenge you presented him with. he swiftly closed the space between you, causing you to step back in surprise, but the surprise ran deeper when your back met a cold wall. ace braced one arm over your head as he leaned down, completely enclosing you with his frame. 

“you’ve got a lotta nerve, taking someone’s hat, you know,” he said, his voice turning gravelly.

and you truly could have been floating when ace pressed his lips to yours in question, just a soft brush. you tried so hard not to smile into him, but then he pulled back, uncertain.

you grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him back to you. his eyes widened when you said, “then come take it from me.” 

you crashed your lips into him, an answer to his question. the two of you moved in perfect harmony, you sliding your hands behind his neck, ace’s meeting your waist. whatever tension the two of you had been skirting around all night snapped. 

ace’s grip tightened on your waist, causing you to gasp, the faintest of moans escaping your throat. ace took that chance to deepen the kiss, his tongue tracing your lips, which you greedily accepted, giving him full access. your hands began to roam his body, and you traced cords of muscle tightly woven beneath soft skin, appreciative of what your touch found.

after a fleeting eternity of shared kisses, ace broke his lips from yours, but they didn’t go far as he lowered his head, diligently dragging his lips downward. he nipped and sucked on the delicate surface of your neck until he felt your hands twitch during their exploration. he paused when he read your smallest of tells, and then sucked that sensitive place with more force, biting down ever so slightly to deepen the sensation. you couldn’t hold back the moan that followed when he released your skin, relieving the slight tinge of pain with a soft brush of his tongue.

“ace,” you whispered breathlessly as you pulled him away, returning his gaze to you. you kissed him again, softly and intentionally, no more question; no more challenge. 

you both paused, chests heaving, noses nuzzling each other. the intimacy of sharing breath sharpened the high of your exchange, and you basked in it. 

“can i-,” ace said between breaths, “can i walk you home?”

you grinned as ace backed away slightly, just enough to see your face. what a sight it was, to see your swollen lips and dilated pupils. to know that you were the one making those sweet, desperate little sounds just moments ago. 

“you can walk me home,” you said.

ace grabbed both of your hands, pulling you off the wall and back to the street. he spun you around again before releasing you, but he held firm to one hand as you guided him to your home.

the two of you exchanged excited chatter as you walked through the streets you had both walked alone in search of the other. it was difficult to believe the night would end. hours had passed by as you had looked for ace, and they drew on, but now that you’d found him, the passage of time was a harsh whirlwind. 

as ace walked you to your front door, you faced him again. there would be no more need to hold onto his hat any longer, so you picked it up once again. 

ace’s hands shot up to yours, ceasing your movement. “tomorrow. i’ll come get it from you, and we’ll see mimi.”

“i’d like that,” you said. ace guided your hands back down to your sides, but he didn’t let go. 

“i’ll be the one to find you this time. you’ve done enough searching.” he leaned in once again, kissing you, far more chastely than earlier, but with every ounce of passion. 

you pulled away first, releasing him. you brushed one hand down his cheek. “i’ll see you tomorrow, ace.”

he nuzzled into your hand, entranced by your touch. “tomorrow.”

you made your way inside, parting ways for the day. as you settled down inside, your heartbeats returning to a resting pace, you couldn’t help but agree with what ace had said earlier. 

you never thought something as silly as a lost hat could bring you to him.

thank you for reading!!! i worked on this over the course of several months as the idea came to me and i'm so happy to be sharing this now.

in case you are a playlist person, here is the spotify playlist that kept me inspired while i wrote. no need to listen, it isn't intended to read, i just wanted to share the vibes :-)

-tor

[insert-this-fire]

Overpoweringly Sweet

Logan Howlett aka Wolverine x gn!nonspecified mutant! Reader

Summary: Somehow you contracted Hanahaki for a man you hardly ever spoken to. Cant end well can it?

W/C: ~9k Warnings: a little OOC, angst, graphic description of coughing up flowers with blood.

AO3 Mirror A/N: I never post actual fics on tumblr but I feel that it needs to be done here. So sorry if its kinda formatted weird? it will also be on AO3!. First x-men fic too so sorry if its a bit ooc. Not really based on any specific iteration of Wolverine. Also not edited like, at all. Also I take requests! :3

~~ :3 ~~

You know, having a crush on someone so unattainable is laughable at best. Having a crush on them and apparently somehow contracting Hanahaki is even worse. How does that even happen? You haven’t even spoken to the guy more than a few words. Too embarrassed to open your mouth to introduce yourself and you work together. Yet here you are, petals on the bathroom floor and a constricting feeling in your throat. Your head lying on the back of the stall door. Still heaving from the sudden onslaught of overly sickly floral-scented petals that spilled out.

Gardenias. Pure white and mocking. 

The smell of them made you nauseous. The sight of them even more so. After looking up what they meant. It just made things even worse.

Secret love. How fitting.

It’s a damn crush, and the world decided it was love. Love for a grumpy ass old man with hair that kinda made you think of a cat. Actually, he reminded you of a cat in general. One that you want to rest your face on and fall asleep. Bury your face in those pecs of his. Muscles may look hard, but they do have a bit of squish. By God, does he have muscles. You’ve caught him shirtless a few times. All by accident, of course. You weren’t a pervert. Anytime you think of it, your jaw clenches tight.

Ah, getting off-topic here. Back to the fact that apparently, hanahaki doesn’t care if you’ve ever talked to someone before.

The stall door was cool against your cheek when you turned your head, and it was less gross than hugging the toilet like you wanted to so you could flush the flowers down the drain. It was terrible. The petals surround you, and a single full bloom floats mockingly in the toilet.

You know how to cure it. The moment that the flower petals started to spill from your lips, you desperately looked for what it was. It wasn’t that hard to find, apparently some find it sickeningly romantic. Bet they never had to deal with the ache that was constant around your lungs. You found the cure for it as well. Should be easy to do, right? Tell the person how you feel and they return it, or get it surgically removed. The surgery should be the right choice. It’s the only choice. You’ve hardly spoken to the man who coveted your affection, but the thought of not feeling the tug of your heart when you see him was too much to bear. Which makes no sense! It’s a dumb crush.

God, you’re an idiot.

A deep breath fills your lungs slightly, and the pain wraps around your chest as you try to get a full breath. Your hands find purchase on the rim of the toilet, and you push yourself up. Now, on two shaky legs, you wipe your mouth. You need to clean up the petals before anyone comes in. It was still the middle of the day, and classes were still going. Thank God the coughing fit didn’t hit you till lunch, or you would have to explain to a classroom full of students. That would be embarrassing. Yeah sorry class, your teacher is in love with someone they can’t have, let’s continue with the lesson now! Embarrassing.

Your hands start to pick up the petals. Each one feels as if it was searing into your skin. One, two, five, ten, thirty. Thirty petals and one full bloom. You were screwed. You could go to Hank. See if he knew any other way around it, any way to fix the disgusting flowers that took root in your lungs. Maybe being a mutant changed how to cure the disease? That was just hopeful thinking, though.

After mulling over the choices for a few moments more, you finally unlock the stall door and walk over to the garbage, quickly discarding the petals that did not make it into the toilet.

Your feet then carry you out of the bathroom and, as luck would have it, right into the chest of the one person you did not want to face yet.

Logan.

You were right, though. The muscles on his chest were squishy. God you want to just motorboat him real fast. Would that be weird? Yeah it would be. As quickly as you ran into him, you tried to remove yourself from his personal space. You know the guy wasn’t too fond of touch. You think. You actually… don’t know. Words quickly spill from your mouth as you try to apologize. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t see you.”

Logan just makes some gruff-sounding noise and continues on his way. You could faintly see as he walked away scrunching of his nose. He was probably able to smell the faint floral scent that was clinging to you. It probably wasn’t pleasant. You didn’t like the scent, it probably was a lot stronger on his end.

As you stand in the hallway after the sudden bump into your crush, you place your hand on your chest to calm your beating heart, and you walk in the opposite direction to your classroom. It hurt that he didn’t even say anything back to your apology, but that seemed pretty in character. To you, at least. If you were on friendlier terms, maybe not, but you doubt he even knows your name.

The thought of the surgery resurfaces in your head. Maybe you should get it. Ignore the deep-seated pain in your heart at the thought of losing your feelings for him. However, the repercussions of a botched removal is another reason not to do so. It could remove the feeling of ever being in love again. Would that be so bad though?

You shake your head. You have a class you have to get back to… and a phone call to make.

The day continued on like normal after that. Classes, grading papers, discreetly removing petals from your mouth into the trashcan by your desk as you graded papers. A new norm for you. It did seem that a few students had noticed a slight change in you. In fact, one of them even got you a get well soon card. Sweet, but it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

If you don’t get better soon, you will probably end up another statistic for the disease. How many people were there that had it and perished as the roots wrapped around the lungs and slowly filled the valves on the heart. Too many, probably. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at that. That’s why you were now sitting in your now empty classroom, making a phone call. You had found a number to a doctor who specializes in the disease. You would get some advice and decide from there what you want to do.

The phone rings, once, twice….

“Hello, this is Dr. Forrest’s office. How may I help you?” How fitting a doctor who knows about Hanahaki has a nature-based last name.

You quickly introduce yourself and ask if you could speak to him or schedule an appointment. Apparently the only way to talk to him is with an appointment. The next one isn’t for a few months. You don’t even know if you’ll last that long. You’ve been keeping track. A full bloom appeared today. A singular full bloom, no steam. The petals were loose so it had to be in the early start of the mid stages. It was taking its time infecting you. It must be due to not seeing Logan all the time.

You do tend to avoid him when you can. The thought of seeing him always makes your cheeks burn. Man was just too hot. It made it seem like you were in love with just his looks! You weren’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be coughing up all these petals. You’re pretty sure it wasn’t just his looks. The flower has a meaning, after all.

Maybe if you avoid Logan, actually stop trying to see if you can see him across the halls. Stop looking for him during dining hours. Just try to ignore him. Though unless he was going to go on one of those sudden long vanishing acts. Well, you doubt that you actually will be able to avoid him enough to live till the next appointment. You really are screwed. Shit.

Running a hand over your face with a groan you lean back in the chair behind your desk. What should you do? The surgery now seemed to be out of the question. So now you either confess and die, or you just die. Which definitely was not the ideal thing to do. You were screwed. Hands down. Your name is on the death warrant the moment the receptionist said months. Maybe you should go to Hank. Dude was a certified genius right? He would know something.

A knock at your door made you jump. Quickly you lift your head and look over to the closed door to your classroom. Could be a student, another faculty member? Whoever it was either needed you or the room.

“Come on in.”

Silence followed and then the door opened up. Your gaze turns to the door, ready to answer whatever questions that are going to follow. Till you hear the tall tale sound of boots, heavy. The sound of jeans rubbing against legs. A jacket rustling slightly from movement. Jeez, why are you suddenly so aware of the sounds?

Your eyes hone in on the man you’ve been thinking about. Logan. Twice. TWICE in one day you’ve seen him up close. See him in your space. He never seeks you out. You never get to see him up close like this more than once or twice a week. It’s like you’re in a fanfiction and someone is pushing the two of you together.

That’s silly though, this was real life.

“Oh, Logan. How can I… help you?” Could you sound any more awkward? You want to bang your head on your desk. Especially with how he was just looking at you. Should you have called him Wolverine? Mr. Howlett?

“You need to let up on that perfume you’re wearing. Can smell it all over the hall.” His face gives away the fact he smells something he doesn’t like. 

Perfume?... Perfume… The flowers. Of course he could smell it. The floral scent has been clinging to you since the first petals slipped from between your lips.

“Oh, heh sorry. I’ll try to use less of it.” You just laugh a bit, still feeling a tad bit uncomfortable, the sudden tickle in your throat reminding you that you could not stop the smell from permeating your skin. That it will linger on you till you no longer have these flowers growing inside of your chest. “If I use too much again I’m sorry. Can’t really tell when I use too much or not.”

Blue eyes narrow at you, you can tell he doesn’t believe you. That he should call you out on it. “Thanks bub, it’s masking everything else.”

With that he left the room as quickly as he came, there was a slight pause and you can tell he glanced at the trash can by your desk. The trash can that had a few petals thrown in haphazardly. Thought to be hidden by the papers that you threw on top. You hope that is all he sees.

That was such an awkward interaction. You slam your head on the desk once more. God why are you such an idiot.

~~ :3c ~~

Time continues on like normal, but recently you catch Logan at the corner of your eye. Which is normal, you usually do seek him out. Yet now it’s like he is everywhere you go. Walking in the gardens, he’s out there smoking one of his cigars leaning on a tree or the wall of the mansion. You’d be eating and you’d see him a table or two away, his eyes on you. You can feel them boring into your skin. You’ll be walking in the hallways and see him turning a corner before you fully spot him. More often than not you find him outside of the bathroom you were just in after coughing up a storm. Just standing by the door like a guard dog. Always scrunching his nose when the door opens and the aroma of flowers follows you out.

He knew. He had to. He had to know something was wrong with you. There is no way he doesn’t. The man has been alive long enough that he probably knows the signs of what you have. The disease that is currently ruining your life. He has probably seen all sorts of people who have had Hanahaki. You won’t be the first, nor the last person he has seen inflicted with it either. It’s probably why he’s keeping an eye on you. He must have found out when he came to ask you to stop using so much perfume and yet you still smell that sickeningly floral smell on you.

Unless you’re just suddenly more aware of him than you were before. Which you shouldn’t be. You were already highly aware of him due to your damn dumb crush that’s killing you. Eyes are always lingering on him.

It’s probably because of the scent that’s following you around. It is probably sticking out more than your usual scent, which was. You don’t know. What do you normally smell like? Apparently, it’s something non-distinct since the new smell is pretty overpowering. If you can smell it, it must be strong.

You wish you knew what was going through the man’s head. You couldn’t really ask him. You aren’t close to him like that. Can’t ask the people he is close to either because you aren’t close to them. You kinda just, are here in the mansion teaching. You’re not a part of x-men, you aren’t too interested in fighting anyways. You earned your keep teaching. You are vaguely close to Hank though. Well, in recent events at least. You could ask him?

Yeah, no, you aren’t. You’re going to suffer through this. You can handle it. You don’t need to know what’s going on in his mind.

Which reminds you, you need to actually go talk to Hank. You’ve been putting it off, but the full blooms are startling. Every other coughing fit brings one full bloom. It has only been a week since the first bloom and with the sudden influx of Logan sightings, it is speeding up. You needed an out and fast. Before it kills you.

Thus here you are walking through the mansion to head down to his lab. Quickly avoiding anyone you see. The scent of flowers following you through the halls like a wraith. Leaving a trail of sweetness to waft into the air. Disgusting.

As you make your way into the lab you spot Hank, or Beast? Shit, you don’t even know which one he prefers to be called. You really should ask, huh. Anyway, you spot him.

When the blue-furred man spots you, he quickly greets you with your name: “It is good to see you this fine evening. What do I owe the pleasure? It is not often I see you down here.”

If you could, you would sigh deeply. The rattling of vines stops the motion before it begins. “Hi yeah uh. I got into a delicate situation and I don’t know who else to go to? The doctor I had called can’t really see me and I don’t know what else to do and you’re like… The smartest person I know so I’m hoping… you could help?” The words spill out quickly.

Hank raises an eyebrow and fixes the glasses perched on his face. The man was upside down for some odd reason, and he quickly flipped to land on the ground. With grace you don’t expect for someone his size. Then again, you’ve seen some weird ass mutations. He motions for you to sit down on one of the beds stationed in the lab. One used when needed for situations like this. Medical, scientific, not something you can throw a punch at and fix.

After sitting down on the bed, you start to explain. Words flowing like a waterfall. He is the first person you have gone into detail about your condition. How the petals slip from your lips like a poison, the tightening of your chest with each breath. The fear of losing yourself to unrequited love and dying because of it. You do not mention who it is directed at nor the fact you thought it was a crush and did not deserve to have evolved into such a disease.

The room fell silent after your reveal, a silence that stretched on longer than you would have liked. God, you hope he has an idea about how to help you out of this mess.

“From my knowledge there are only two cures. I assume you already know.” A pause as you answer with a curt nod. “I do not believe there are any other alternatives other than what has been proven to work. I assume that you are here to find out if there are any or that you require the surgery.”

“I can’t tell them… I really had hoped that you would know. I don’t.” You sigh and run a hand through your hair, messing it up slightly. It was already a mess from earlier, but you know how hands are in hair. “It’s not an option to tell them.”

“I see. It will take some time, but I will see if I can learn the correct procedure so that there will be minimal to no complications.” Hank pats you on the shoulder and motions for you to head out. He had some things to do and research to go over. Escorting you out of his lab so Hank may do what is necessary. He didn’t give a timeline, but you trust that he can do it before your time is up.

You really hope that he can do this.

After leaving the lab, you had to pass some of the other faculty. Or X-men? Yeah, it seems they are setting off on a mission of some sort. You pass Cyclops, Storm, Jean and. Yeah, that is exactly who you don’t want to see right now. Logan. Seems he is going with them. To, wherever they have to go. You give them all a small nod in acknowledgment as you pass them. Each one provides you a small smile or nods back.

Logan though? He pauses when you pass him. His face contorted into something you weren’t too sure of. He probably caught another whiff of the flowers on you. Great. The others give him a look and he just grunts at them. Somehow they understand and continue on their way. Leaving you with Logan.

A hand grabs your bicep, fingers wrapping around the muscle. Your gaze drops to the hand, in another life you were sure it would be rough with use, but it was surprisingly soft. The grip was not, natural strength hidden behind the hold. A promise that you would not be able to pull away without exerting yourself.

“You’re smellin’ worse. Thought I told you to let up.” A gruff voice, oh how you want to roll in that voice. That was a weird thought, you should probably stop thinking of that like a weirdo. God are you a weirdo?

An awkward laugh bubbles up from your chest. You can feel your own muscles tense under his hold and gaze. Damn he’s never looked at you like this before. A slight glare, crinckled nose, and a slight snarl on his lips. You must be really weird because damn was that kind of a hot look. Which somehow in turn makes your chest tighten and the tickle of a cough is trying to break free. You swallow hard to bite it back. Yet you can feel the petals moving through your throat. 

“Sorry sorry, I guess I overdid it?” You pull your eyes away from his. Unable to continue to look at his face. Be it from your weird thoughts, the tickle in your throat or your inability to keep eye contact with someone. “I swear I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“You’re hiding that you're sick.” The grip on your arm tightens. Not in a painful manner no, but a reminder that you cannot run away from this conversation. Which is odd right? Why does Logan care? You two hardly know each other. Sure you apparently love the man, but you’re still sure he doesn’t even know your name. You’ve seen him care for others in the mansion, a good friend in an odd way. A father figure and mentor to some of the students. Also in a weird way. You’re sure he’d brush off that idea and say he isn’t. He is.

Wait, he just said you’re sick… “I’m not sick?” 

Logan's eyes narrow as he stares at you. Do you look sick? Sure you’ve gotten a little pale and eating has gotten a little hard so you haven’t been eating as much as you usually do. Does being sick have a smell to it? Fuck that is weird. Well, some animals could tell when others are sick before physical symptoms show. Maybe that's how he knew. No, that wouldn’t make sense because you aren’t really sick. You just have a big fat crush that's killing you. 

You can tell Logan doesn’t believe you. “Just fix it. Can’t stand the smell on you.” His hand lets go and he stalks down the hallway to where the others had walked off to. Your eyes linger on his form as he walks away. The ghost of a feeling on your arm where his hand had wrapped around it. The slight warmth seeping into your skin slowly vanishes. God you’re fucked. 

~~ >:3 ~~

And fucked you are. It’s been at least two months since you told Hank about the hanahaki. Hank is taking his sweet ass time researching the procedure, the doctor you called has called back finally and mentioned that his next opening for a consultation was still months away. Which you decide to say fuck that guy, you trust Hank can do it. The doctor probably won’t even work on a mutant. Logan is still always at the corner of your eye. A scowl or sneer on his face anytime he looks at you. Not to mention the flowers! They’re getting worse.

Full blooms, multiple at a time. Their petals no longer loose around the center. Now they are tightly packed, fully bloomed and speckled with blood as they escape through your throat. Occasionally there would be a flower that had not bloomed yet. Still wrapped tightly, not fully formed. You weren’t sure what that meant, but you’re sure it wasn’t good. At least they were not roses. You feel bad for those who dealt with that. Thorns were something you were happy that was not in the mix of your own flower hell.

The flowers aren’t fully developed yet. Stems have not fallen with them. Yet you are unsure if you would survive long enough to see the end stages of hanahaki. Your body is getting weaker and weaker each day. Your own mutation even fighting against you. You can hardly call on it now. Once you had wished to be a normal person, but that has been years ago. Now you feel like you are losing a part of yourself. These damn flowers truly are killing you. Both physically and emotionally. 

You had to leave class more often. The coughs that tore through your chest made it unbearable to speak long enough to teach an entire class to its completion. Students start to worry, other faculty seem to notice the sudden change as you have to start asking for people to cover your class for you as you rush to the restroom to hug the porcelain throne to exude the flowers of love. Each time more and more petals fall from your lips, tears stain your cheeks more often due to the pain and energy it takes to clear them out from your throat. 

It has gotten to the point where you had to ask someone to cover your class in full, or cancel it. You don’t want to cancel your classes, but at the rate you are going it will be the only thing you can do. Today is probably the last full class you can handle, you feel like shit. Your throat itches, your stomach aches from the lack of food. Your head hurts because of the lack of sleep from the coughing. Yeah, you might have to take a break from it all. What surprises you is that Logan is waiting outside of your classroom.

Ok it’s not that surprising. You’ve been catching him outside your classroom since he came back. It is like he is suddenly more aware of you. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. You would be excited usually, your crush suddenly paying attention to you! How great is that? Yet lately it just makes things feel so much worse. Especially with that sneer on his face. You know he knows something is up, he made it clear two months ago. Though he hasn’t brought it up again. Yet he is always there. Like a shadow. 

Which is honestly a bit uncomfortable. You aren’t used to this amount of attention. 

“You don’t have to stand out here you know?” Papers you needed to grade were in your arms. You may need to take a break, but you should at least grade these papers before someone takes the class over. Your last bit of work. 

Logan just stares at you. The slight glare, the wrinkled nose, the arms crossing making those muscles bulge out of his shirt. You had to quickly drag your eyes away from his arms so you aren’t caught staring. You don’t meet his eyes though. It was too intense. 

“You’re getting worse.” Way to point out the obvious Logan.

“Good observation.” A short pause follows after. Silence falls for a few moments. “I uh, it’s why I’m takin a break. Sick leave? Uh… Yeah…” You really don’t know how to talk to him. The tickle in your throat is back again. Too soon, you just hacked up half your lung just moments before. You really don’t want to cough in front of him. You thought he might already know what it is, but he still thinks the smell on you is perfume. So no way do you want him to know the truth. 

Logan stares at you a few moments longer, a slight grunt. His head motioned for you to follow him. That’s how you read it at least as he starts to walk down the corridor and only pauses to look at you. Looks like you’re following him. This can’t end well can it? 

The two of you walk silently through the corridors. Your arms are still full of papers, but it seems the two of you are heading out into the garden. Probably for the best, the crisp air outside will dull the floral scent. Hopefully at least. Even if it lingers on your skin and it has gotten to the point others have even started to point it out. The halls were mostly empty though at this time. Most students are already off doing their own thing, you can vaguely hear a laughter from down the hall as the two of you finally make your way outside.

Into the garden, the cool air bites at your exposed arms. You should have worn a jacket. Too late for that now it seems. The trees are already turning orange, autumn making its way across the land. Oranges, reds and browns. If you weren’t full of anxiety you would be enjoying the sights. Especially as Logan brings you over to a small bench by the man-made pond. A bit away from everyone, but still close enough to the mansion you can dash inside if needed. 

You take a seat first. The papers sit beside you. Logan stands in front of you. Arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He isn’t sitting. Why isn’t he sitting?

“So uh…” Your voice comes out first, awkward and a bit unsure. The tickle in your throat grows again as you fight it back.

“It’s not perfume on you is it?” Logan’s gaze never leaves yours, but you can’t help but look away. Too uncomfortable with the eyes boring into you. You never once used perfume, though you did use that as an excuse didn’t you?

Silence followed after. Your eyes looking at the ground as you kick your legs back and forth. Unable to voice the truth. Logan is still looking at you, jaw clenching most likely. You don’t have to look at him to know.

His voice finally cuts through the silence. Apparently he was sick of you beating around the bush and not answering him. Your name on his lips startling you slightly. You honestly thought he didn’t know your name, but it seems you were wrong. “What's makin you so sick that it’s leaving you to look like that and smell like that.”

You should tell him. Tell him. TELL HIM. 

… 

You’ll tell him without actually telling him. You don’t think you’d survive telling him the full truth. You’re a pretty good liar most of the time. He might be able to pick through the lie but he’s not that perceptive right? 

“I uh… It’s.” You feel like you’re stumbling over your words, your throat constricting. “I have.”

You couldn’t finish your sentence. Your muscles tensing as a cough tears through you. Violently. Your body lurching forward as your hand shoots up to cover your lips as the cough pulls out petals and blossoms alike. Your hand can’t catch all the petals as they spill to the ground. Your eyes clenching shut as tears prickle the corners due to how painful it was. The other hand not covering your mouth grabs at your chest. As if you could claw the roots out through your skin. It burns. 

It burns, it burns, it burns. 

It won’t stop. You can’t stop hacking up the petals. Each cough brings out a sob with it as well. It has never been this bad. The scent of gardenias explodes. It burns your nose. You hate the smell of it. If you survive you’ll never be able to handle this scent again. Your body retching forward as you double over. Body crumpling in on itself as you try desperately to get some air into your already filled lungs. You would think having plants living in your lungs would give you more oxygen. If only it didn’t wrap tightly around your lungs and neighboring organs. Leaving little space for what you truly needed.

You almost forget Logan is there with you. An unexpected presence sits beside you. Warmth seeping into your side. He doesn’t set a comforting hand on your back. Doesn’t say any words. But him sitting beside you is enough comfort. You don’t think you could handle physical touch anyways. Your body would probably jerk harder at it. Hanahaki really was a killing disease wasn’t it. It was going to kill you before even getting to the final stage. You can’t do this.

Slowly the coughing fit lessens. The petals and blooms spilling from your mouth as if it was all you breathed came to a stop. Your body still hunched over, tears filling your eyes as you finally, finally stopped coughing up the damned flowers. You were still shaking, trying to catch the lost breath.

“You’re ok sweetheart. Just try and breathe.” Something large, heavy, warm rests on your upper back. Small soothing circles. He called you sweetheart, that was strange. You don’t expect comfort. You don’t think Logan expected to comfort you like this either. It was an awkward movement, but comforting. You wanted to lean into it, lean into him. You weren’t going to though. Pain was radiating through your chest and you weren’t sure you would be able to sit up straight without coughing again. Fear that any movement will bring on another coughing fit settled inside of you like a vice. You can still feel the slight tickle in your raw throat. 

You taste blood.

It takes a few tries, gasping tries, before air finally was able to fill your lungs enough that you could breathe properly. Or well, as well as you can with roots wrapping around your insides. You pull out a few petals that were still stuck in your mouth and let them fall to the ground as you slowly sit up. Still slightly hunched over but no longer practically hugging your legs. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, blood from your lips smearing across your skin. Eyes on the ground where the mess you made mocks you. There's so much, white and red. White flowers that you would have thought beautiful covered in splotches of your own blood. Tainting the gardenias, tainting the meaning of secret love. Disgusting. You’re disgusting. 

Your eyes linger on the ground as you finally speak. Voice raspy and strained. “Sorry.” 

“Nothin to be sorry about, nasty thing you got. Seen it a few times.” Logan’s voice is gruff, yet there is a touch of something tender in there. Unexpected. You don’t like it. He shouldn’t be treating you like this. He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t know that you’re like this because of him, because of your dumb crush on him that the world decided was good enough to practically kill you.  

Ok that’s not true. You know under his rough and tough demeanor and the huge, insensitive ass he could be. He’s caring and trustworthy. Loyal as fuck and self-sacrificing. It’s what had drawn you in in the first place. The soft look he’d give to people he cared about when no one was looking. The way he treats the younger mutants. It was heartwarming. Your admiration for him turned from simply looking up to him to wanting him to look at you that way.

Silence falls between the two of you again as you continue to try to take in oxygen. The taste of iron and earth is still on your tongue. The sound of fellow mutants distantly chatting and the occasional bird cuts through the silence. You don’t want to talk, you don’t want to tell him who your affliction derives from. You doubt he would ask, but he might. You’ll need to think of an excuse. A lie. Anything to keep him from finding out it is him. He’d reject you. You know this already. You’ve seen him look at others. He doesn’t look at you like that. You just learned he knew your name too! The two of you hardly spoke before. This is the most attention you have ever gotten from him. He doesn’t love you the way the disease needs him to. 

“Who's the asshole?” His words cut through the silence again. Surprising you once more. This definitely is the most words he has ever spoken to you.

“Doesn’t matter… He doesn’t feel the same.” Your throat continued to feel raw. It hurt to speak, but you needed to answer. You couldn’t stay quiet when he asked. Your gaze moves from the ground to glance at him from the side. You try not to meet his eyes but you can see a look on his face that had never been directed towards you. In any other situation you would be happy, ecstatic. Right now though, it makes your stomach tie up in uncomfortable knots. 

A slight hint of anger crosses Logan’s face and his hand just rests on your back, no longer rubbing those soothing circles. You know he wants to know. The look he has on him makes you think he sees you as someone under his protection, it’s nice. Even if it is not really what you want at the moment.

“So you’re willing to die for him.” There was a short pause between his words. His tone is soft, you don’t like it. “Seen most with it die that way. Shouldn’t have to die like that.”

You decide not to reply to the fact that you were willing to die for these feelings. Why? Because you still don’t want to believe it is true. Even with the flowers clearly showing signs the crush was love. Infatuation. You hate this. “Dr. Mccoy is going to perform the surgery for me. Should be any day now.”

You at least hope it will be any day now. You spoke to him a couple days ago and he seemed a bit all over the place so you couldn’t ask him if he was ready yet. You know he hadn’t forgotten, you saw the books laying on one of the tables next to some tools, but time was ticking and it was ticking fast. You know it and now… Now Logan knows it too. You’re on limited time. 

“I… can’t tell him. He doesn’t feel the same, he can’t. I’ll die if I tell him. I have to do the surgery. I’d rather chance not feeling love again than to confess and die. I…” Your hands curl into themselves as you look back down at the flowers. The tightening in your chest squeezes harder. You don’t need to explain yourself, but you feel like you have to. This way you can come to terms with it. Speaking it out loud makes it all too real. “I trust Dr.Mccoy. He won’t fail. He… he can’t.”

“Lotta trust in the guy.” Logan leans back on the bench, his hand lingering on your back removes itself as he crosses his arms. You feel the itch in your throat again, it’s too soon for more petals. You at least hope so. Logan then continues, “Remember watching someone choke on their own blood cause of that shit. Don’t want to see you on that end sweetheart.”

Logan called you sweetheart, again. It made butterflies fly around your stomach, churning with the anxiety already there. It was not the most comfortable of feelings. You weren’t expecting it this time either. It was nice. Would be nicer in better circumstances though. “Thanks Logan, but I’ll survive this. I have to…”

“Still think you should tell me who this asshole is. Could talk to him.” You hear the familiar snikt sound, a clear sign he extended his claws. A glance over was all you needed to confirm he did, the light gleaming off the metal. 

“God no! Sure actions speak louder than words for him, but it wont help.” Because he’d be threatening himself. You couldn’t help but let a pathetic laugh bubble up. Pain radiating through your chest and throat as you do so. At least you can still find some humor in this. Logan’s claws go right back under his skin and between his knuckles at your words. Though you can tell he still seemed interested in using violence against who is causing this for you. God, you wish you could tell him.

The two of you fall into another silence. Your own thoughts are swirling through your head and you’re sure Logan is also dealing with his own thoughts. Your disease is now out there. What truly ales you has been revealed without you actually saying the words. You wished you could have said the words, said what it was, told him your feelings. Though things never work out that way do they. 

You aren’t sure how this was going to end.

Logan looks at you the same time you gaze at him. Your eyes meet his blue ones. You would wax poetic about his eyes, but that seems pretty cliche. Everyone always does when talking about blue eyes, how they look like the ocean, or the sky. Logan’s reminds you of steel, the silvery blue that almost matches the adamantium claws you see on occasion. There is something in those eyes though, something you can’t read. Something behind that wall everyone knows he puts up. You want to dig deeper, fall into those eyes to avoid all your problems. Be free of the pain you can’t escape. The two of you seem to just stare at each other far longer than it felt. 

“Tell me when you get the surgery. I want to be there.” 

“...Okay.”

And just like that, the two of you break eye contact and fall into a silence. A silence only broken by the occasional cough from you and the sounds of nature and other mutants about. You wish you could have experienced this sooner. Before your world decided to crash down on you. You’ll just have to enjoy the time with him like this while you can. Before the feelings you have for him are forever torn away. Leaving only a hollow space in your chest for the fellow mutant. 

You’re not ready. 

~~ :3 !! ~~

Hank Mccoy finally let you know he was ready to do the surgery a few days after your chat with Logan. You weren’t ready for it. You didn’t want to lose these feelings, you didn’t want the complications that may follow, but fuck you don’t want to die either. You will die if you don’t do this surgery. You can’t… You have to do this. 

Which is why you are outside of the room Logan usually occupies when he is in the mansion. You've been standing outside of his room for what felt like hours now. You knew he probably could hear your heartbeat, but he isn’t coming out. He asked to be there when you got the surgery. He wanted to support you for some reason. You could just go, leave and get the surgery without telling him. Your anxiety welling up along with the urge to throw up. Your hand is already raised before you could stop yourself and you knock three times.

Silence follows after. The sound of shuffling and the door opens. Logan standing there in one of those slutty little white tank tops and jeans. A classic look that was all too hot in your opinion. Your mouth feels dry as he looks at you.

“I’m getting it now.” You rub your arm, unable to look him in the eyes. You do look at his face though. Just long enough to see shock cross his face for a few seconds, which quickly vanished back behind his usual look. Logan steps out of his room and shuts the door, head tilting to the side a bit as he waits for you to start walking to Hank’s lab. 

The two of you walk silently through the halls. It was late in the afternoon. You could have gotten it earlier in the day but your body was so exhausted from the coughing fit you had that night that you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed. In fact you’re still in your pajamas mostly. Sweatpants and a t-shirt. Comfy. You’re going into surgery, you deserve not to dress up for it. Logan doesn’t comment on it either so it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything is fine.

The two of you enter the lab quietly. No one else seems to be here but Hank. After all, one else knew. People knew you were sick of course, but you kept a tight lip on what exactly was inflicting you.

Hank greets you with your name. A look of surprise as his eyes drop onto Logan. Quickly he glanced back at you and you just shrugged your shoulders slightly. Letting Hank know the situation. How Logan knew what was wrong with you and wanted to be here with you. Moral support from the emotionally constipated x-men. Well, mostly constipated. 

After going over the procedures and what needed to be done you step behind the curtains, changing into one of those flimsy hospital gowns. The cool air nipping at your skin as you bite your bottom lip. You were scared. You didn’t want this. You couldn’t do this. You can’t do this! You don’t want to lose your feelings for Logan. He just now is starting to show you attention. It’s not fair! You shouldn’t have to deal with this! You can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t. 

“Are you okay?” Hank's voice cuts through your spiral. Eyes watering and your chest heaving. Ohm you were crying. No, you were sobbing again. Your hands are shaking at your side. You glance at the curtain that hid you from the other two. You know they heard you crying, heard you falling apart. How embarrassing. Your hand grips at the gown, bunching it up at your chest as you take a shaky breath. Lungs barely able to hold a full inhale. 

“Yeah… Yeah sorry. I’m ok. I’m ready.” You step out from behind the curtain. Clear concern was on the blue mutant's face. You can’t read the others. You don’t like this. You silently pad over to the table, bed, whatever it is, that is set up for you. Another strained breathe and you sit on the surface. A glance at the two of them and you lay back. You’re surprised the professor wasn’t here to help out. Maybe he wasn’t needed. Hank could handle this on his own. You can handle this. Logan was here, you didn’t want him here, but it was a strange comfort knowing the man you loved was here to support you. Even if said surgery would remove all feelings for him. How poetic. 

You stare at the ceiling, unsure of what to do as Hank moves around you. Logan who had been leaning on the wall walks over and takes your hand in his. Holding it as if you would shatter at the softest of touches. You hate it. 

“Offer still stands darlin’. Can make the guy love you back.” Although the words would work well in a teasing tone. There was a hint of seriousness behind it. Like he didn’t want you to go under. To have the gardenias removed from your chest. Your hand squeezes his weakly. You knew you didn’t have much time left. You had to do this or confess. Only one of those was an actual option.

Hank returns and holds up the mask. You lift your head up as he slides it over your mouth and nose. It’s too late. You can feel the tears threatening to fall again. You’re scared. Your grip on Logan’s hand tightens as Hank moves around you, making sure you’re hooked up correctly. Your vision starts to blur slightly. You try to inhale the gas as deeply as you could, it hurt. Your lungs didn’t want to fill, you think you can feel the roots wiggling deeper through your lungs and closer to your heart. Your eyes are on Logan, fear clearly radiating off of you. Your own eyes showing the anxiety inside of you. Logan just stands strong next to you. Like a silent guard. 

As the world starts to blacken around you, the corners of the room vanishing slowly. You couldn’t help yourself. You were getting the surgery. You can say the words now. It won’t matter. Your head was already floating and consciousness was fading. Eyes focusing on Logan, like a tunnel. All you could see was him as the world around you slowly vanished into nothingness.   Three words slipped out of you without much thought.

“I love you.” 

The world shifts and the world goes dark. 

The quiet beeping echos. A steady rhythm that matches the slight pounding in your head. Your eyes slowly open, only to quickly shut again. The lights were a bit too bright and everything was… Numb. Your mouth feels dry and you physically can’t feel anything. Did the surgery go wrong? Why can’t you feel anything? A groan bubbles up from your throat as you force your eyes to open. That’s when you feel it.

You can feel every muscle, every fiber of the blanket covering you. The heaviness in your chest is gone. You take a breath. You can… You can take a breath. Your lungs are fully filled with oxygen. Chest rising higher than it has in months. You can breathe. Your eyes open again, the bright fluorescent lights above you illuminate the room. You tilt your head away from looking up at the ceiling. Eyes moving around the room. Gaze falling on the little monitor you’re hooked up to. The beeping was your heartbeat. Ok. That looked good. 

Your head turns the other direction as you take in another sweet deep breath. Eyes landing on Logan. He was still here, sitting beside your bed, head lolled to the side clearly asleep. Your chest tightens in the familiar feeling you have been dealing with for months. That can’t be right. You shouldn’t still be feeling this longing. You shouldn’t still be feeling the warmth that spreads through you over the fact that he had stayed. You shouldn’t be feeling the soft tug on your heart as you look at him or the soft smile pulling on your lips.

This was wrong. Something was wrong. You raise the arm that wasn’t hooked up to all the devices and set it on your chest. There was pain there, raw and uncomfortable, but there was no bump on your chest to show there was a bandage, no pain pulling at your skin. The pain you felt was all under your skin. This isn’t right, something is wrong. Your chest felt clear but you have no evidence that you underwent the surgery. You force yourself to sit up. Pain shoots down your spine. You groaned in pain and a hand was suddenly pressing down on your shoulder. Forcing you back onto the bed. Logan had gotten up.

“Logan?” Your voice was scratchy. It felt just like the times you coughed up all those flowers when he found out. “What… What’s going on? Why do I…” 

“Yeah it’s me. Lay back down. Can’t have you moving around too much yet.” Logan’s hand was still on your shoulder, a gentle pressure making you lay back down onto the bed. Your eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the look he is giving you. You can’t read him. “Don’t talk too much either. Hank said you got to heal.”

Yet you’re pretty sure you didn’t get the surgery though! You should be dead. You… You told Logan how you felt. How you still feel. Yet the urge to cough is gone. Your chest feeling lighter than it has since before the disease took its hold on your life. That has to mean something. Something happened when you went under. What happened? Why won’t he tell you? Why is he looking at you like that? 

Logan’s hand finally pulled away from your shoulder. He just stares down at you as you stare at him. Silence falls between you two. His hand then slowly moves again. Your eyes darting down to the hand. Slowly his hand goes to push some hair out of your face. The same look he has been giving you for the past few months crosses his face. You still don’t know what it means, but it is making your stomach flip. 

“Glad you didn’t die for a guy like me. World be a lot darker without you in it.” His hand gently cups your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek. His hand was soft and warm. The touch a bit too tender for someone like him.

Wait. Wait wait wait. He heard you. He heard what you said before going under. You didn’t go through the surgery yet your chest feels lighter than it should. That could only mean one thing. Your eyes go wide in surprise and your lips part as you go to speak. Pain still itching at your throat.

“You heard me…” Of course he heard you! He was right next to you holding your hand. He has enhanced senses. He heard you confess. He heard you say you loved him. You’re still alive, you still feel for him and you confessed! That has to mean. Your face suddenly lights up. Heat pooling both on your cheeks and in your stomach. There is only one explanation. There is only one way you were able to live and still feel this way. Logan loved you back. That doesn’t make sense though! Before you started smelling like flowers the two of you never spoke to one another. Yet he…

He loved you back.

“Yeah, I did. Could have told me sooner to save you the pain. Told ya I’d make sure the guy felt the same.” His hand leaves your face. He turns to grab the chair he had been sitting in before and pulls it over. The chair legs screeching across the floor making you flinch at the noise. Once the chair was next to you he sat down and took your hand in his again. Once more treating you like glass. Though you appreciate it, you feel like glass right now. 

Logan lifts your hand up to his face, blue eyes staring straight into your own as his lips find your knuckles. Leaving a soft kiss. You were already blushing before, but you swear you feel like you’re on fire. His lips brushing against your knuckles as he speaks once more. You really aren’t used to hearing him speak so much. “Looks like we got a lot to talk about sweetheart.”

You just silently nod, unable to break your gaze from his. Your hand is lowered, your heart beating out of your chest. You are sure he can hear it. You lick your lips, unable to speak a word out of fear you’ll embarrass yourself further. Logan just chuckles slightly, a deep reverberating one. 

“Guess I should say it, not really good with the emotions shit, but I love you too.”

A few blinks and then a small laugh comes out of you. A wince follows after, but the biggest grin spreads on your face. All it took was you almost dying to finally hear those three little words. You’ll never look at gardenias the same again, nor will you be able to stand the sickly sweet smell of a strong floral scent. That doesn’t matter to you though. You obtained something you thought was unattainable. The love of the man you were in love with. The secret love no longer hidden. 

You can now understand the look Logan was giving you. It was the same you had been giving him. You both were in love with each other but were unsure how to go about it. All it took was the flowers that no longer were growing inside of you. 

You finally say the words, more confident than when you went under. “I love you.” 

“Love you too sweetheart.” 

[readerstories]

When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 8/?

A little shorter one, but it felt right. Next one is definitely going to be longer. Still on vacation, so I got no idea when the next chapter will be, but it will be longer. Hope y'all are having a good time! (AO3) (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 9) (Part 10)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn

Wordcount: 813

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

This time you get two weeks of what is blessed silence to your mind, but torture on your body before you see either of them again.

Yet again it's an unexpected location, though a slightly less strange one. You are finally back in the gym, after Evelyn giving you the go ahead. Dave had agreed to spar with you after calling her, just being a good friend, but you are working out frustration of not being able to do much training for weeks. 

Your body hurts and aches, but you hope getting to move and use it will soften it up somehow. 

It can’t hurt too much to at least try.

You need to keep yourself strong and able. You steadfastly ignore the hurt in your shoulders and upper back, the pain so constant now that you have gotten used to it.

You are just done with warming up, slowly and carefully, and manage to get your boxing gloves on and hit Dave’s sparring gloves all of three times before you are interrupted.

“You put on a show like this for anyone pookie?” You freeze mid-punch as you hear a familiar voice. Turning around, standing just outside the mats you are currently occupying, is Wade. He’s dressed in his full Deadpool suit, weapons and all.

“Dave, let's take a break, give me like ten minutes.” You address your sparring partner as you glare at Wade.

“Uh sure. You going to be okay?” You look over your shoulder, and see him eyeing Wade’s guns. 

“Yeah, nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He nods, taking off his sparring pads before walking away and leaving the two of you alone.

“What are you doing here?” You take one glove off, dropping it on the floor in favor of grabbing your water bottle and taking a swig. Wade watches you, tilting his head as he speaks, and you swear you can hear the grin on his face.

“I was just in the neighborhood, and happened to see you through the windows, putting on the most titillating show.” You eye the windows, which are pushed high up in the ceiling of the gym. You take off your other glove and put your water down, hands on your hip as you glare at him.

“Sure, right..... Now, since you were just in the neighborhood, you have no reason to stay.”

“Seeing you, sweaty and panting, canceling your inner ‘Real Steel’? I think that’s a good enough reason.” He steps onto the mats, raising his hands. “I’m no Atom, but I can shadow box well enough.”  He raises his fists up in a loose guard, making a come hither motion with one fist.

You sweep your leg out, catching one of his, making him fall on his back with a yelp and smack of the mats. A second later one of his guns is no longer in its holster, instead it's pointing at his chest, while your knee on his stomach and your hand around his throat keeps pins him down.

“If there weren’t people around, I would shoot you right now.” You know people keep to themselves here, but you think if you actually shot Wade they would pay attention. His voice is breathier than normal as you press down on his throat as he answers.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Besides, there are much more fun things you can do with me if we were alone.” You roll your eyes, ignoring how you’re actually feeling better by the second. For a fleeting moment the thought of getting your hands on skin instead of his suit goes through your head, but you shake it away.

“There isn’t.” You let go of his throat to take the magazine out of his gun, dropping it and the gun on his chest as you get up, standing next to his hip. He tilts his head, staying quiet long enough that you are able to talk again.

“I’m going to go take a piss, I expect you to be gone when I get back. If you’re not, I’m going to use your own damn blades to start cutting limbs off, audience be damned.”

“I think the audience would like that, the freaks (affectionate).” He winks somewhere off to his left, towards a weight rack.

“Wade.” You are sure the irritation rolls of you in waves, even without the bond between you both.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’ll get out of your lovely hair.” You roll your eyes again, but turn your back on him and walk away.

—--

When you get back from the bathroom, Wade is gone. But, he has carved a heart with ”pookie” inside into one of the mats, making you curse his goddamn name under your breath.

(Part 9)

[trippedandfell]

stop the world just to stop the feeling

The night before Maddie and Chimney's wedding, Buck and Eddie talk on a balcony. | 1.5k | buddie | ao3

Eddie’s just uncapped his second beer when he hears footsteps behind him, so familiar he recognizes who it is by sound alone.

“Hey,” he says, as Buck sidles into view, arms coming to rest on the balcony railing beside him. He’s got a drink in his hand, too - one of those fruity vodka seltzers that Eddie’s reluctantly started stocking in the bottom drawer of his fridge. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Buck fiddles with the tab on his can, the silver of it reflecting in the moonlight. “Something like that.”

His shirt is slightly too big, slipping down just enough to expose the sharp jut of his collarbone, the dark bruise forming on the edge of it. Eddie’s eyes fly to it without permission, and Buck flushes red. 

“It’ll be covered by the suit tomorrow, promise.”

“Mm.” Eddie takes another sip of his beer, ignoring the sour way it curdles in his stomach. “Good. Think Chim’s one incident away from going full groomzilla.”

“Can you blame him?”

“Not at all,” Eddie admits, and Buck huffs a laugh. “You should have been me the night before Shannon and I got married. I was a wreck.”

He’d been alone, in the shitty little apartment they’d rented once they learned about Christopher, Shannon spending the night at her mom’s across town to help them cling to some ragged sense of propriety that neither of them truly believed in. It had been one of the most awful, stomachache-inducing nights he’d ever had up to that point in his life, and it wasn’t until he saw Shannon in the church the next day, glowing in a way that had nothing to do with the bump hidden under the folds of her white dress, that everything had finally clicked into place.

“Hi,” she had said, reaching out to squeeze his hand, and Eddie had let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Buck’s staring at him now, as if he can sense the myriad emotions playing out in Eddie’s head. “It’s so weird,” he says. “Maddie and Chimney have basically been married for a while now. But all of this just makes it feel so real.” He gestures a hand at the expansive hotel grounds, the ocean beyond. “I mean, my parents are here.”

Eddie knows. Eddie had done an exceptional job at ignoring them at the rehearsal dinner that night, tucked in the corner by himself, Marisol having gone to their room earlier with a headache.

He feels a brief, guilty flash about leaving her alone now, although she’d been snoring when he’d crept past Chris on the sofa bed and out into the light of the hallway. He wonders, idly, if he should have left a note.

“They seem to be behaving,” he offers, which is about all of the goodwill he’s able to give the Buckley parents at any given time. Buck makes a face at him, and he adds, half-teasing, “for now.”

As far as he knows, they haven’t said a word so far to Buck about Tommy. He should probably ask, but somehow he can’t make his mouth form the words.

Buck drums his fingers against the balcony, quiet. “Do you ever think about it?”

What, fighting your parents? Eddie almost jokes, but he knows that’s not what Buck’s asking. “About getting married again?”

“Or getting married at all,” Buck says, and there’s something in his face, something suspiciously like longing, that has Eddie taking another gulp of his beer. “Like, big reception, flowers. The whole nine yards.”

“I wouldn’t do a big reception,” Eddie says, shuddering. “Just in the backyard, or something.”

Buck cracks a smile. “You do have a nice backyard.”

“You’re just saying that because you did all the landscaping,” Eddie says, bumping their shoulders together. “I had to weed it the other day though, so I should at least get partial credit.”

Buck looks sheepish at that, which wasn’t what Eddie was going for, but also wasn’t not what he wanted to happen. “I meant to come do it this week, I’ve just been -”

“Busy,” Eddie finishes for him, which isn’t fair, not really. Not when Buck is still over at his house most days, not when he hasn’t missed a single one of his afternoons out with Christopher. It’s just that there’s now a new purple marker in his kitchen, carefully outlining Buck’s availability on the calendar.

Eddie’s never had to schedule Buck in before. Not with Taylor, or Natalia, or even Ali, way back when. 

Combine that with the fact that Buck’s now asking about marriage…

Eddie drains the last of his beer. “You should get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees, but stays where he is, shoulder still pressed against Eddie’s. “Hey - uh. We’re good, right?”

“Buck, you’ve already apologized.” And grovelled, and apologized again, until Eddie was back from medical leave and working with the 118 again.

“Not about that.” Buck shakes his head, the movement bringing him closer to Eddie still, their forearms nearly overlapping on the railing. “I mean - about me. And Tommy, I guess.”

And Eddie - Eddie will be the first to admit it took him a second to come to terms with it, to fully wrap his head around the idea of Buck with a man and, more specifically, Buck with Tommy. But he’d hugged Buck, and stumbled his way through some approximation of support, and then gone home and researched until his eyes were burning and he’d bookmarked every tab he could find about bisexuality and being a good ally - so. He thinks he’s been doing okay, overall. Certainly not poorly enough to make Buck question if he’s been harbouring secret homophobic tendencies all this time.

“You know I’m good with that,” he says, and means it. “And you and Tommy seem - really good. So if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Buck’s eyebrows crinkle together, and Eddie has to resist the fanatical urge to reach over and smooth them out. “I know. I know you are. But something else just seems - wrong.”

“With me?”

“With us,” Buck says, voice veering toward frustration. “Come on, Eddie. You know you feel it too.”

Something thumps in Eddie’s chest, like his heart is suddenly trying to beat out of his chest. “Buck, I promise nothing’s changed-”

“But something has,” Buck says. “And I don’t know what, and it’s driving me insane, and every time I’m at work or at the gym or even with Tommy-” Wait, what? Eddie thinks, panicked -  “I’m lost in my own head, wondering how the fuck I managed to mess up the most important relationship in my life.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” Eddie says, honest. “No one did. It’s just - growing pains. You’re in a relationship, I’m in a relationship - it’s natural that we maybe don’t come first for each other anymore.”

Buck stares at him, the corner of his eyes suspiciously red. “We both know you don’t actually believe that.”

He doesn’t, but they’re veering into dangerous territory now. “Buck-”

“Why is it different now?” Buck says. “We’ve both dated people at the same time before. Taylor and Ana, Marisol and Natalia. Why is this different?”

Eddie doesn’t feel like he’s capable of breathing. “Buck-”

“It’s not because I’m with Tommy,” Buck says, raking a hand through his hair. “Or that I’m bi. It’s not actually any of it, is it, Eddie?”

He doesn’t sound angry, just - resigned. Tired. The beer bottle is clammy against Eddie’s palm. 

“You never answered my question earlier,” Buck says. “About if you would get married again.”

When Eddie speaks, his voice feels like sandpaper. “Maybe. If it was the right person.”

“Is Marisol the right person?”

“Is Tommy?”

Buck flinches, minuscule. “I asked first.”

“You know what my answer is, Buck,” Eddie says, and he’s tired, so tired. 

“You know mine too,” Buck says, soft.

He does know. Just like he knows Buck’s favourite song, favourite dinner, favourite feel-good rom-com. Just like he knows that Buck will spend all of tomorrow night dancing with Tommy, but he’ll save one dance for Christopher, spinning him around the middle of the room while Eddie watches. Just like how he knows -

“Eddie,” Buck says, and Eddie realizes how close they are now, facing each other with the moon still high overhead, lips a hairsbreadth apart. “We can’t.”

Eddie can feel Buck’s exhale against his lips. “I know,” he says. Taking a step back feels like swimming against a riptide, but he manages to get his limbs to cooperate eventually. “We should head back in.”

Buck swallows, chin bobbing as he nods. “Yeah. I’ll - uh. See you tomorrow?”

There’s something here, slipping out of Eddie’s grasp. He doesn’t think either of them knows quite how to cling on to it. 

“See you tomorrow,” he echoes, and then Buck’s turning toward the door, back to the hallway that’ll lead him to his room, to Tommy in his bed.

Eddie waits until he’s fully out of sight before he follows.

also on ao3!

---

tags: @leothil @sibylsleaves @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @deformed-globule @cantyouseethatyouresmotheringme @silassstingy

[sinnabarmoth]

Tribute for the Dragon (2/18)

Pairing: Dragon|Sylus x Fem|Reader

Summary: Reader finds her footing as the servant to her new draconic master. Just like there is much of the mountain to explore, so there is much more to learn about the dragon.

Content Warnings: Adult language.

Length: 3k

Chapters: (1) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18)

Read on AO3

The following morning you woke up and sat with the reality that you were indeed still inside a dragon’s lair. You were now employed to a dragon that looked far more human than you expected a dragon to look. That did not make him any less dangerous. In some ways, you worried that it made him more so.

Without much other choice you slid out of bed and found the clothes that you had worn yesterday. Such finery was not meant for the day to day work of cleaning and cooking. You decided to makeshift one of the layers into a simple working dress and pulled your boots back on. Your first task of the day was going to be finding a bathing room or something.

As you walked about the tunnels you realized that in the years since the mine had closed down nature had taken back over immensely. There was an entire ecosystem in this mountain. Some poking around you found a room with a fresh water spring running through it so you knew you had a place to get drinking water. You took the time to get a drink and wipe some of the grime from your person before moving on.

You eventually found the dragon in one of the tunnels. He was carving a large X into the stone above an archway. He turned his head to look at you. “Morning, you slept late.”

“I don’t really know what time it is. There aren’t exactly windows in here or clocks.” you shrugged. “What are you doing?”

He gave you a look and you held back a groan. “Will you tell me what you are doing, master?”

He smirked and turned back to the arch. “I’m marking the rooms you aren’t to enter. Simple enough for you to understand?”

“Very.”

“Good.” he turned to you fully, his gaze raking you up and down much like it did yesterday. “Is that what you are wearing?”

You looked down at your makeshift dress and shrugged. “I didn’t exactly pack to stay. This is the best I could do.”

“I see. Follow me.” he started walking off without bothering to see if you were actually following.

You had to rush to keep up with his long strides. “Where are we going?”

“To find you something suitable to wear hopefully.”

“Oh…alright.” you kept behind him. “Um, master?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a bathing room in here? Somewhere I can relieve myself? I haven’t come across anything like that yet.”

“There is one down the tunnel to where your room is. I’ll show it to you after we are done here.” he kept walking.

You were led through the tunnels until you saw a bright golden light shining from around one of the corners. Upon turning the corner your jaw dropped as you took in the splendor before you. This was the largest room you had seen in the mountain so far and almost every square inch of it was covered in gold and jewels. It shined so brilliantly it was practically blinding. You guessed you’d be able to buy the entire country with just a quarter of this amount of treasure.

The dragon had stopped and was watching you with an amused smile. “Never seen a proper hoard, have you?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen more than a sackful of gold before. This is…intense.” your foot slipped on some of the gold coins and you slid forward.

Without blinking the dragon had whipped out his tail and steadied you once more. “Watch where you step.” he let go and moved further into the room.

Among all the jewels and gold there was a plain stone dais in the center of the room. There was no treasure on it which was strange considering that the wealth was so overflowing it trickled out into the tunnel. Why leave the dais untouched?

The dragon was rifling through the mountains of gold until he uncovered a chest hidden underneath it all. He pulled it out, sending an avalanche of jewels tumbling away. The chest itself was ornately decorated, inlaid with rubies and emeralds the size of your fist. He opened it and sighed, finding more jewels inside. “Wrong one.” he shoved the chest aside and started sifting through the piles of riches again.

“What are you looking for, master?”

“There is a chest in here somewhere.” he said, pulling out another chest from underneath an expensive looking carpet. He opened the lid and slammed it down again. “I can’t remember which one, but it had clothes in it.”

“Dragons hoard clothes?”

“Dragons take whatever they feel like taking. And I felt like taking a rather large chest that I thought would be full of jewelry but was instead filled with women’s clothing. Ah, found it.” he lifted the chest lid and inside was indeed a pile of clothes in nothing but black.

“Mourning attire,” you picked up one of the dresses. “Good fabric though. It should work.”

“So, what do we say?” the dragon leaned closer with a sharp smile.

“Thank you, master.” you slung the dress over your arm. “I will go get changed and start making breakfast if it is well with you.”

“Go on.” he shooed you away. You took one last look around the room and fled back to your room. You changed into the black dress, relieved that it fit as well as it did. The dragon came by a few minutes later lugging the chest over his shoulder and dropped it in the room for you. You thanked him again before going about your work.

The next couple of days you started to fall into a routine. You woke up, got changed, made breakfast, then started cleaning. You had made the kitchen your first priority. Back when this was a mine this must have been the place miners would rest and cook meals between shifts. Most of the meals you made involved just cooking meat but over time you had been able to find some edible plants around the mountain to help supplement your diet. The dragon could live as a carnivore but you could not.

Your other constant task was trying to find your way around the mountain. It was a labyrinth of tunnels and more than once you got hopelessly lost trying to explore. It was embarrassing to say the least when you ended up in some dark corner of the mountain unable to remember which way you had come from. In those moments you had to call out for the dragon to come find you to escort you back to more familiar sections.

“I’m going to have to put a bell on you one of these days.” he said after you had managed to get yourself lost again. What you really needed was a map.

One day you were exploring once again and came across a shaft of sunlight. You rushed towards it and came out onto the side of the mountain. There was a outcropping of a flat patch of land where a series of hot springs descended down the side of the mountain face, leading to the largest one at the bottom.

The dragon was lounging inside the spring, steam billowing up around him. “Exploring again I see.” he said when he noticed you standing there.

“You didn’t tell me there was a hot spring here!” you huffed. “I’ve been heating water over a campfire for days to bathe and these have been here the entire time? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You found it eventually, didn’t you?” he shrugged. “Besides, you never asked.”

“How was I supposed to know to ask?”

He quirked an eyebrow up at you. “You’re awfully haughty today. What has got a bee in your skirt?”

You straightened. “Nothing. Sorry for intruding, master.” you turned to leave.

“No need to scamper off.” he called you back. “Your appearance is actually well timed. Come closer.”

You took a deep breath and turned around to face him, walking to the edge of the hot spring. “Yes, master?”

“Wash my hair for me.”

“Really?” you had been doing a lot of work but none of it pertained to the dragon himself outside of cooking meals.

“Believe it or not but claws do not help a lot with grooming.” he crooked a finger at you. “Now stop procrastinating and get over here.”

You walked around to the edge of the hot spring where he was reclining and took up the soap he handed you. You hesitated for a moment unsure where to start or how to work around the horns. You decided to just go for it and started lathering his hair, taking care to avoid touching his horns. To your surprise he reclined into your touch, his eyes closed.

Any time you had come across the dragon in the days you’d been in the mountain he always looked bored or was grinning like a hungry mountain lion. You had never seen him look so peaceful before. There was something delicate about it, like it was an emotion he wasn’t used to. You started massaging his scalp as you lathered his hair and a content sigh left him. With those claws he probably wasn’t used to soft hands touching him, let alone being able to properly massage anything.

You could have stopped and rinsed his hair already but there was something soothing about it all. You kept going, enjoying the motion of washing his silvery hair, the suds sponging over your fingers and the small satisfied hums that left the dragon.

One of your hands got a little too close to where his horns sprouted though and you swore he growled at you. Your hands immediately sprang away and his eyes opened. “What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze intense. The black of his pupil almost overtook the red.

“Sorry.” you said, “I uh…should I be steering clear of your horns? I didn’t mean to touch them.”

“No. It’s fine.” he closed his eyes again, his chest heaved a deep breath. “They are…sensitive.”

“Oh.” You wouldn’t have guessed that dragon horns would be sensitive. You figured they were more like deer antlers or something like that. “So do I need to avoid them or not?”

“You do not. If anything, they probably need cleaning but I don’t usually take care of them.”

“Oh alright.” Carefully you went back to massaging his scalp, taking the time to actually massage the area around his horns. When you did more small growls escaped him but didn’t make it past his lips, more like a rumbling in his chest. They sent a shiver down your spine and you had to wonder. Were his horns sensitive like a bruise or were they sensitive like the center of a palm? If it was the latter you couldn’t understand why he wanted you to keep massaging them, if it was the former could he be enjoying it? And if so, how much?

You suddenly found yourself glad the steam concealed the fact that a new rush of warmth filled your face. You tilted his head back more to rinse out the suds finally. “There, all done.”

His eyes opened again and before you could step back he shook his head furiously like a dog trying to get dry. “Hey!”

He grinned again, the peaceful dragon you had seen once more gone. “Oh, did I get you wet?”

“You know you did.” you crossed your arms over your chest. “Do you not have a towel?”

“Not out here.” he said.

“Would you like me to fetch you one?”

“If you would.”

You nodded and took off back into the mountain to find a towel or something for him to dry off with. If he knew he was going to be getting in the hot spring why hadn’t he brought one with him? Was he just going to drip dry? And what about modesty? Was he going to walk around without anything on until he was dry? Was that what he usually did?

The more you thought about it the more flustered you got. You were no stranger to nudity. In the past you had lovers so it was not as if you were an innocent naive virgin. But you also weren’t comfortable just going about your chores knowing that your dragon master might be strutting around the mountain naked. For goodness sake, you didn’t even know the man’s name! You didn’t want to see him walking around in the nude. Not that you thought he would look bad but it was the principle of the thing.

You found a towel and made your way back out to the hot springs. Thankfully he was still in the spring so you didn’t need to worry about that. You left the towel next to him and made to leave again when something occurred to you.

“Master?” you turned around. “May I ask a question?”

“What is it?”

“Do you have a name?”

Curiosity lighted his face. “Of course I have a name.”

“May I know it?”

“Why do you need to know it? You already have something to call me.”

Your insides tightened. “I know, but a servant would still like to know their master’s name even if they don’t use it. It’s a common courtesy.”

“Human ways are interesting little things.” he tapped his claws against the side of the spring. “Very well, if you want to know you have to give me some information in return.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Do you miss your village?”

Not what you were expecting. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Anyone in particular that you are missing? Should I be worried about someone coming up here to try and slay me to bring you back?”

“The only person I can think of doing something like that would be my father but he is old so I do not expect him to scale a mountain and face a dragon just to save me.”

“No lovers back home that may try to play the hero knight to save the damsel in distress?”

“No. I had past courtships but nothing ever serious. I certainly had no affiliations when I left the village.” Besides, anyone that you had feelings for in the past were off fighting in the war now. “Now, I’ve answered a lot of questions from you and you have yet to answer one.”

“Yes. Well, you may call me Sylus.”

“Call you Sylus? Is that your name?” It sounded far too human to be the name of a dragon. Was he lying perhaps?

He shook his head, bored once more. “My full draconic name does not translate well to the human tongue. So if you must address me by name, you may call me Sylus.”

“Thank you, master Sylus.” It felt nice to have a name to put to his face instead of just referring to him as the dragon or master the entire time. He felt a little less intimidating with a name.

Then, as if to punish you for having a quiet moment of gratitude he decided to stand up. You quickly averted your gaze but not quick enough to avoid getting an eyeful of his dick as he stood out of the water.

He chuckled, stepping out of the spring. “Such an adorable reaction.” he stepped closer, wrapping the towel around his hips. The heat of his body and the coolness of the air caused steam to rise off of him. You weren’t sure if it was the steam or his breath that dampened the back of your neck though as he leaned in close. “How much of a maiden are you, exactly?”

“Not that much.” you balled your hands into fists, “I just don’t appreciate being flashed.”

“Fair, I suppose.” he straightened to his full height. “Now that you’ve found the springs feel free to use them as much as you wish.”

“Mhm,” you nodded, trying to not think about how close your legs were to giving out on you.

Sylus left and the moment he was gone you relaxed, leaning against the wall for support. You had really hoped you were getting used to him and then he went and did stuff like that! Did the man enjoy tormenting you? You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself and his dick popped back up in your memory.

“Fuck me!” you groaned. “Get out of my head! I am not dealing with this!”

It was moments like this where you wished that he had just been a normal dragon that ate you instead.

Although, that did bring up something that you had been wondering about. Everyone had bid you farewell as you left the village and probably assumed you had died. You had no way to let them know that you were alive or that the dragon had agreed to protect them. What if they sent another woman up the mountain.

“Shit!”

You ran back into the mountain, determined to find Sylus. You needed to find a way to send a message to the village and do it fast. You were sprinting through the tunnels and eventually found him in your room.

“What are you doing in here?” you asked, out of breath.

“Getting some pants.” he said, tightening the drawstring that closed over the top of his tail.

“Why do keep pants in my room?”

“I need to keep them somewhere. Now why are you running about?”

“Right. I’m worried about the village.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “I promised I would defend them and defend them I shall. The bandits you are worried about are still far off so it will be some time before they are upon your village and you will actually need any defending. Why the concern?”

“I’m worried that because I haven’t been able to send word to the village that you accepted our deal that they may try to send another maiden.”

“Another?” his eye lighted, “That could be interesting.”

“No! You already agreed. You do not need more women!” you protested, forgetting for a moment that you were addressing a dragon.

“No? Are you worried about your position?” he stalked closer, pinning you against the wall with his presence alone. “Worried your master will not have use for you if another woman wandered these tunnels?” He tapped a claw under your chin, forcing your head up so you were staring straight into his eyes. The tip of claw stayed pointed on your chin, not breaking the skin but could be if a little more pressure was exerted.

The air around you was sweltering, you couldn’t suck in more than a wisp of a breath. The corner of his mouth cocked up in that damn half smile that you had become so familiar with over the last couple of days. “There’s nothing for you to fret over, my little wildfire. There’s far too little work to actually be done around here to justify having two servants. It would just make you both idle and then I may as well be letting you live here for nothing.”

“So you don’t want to accumulate a harem of beautiful young women to with as you please?” You were somewhat serious with the question.

He scoffed, “One of you humans is trouble enough. I don’t need more getting lost in the tunnels every other day.”

You wanted to argue that you didn’t get lost that often but you both knew it was a lie. “Rest assured, if someone comes they will be sent away. Does that please you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” When he stepped away his claw dragged lightly against the underside of your chin leaving a thin line of red that welled and dripped with blood and goosebumps that shivered down your arms.

[rafeplay]

second part and this is not even all of it if I am honest the first part to this post is here

this is from my fic nymphomania.. I also call Leon a sex doll in that fic and in a lot of fics actually so it’s legit just rewording my things to sound different to not get caught atp?

^^ first screenshot mine second is fraise

the next is from a jimmy drabble.. I actually got inspo for that line from an audre lorde poem which may be disgusting to use in porn bc I found the image of like somerhing so disposable compared to human skin very interesting

um this is just an example of how the style I use italics and brackets has kind of been taken? I know it’s not a new thing but I really.. like idk how to explain it I feel like I like to use punctuation and writing quite stylistically rather than sticking by rules and idk.. like maybe im reaching here but when u read my fics and then go to read fraise’s you’ll see what I mean 😭 like this isn’t the best example but I have over 30 fics where u can go and see what I mean..

the first screen shot below is from my fic im dumb she’s a lesbian.. the second is from fraise’s fic.. just rewording somerhing I had said to point out Jimmy’s misogyny like .

the first screenshot is from a jimcurly fic I wrote on ao3.. so it’s not even my reader fics being taken from it’s the ones on ao3 too Im just upset by this truly

second is fraise’s.. again like a lot of this wouldn’t be of note if . all of the other copying hadn’t happen before it 😭

and to me formatting fics the same way is not a problem.. and like but I noticed purely bc the fics were so similar that my authors notes and the way I talk?? And none of this would actually matter to me if it hadn’t been for the plagiarised content .. also the credit to me in the note was added AFTER I asked LOL so it’s not like I really get credit bc the damage has been done tbh and clunky .. disjointed.. grain of salt!?? LIKE sorry maybe im nitpicking and insane but a whole ass authors note low-key tjis is what tipped me over the edge

um.. I just overall am really disheartened by all of this it’s been a source of writers block for me bc If somebody can write how I write so easily gneuinley what is the point in writing? it’s hurtful to see people leave nice feedback, comments likes for work.. that is plagiarism maybe tjis is unfair to them after I said I was ok with credit but in the dms in the other post I did offer fraise the chance to admit to this themselves bc call-outs often result in hate that isn’t needed yknow.. but actually this is jusy something that’s upset me and it is wrong.. and maybe it is wrong for me to do this but yah..

um these r my last dms to them below I feel like I have gone about tjis kindly bc to me the notion of oh but other people have plagiarised and not been caught is unfair .. bc it’s just that I haven’t seen it myself ! and um yah sorry if this seems like it’s done out of malicious intent im just sad about it

[florencebirdsong]

More Than Duty

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Agatha All Along Week 2024 - Day 6

summary: you were given leave to choose your own bride until Agatha Harkness came along. Charmed and lured in by her promises of power, your King Father declared you were to be wed. Now, it's your wedding night and certain duties must be upheld.

Set in a world where one can get pregnant from a cum strap

tags: arranged marriage au, virgin reader, strap-on, breeding kink, fingering (r receiving), marking, pet names - princess & good girl, strap referred to as cock once, doggy style 

authors note: you're getting the largely unedited version for a little because if I have to read this one more time I'm going to despise it forever

Also don’t question the time I’m posting this I once again thought I only needed to write 100-200 more but it was actually OVER A THOUSAND. WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS. Ahem. Anyway, here’s day six which is almost three times as long as the others.

Reader is referred to as princess multiple times, mentioned royal wedding dress, specified looking for a bride, described as wearing a plain night shift.

ao3 | masterlist

“I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind, dear. But there’s no reason not to enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Your hands twist nervously in your simple shift. Your wedding dress had been elaborate. It needed more than one person to get you out of it. Which is not ideal for a wedding night.

You hadn’t had this in mind, exactly. You’d thought you had convinced your father to let you choose your own bride, as long as she met a few of his somewhat reasonable specifications. But then Lady Agatha Harkness had walked into his court. You don’t know whether it was her disarming charm, the power she holds, the boon to the kingdom the exchange would have or his own personal gain but he decided Lady Harkness would be the perfect match for you. He also decided you needed to get married the moment the decision was made. 

Thankfully, a royal wedding took months to prepare and you would have some time to get to know your future bride. Not that you had spent much time with her in the end. Only a few dinners here and there. She’s a busy woman, running her own region which she needed to organise another taking over. She can’t look after it and a whole kingdom, after all. Something she insisted despite your father’s good health. She also spent a lot of time with the court. Learning what her new duties will be and charming her way into their good graces.

It would be unnerving if you weren’t so relieved. One of the suitors your father had originally brought forward had no interest in what her royal duties would have been as Queen. Running a kingdom on your own would have been nothing short of hell.

So, small mercies. 

“Darling,” she says and you try not to startle.

She’s so much closer than before. She cautiously raises a hand to cup your cheek, like you’re a scared animal. You lean into it, eager to soak up any affection she gives you, and her thumb gently brushes over your skin.

“I know you’re nervous but we both have royal duties to attend to.”

You swallow harshly and look down. This is more than duty for you. You’re ashamed to admit you’ve been looking forward to this night. To having Agatha’s sole attention on you. You’ve dreamed about what could happen, what she’ll be like. 

You’ve only been told the very basics. That your wife will enter you with a specially designed device. That it may hurt for a moment but you will feel ‘a pleasure-like feeling’ afterwards. No one would explain exactly what that means. It makes you both more nervous and more excited. The only thing you know about the device is its shape and its intended use. Continuing the royal line.

“I know. It’s just,” you hesitate although Agatha has likely guessed already, “I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m aware,” she says and you flick your eyes up in time to see something flash in her eyes. “I promise to be gentle,” she says softly, a voice you haven’t heard from her before. You gently grasp the wrist of the hand cupping your cheek and nuzzle the hand. “The royal line must continue and it must be of your blood.”

You nod and leave the safety of her caress to cautiously lean closer. She waits for you to come to her and she waits for the first brush of your lips to move. She presses closer and her hands grab your waist and pull you against her. You make a surprised sound and cling to her shoulders for balance. Which you immediately lose as she begins to walk you backwards. The back of your knees hit the bed and she guides you to lay down in the middle of it. It’s hard to notice any of it with the feel of her lips against yours. The way her hands slide along your exposed skin as she leads you doesn’t help. She can’t keep her lips on you the entire time but you don’t mind so much until she pulls away properly. You chase her lips but she stops you with a hand dangerously low on your chest. 

Whatever look you’re giving her makes her eyes darken. One hand travels to the hem of your shift. You grab her wrist without thinking, anxiety rearing its head again. No one has seen you naked like this before. With the intention to- to touch. To feel.

“Let me see you,” she says, her voice firm.

You slowly relax your grip. This is your wife and someone who has shown how eager she is to see you undressed. She isn’t going to laugh or mock you. Your fingers slip from her wrist and she pulls your shift the rest of the way off.

It feels exposing in a way you haven’t felt before. You try to cover yourself instinctively but her hands grab your wrists and holds them down as she has her fill. You squirm but she doesn’t release you. Instead, she leans down and begins to suck deep, purple marks along the curve of your breast. It feels better than you were expecting it to (how can something feel so good when it isn’t down there?) but it doesn’t come close to the feeling of her lips wrapping around the stiff peak of your nipple. You gasp and arch into her. She flicks her tongue and your hand tangles in the thick curls of her hair. She does it again and a small whimper escapes you. You can feel her smile. She begins to trail kisses again and you think she’s going to repeat the same delicious thing until you realise she’s heading down instead of across.

“Wait,” you say, moving your hand to land on her shoulder. She lazily raises her head to look at you.

“Yes, princess?” she says in a tone you don’t have a name for.

It makes something spark between your legs and you determinedly ignore it to be able to speak.

“I want to see you too,” you try to speak as confidently as she did but there’s the tiniest waver to your voice.

She quirks an eyebrow before sitting up, taking her warmth with her. She pulls her own shift off and you think you understand her reaction. She’s beautiful. Your eyes devour every detail from her dark eyes to her pebbled nipples to-

Oh. You stare at it with wide eyes. It had looked so much smaller on the page. 

“Don’t worry, dear. Your body knows what to do.”

She leans back over you and the thing hanging between her thighs nudges your most sensitive spot. She muffles your whimper with a kiss. You cling to her. Excitement and anxiety swirling into a heady mix as she slowly, slowly begins to push inside of you.

“A-Agatha,” you say, your voice high and needy.

Agatha shushes you quietly and continues to slowly push inside of you. Your legs open wider instinctively. It doesn’t help with the stretching feeling. Nor the building tingling sensation. She continues to steadily push inside of you and the slight pain is overshadowed by the feel of her. Her hands tight on your hips, breath hot against your neck, her hips slowly getting closer and closer to yours.

“That’s it. Take it.”

You spread your legs wider, trying to do what she says. You don’t know why she felt the need to say it. You feel so full you can’t do anything but take it.

“Agatha,” you gasp as she bottoms out, nails digging in as you try to ground yourself.

She groans again and her next thrust is harsher than her last one. It forces a whining moan from you as it hits something inside of you that feels so good.

“Knew I had to have this sweet cunt the moment I saw you,” she grunts and settles into a slower, rougher pace. You can’t help the little noise you make every time she bottoms out. “When I found out about this little ritual of yours, I knew I had to fill this sweet cunt.”

Every word builds an unfamiliar fire inside of you. You don’t know what’s happening to you, what she’s doing to you,  but you can feel how big it’s going to be big. The feeling of your pleasure growing as it builds drowns out any worry you may have had. 

You wrap your legs around her waist and pull her tight against you, moaning at how full you feel. It forces Agatha to still.

“Princess,” she says warningly but you don’t care because that thread snaps inside of you.

Pure, unadulterated pleasure flows through you and you’re aware of nothing else.

You come back down to Agatha’s face hovering over yours, eyes devouring your every twitch.

“I- what?” you say, completely at a loss for words.

“You just came dear. And I just came in you,” the look on her face mirrors one of a cat that got the cream.

“You…” you stare up at her with wide eyes as you pulse at those words. “But you didn’t…?” you ask after a moment.

“No,” she confirms and your face drops. Her hand cups your cheek and you lean into the touch. “It’s the best time to do it to get the results we want.”

“R-Right,” you stutter and look away, somehow embarrassed by that while she’s still inside of you.

“But you can make it up to me,” she says and you nod eagerly, missing the darker edge to her pleased smile. She pulls out and you whimper at the sudden empty feeling. Her hands grip your hips again and you squeak as she manhandles you onto your stomach and then onto your knees. You automatically put your hands under you but a hand on the back of your head pushes your front back down. A pillow finds it way under your hips. This is a position you weren’t taught about.

Agatha’s hands run down your sides, over your hips, down your ass and stop at your thighs. Her thumbs gently hook around your inner lips and you whimper quietly at the feeling, especially since it feels like you’re dripping.

“You look so good full of my cum,” she says in a rough voice.

You feel that clenching feeling again and she chuckles lowly. Fingers brush your sensitive entrance and your hips jerk in surprise before needily pressing back against them. They start low and move up before gently pushing into you. Embarrassment flares through you when you realise that dripping feeling wasn’t just a feeling. She doesn’t comment though. Instead, she languidly pumps her fingers in and out of you, seeming content to enjoy the way you squeeze around her.

“Too bad I can’t feel this when filling you,” she sighs. You want to protest, you feel plenty full right now, but you know what she means. The idea of her pushing her strap back into you has you pressing back on her fingers again. “Probably a good thing. I’d never let you leave this bed.”

You whimper and try to open you legs wider, begging her to understand what you need. She must because she removes her fingers and a moment later the tip of her strap is dragging teasingly through your folds. You arch more, trying to get her inside of you again and unconsciously presenting for her. She groans and fills you with one thrust. She starts slow but hard, making you feel every inch of her. It doesn’t take you long to become a moaning mess again. Sinking into a hazy place you have’t been before. Filled with Agatha grunting above you, her cock filling you, her nails digging into your delicate skin. It’s all you could want.

Agatha gets louder, and slightly higher, and you realise the same thing that happened to you is happening to her. She’s coming. And you don’t get to watch her. 

A strange warmth fills you, one you didn’t notice last time. Agatha leans her forehead against the back of your neck, breathing heavy. 

“Good girl,” she says in such a deep voice that your toes curl.

You stay there for a long moment. Agatha buried deep inside of you, catching her breath as you try to even your own, fire still licking up your insides. It’s an awful sort of tease when she pulls out.

She removes the pillow and pushes you onto your side. Instead of getting up like you’re expecting, she curls around your back. Her fingers trail a light path down from your hip and your muscles jump at the feeling. They stop just above the sensitive button she’s so far neglected.

“Agatha? What’re you- “ you cut yourself off with a gasp as her finger begins to gently circle your clit.

“We have to make sure it sticks, don’t we?” she says.

You were so close to the edge before that it only takes a few firm circles and a swipe to fall over it again. It’s a lot gentler this time but it still has your body locking up in pleasure. Agatha leisurely strokes you through your high, her nose lightly nuzzling the back of your neck.

Her hand moves back to your hip and you bask in the warm afterglow.

Some time later, when both of your breathing has calmed and you’ve slipped into that soft space between awake and sleep, you decide that your mouth is dry enough to drag yourself out of bed for a drink. You don’t get far.

Agatha grabs you arm and rolls you onto your back. You give her a confused look as she climbs back on top of you.

“You are not leaving this bed until there’s no possible way I haven’t put a baby in you.”

Day 7: Royalty AU

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.9k words

★ notes; hi, hello part three is here! this is the last part of the series hehe and thank you kindly for patiently waiting <3 this contains non-explicit smut, so it's not that graphic but the goods are there, just a heads up. it's been so fun sharing this with you guys, writing this series genuinely made me love jing yuan so much more, he's such an endearing character to write. trust that i WILL be back for more JY, but for now, i hope you enjoy :3c

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

III. A (PERFECTLY) TIMED SURRENDER

Days later, you take the late train to the Luofu, like ripping off a bandage under the cover of night. Fewer passengers. Fewer chances to second-guess the whole trip. The hum of the engine is steady—something to hold onto while your thoughts spiral.

By the time you reach the hotel, your legs ache and your wrist hurts from dragging your suitcase up the uneven ramps. The lobby’s too bright. The hallway’s too clean. You scan the keycard, step inside, and barely get the door shut before your phone starts buzzing.

Jiaoqiu: you alive?

Jiaoqiu: did the train explode?

Jiaoqiu: i can ring up an ambulance 

You don’t even get a chance to answer before the call comes through. You sigh and accept it.

“Tell me you’re hydrating,” Jiaoqiu says without preamble, voice crisp with the background beeping of hospital monitors. “And that you wore the orthopedic sneakers I recommended. Or are you planning to let your spine compress into powder before your guest lecture?”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sink onto the edge of the bed.

“Hello to you too,” you murmur. “Aren’t you in the middle of your shift?”

He clicks his tongue. “I have five minutes before I need to run an ECG and bully someone into doing their rounds. Talk fast.”

You pick at the corner of the hotel blanket. “I haven’t even unpacked.”

“But you have checked all escape routes in case of a sudden general-shaped emergency?”

“You’re mixing metaphors. He’s a professor.”

“Sure,” Jiaoqiu drawls, “and I’m a resident who gets enough sleep. Humor me—have you seen him yet?”

“No, Jiaoqiu. It's three in the morning,” you say too quickly. “And I won’t. Hopefully. Feixiao said I didn’t have to see him.”

There’s a pause on the line, the kind that means he’s making a face.

“You know,” he says slowly, “for someone who writes so well about emotional honesty in literature, you are spectacularly bad at applying it to your own life.”

You lie down fully on the bed, one arm flung over your eyes. The jab stings, but not as much as you thought it would. “I came here to give lectures and not disgrace the Yaoqing campus. Not to do… whatever the hell you're insinuating.”

“This is you spiraling because you’re back on the Luofu and you haven’t figured out if you want to punch him, kiss him, or cry about it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No you’re not,” Jiaoqiu simpers, just as a nurse yells something unintelligible in the background. “Okay, I really do have to go. But hey—if you need me to fake a medical emergency to get you out of a dinner with the literature faculty, my pager’s on.”

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and for once, the teasing slips out of his voice. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

You know he means it. And you wish that helped.

“Sleep if you can,” your best friend adds. “And drink some water, for once in your life.”

The call ends, and the silence that follows is too loud. You let it settle around you like static, eyes on the ceiling. The bed’s too soft. The air’s too dry. And the city outside hasn’t changed a bit.

Unfortunately, neither have you.

The morning comes too early.

You sleep like a stone and wake up with the creases of the pillow pressed into your cheek, your mouth dry as paper. Unfortunately for you, there’s no time to wallow. You shower quickly, tug on your nicest set of “please take me seriously” professor clothes, and remind yourself that this is what you came here to do.

Before you leave, you hold a staring contest between yourself and the complimentary water bottle on the night stand. Jiaoqiu's doctor voice hovers in the depths of your mind, preaching about getting at least eight glasses in you everyday.

You chug it down with a forlorn sigh.

The Luofu campus feels the same. Maybe the lampposts are newer, and the fountains finally got cleaned, but the bones of the place are untouched. Stepping back onto it is like cracking open a memory and finding the ink hasn’t faded at all.

Professor Ying meets you just outside the entrance to the Literature Department, beaming like he’s greeting a prodigal daughter.

“You're here,” he greets with a theatrical flourish, “Back from the academic wilderness!”

You try not to laugh, but it's a futile effort. “It’s only been a couple years.”

“Too long,” he insists, pulling you into a brief, careful hug that smells like old books and black tea. “I’ve read your symposium paper three times. Feixiao sent it to me the moment it came out.”

“She did?” you ask, startled.

“Oh yes. She was very smug about it. Said, ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d be brilliant?’ and then called me an idiot for not stealing you back from Yaoqing sooner.”

You wince. “Please don’t let her do that.”

Professor Ying chuckles and waves a hand. “No promises. Now come—let me show you around the old place. We’ve rearranged the faculty lounge, and the printer still jams the same way.”

He walks you through the department like it’s a garden he’s proud of. Students trickle past with coffees in hand, the halls buzz with soft conversation, and the sunlight filters in through windows you used to nap under. You still remember which step on the west stairwell creaks. You still know the exact angle to push open the back door when it sticks.

It’s a kind of ache, how much you remember.

Professor Ying opens the lecture hall door for you like it’s a ceremony. “You’ll be in here tomorrow. The class looked excited when I told them—and a little terrified. I may have said you once debated a visiting scholar into submission using nothing but classical poetry when you were still an undergrad.”

“That’s slander,” you snort.

“It’s good press.”

You laugh, easing into your skin a little more with every step.

For a moment, it feels like you never left.

After a long day spent catching up with old professors you now call colleagues, classmates who never quite left the area, and (thankully) not a single run-in with the ghosts that still haunt the edges of your thoughts, you march back to your hotel room.

You sit at the narrow desk by the window, a cup of lukewarm tea cooling beside your tablet. Outside, the maglev sighs past in the distance like a ghost trailing the skyline. Your room is still and sterile, the air humming low and steady. On the screen of your laptop, a lecture outline glows a soft, officious blue—half-finished, overly formal, and far too rehearsed.

You scroll through it once, then close the file with a sigh. It reads like someone trying to prove she belongs here. Someone performing competence rather than believing in it.

Leaning back, you rub the ache from your neck and open a new document.

Lecture Title: When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

You pause, watching the words settle across the page, lips twitching slightly. 

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

Now, this feels closer. Not a defense or an argument. Just a question worth sitting with. The kind of question that curls through a classroom like smoke, unanswered and all the more alive for it.

Your fingers start moving again, slowly at first, then steadier as the shape of the lecture emerges.

You think of old paperbacks worn at the edges, of sleepless nights spent re-reading passages that made you feel seen, even if you didn’t quite know why. You think of a certain professor’s voice asking, “What makes this narrator trustworthy to you?” as if peeling back the layers of the page could reveal something about yourself, too.

As an added flourish, you list a few key texts—familiar ones, but sharp enough to cut:

The Soldier’s Regret, where the narrator insists he’s dying until the final line sees him stepping onto a transport home.

A City Beneath the Rain, a Xianzhou classic where a poet mourns a lover who may never have existed at all.

An early modern novel you loved, written entirely in letters, where each writer swears they’re telling the truth—even when their stories contradict.

The outline comes to life as the hours stretch on, your tea long cold, the hotel dim and quiet around you. It’s not quite done, but it breathes now—something that can flex and shift in a room full of undergrads who’ve yet to be told their instincts matter.

Just before you close the file, you add one last question at the bottom:

What does a narrator’s unreliability tell us about ourselves, when we choose to believe them anyway?

You sit back and let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment. The city outside hasn’t changed. But maybe the way you speak to it has.

Afternoons on the Luofu are always a little too bright, a little too fast.

You tighten your grip on your satchel as you weave through the familiar hallways, the low buzz of students and faculty washing over you like a tide you almost recognize. Professor Ying is already in the lecture hall when you arrive, flipping through a stack of notes he probably won’t use. He looks up as you step inside and grins, bright and familiar.

When he introduces you, he covers all the bases—your name first, then a flourish of accolades: recipient of the university’s best dissertation award, now a rising scholar in modern literary analysis, and a proud alumna of the department. He wears his pride openly, like a badge.

There’s polite applause. Some students look curious. Others scroll quietly on their phones. A few stare blankly, the way only undergrads facing an 2 p.m. lecture can.

You’re gathering your notes when a hand shoots up from the third row—hesitant at first, then more determined when you nod to acknowledge it.

The student, a boy with sleep-mussed hair and a skeptical squint, lowers his hand and asks, “If you were produced by the Luofu campus... why are you teaching at Yaoqing?”

The room goes a little still. Even Professor Ying looks briefly thrown, his easy smile faltering. It's not a rude question, just blunt in that way only undergrads can get away with—earnest, oblivious, and weirdly cutting all at once.

You don’t miss a beat. But somewhere under the practiced smile, something twists—a flicker of a memory:

Jing Yuan’s office, sunlight spilling across the floor, catching on the glossy leaves of the dracaena you'd nursed back to health together—Commander in Leaf, standing sentinel by the window. The slow, deliberate way he’d said, You’ll make a very kind professor one day.

You blink once, clearing your thoughts like dust off a shelf.

“I like to think the Luofu taught me how to think,” you say lightly, “but Yaoqing gave me the space to put it to use.”

A few students glance at each other, murmuring. Professor Ying recovers with a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles lightly against the podium as if to say good answer.

You smile, smooth down the front of your blouse again, and move on.

“I won’t keep you long,” you say, even though your lecture outline stretches past forty minutes. “But I’d like to talk about something we all rely on, whether we realize it or not—narrators. Specifically, the ones who lie to us.”

That gets a reaction—small but immediate. One student lowers their phone. Another tilts their head.

You write on the board:

When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

Then underneath:

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

You start slow. Not with definitions or textbook terms, but with questions that itch at the back of the brain. You ask them to think of a time they realized a narrator couldn’t be trusted—how it felt, what it changed about the story, what it changed about them as readers. You move through your examples—the soldier who survives the war he insists is fatal. The poet who mourns a lover never confirmed to be real. The letter-based novel where truth tilts depending on who’s writing it.

“The narrator,” you say, “isn’t a window. They’re a person. And people forget. People deceive. Sometimes they don’t even mean to.”

One student raises a hand. She’s got sharp eyes, a pen tucked behind one ear. “But if they’re lying… why do we still root for them?”

You pause, a smile curving across your face.

“Because we want something from them. Not facts. Not accuracy. Something else. Connection, perhaps? Or even catharsis. A version of the truth that feels more real than reality.”

A murmur ripples through the room—thoughtful, restless. You see it land.

By the time you’re winding down, the energy’s shifted. A boy in the back who looked half-asleep is now furiously scribbling notes. Another student lingers after class, asking about a memoir she read last semester where the author recants half the book in the epilogue. You answer what you can. Suggest a few titles. Smile when Professor Ying pats your shoulder on the way out.

“You had them,” he says. “Not many can say that before the first cup of tea.”

You shrug, still buzzing, still catching your breath.

“It helps,” you say, “when you care for the things you talk about.”

The rush of the lecture leaves a strange, lingering hum in your chest—an aftershock of nerves, adrenaline, and something warmer you don’t want to name. You tell yourself you should head back to your hotel, or get some lunch at the university cafeteria. Anything to stop your thoughts from buzzing too loud.

But instead, you wander.

It’s too easy to fall into old habits—feet tracing half-forgotten paths, mind slipping sideways into memory. Before you know it, the signs around you shift: History Department, East Wing.

The halls here are quieter, lined with heavy, wood-paneled doors and dusty glass displays of ancient banners and ceremonial armor. The floor creaks in the same familiar places. The scent of old paper and sun-warmed stone rises up to meet you, achingly unchanged.

You round the corner before you can think better of it.

There it is: the office tucked neatly into the bend of the hallway, where the afternoon light used to pool like a lazy cat across the threshold.

The door looks the same—scuffed at the bottom from years of use. But the plaque beside it catches the light too sharply, too new. When you step closer, you find that the name engraved in sleek, unblemished characters is not his. You don't even notice how your heart sinks at the sight of it.

For a moment, you just stand there, reading and rereading it, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves under your gaze.

But they don’t.

“Well, well. I thought I saw a familiar face sneaking around.”

You start, then relax instantly as Professor Yukong steps into view, arms crossed, the same amused smile tugging at her lips. She looks exactly the same, down to the deep green scarf she always wears when the weather starts to dip.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you say, which is the sort of thing people only say when they absolutely are.

She hums. “Of course not.” Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of hard candy, holding it out without ceremony. “Still like lychee?”

You take it, smiling before you even realize it. “You really never stopped doing this?”

"Some traditions are worth keeping," Yukong says with a wink. She steps closer, peering at you with an assessing glance. "It’s been too long, little one. You’re thinner than I remember. Are they working you too hard at Yaoqing?"

You shake your head, pocketing the candy. "Maybe."

Yukong hums, but doesn’t push. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the office door, and a knowing smile curls at the edges of her mouth.

"You know," she says, voice light, "this hallway’s been quieter these days. Not quite the same without certain... noisy neighbors."

Your expression slips before you can stop it.

She pretends not to notice. "The new fellow’s decent enough. Keeps his door closed, doesn't trail students behind him like ducklings. Not much for houseplants, though." She tilts her head, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Shame."

You fold your arms loosely across your chest, playing along. "Sounds like a very serious improvement." 

"Oh, tremendously serious," Yukong agrees, eyes glinting. "But I'd say it's an even bigger improvement for that last tenant. He moved up in the world. Some might say way up."

You raise an eyebrow despite yourself.

Yukong smiles, pleased that she's gotten your attention. "New Dean of the History Department. His office on the top floor now. They even gave him a window big enough to land an airship, if you can believe it."

The news settles over you strangely, making your brows knit together. Jing Yuan? The Dean? You don't remember seeing that specific title in his list of credentials back at the symposium. This must be a recent development. 

...or that pesky professor just didn't want to brag.

"He's been busy these days," she adds, her teasing softening into something almost kind. "Too busy, if you ask me. The students miss him. Faculty too, though they’d rather eat chalk than admit it."

You force a small smile, your fingers tightening around the strap of your satchel.

"Good for him," you say, and you mean it. Mostly.

Yukong watches you for a beat longer, her smile turning a little wistful, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she drops another foil packet in your hands.

"Take another," she says. "You look like you need it."

You laugh again and accept, slipping a second candy into your pocket like a charm. 

The clouds have been gathering all afternoon, soft and gray at first, then heavier, darker, like they’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to fall. You adjust your satchel and quicken your pace, already picturing the kettle in your hotel room and the dry change of clothes folded neatly in your suitcase.

It’s time to leave campus. You’ve done your part—guest lecture delivered, awkward reunions sidestepped, mostly. There’s no need to linger.

Your steps slow near the path that forks toward the Humanities Building. Just for a second.

Top floor. Big window. The Dean’s office.

You imagine it, without meaning to—how it must look now. Probably neater than his old office. More formal. Less green. You wonder if Commander in Leaf made the move with him. You wonder if he still lets the sunlight in.

No, you think, firm and fast. No good would come of it.

You pivot toward the opposite direction, toward the gate. The greenhouse crosses your mind next, like a flicker of a different life. But that, too, you let go. You don’t need to revisit every corner of the past to know it still aches.

Then the sky growls low, and you’re rounding the last corner when you see him.

Jing Yuan stands half-sheltered beneath the overhang by the east wing annex, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other holding a phone to his ear. His coat is missing, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly. A folder is clutched against his side in a way that looks almost careless, and even if his silver hair has always looked professionally unkempt, there's a disheveled air to it that suggests he might be just a little stressed out. 

He looks different. Not unrecognizable or diminished, but human in a way memory never allowed.

Your body angles away before you even think, the instinct to retreat swift and familiar. It would be easy. One turn, a few quick steps, and this could remain a moment left unclaimed.

But then he lifts his head.

Those golden eyes, steady and unerring even in the fading light, find you the way they always have—without hesitation, without question, as if part of him had been waiting all this time without ever meaning to.

For a moment that feels stretched thin and breakable, you stand there, caught between habit and longing, between every line you once drew and the way he looks at you now, as if none of them ever mattered.

Jing Yuan speaks into the phone, low and brief, the words too faint to catch. A moment later, he slips the device into the pocket of his trousers and pushes away from the doorframe. He straightens—not with the polished ease you remember, but with something rougher, wearier, real.

The distance hangs there, dense and humming, like a question neither of you knows how to ask.

And then he says your name.

Not sharply, not even expectantly. Just your name, shaped by something quieter than regret and heavier than memory. The sound of it cracks something open in you.

You could turn away. You should. The kindness would be in the leaving, in preserving whatever fragile peace you've managed to build.

But you don’t.

Your shoes scuff softly against the pavement, and in the hush that follows, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain.

He watches you come closer, never once looking away. Up close, you see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the ink stains along his fingers, the disarray he once would have hidden without a second thought.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Jing Yuan says to you, voice low and rough around the edges, as if unused to being this bare in your presence. “I didn’t mean to...” He glances down, mouth twisting briefly, then lifts his eyes again. “...catch you like this.”

You almost smile at the absurdity of it—as if any meeting between you now could be anything but inevitable.

Instead, you shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Jing Yuan exhales, a sound somewhere between a breath and a worn-out laugh, and rakes a hand through his hair—only making the mess worse. His gaze moves over you, steady and searching, lingering on small, familiar details: the way you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, the faint crease between your brows, how you stand like you might bolt if given the slightest reason.

“You’re here,” he says.

The words are simple. Deceptively small. But they land hard, knocking something loose in your chest.

You clear your throat. “Just until tomorrow.”

It’s barely a defense. Barely anything at all. His hand flexes once around the folder he carries, then falls still again. For a moment, you think he might let you go. That he’ll spare you the awkwardness, the ache. But instead, after a pause, he shifts his weight and asks:

“Would you walk with me?”

No demand. No expectation. Only an offering—set gently between you, like a bridge you could choose to cross, or leave untouched.

You should refuse. You know that. You should say you’re tired, or late, or that the rain is about to fall. But before you can think better of it, you nod—small, instinctive. 

“Okay.”

The faintest breath escapes him, but Jing Yuan says nothing as he steps back just enough to make room for you beside him.

You fall into step together, the annex wall sliding past on one side, the wet gleam of the gardens catching the silver light on the other. His pace is slower than you remember—not sluggish, but deliberate, as if he’s learned there’s no need to rush anymore.

The silence that gathers between you isn’t brittle. It’s heavier than comfort but lighter than regret—an old rhythm you didn’t realize you still knew how to follow.

After a while, Jing Yuan says, almost casually, “I was at a meeting, but I had to step out to take that call.”

You glance at him. His hair’s still mussed from his hands, another smudge of ink lingering on his knuckles.

“And you just left?” you ask, raising a brow.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You can do the same thing if you so wished. Free will has its perks.”

You huff a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement. “That's what people normally call terrible leadership.”

“Really? I'd like to call it delegation,” he says easily. “An essential skill, grossly overlooked.”

“For good reason.”

The banter slips out before you can guard against it, familiar enough to be dangerous. You look away, toward the narrowing path ahead, and try not to feel how effortless it still is—how the space between you folds itself back into something it once knew by heart.

You aren’t the same people who parted ways all those years ago.

And yet, standing here, side by side, you can’t help but ache for how easily you once fit—and how, somehow, you still do.

"You should go back," you say after a stretch of silence, trying to infuse your voice with lightness. "They’re probably wondering where their fearless leader wandered off to."

He doesn’t speed up. In fact, his pace stays steady as ever.

Jing Yuan glances at you, the dryness in his eyes cutting through the moment like a quiet truth. "If I leave," he says, "how will I know you’ll still be here when I get back?"

The words hang there, not heavy with accusation but with something quieter, more dangerous. An openness you aren’t sure you can bear.

You stop walking. So does he.

The breeze rustles through the leaves, and for a moment, the world feels a little too still. All you can hear is the hum of the annex lights.

"I’ll be here," you say, your voice lower now, softer. "Let's have lunch tomorrow. We’ll catch up."

You mean it—of course you do—but even you hear the way it rings: a polite diversion, a way to push the conversation into the safer distance of the future.

And damn him, Jing Yuan hears it too.

"No," he says, with a quiet finality that doesn’t invite discussion. "Dinner. Tonight."

Your heart stutters.

Before you can find a reason to decline—fatigue, the night, the thousand little excuses—you hear him finish, almost gently: "I’d rather not wait until tomorrow. Not if you’re willing."

The weight of that "willing" breaks something inside you. It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. As if he’s still giving you an out, and he’s afraid of pressing too hard and losing what little ground he’s reclaimed.

You look at him, really look at him, and you realize it’s not the waiting you’re afraid of.

"All right," you say, the word slipping out before you can second-guess it, the surrender in it quieter than you expected. 

And for the first time tonight, he smiles. Not the faint, polite curve you know he shows the world, but something quieter. Something real.

It lodges itself deep in your chest, where all your carefully built walls used to be.

As promised, you waited for Jing Yuan's meeting to conclude, which didn't take too long, gratefully. Though he insisted that you could wait for him in his new office, you declined before he could even finish the sentence. You weren't ready for that. Not yet. 

Instead, you lingered by the empty seats near the entrance to the east wing annex, listening to the echo of footsteps in the hall, watching the windows darken as evening gave way to night.

By the time he reappeared, coat in hand, the rain had already started—soft, persistent, the kind that settles in like a quiet thought you can’t quite shake.

You hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn’t.

Naturally, Jing Yuan had, and now the two of you walk beneath the narrow span of his umbrella, shoulder to shoulder, closer than you’ve been in years. Rain taps gently around you, but beneath the fabric, it’s warm—quiet in a way that feels almost private. You keep your eyes ahead, pretending not to notice the warmth between you—that it doesn’t feel like something you’ve missed.

Because how can you long for something that never was?

The familiar glow of a hotpot restaurant blinks ahead. You pause with him beneath the sagging awning, rainwater dripping in lazy rivulets off the umbrella’s edge. For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain drums softly above you, steady and unchanging. 

Then Jing Yuan pushes the door open, and you follow him inside—into a place that still smells like broth and memory, like nothing’s changed at all.

The chipped sign still wobbles in the breeze, and the heavy scent of broth and chili oil clings to the doorway like a permanent welcome. Inside, the scratched tables and handwritten specials plastered on the walls haven’t changed, either. Even the crooked "Cash Only!" sign still hangs stubbornly above the register.

You almost expect to hear Jiaoqiu’s voice ringing out over the chatter, arguing over spice levels, dropping chopsticks between rounds of hotpot. Instead, it’s quiet—almost wistful, like the place is suspended in time.

You linger just inside the entrance, phone in hand, caught between the past you knew so well and the strangely fragile present.

On impulse, you snap a few pictures—the menu, the battered counter, the little window where steam fogs up the glass, all of it somehow untouched, preserved.

Not two seconds later, a text notification pops up.

 

Jiaoqiu: MY KINGDOM.

Jiaoqiu: 🔥🍲🔥🍲🔥🍲

Jiaoqiu: do they have those do it yourself takeout bundles now

Jiaoqiu: if they do, PLEASE bring some home

Me: You know Mr. Choi doesn't believe in innovation.

Me: The best thing I can bring home to you is me.

Jiaoqiu: eh, i'll take it.

Jiaoqiu: wait a minute 

Jiaoqiu: why are you there, you never go there alone

Jiaoqiu: who are you with????

Jiaoqiu: answer carefully

 

You suppress a smile, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Across from you, Jing Yuan is studying the menu, his focus sharp enough to suggest he’s planning a military campaign rather than picking dinner. You tuck your phone away before you can do something foolish—like tell Jiaoqiu the truth.

"You sure you can handle it?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the picture of nonchalance. "I'm sure."

You give him a look. "They don’t joke around here. Medium spice is basically a dare."

"I'll manage," he insists, which is exactly the kind of overconfident answer you expect.

You hide your grin behind your menu.

The food arrives fast—plates of thinly sliced meats, mushrooms, greens, and a bubbling pot already simmering at the center of the table. The broth you picked is bright red, oily, and angry-looking.

Within minutes, Jing Yuan is coughing discreetly into his sleeve, eyes watering slightly.

You reach over with the calm cruelty of long practice and plop another pepper-laden meat slice into his bowl.

"You could surrender," you say, utterly deadpan.

He gives you a betrayed look that almost makes you pity him.

"My best friend, Jiaoqiu would've loved this," you add, laughing as you pop a non-lethal mushroom into your mouth. "He used to sneak ghost peppers into the hotpot just to see who cracked first. You would’ve been prime entertainment."

"He sounds like a menace," Jing Yuan says hoarsely.

That makes two of you, you muse only to yourself.

He looks... lighter this way. Less like the man who stands in doorways, all unreadable eyes and quiet intensity. In moments like this, he feels more like a person you remember—a man who lets you get away with your mischief, who lets go for just a moment.

Spicy downfall aside, you both fall into easy conversation—old stories, half-forgotten classmates, absurd tales of Jiaoqiu’s failed cooking experiments. The laughter slips in between your words, slow and genuine.

But then, somewhere between the second round of meat and the third refill of tea, the air changes. It’s subtle, a shift barely noticeable. But it’s there—the way the conversation begins to slow, the pauses that linger a little longer.

The air between you hums, heavy with more than just steam. You set your chopsticks down carefully, aligning them with a precision that fools no one. 

Across from you, Jing Yuan watches, quiet and steady. He doesn’t push. He’s giving you space, giving you the choice. To cross this battlefield or to retreat, like you’ve both done so many times before.

"You’re waiting for me to say it," you murmur.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. "I’m waiting for you to stop pretending we don’t already know."

Your heart pounds once, a desperate thud against your ribs. Not from fear. From something that feels suspiciously like hope.

You draw a slow breath, tasting the words before you speak them. "We weren’t just arguing about literature and history at the symposium, were we?"

The memory flickers sharp and vivid—the way your words had clashed like blades, how each rebuttal left you a little more breathless, a little more exposed. You remember Zichen’s teasing afterward, Yingyue and Lihua's boisterous approval. But what holds the most gravity during those three days wasn't the keynote speeches. Or the panels. Or the debates.

Your lips still tingle from the spice of the broth, but beneath that, there’s something else—an unfamiliar warmth that lingers. The faint memory of his breath, so close, and the press of his hand against your cheek, as if he’d been holding onto something more than just the moment. 

Across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes catch the light—deep gold, unwavering.

"If that was a debate," he says, voice dipping lower, "it’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to lose."

The table between you feels too wide now. Too much distance when you’ve already come this far.

You think back to the lecture you shared this afternoon. The unreliable narrator you told the students about whispers cruelly in the quiet corners of your mind, threading doubt through your ribs like a slow, relentless tide.

It’s too much. It’s too close. You will ruin this.

You know it lies.

Yet, you still listen.

"You were my professor. I was just your TA," you whisper, the old excuse slipping free before you can stop it. "It would’ve been wrong. It would've ruined everything."

For a long moment, Jing Yuan remains silent, his gaze steady, not quite judging, but heavy with thought. His fingers hover near the edge of his cup, unmoving, as if your words have settled between you like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the air.

There’s something almost imperceptible in the way his eyes shift, as if he’s measuring more than the space between you. A flicker of something deeper crosses his expression—something close to regret, but not quite. He exhales, slow and controlled, the faintest tremor beneath the surface.

At last, his voice breaks the stillness, though it carries a weight that suggests more than mere disagreement.

“You’re not just my student anymore.”

It’s not a reprimand. Not a dismissal. Just a simple truth, cutting through the deafening silence.

“And I,” Jing Yuan adds, quieter still, “have been waiting for you to see it.”

The ache in you grows so sharp you almost flinch from it. All those years spent holding your breath. All those moments you tried to name as nothing.

You look at him, stripped of every title, every excuse. Right now, he's just Jing Yuan—impossibly patient, as if he would wait forever if you asked.

"You still want this?" you ask, and your voice trembles just slightly with how much you want the answer to be yes. 

Jing Yuan leans in, slow and deliberate, as if he means to erase the distance between you piece by piece. His elbows rest on the table; his hand inches forward, close enough that if you reached out, you could brush your fingers against his. His smile finds you, quiet and unhurried, and it feels like coming home.

"I never stopped," he says.

And just like that, the world shifts.

Small. Tremendous. Inevitable.

Your fingers brush against his—tentative at first, a whisper of contact. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, palm open, offering himself to you with a quiet certainty. The touch is simple, almost laughably so. No grand declarations or dizzying fireworks—only warmth, steady and unwavering, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has.

His thumb traces the back of your hand once, slow enough to make your heart stutter. When you glance up, he’s watching you with a softness that nearly undoes you completely.

"You know," you say, a broken sort of laugh catching at the end of your words, "Zichen would lose his mind if he knew we were holding hands at a hotpot restaurant."

Jing Yuan’s smile deepens, wry and unbearably fond. "Then we’ll simply have to tell him it’s been a long time coming."

Something in you breaks open at that. Something tender and foolish and irreparably yours.

"It has been," you whisper, squeezing his hand as you ground yourself in the moment. 

For a long while, you simply sit there, breathing the same air, the world around you blurring until there is nothing left except the two of you.

And for the first time in years, you don't feel like you’re balancing on the edge of something terrifying. You feel like you’re standing on solid ground.

Right where you’re supposed to be.

When you make it back to Yaoqing the next day, you let your suitcase down on the floor with a soft thud.

You toe off your shoes and cross to the balcony, the city basking in sunlight, its streets awake and bustling beneath a clear sky. Your little garden is exactly as you left it—orderly rows of potted herbs, trailing flowers reaching lazily toward the warmth, their colors vivid and alive in the light.

The contrast is stark, almost jarring after the damp chill of the Luofu night, where the rain had hung heavily like an unspoken thought.

Carefully, you pull a small pot from a paper bag that's accompanied you back home.

A dracaena stem cutting, the leaves still tender and new. Jing Yuan had given it to you when he saw you off the platform earlier this morning, wrapped in a makeshift sling of old newspaper, like something precious. Commander in Leaf told me to send you off with one of its offspring. 

You're grinning before you realize it. 

You set the pot down by the railing, nudging it into place among your other plants. It fits easily, like it had been waiting for a space here all along. Your fingers linger on the soil, smoothing it out with practiced care.

You're still crouched there, brushing a bit of dirt from your hands, when the front door rattles.

Jiaoqiu stumbles in a second later, still in his hospital ID badge and wrinkled shirt, his hair flattened strangely on one side like he’d tried—and failed—to nap in the break room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

"You’re back?" he blurts, blinking like he’s seeing a ghost. "Already?"

You nod, standing up and dusting off your knees. "Got an early shuttle off the Luofu."

He blinks a few more times, as if trying to make sense of the timeline through sheer exhaustion. "You crossed half the goddamn continent overnight and beat me home from a shift?"

You shrug. "Missed my plants."

He snorts, rubbing his face with one hand. "Unbelievable." But there’s a smile tucked under all the grogginess, fond and exasperated at once. "Anything good happen while you were off having your midlife crisis?"

You hesitate, just a second too long.

His eyes sharpen immediately, like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Don't tell me... Oh my god."

You glance down, suddenly sheepish, then back up. "I had hotpot with someone."

"Someone." He squints at you, suspicious. 

"Jing Yuan."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jiaoqiu lets out a full-body groan and throws his bag onto the couch with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.

"You’re telling me," he starts, stabbing a finger at you, "that you made a core memory with your boyfriend at our favorite hotpot place?"

You blink. "First of all, not my boyfriend."

Jiaoqiu waves you off, too tired for precision. "Core. Memory," he repeats, as if personally wounded. "Overshadowing years of beautiful, platonic hotpot tradition. The betrayal."

You laugh, too relieved and too tired yourself to take him seriously. "You’re ridiculous."

He sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand lost hotpot dinners on his back. Then, quieter, almost grudging: "I’m happy for you."

You soften, the tightness in your chest easing a little. "Thanks, Jiao."

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, shuffling toward the hall. "Tell your not-boyfriend I’m billing him for emotional damages."

You catch the faint slam of his door as he disappears into his room, leaving you alone again in the soft, growing light. Outside, the dracaena sapling catches a beam of morning sun, its tiny leaves trembling in the breeze. 

You smile, and this time, it feels like you’re finally growing into something new.

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 10:12 AM

Hi Professor,

It's been a while since I sent one of these. No slides attached, no looming deadlines, just a slightly belated thank-you.

Thank you for the hotpot. And the dracaena cutting. And for not making it weird, even though I probably did, several times.

Private Leaf has officially joined the ranks on my balcony. He's holding the line bravely between the rosemary and a basil plant that thinks it’s a tree. Early reports suggest high morale.

Hope you’re settling back into the Luofu without incident, or at least with manageable levels of it.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:03 AM

Hello,

I'm relieved to hear Private Leaf has survived the initial deployment. I trust he'll adapt quickly under your capable command.

As for making it "weird"—if you did, I was too busy trying not to burn my mouth to notice. (You were right about the spice level. I am still recovering.)

The Luofu persists. Minor uprisings among the administration, but nothing beyond the usual skirmishes.

I’m glad you wrote. Even without haunted slides or rebellious citations.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 11:27 AM

Glad to hear the Luofu remains unconquered. I was worried they might stage a coup in your absence and replace you with a sentient syllabus.

Also: you have no one to blame but yourself re: the spice level. I distinctly remember offering an alternative. You chose valor (and chili oil).

Anyway, I'll be moving Private Leaf to my office soon. If he turns feral without Commander in Leaf around to supervise, I reserve the right to file an official complaint. 

Thanks again. For everything.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:51 AM

If Private Leaf does go rogue, I recommend appealing to his better nature. Or bribery. That tends to work on young recruits.

You’re welcome. And if you ever need reinforcements—plants, spices, or otherwise—you know where to find me.

(Preferably somewhere outside a boiling cauldron of doom.)

— JY

In the months that follow that quiet but eventful dinner, you and Jing Yuan fall into some sort of routine. 

First are the visits. 

 

(The distance between the Luofu and Yaoqing isn’t something to scoff at. It takes a three-hour train ride for either of you to make the trip. And given how plainly Jing Yuan had said he wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with you—verbatim, so you couldn’t twist his words into something safer—figuring out how to manage that distance was the first obstacle on the list. Between your stacked schedules, it all felt a little impossible.

But Jing Yuan has a way of making things happen, when he truly wants to.

You never really expected him to follow through so effortlessly. Yet sure enough, every two weeks, Jing Yuan's visits become a rhythm—a quiet but steady thread between the two of you.

At first, it feels like a formality, just another professional visit between departments. Even Feixiao has vouched for his recurring presence at Yaoqing, but there’s something deeper in the way he manages to carve out space for you in the midst of his packed schedule.

And, in that small window of time, you realize that his visits aren’t just about business.

They’re about you.

Sometimes, you’ll find Jing Yuan standing outside your office, with that soft, knowing smile of his, always a little more than what you expect. The first time it happened, there was no forewarning, no heads up. You simply answered the annoyingly long string of knocks on your door with a shout directed at who you thought was Zichen, only to be proven wrong.

Shortly after, he made a home of your office chair’s twin—his coat slung over the back, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, your copy of Courts and Dust balanced in one hand. The light filtering through the window gives his hair a sun-warmed sheen, and the faint scent of the tea you made earlier still lingers between you.

Every so often, your gaze drifts to the faint scar etched along his inner forearm. A jagged line that speaks of something distant, a memory he keeps hidden. You've come a long way in many ways, but that question lingers.

Despite everything, you still don't have the heart to ask.

“You annotated this section twice,” Jing Yuan says without looking up, oblivious.

You swallow thickly, eyes returning to the spreadsheet of grades before you. “Because students never read it the first time.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches gently but never pulls. He flips the page. You pretend not to notice that his eyes haven’t moved. Somehow, you feel like the roles have been reversed between the two of you. 

You shouldn’t be used to this already—his presence here, the second mug beside yours on the windowsill, the little routine forming like threads tugged quietly into place. And yet, the air doesn’t feel like it did on the Luofu, when everything between you was uncertain and bracing and unspoken.

“Do you always work like this?” he asks eventually.

You arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid if you stop, something will catch up.”

That hits a little too close. You shut your laptop.

“I meant what I said. About pursuing you." He closes the book, careful with the fragile spine, and leans forward just slightly. “I’m not expecting you to leap right away. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t say anything for a while. But your hand drifts to the edge of the pot by the window—Private Leaf, sturdy and greener than ever—and you tilt it just so the sunlight catches the newest leaf.)

 

Then the phone calls.

 

(Jing Yuan usually gets in touch past midnight, and the hum of your desk lamp is the only thing louder than your heartbeat. Your students’ papers are spread in messy stacks, but all of them go forgotten the moment his voice filters through the line.

“You’re still up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a hand brushing your sleeve more than silence. On the other end, you hear the faint sound of his kettle. He’s brewing tea, probably that floral blend he pretends not to like when he’s on campus.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Did you?”

“Answering a question with a question. You really are a professor.”

“You really are nosy.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, and you imagine the curve of his mouth, the way he probably leans back in his chair as though he’s still in your office, opposite your desk. The space between Yaoqing and the Luofu isn’t short—not with classes, not with time—but somehow, his voice manages to bridge it like a warm coat thrown over your shoulders.

There’s no pressing need to define anything just yet. Only the ritual of it: he calls every other night when you bring your work back home, and you text him photos of your garden on Sunday mornings. He always points out which plants are thriving. You always leave out that you used his old notes to figure out the watering schedule for the skullcap.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he listens to yours. And at other times, like now, you both sit in companionable quiet, not saying much at all.

After a while, you glance at the time. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

But neither of you hangs up just yet.)

 

Lastly, the gifts. 

 

(When you completed a particularly difficult paper on the historical roots of literature, it was a surreal experience. 

That afternoon, as you sat in your office reviewing your notes, a knock on the door broke your concentration. It was too early for Feixiao to be dropping by, and Zichen would have just walked in. So when you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for the sight of a delivery—a box, elegantly wrapped in deep crimson silk, the kind of gift you only received for something truly special.

Curious, you carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a stunning bouquet, its colors a mixture of rich purples and soft pinks. 

It was beautiful, but what caught your attention most was the small card nestled between the petals.

In the language of flowers, these represent respect and admiration, a reminder of how you’ve blossomed into something extraordinary.

You smiled as your fingers traced the edges. Anyone could guess who they were from.

The flowers were a deliberate selection—a mixture of lavender for devotion and pink roses for gratitude. There were even a few sprigs of rosemary, signifying remembrance. Feixiao had likely spilled the news to Jing Yuan the moment your success was confirmed. And true to form, he had gone out of his way to choose something meaningful.

Taking the bouquet into your arms, you placed it gently on the desk, savoring its scent. A part of you felt the warmth of his thoughtfulness despite the distance between you. Even when miles apart, he found ways to show that you mattered, to celebrate your triumphs as if he were right there beside you.

Just as you admired the flowers, your phone buzzed with a message.

It was from Jing Yuan, as if he knew the moment you’d seen the bouquet.

 

Jing Yuan: I hope the flowers bring you as much joy as your success brought to me.

Jing Yuan: Congratulations on your accomplishment :)

Jing Yuan: I look forward to hearing all about it soon.

 

A wave of affection swelled in your chest, and as you gazed at the flowers, you couldn’t help but think—long distance might be difficult, but it was also filled with these quiet moments, these little efforts that somehow made the space between you both feel a little less vast.

 

Me: Thank you. I can’t wait for you to see it in person.

Jing Yuan: I suppose you're not excited to see me?

Me: ...Fine. 

Me: I can't wait to see you too.)

 

It doesn't happen all at once.

It’s a slow, careful unraveling, stitched together by quiet hours and smaller things that mattered more than you thought.

Of course, you don't let him do all the work—you reciprocate each grand gesture, each minuscule effort however you can. You even dedicate some Saturdays to spending time together at the Luofu. 

Whenever you hop off the platform, Jing Yuan is always waiting. Sometimes at the terminal, or at the station’s tea shop, casually flipping through a book while pretending not to check the time. The moment your eyes meet, the distance you spent hours crossing disappears completely.

It’s in the way he smiles. The way he reaches for your bag without asking. The way he says your name like he’s been carrying it in his chest the whole time.

You fall into a rhythm here, too. Late lunches in quiet places he’s memorized just for you. Shared walks through familiar gardens, the kind you once only saw from the edge of a memory. On quieter days, he brings you to his new office—still filled with neat stacks of papers, the same old Commander in Leaf thriving in the corner. He makes tea while you sit on the couch he’s cleared for your visits. 

You leave just as the sun begins to set, and Jing Yuan walks you to the station every time. He never makes a scene of it—just a warm hand at your back, a lingering look before the train doors close.

Back in Yaoqing, your days return to routine, but something's shifted.

You're no longer bracing yourself against absence. You're learning how to hold love gently, how to trust that it won’t fall apart simply because it spans a few hundred miles.

What grows between you and Jing Yuan doesn’t just endure the distance—it finds a way to bloom because of it.

After the flowers, the train rides, the playful banter in your office, the consistency remains.

It’s a weekend this time—his turn to visit—and the two of you had agreed on something simple: dinner, a movie, nothing extravagant.

The screening ran longer than expected. You hadn’t checked the time when you left the cinema—too distracted by the lingering warmth of his shoulder against yours, the way he leaned in to whisper sharp commentary beneath the film’s most dramatic scenes.

It isn’t until the credits finish rolling and you step into the cool evening air that you realize: the last train back to the Luofu left twenty minutes ago.

“It’s alright,” Jing Yuan says, unfazed and already reaching for his phone. “I’ll just find a place to stay for the night.”

That should’ve been it. You could’ve let him.

But something compels you—some small, braver part of you that’s grown louder since all this began.

“You don’t have to,” you say. The words come out too fast, but you don’t take them back. “Jiaoqiu’s not home. You can stay at mine.”

He looks at you. Not surprised, not smug—just quietly searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “He’s at a conference all week. You’ll have the couch to yourself.”

There’s a breath of a laugh from him. “Understood.”

And that’s how you end up here: your apartment a little too warm, the tea a little too hastily made.

Jing Yuan’s coat hangs over the back of your dining chair, and he’s already taken off his boots at the door like he’s done it before. You’re not really nervous per se, but something stirs in your chest as you watch him move with the same ease he had in your office, like he belongs wherever you are.

Later, you hand him a folded blanket, a pillow, and—after rummaging through your closet—one of your old college shirts and a pair of Jiaoqiu's sweats that got mixed up with your laundry.

“They might be a bit snug,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes. “But it’s better than sleeping in your coat.”

Jing Yuan takes them with a small smile. “You’re too kind to your stranded guests.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a while. When he reemerges, his hair is down—long, unbound, still a little damp around the ends. He runs a hand through it absently, like he’s used to the weight, unaware of the way it steals the breath from your throat. The shirt fits a little too well. The sleeves cling to his forearms, and the hem rides just short of his hips.

You try not to look too long.

He settles onto the couch, the blanket bunched loosely at his side. You think you’ve adjusted to the sight of him—seen him in every shade of light, every kind of mood—but somehow this version still catches you off guard. Hair loose, eyes soft, the curve of his mouth just shy of a smile.

“Thank you again,” Jing Yuan says. “I mean it.”

You nod, though your fingers are still curled a little too tightly around the edge of the mug in your hands. You’re not drinking anything. You just needed something to hold.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “It’s really fine.”

He watches you for a beat too long. You pretend not to notice.

“I would’ve booked a hotel,” he offers, almost teasing now.

“I know,” you reply, eyes flicking toward the darkened hallway. “But I didn’t want you to.”

That admission hangs in the air, soft and bare.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, his knee brushing lightly against yours where you’ve drifted closer to the edge of the couch without meaning to. You don’t pull away.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—it’s dense with something else. Anticipation. Relief. The ache of having waited this long and still not knowing what comes next.

And that’s when it happens.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it had always been coming to this. One moment, the air between you is thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The next, his hand is on your waist, yours curled into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder, and the distance between you vanishes completely.

His hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder. Jing Yuan exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months, and then he kisses you.

Jing Yuan's lips brush yours once, then again. When you answer with a soft gasp, leaning in like you’ve waited a lifetime, the kiss deepens. Heat coils low in your belly as his other hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting you toward him like he’s afraid of losing the moment.

You taste tea on his tongue, feel the slight tremble in his shoulders as you press closer. His hair falls forward, strands slipping through your fingers as you anchor yourself against him.

And just for a mere second, you remember the symposium. That moment you shared by the railings, months ago, when he’d almost kissed you. When you’d stood too close, hearts racing, silence stretching long enough to feel like surrender.

But this is no almost.

This is all the wanting you couldn’t name back then, poured into every kiss he gives you now. Every inch of you answers him with a need that feels long overdue. You can’t deny it any longer, not to yourself, not to him. You’ve been falling toward this moment for years, your lives tangling together in ways neither of you could have predicted.

“Jing Yuan,” you breathe against his mouth, like it hurts to say, like it means too much because it does.

He answers you with another kiss, deeper this time, needier. The blanket falls away. The pillow tumbles off the couch. You don’t notice. His shirt—your shirt—bunches under your hands as you slide them beneath the hem, seeking warmth, seeking skin.

When he groans, it’s not from surprise. It’s from restraint.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. His lips are swollen, his hair a halo of silver around his face in the soft light.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, pulling him back in without hesitation.

“Yes.” 

There’s a deep, shuddering breath he takes before his mouth crashes against yours again. His hands find your hips, gripping you with a surety that almost feels like a command. You meet him, heady with the same raw want, the same urgency. His chest presses against yours, the warmth of his body seeping into you, grounding you in this moment. Every inch of space between you is burned away by the press of lips, by the roughness of his hand at your waist, pulling you closer, closer still.

Jing Yuan's breath quickens as he tugs you onto his lap, the motion fluid, practiced—as if he’s done this before, as if he’s always known this was the way it was supposed to be. His hands slide under your shirt, his fingertips warm against the bare skin of your back, a touch that sends a ripple of heat through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

You can feel his heart beating fast against your chest, just as frantic as your own. His kisses are desperate now, each one deeper than the last, as though he’s trying to imprint himself onto you, to remind you of every moment that’s led up to this.

The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy, subtle—mingles with the heady perfume of your own desire. It’s intoxicating. You let your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the muscles of his shoulders, the soft curve of his neck. His skin burns under your touch, and you press in closer, your body reacting to his presence like it was always meant to.

When Jing Yuan pulls back again, his eyes are dark with the kind of hunger that makes your chest tighten. He looks at you like he’s asking permission for something that’s been building up for years.

This isn’t just about tonight. This isn’t just about the warmth of his body against yours or the heat of the moment. This is the culmination of everything—the quiet hours, the stolen glances, the letters, the lectures, the shared silences.

You don’t answer with words. Your body already knows what it wants, and it’s not about holding back anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly rise from the couch, pulling him up with you. His hand finds yours instinctively, the touch of his fingers warm, firm. You guide him to your bedroom with a steady, sure step, each one carrying the weight of everything unspoken that’s finally coming to the surface.

When you close the door behind you, the quiet of the room settles around you both, amplifying the thrum of anticipation that fills the space between your hearts. Jing Yuan doesn’t say a word as you turn to face him, but there’s something in his gaze—something hungry, but still searching, still waiting for the go-ahead.

You take a deep breath, feeling the moment stretch between the two of you, the years of careful distance and restraint dissolving into the charged air. With one last look, you close the distance, pulling him toward you as you kiss him again, but this time, it’s different.

It’s deeper. More desperate.

His hands are everywhere, sliding off your shirt, grazing your skin with the touch of a man who’s been holding back for too long. You respond in kind, your own hands trailing down the front of his sternum, feeling the way his heartbeat speeds beneath your fingertips as you undress each other.

Everything becomes a blur—the sharpness of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

You step back, guiding his hands with yours, leading him to the bed. There’s no hesitation this time. There’s no second-guessing. This is years of waiting, of longing, of wanting to finally let go. And as you fall into the bed together, everything feels exactly like it should.

Jing Yuan guides you through it with saintlike patience. His voice is a steady murmur, checking in with you softly—asking if you want this, if you're comfortable, if there’s any pain at all. You always knew him to be considerate, even as a professor, but you never imagined that kindness could stretch into something this intimate.

"Ah, I didn't think you'd be so sensitive," he murmurs sweetly. 

Thoughtful as he is, Jing Yuan still knows how to turn up the charm when he wants to.

His large hands are splayed across the plush give of your thighs—amber eyes admiring the mess between your legs. You've slicked up considerably, clenching around nothing as his lips draw into a candid smirk. You're not sure whether you want to pull his face into your sopping heat or bury your head under a mountain of pillows. 

"Really?" you groan. "We've been dancing around each other for years, and you still choose to draw it out?" 

He laughs. Of course he does. But Jing Yuan gives you some sort of reprieve when he moves lower down the mattress, hooking your legs across his broad shoulders before placing a kiss on your inner thigh. His gaze never strays from yours, intense and unrelenting.

"I'm a patient man, darling," he says. "I can string you apart until morning if I felt like it."

The words land like a challenge, and your body tightens in response. As much as you’ve longed for the kind of devotion he’s offering, you're too wound up—too desperate to wait any longer.

You need him. Carnally.

Fortunately, Jing Yuan is nothing if not generous. 

He makes you fall apart on his tongue with two fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt—mercilessly suckling at your clit as you spasm beneath him in the height of bliss. When he feels that the tremors of pleasure have calmed, his golden eyes find yours in the haze. You can't help the rush of heat that fills you when he swipes his tongue across spit-slicked lips. 

Jing Yuan surges forward, easing his large frame between your thighs so he can capture your lips again. The tangy aftertaste lingers on his mouth, but you devour each other like the world ends tomorrow, despite. 

"Can I...?" He frames the plea around a moan when you grind against his leaking shaft. "Y-You're free to refuse, of course."

Trust this man to ask permission only to retract it afterwards. You fight the urge to roll your eyes before laying down on top of your pillows, making sure the half-lidded stare you shoot him carries the message well.

"Jing Yuan," you start, spreading your legs apart for him once more. "If you don't fuck me right now, we're going to have problems." 

He pauses for a second, eyes widening by a fraction. As if he isn't used to hearing you talk like this. Still, the the astonishment fades quickly, replaced by a glimmer of amusement. He presses a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice low and teasing. "Do you have any condoms, darling? Forgive me, but I honestly didn't plan on getting to see you like this." 

Neither did you. But the universe works in strange ways like that.

"I've..." Your face heats up, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "I've been taking contraceptive meds since we started...dating."

That draws his full attention. His gaze sharpens, interest unmistakable, and his smile takes on a new edge—pleased, warm, and just a little dangerous.

“Is that so?” he says, voice dipped in honey. “Now that’s something I wish I’d known sooner.”

You’re not sure you want to dwell on the implication behind his words. But it doesn’t matter—not when time feels like a luxury neither of you can afford. The urgency in your chest is mirrored in his touch, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. You love him so much, you can hardly breathe. 

Oh. 

You love him. 

Jing Yuan, completely unaware of the dawning realization, gathers the pearlescent liquid at the tip, lathering the rest of him with his own essence. His teeth catch along his bottom lip slightly as he eases himself between your legs. You nearly squirm when he rubs the head along your glistening seam.

"You're still free to refuse," he murmurs, but there's little weight to the words. 

You shake your head, legs circling his hips in a feeble attempt to bring him closer. Jing Yuan chuckles, nosing at the crook of your neck as his lips flutter over your pulse like a promise. 

"Please," you nearly beg. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

His breath catches—a hitch you feel more than hear. That word, please, does something to him. You feel it in the way his hands settle more firmly on your waist, grounding you both. In the way he lifts his head just enough to look at you properly, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

"You're sure?" he asks, quieter now. Not doubting you, just giving you the chance to change your mind. He always has.

And maybe that’s what makes your answer so easy.

"Yes," you breathe, the word framed around a soft, easy laugh. "Always, yes."

That’s all it takes.

Jing Yuan exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something that’s been weighing him down for too long. Then he kisses you—slowly, thoroughly, reverently. You feel the shift in him, and in you. This isn’t about urgency anymore. This is about presence. About devotion. About making up for all the years of stolen glances and unspoken longing.

And when you finally move together, it’s not with haste but with the deep, aching patience of two people who have known each other in every other way. Everything is quiet now but the whisper of breath, the rustle of sheets, and the soft cadence of your name on his lips—spoken like a vow.

These things linger in the air like they wish to be remembered.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—entwined, breath mingling, the hush of your shared want settling over everything like a second skin. But eventually, Jing Yuan lifts his head again, eyes catching yours.

And gods, those eyes.

Gold like the moment before sunrise, like melted metal—brimming not just with desire, but with something quieter beneath. 

You reach for him without thinking, fingers threading into the long strands of his silver hair—silken and cool to the touch, like moonlight slipping through your hands. He leans into it, into you, a sound caught low in his throat.

Every line of him is taut with effort. The kind that speaks of restraint, not hesitation. The flex of muscle beneath your palms is measured and deliberate—each motion a study in control, until you feel it unravel. Slowly. Beautifully.

He moves with the kind of care only someone who has thought of this moment a thousand times could possess.

And when he presses his forehead to yours again, his voice comes out low and reverent.

“You're everything to me.”

Fingers digging in, you cling to him. Not out of fear.

But because nothing’s ever felt more right.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled in sheets and warmth, Jing Yuan's heartbeat still faintly pulsing beneath your cheek where you rest against his chest.

One of your hands drifts across his forearm, fingers brushing the pale scar that arcs along the muscle like a memory half-buried. You’ve seen it before—in passing, under rolled-up sleeves, or whenever he gestures too broadly during office hours. A dozen times, you thought to ask. A dozen more, you hesitated.

But now, in the hush between heartbeats, with nothing left to guard—

“What happened here?” you ask, your thumb grazing the seam of old pain.

Jing Yuan glances down, his gaze following the movement of your hand. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a soft exhale, he answers, “Military. A long time ago.”

You shift slightly to look up at him, head still tucked against his side. “One of the wars you talk about in class?”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “One of those, yes. The more recent ones. My battalion was deployed when I was just a little older than my students now. We were green. Thought we’d be home in a month.” He pauses, voice softening. “It didn’t go that way.”

You don’t interrupt. You keep tracing gentle lines over his skin.

“There were three of us that stuck together,” he continues after a beat. “Yingxing. Dan Feng. And me.” The names come out carefully, like they’ve been resting at the edge of his mouth for years, waiting for the right moment. “We were always watching out for each other. Gods, we were stupid sometimes. Brave. But mostly just stupid.”

He’s smiling now, but it’s tinged with a kind of quiet grief, the kind that only comes from surviving what others didn’t.

“I remember once,” he says, eyes distant, “Yingxing tried to sneak a bottle of wine into base. Dan Feng caught him before I could, but neither of them gave it up. We ended up sharing it, passing it around in silence, watching the stars like idiots who didn’t know if tomorrow would come.”

You feel something shift in his voice—affection, longing, something deeper than memory. It’s not just nostalgia.

“You were close,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums low in his throat. “Closer than we should’ve been, maybe. In that kind of place… bonds form quickly. And deeply. You hold on to what you can.”

You don’t press him. You don’t need to. The way he says their names tells you enough. There was love there. Complicated, perhaps. But real.

“I think about them a lot,” he says. “Even now.”

Your fingers still against his skin. He places his hand over yours, grounding the moment. And when he looks at you again, it’s not with regret—but with trust. You’re not just someone passing through. You’re someone who’s here now, who sees him, scars and all.

“They’d have liked you,” he says eventually, eyes soft. “Yingxing especially. He had a terrible sense of humor. You’d have put him in his place.”

You laugh into his shoulder, and he smiles at the sound—tired, but genuine. The kind of smile that only surfaces when it’s safe to do so.

“You don’t have to tell me more,” you say. “But I’ll listen. If you ever want to.”

He nods once, slow and sure. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he presses a kiss to your temple and pulls you closer, your fingers still curled around the part of him that never really left the battlefield.

But then—a soft chime cuts through the warmth between you. A text notification. The real world, slipping back in.

Jing Yuan’s arm tightens around your waist, a soft, unspoken protest, urging you to stay. As if to say let it wait. You soothe him with a gentle kiss, brief and tender, your lips brushing his with quiet reassurance that you’ll return before you slip from his embrace.

You reach for your phone.

Jiaoqiu’s name lights up the screen, followed by a flurry of texts. You can feel the weight of golden eyes reading over your shoulder.

 

Jiaoqiu: are u home rn...

Me: Yes. Why?

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing someone over

Jiaoqiu: don't judge me

Jiaoqiu: his name's moze

Jiaoqiu: one of the nurses from the er shift

Jiaoqiu: i've been trying to make this happen for a month now

Jiaoqiu: and we might've gotten close during the conference :3c

Me: Oh!

Jiaoqiu: yeah...

Jiaoqiu: so please tell me ure not in the living room

Jiaoqiu: or anywhere visible

Me: ...I'm just in my room

Jiaoqiu: perfect

Jiaoqiu: just keep your door shut 

Jiaoqiu: and don't come out for like an hour. maybe two

Jiaoqiu: three if he's enthusiastic

Me: No promises

Me: Also, you might want to knock first if you need me

Me: [Sent an image]

Jiaoqiu: hey

Jiaoqiu: HEY who is that in there with you 

Jiaoqiu: is that jing yuan

Me: Perhaps.

Jiaoqiu: oh my god

Jiaoqiu: are you fucking kidding me 

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing home a man and you're also—

Me: Hey, this is a sex-positive household

Jiaoqiu: you know what 

Jiaoqiu: this is fine

Jiaoqiu: love this for us

Me: That's the spirit.

Me: Now you have to tell me when you guys finish

Me: So we don't all use the bathroom to wash up at the same time 

Jiaoqiu: oh my fucking god 

 

You don’t even get the chance to put your phone down before an arm snakes around your waist and tugs—gently but firmly—pulling you back into the warmth of the bed.

“You’re handling this like a military operation now?” Jing Yuan teases, voice smooth but carrying a hint of indignation. “Making sure there’s no friendly fire in the bathroom?”

You glance down at your phone—Jiaoqiu’s colorful messages still open—and let out a quiet sigh. “He’s bringing someone over, so I figured I should keep things lowkey.”

Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully. “Clever. But it feels a bit like a betrayal, doesn’t it?” His fingers trace up your side, slow and deliberate. “Here I thought we’d earned some peace and quiet tonight.”

You scoff, about to say something witty about splitting rent, but then he flips you gently onto your back, looming over you like the war god you’re pretty sure he used to be. His hair falls over one shoulder, tousled and shining silver in the lamplight, and his golden eyes narrow with mock offense.

“I fought a long campaign to get you in this bed,” Jing Yuan murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don't think I’ll surrender you now just because your roommate’s got a date.”

You laugh softly, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly. “Surrender implies you ever stood a chance.”

That earns you a low, pleased growl, and then he's kissing you again, quick and claiming.

“Then consider this a counteroffensive,” he says, already pulling the blankets back up and tugging you under them.

“Didn’t realize this was a battlefield.”

“Oh, it is,” Jing Yuan chuckles, burying his face against your neck with a victorious sigh. “And you, darling, are already well and truly conquered.”

You laugh graciously, curling a hand behind his neck and pulling him into a long kiss—slow and sure and just a little smug.

The war is over. The treaties are signed.

And in the hush between heartbeats, you finally let yourself believe in the peace you’ve made together.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[moodymelanist]

too good to deny it

happy @sjmromanceweek 2025 everyone! I'm so excited for this event to be back and we're kicking things off with some Nemerie 🫶🏽

Summary: Nesta has never kissed anyone before, and when she gets asked on her first date, Emerie takes matters into her own hands.

Word Count:

Read on AO3 here!

♡♡♡♡♡ Emerie

Emerie was suffering through her statistics reading when her roommate barged through the door in what looked like a state of panic. “Emerie. Em.”

“Yeah?” Emerie asked, looking up from her textbook at the sound of Nesta’s voice. She hadn’t known Nesta very long — they’d only been living together since the start of the semester, and this weekend was her last chance to get some decent studying in before midterms started in earnest — but judging by the look on her roommate’s face, this was something serious. “What happened?”

Nesta shrugged out of her backpack and sat down hard on the edge of her  bed. “I think I have a date this weekend?”

“What?” Emerie asked, fully sitting up at her desk now. “What do you mean you think?”

“Well…” Nesta trailed off with a sigh. She kicked off her white sneakers before shifting back onto her bed in an attempt to make herself more comfortable, and Emerie turned around fully in her desk chair, statistics studying be damned. This was way more important. “You know that guy who’s been driving me crazy?”

“Which one?” Emerie questioned. She’d heard Nesta complaining about a guy in her bio lecture, but there was also the guy in her political science lecture that drove her nuts, too. “Bio lecture or poli sci?”

“Bio lecture,” Nesta confirmed. Emerie wracked her brain for the guy’s name — it was something that reminded her of Narnia. Caspian? Casper? Something like that. “Apparently he was flirting with me the entire time.”

“What an effective method,” Emerie replied dryly, pulling a soft laugh out of Nesta. It made something go a little warm and fuzzy in her chest, but she pushed it aside the same way she’d been doing these last few weeks. “So he’s been pulling your pigtails all semester and now he wants to get serious?”

“I guess so?” Nesta answered hesitantly. She seemed uncertain, which was rare for her; in the short time Emerie had known Nesta, she didn’t tend to show anything other than a very healthy dose of self-confidence. “I mean, I don’t know. He asked me to go to dinner with him on Saturday and I said yes and now I’m kind of… panicking.”

“You? Panicking?” Emerie responded, raising both of her eyebrows. Nesta didn’t do panic, which was generally pretty helpful, but now that she was actually showing something like human weakness, Emerie didn’t totally know what to do with it. “Why? He’s just some guy.”

“Okay, but I don’t do just some guy,” Nesta said. She curled into herself a little bit and Emerie frowned, not sure what to do with that, either. “I haven’t done… any guys, actually.”

Emerie just blinked; she actually had no idea what Nesta was going with this. “What do you mean? Guys must ask you out all the time.”

“Not really,” Nesta told her, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks.

Okay, now Emerie was really intrigued. She closed her textbook and got up to come sit on the bed next to Nesta, their thighs nearly pressed together because of how little room existed on their twin XL mattresses. “Nesta. What are you talking about?”

“You’ve met my mom,” Nesta said, and boy, had Emerie ever. She’d thought her family was bad, but watching the way Mrs. Archeron bossed every member of Nesta’s family around had managed to put even her uncle to shame. Emerie had been a little worried that Nesta would be just as bitchy as her mom, but thankfully that hadn’t been the case, and they’d turned into fast friends instead. “Everyone back home already knows how insane she is. Even if I’d been allowed to date, nobody wanted to deal with her.”

“Oh my God,” Emerie said back. She privately thought it was dumb to pass up on the chance to call Nesta Archeron your girlfriend just because her mom sucked, but maybe she had more brain cells than the guys in Nesta’s hometown. “So you’ve never—?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, no.” Nesta looked away, her cheeks going even pinker. “I’ve never even touched a guy other than dance classes, and that definitely doesn’t count.”

Emerie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How could someone as gorgeous as Nesta be freaking out about something as simple as this? Emerie didn’t have that much experience with guys — she’d figured out what that strange swooping feeling in her stomach when Jade from Victorious came on her television screen meant early, thank you very much — but from the little she did know, it wasn’t really that hard dealing with them. She imagined it would be even easier when you looked like Nesta, with her icy eyes, bronze hair, and general air like she knew exactly what she was doing and you’d be dumb not to go along with it. 

“It’s not that hard, really,” Emerie replied after a second, still reeling. Her first date with a guy on the lacrosse team had been pretty mediocre, but she hadn’t realized the reason she’d been so bored was because she’d wanted to catch the captain of the girls volleyball team’s attention instead. “You just have to laugh at their jokes and put your hand on their arm a little.”

At Nesta’s dubious look, Emerie added, “I’ve seen your Story Graph, Nesta. I know you know how to at least do that.”

“Okay, okay,” Nesta responded with a sheepish smile. “But what if he wants to kiss me?”

“It’s not as hard as it seems,” Emerie answered. “I mean, you’ve seen movies.”

“Of course I’ve seen movies, Em.” Nesta rolled her eyes and Emerie laughed. “But it’s not like I’ve actually done it myself.”

Emerie scrambled to find a response that seemed normal enough. “You can just practice on the back of your hand. Or maybe your arm?”

“Wouldn’t he be able to tell?” Nesta asked, biting her lip. Emerie tried her hardest not to notice how pink they were. “I don’t want to look like I don’t know what I’m doing. Or worse, kiss like a golden retriever. My sister says her boyfriend does that and she hates it.”

“Okay,” Emerie said slowly. She wasn’t completely sure how to respond to that, but she’d do her best. “We don’t have time to unpack the golden retriever thing, but I promise you won’t kiss like that.”

“Okay, but how do you know?” Nesta said back. “You can’t promise that.”

“Just kiss me and I’ll tell you,” Emerie blurted out before she could stop herself. She had to physically shove her hands under her thighs to stop herself from clapping her hand over her own mouth and make the situation even more embarrassing; she’d already done the worst, so now she just had to shut up until Nesta laughed it off.

Nesta didn’t laugh it off, though. She just narrowed her eyes like she was actually considering it, and Emerie nearly bit off her own tongue when Nesta said, “Are you sure?”

“I mean, only if you want,” Emerie replied, hoping it didn’t come off as desperate as she thought it did. Her heart was pounding so loud in her chest it was a miracle Nesta couldn’t hear it with how close they were sitting. “We don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Nesta responded. She looked at Emerie expectantly and added, “Well?”

Emerie quickly shifted so she was facing Nesta properly, leaning on their cinder block wall for some more support while Nesta did the same. This close to her, Emerie could see Nesta had the faintest dusting of freckles across her skin that looked like they trailed down under her shirt, and Emerie hoped Nesta didn’t hear how thickly she swallowed.

“Okay, so…” Emerie trailed off before summoning her courage. She wasn’t going to squander this opportunity, and if Nesta decided to use this knowledge to her date’s advantage, at least Emerie would have the memory. “Pick a side to tilt your head so you don’t bump your nose.”

“Like this?” Nesta asked, tilting her head to the right so far it was a miracle she didn’t strain her neck.

“No, no,” Emerie answered with a little laugh. She reached out to touch Nesta’s face without thinking about it, her cheeks going warm as she tilted Nesta to a better angle. “Like this.”

“Okay,” Nesta breathed. Her eyes looked incredibly blue this close up. “Now what?”

“Just lean in,” Emerie told her. She thanked whatever god was listening that she’d happened to brush her teeth when she’d come back from her discussion section earlier this afternoon. “And close your eyes.”

Nesta didn’t so much as lean in as she aggressively pushed her mouth in Emerie’s direction, but Emerie certainly wasn’t complaining. Nesta’s lips were soft and full against hers, and she could faintly taste the spearmint lip balm that Nesta liked to use. Emerie was fully expecting this to just be a peck, but to her surprise, Nesta’s lips parted and suddenly her tongue was licking at Emerie’s lips.

Emerie gasped a little, surprised, and that was all it took for Nesta’s tongue to slip inside her mouth. She tried to show Nesta how good it felt to slide their tongues together, how to move their lips to form a semblance of a good rhythm, but who was Emerie kidding. Nesta was clearly a natural, and Emerie was one hundred percent benefitting from that right now.

“Um,” Emerie said once she realized just how long they’d been kissing and pulled away. She didn’t know what to say but she didn’t totally know what to do with the strange silence between them. “So. Um. That’s how you kiss.”

Nesta studied her for a few moments before her look turned knowing. Emerie wasn’t sure whether she should be afraid of that look or not, but wow, was it doing things for her. “Right.”

“Right,” Emerie repeated, still at a loss for words. Her lips were still tingling from where Nesta’s had been pressed against them a minute ago, and she had to fight the urge to bring her hand up to touch them. “So. Yeah.”

“I’m canceling my date,” Nesta announced suddenly. Her lips were an even darker shade of pink now from all the kissing, and it was really distracting. “We’re doing more of that.”

Emerie had to mentally rewind the last few seconds to make sure she hadn’t misheard. “What?”

“I said we’re doing more of that,” Nesta repeated firmly. She leaned forward so their lips were just barely touching, and even that was enough to make Emerie a little crazy. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No,” Emerie said quickly, and then immediately realized how Nesta might interpret that. “I mean, yes. I want to.” 

“Good,” Nesta said back, leaning in to press her lips firmly to Emerie’s.

This time when they kissed, they were both smiling too hard for it to really count, but Emerie didn’t mind.

tag list: @c-e-d-dreamer | @jsmelodies | @queercontrarian | @nativeswfl | @that-little-red-head | @dustjacketmusings | @fieldofdaisiies | @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk | @kale-theteaqueen | @goddess-aelin | @livinforthetea | @valkyrie-archeron | @agents-assemble | @sweet-pea1 | @lilah-asteria | @brieq | @mydnights | @jmoonjones | @readskk | @fwiggle | @bookstantrash | @climbthemountain2020 | @underneath-the-sidras | @illyrianshadowhunter | @sublimecoffeefestival | @superspiritfestival | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @burningsnowleopard | @bri-loves-sunflowers | @itsinherited

[owliellder]

Two's A Crowd

College Bully! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

MDNI 18+

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5)

Description: College is proving to be a lot harder than you imagined. You cannot fail this math class. So when you've tried everything else, a well-known student is recommended to you by your professor for tutoring lessons, not really leaving you with much of a choice but to work with him.

Warnings: Not proofread, No Use of Y/N, Dub-Con, Unprotected Sex, Bullying, Yelling, Cursing

Tags: College AU, Bully! Leon, Shy! Reader, both are in their early 20's, Leon is Rude AF in the beginning, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Fingering, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Tags to be Added

Author's Note: I've been late posting this entire series 😭. i explained a bit when anon asked, but i LOST my compression gloves and got a new pair relatively quick on top of my $200 medication 💔 my wallet is in shambles guys

ANYWAYS thank you all for sticking around and bearing with me!! i kiss and hug everyone!! even though i haven't responded to comments lately, i read every single one and it always makes me giggle ♥️♥️

Cross-posted onto AO3

Chapter 5

The drive back to your university with your mom was excruciating. You hadn’t told anyone what’d happened which meant you had to keep a happy demeanor around them throughout the holidays up until now. Dread had settled in your stomach once the drive began and continued to spread the closer you got, similar to when you’re headed to the doctors or the dentist, just a million times worse.

Texting Ella and Sky had helped a surprising amount, turning the majority of your anxiety into rage. Ella was furious when she found out, so her fury, and Sky’s, quickly became yours.

They hyped you up, ready to be at your side and assist in tearing “that shitty fratfuck” to shreds. The support meant so much after everything, especially after the reality of it all set in; you’d seen the picture via snapchat from someone you didn’t know, so how many others had seen it?

Your worst fear was being seen as easy, being used like you were. But you weren’t, were you? Your friends had made sure to try and convince you otherwise, you had to give them that, yet even with the facts laid out in front of you, it was still hard to divert your thoughts away from that ever-looming self-doubt.

Seeing the campus come into view only served to solidify those thoughts and feelings. No matter what Sky and Ella had tried or are willing to do for you, it just wasn’t enough to fix what’s been done.

Your mom helped you bring your suitcase up to your dorm, giving you a tight hug and a kiss on the temple before saying goodbye and heading on her way. Playing okay around your family all winter break was exhausting, so you just chose to sit in silence on your bed instead of unpacking your stuff. Always prepared, you wanted to get here a few days early, using unpacking and settling back in as an excuse, when really you just needed time to collect yourself before the inevitable happened.

He was here, and you were sure he’d seek you out eventually once he spotted you, or maybe when one his friends did and the word made its way back to him. Whichever way it happened, you knew it’d be unfavorable. 

“Hey,” Ella’s voice from the doorway caught your attention, “you look miserable..” How hadn’t you heard the door open? 

“I am miserable, but uh.. let’s just pretend I’m not, okay?” You replied, barely cracking a smile as you glanced up at her. 

She gave you a weak laugh in return, letting the door close as she slowly sauntered over to you, plopping down right next to you on the edge of the bed. “Fine, yeah. You haven’t shown me your schedule yet, by the way.”

“Oh, right-” you paused to reach over and grab your bag, rifling through the various papers in there until finally pulling out the schedule you printed out a couple weeks back. “It’s mostly the classes that aren’t fun.” You stopped to look at your schedule for a brief moment before passing the paper over to Ella, who quickly snatched it from your hand.

She squinted dramatically, holding the paper only a couple inches away from her face. “Yeaaah, these aren’t the best. At least it looks like you’ll have the majority of your pre-reqs out of the way for next year though.” Her observation made you chuckle with a nod.

“Which is what I’m trying to do. Work myself to the bone now, chill out later.” 

“Don’t kill yourself trying to do everything in one fell swoop.”

“I promise I won’t Ella, this is just how I-” A knock on the door drew both yours and Ella’s attention away from each other, an immediate scowl settling on her face. You wanted to ask, but it seems she already knew what you were going to say, quickly shushing you in a hushed voice, “Sky won’t be here until tomorrow night. Don’t answer that.”

You paused, thought for a moment, then nodded once with pursed lips. Ella was a pretty serious person, the mom of the group you could say, so when she pulled that tone, you knew better than to test it. Besides, you didn’t want to see who or what was on the other side of the door, you needed more time.

The next day was a little better, if uneventful. You finally brought yourself to unpack your suitcase, a chance to reorganize everything since you’d gotten a few new things over the holidays. Ella stuck close, bringing food up and into your dorm to take advantage of the empty mini fridge while the two of you binge watched a few random movies.

You stayed cozied up in your bed, having already mapped out and memorized your walking path for each class; longer, less foot traffic to and from. All you had to do was get through the rest of this year, that’s all. Little extra walking never hurt anyone, right?

When classes actually started, the long and complicated walks actually worked for a time; no one gave you strange looks, no one tried to talk to you, and it was pretty quiet. Scenic. But everyone knows everything good must come to an end eventually, and of course it had to be when you were just starting to forget all of this mess.

He caught you between classes. Scenic walks backfired massively when you realized there wasn’t anyone else around on that part of campus. Guess you didn’t think this one all the way through.

You couldn’t help but notice he looked pretty roughed up, sporting a few bruises along his cheekbone, a split lip, and a healing black eye. Seems he’s been busy over winter break.

“Listen, please listen-” Leon pleaded, holding his hands out in a weak attempt to trap you in the hallway. All this did was make you even more uncomfortable. “I know what I did was wrong, but I was not the one who sent that picture around, I swear.” You just stood in place after a few tries to get around him, giving him an almost bored stare. He didn’t really expect to finally catch you, so he stumbled over his words as he continued to ramble.

“I-.. I’m so, so sorry for doing that to you,” he slowly lowered his hands back down to his sides once he was sure you’d stay to listen, “I know that what I did was terrible, and I mean it when I say that I am sorry. I wish there was a way to turn back time and undo it, but I can't. I can't even explain why I did it in the first place, but that's not an excuse. I just- I messed up big time and I was- am stupid for letting it happen.”

To you this seemed sincere, but you really couldn’t be sure and it was safe to assume it wasn’t. Leon managed to trick you for months, who’s to say this wasn’t a trick as well? 

Your look turned skeptical, crossing your arms tightly against your chest with a shaky breath. Despite handling this better than you thought you would, it was still nerve wracking having this kind of talk.

“I'm not good at this, but I'm more than willing to do whatever it takes to make things right, if that's even possible..” Leon breathed out, panting as he tried to catch his breath after talking so fast. “I managed to uh-.. to find everyone who had the picture and I made them delete it.”

“I made them delete the picture.” He repeated, taking another moment to breathe before suddenly looking down to yank something out of his pocket. “I-I got your uh-.. these-” 

Seeing him hold up your panties so casually made you gasp, immediately looking around the hallway to make sure it was still empty before shooting him a glare, whispering a harsh “Put them back! Put them back!” which made him scramble to hide them in his pocket again. 

“Right- right, sorry! Sorry…” Leon was sweating at this point, growing increasingly anxious under your gaze. He didn’t want to mess this up any further, but man he was doing a pretty shitty job at that right now.

His hands were shoved into his pockets as well, both of you blushing with embarrassment, and also shame on Leon’s part. Once he managed to slow his breathing, he started to talk again, a noticeable frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t.. have to forgive me or anything, I just wanted to make sure you knew that hardly anyone knows and-” His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed dryly, turning his head to the side to look at the wall, “.. and that I’m sorry. I really do like you, I guess I just took a little too long to realize it…”

You made another quick glance over your shoulder before looking back at the man trembling in front of you who was still avoiding your gaze. You wanted to hate him so bad, so bad, but it was hard when all you could see was the Leon who was so sweet, the Leon who let you cry to him when the weight of the world was on your shoulders and made you feel so wanted and loved.

“Can we-” you cleared your throat and pulled the strap of your backpack further up onto your shoulder, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. “Can we talk later, maybe? Like, in my dorm? I don’t want anyone overhearing any of this..”

Leon perked up when he heard you talk, pulling his hands from his pockets to nervously rake his fingers through his hair, which was now partially damp from the sweat beading off his forehead. “Oh- OH! Yeah, of- of course, yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t- I just needed to-”

You waved your hands in front of your chest, shutting him up so he didn’t spill any further. "And throw those away." He nodded silently, wiping a hand down his face until it settled right in front of his lips, probably knowing he was talking too much at this point. 

There was one more class you needed to go to that day, so you hurried off after telling him to wait outside your dorm until you were done, and he promised he would. Very adamantly, too. At least he held true to his words, standing in the hallway right in front of your dorm room like a lost puppy when you turned the corner. It was cute for a second, though annoyance quickly replaced that feeling as you walked over and let him in.

You weren’t exactly ready to have a full blown talk, but then again, no one ever was. What made it easier was your roommate never returned that semester, assuming she dropped out, so you basically had the whole dorm to yourself for the rest of the year. Or until someone had a roommate issue and needed a change. Didn’t really matter to you at that point.

There was really only one thing on your mind and that was getting Leon to explain this whole ordeal to you. You needed detail, clarification, anything to help you understand what’d been going on behind your back during that time. And he did, telling you just about everything he could; who suggested the bet, who roped him into the idea, the second guessings he had since the start, how he could’ve done literally anything else to avoid the way it all played out, everything.

Obviously you couldn’t just forgive him like that, even though he kept telling you how sorry he was and how terrible he felt about it. You wanted to forgive him, but you weren’t ready, and he understood that. He would’ve been satisfied with any response you gave him, so having been given the chance to really explain and have you listen was more than enough in his eyes.

“And just so you know, my friends aren’t going to let you off the hook,” you pulled your legs up so you were sitting criss-cross on the bed, looking across at Leon who was sitting on the bed opposite of yours.

“Yeah, I know..” he chuckled awkwardly, reaching a hand back to rub at the nape of his neck. “I was honestly expecting them to jump me, but they just give me evil looks whenever they see me.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, making a mental note to question Sky and Ella about that later. “You’ll never get nice looks from them again and I won’t be vouching for you.”

Leon nodded, silence blanketing the room as you’d finally run out of things to discuss. Though it was awkward, it was nice to have him hanging around again. “Anyways,” you started, standing up from your bed slowly as you vaguely gestured towards the door, “I need to study, sooo…”

“Oh, yeah, totally, uhm..” he followed suit, standing up from the other bed before sauntering over to the door as you held it open for him. He walked out and turned around almost instantly, a small smile suddenly appearing on his face once his eyes met yours, his arms jerking upwards slightly as if to suggest a hug.

“Don’t push it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

tags:

@kayotee4 @k-fallingstar @bobastayhigh @mi-zer-y @chasingkennedy @l30nva @espressonerd @jjouki @5tarx @bunnybreadloaves @whoisgami @cyanscribe @c4b3r1a @darichvep @mmmangel @kingtacocat @klee-iii @baby--vera @dakiniii @kenma-izhu @aliidarling @leonsmamacita @deadghxsty @nekoheist @dumbassmortal @cassiecasluciluce @iovewilliams @maeplayscello @deddiemunsonsblog @paranoid-but-android @mariesmain @tteokhwaa @bonnibuckets @eilonwykennedy @1dk-anym0r3 @papatyacikcik @animesnowstorm @lexi-zsy09 @mylifedoesntexist @ifeellikedying @yourmommylol04 @ravioli19 @dakiniii @papichulo120627

(few of your blogs won't pop up, i tried though 😩)

[lilithinstarlight]

Freminet x SeaCreature!Reader

Hi hi! I just happened to stumble across your account as of today and read through the f.f you had of ao3! I really liked it btw!

I wasn’t sure which fandom to request for but I’ve been craving some new content for Freminet x reader

———————————————————————

Imagine;

Frem is arriving to a tent he set up after he just went diving but sees a pile of shells appears beside. He doesn’t question much of it and pockets some. Next time he goes diving it appears again, and then again, etc. Of course he’s confused but doesn’t worry about it to much seeing as if the person was trying to harm him he figures they wouldn’t waste an entire month collecting shell for him.

Eventually he ends up having to make a quick stop to his tent because he ran out of space to carry items, and that’s when he sees it. Something that he didn’t know even existed before (be it something simple like a mermaid or maybe a shark hybrid? Up for you to decide!) to say he isn’t interested is a lie!

———————————————————————

Im actually going to end the idea right here because I’m quite interested to see what you come up with next!

I haven’t gotten a chance to check when/how long it might take for you to respond to requests so for now I’ll just be stalking your page every so often to see! >:3

tysm!!!! this request is actually so cute btw

With a grunt, Freminet pulled himself out of the clear blue ocean waters. The sun was beating down, giving the liquid an almost lustrous quality, and reflecting off of anything that cared to shine.

He walked over to the mustard yellow tent he'd set up a few hours ago as water dripped from his suit. He reached down to pull the zipper open, looked around to ensure there weren't any bugs about to get in, and --

Oh? What was that?

Sat just beside the zipper was a pile of pearlescent shells. Beautiful, but slightly strange, since those most definitely weren't there when he left in the early morning to go diving.

Though he would normally have been scared off, thinking the shells were left as a warning, there was a sort of comforting aura emanating from the shells. Instead of a sign of danger, he knew they were a sign of protection.

Unsure of what to do with them, he carefully picked them up and gently placed them inside the tent.

--

What was this man trying to do? You had clearly left the shells out as a message to convey your interest in whoever that trespassing cute diver was. Was he playing hard to get? Maybe he was waiting for you to collect more, to show that you really liked him. That must be it.

--

The next morning, Freminet woke up to an even larger pile of shells sat outside his tent's door. Maybe they had just been washing up? He kicked them to the side as he stepped back onto the dew-soaked grass and into the strangely beautiful waters.

Day after day, shells appeared at his tent. Generally they were placed near the door, sometimes they were carefully arranged on top of it, and occasionally they were set inside.

That first day must have been a fluke... these are clearly being left as a warning...

The day after he came to that conclusion, he set out on what he decided was to be his last journey in this section of the ocean. Though he was completely invested in the palace-like architectural monument he had been exploring, whoever lived there clearly didn't want him there.

--

You swam in circles around your mossy stone room. Did he really dislike you that much? You wondered if you had done something wrong, something to offend him.

Shaking your head, you decided that this would be your last attempt at talking to him. You swam to the pile of shells that you had collected the night before, then with determination set in your face, began to swim back up to the surface.

--

Oh Archons. He had forgotten his waterproof Kamera, hadn't he?

Freminet had decided to document as much of the stone palace as he could before he left. Which was why he was currently swimming back up to his tent, since he had somehow forgotten his Kamera, the only tool he actually needed.

The moment his helmet broke the surface, a wave of panic set in.

Who was that? Scratch that, what was that? A water lizard?

"I'm sorry for trespassing! Um, please forgive me! I'm leaving now!"

--

You turned around, mid-shell placement, to find the cute diver boy floating behind you. Finally!

"Don't be sorry! Wait, can you take off your helmet?"

"Um, sure..." The boy shyly reached up to pull the iron bubble off his head.

A faint blush spread across your bluish cheeks despite your best efforts. His soft blonde hair... the coral-lavender eyes... no way his real face was even cuter?!

"You can come up here, if you like!" you called to him. He nodded, and pulled himself onto land, sopping wet.

"So, Mr. Diver - what's your name?"

"F-Freminet..."

"Freminet. I'll be blunt here - why don't you like me?"

"Um! What?" Freminet (even his name was cute!) looked caught incredibly off-guard.

"You've been ignoring all my advances. Whenever I try to give you shells, you either take them into the tent without doing anything or kick them away. You haven't even left me a rejection note!"

"Advances...?" Something clicked in his eyes as he tried to avoid yours. "Uh, I didn't really consider you were trying to, um, flirt with me..."

"How? Do humans not do collection-courting?"

"Not really..." He was starting to sink into himself. Not on your watch!

You strode over to him, trying to exude confidence you only halfway had. You wrapped your scaly tail around his back, and his entire face turned red.

"Then, you're interested?"

He opened his mouth and tried to stutter out an answer, which failed, so he simply nodded his head.

"Wait, actually?" You stepped back and felt your face heat up. No, you were supposed to be the one making him blush!

"Yeah..."

With a squeal of joy, you threw your arms around him. You were completely out of control right now, and you weren't hating it!

"Hey, um, if you don't mind me asking... for, um, you guys, do the shells have, like, a meaning?" He turned away immediately, like he regretted asking.

"Well, traditionally, it's a sort of marriage proposal..."

"Ah?!"