#some form of hope and reality hit it over the head with a two by four!!!!

[thebirdandhersong]

:'))))))

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired PT 2

⭐:ViltrumMark, OmniMark, Hooded Invincible, Masked Mark, HeadCap Invincible (Requested!), Mentions of Invincible. (PART 1 HERE)

Commenter: Can u write some viltrumark n Omni mark. Pleasee. (Special at the end!)

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they can offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Ejaculating Inside, Rough Sex, 69, Car Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6,079

Previously on 'To Be Desired' ... Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone, without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

ViltruMark

Gazing upon the malignant figure, his jaw ticked ever so slightly at the sight of you. A mangy mutt of a man was within his grasp—its maw bludgeoned with the imprint of his knuckles. The sound of a body hitting the ground beside you was like a heavy, wet slap, followed by a faint whoosh of air being forced from its lungs. It was a sickening thud—like a ripe melon dropped from a great height, and you froze with a sense of unease.

The impact was startling and violent, and for a moment, you forgot about the raging havoc being reaped around you. The suddenness of it all made your heart race—you were almost certain he could hear it—as every instinct shrieked within. Your body language became defensive, his gaze hardening in response.

"I've killed you once, and I'll kill you again," he proclaimed, yet it held little intent. His uniform was a staple of the Viltrumite Empire—its clad symbol emboldened in the sky’s smoke like a false beacon of hope. "Then get it over with. You won't be the first variant who dies tonight." The snarky remark was met with a confident scoff. His padded feet landed in front of you, his eyes absorbing your features as if to reminisce. "I won’t. That was my first mistake," he replied, his fingers finding themselves tangled in your hair.

It was sudden; you couldn't help but grimace at his words. A Viltrumite admitting their mistakes? Unbelievable. That was until his grip suddenly tightened, cocking your head to the side as he whispered in your ear. "I've come to right my wrongs and take you with me." The man's grip was a hold of domination, a vice-like clamp that strangled the last vestiges of hope. It was merciless—like that of a warlord who wielded power with an iron fist. Yet the soothing hand around your waist and the calloused fingertips that scratched against your costume told the story of a starved man.

It wasn’t a debate—nor did you intend to argue, as your annoyance with your reality simmered. "Right your wrongs…?" you questioned, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face as you two suddenly took flight. Tears bubbled at your waterline from the speed, your fingers clinging to him as you could’ve sworn he nearly melted. You always did talk too much, so he figured he'd show you. The underground vibrations beat against your eardrums as he cradled you. Your gaze was fixed upon a newly formed crater within the valley, only destroyed rubble offering privacy. "We’ll do it here. You’ll be my new beloved and will give me children."

His fingers traced down your abdomen as they tore through the fabric, gooseflesh rising from the exposure. It was a depressing past, really—having to murder you in cold blood so soon due to his agenda—but not this time. You would stay ignorant of his past, and he would provide it, given your indulgence.

His hands grasped the spandex material of your suit, prying it open as his lips began their pleasurable assault on your neck. The wet warmth of his tongue tickled your skin as he harshly nipped the welcoming flesh. Your faint pulse beneath it enticed him to experience what he had yet to. So alive and welcoming.

Head resting against the soft soil, his hardened cock imprinted beneath the loincloth. His body did little to hide his excitement—though his expression remained cold. Once the clothing was peeled from your body, his lips continued their journey south—pausing to lavish attention on your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth—swirling his tongue erratically around the hardened peak while his hand kneaded and caressed the other.

You moaned at the sensations, your hands instinctively tangling in his hair as his hips ground against your clothed cunt. He didn’t stop. He worshiped your breasts until you were writhing beneath him, the skin tender and reddened from his teeth. As he traveled lower, you could feel his warm breath on your most intimate area, his pre-cum now staining the cloth of both his and your costume. Just before his lips could reach your sex, he pulled away in satisfaction. All mild waves of pleasure were ripped from you, and a feeling of annoyance bubbled within.

Pressing back against him, your eyes pleaded seductively, a hand resting against his chest. "It’s not fun when it's just me; let me please you," you muttered—watching as the faintest smirk graced his lips. He sat on his knees as you shuffled yourself forward—hands eagerly tugging at his clothing. His costume splintered as it fell from his form, your mouth practically watering at the sight of his swollen cock eagerly awaiting your touch. You leaned in—inhaling deeply and savoring his musky scent. You ran your tongue along the underside of his veins, from the base to the tip—feeling it twitch against your lips. He shivered.

You circled the head with your tongue, dipping into the slit to taste his essence before taking him into your mouth. Instantly, he sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth. The man was more sensitive than expected. As your throat relaxed and another inch slid inside, the soft lining of your esophagus welcomed him so fruitfully that his eyelids began to twitch. His pride had failed to forewarn him, and his temperament began to crumble.

As his hips bucked forward, you gagged—only to see a placid grin etched onto his face as his nose crinkled with restraint. He groaned loudly with every bob of your throat, his dick twitching with each contact. Suddenly, his hand gripped your hair, pulling you back. "Enough," he muttered, his voice carrying enough command to make you pause.

Before you could process it, you were flipped onto your hands and knees, panties being lowered as his eyes devoured the sight of your pussy. "You’re soaked… I would’ve fucked you sooner if I knew you’d be so willing." The mumble seemed more to himself than to you. His tip glided down the skin of your folds, the squelching sound causing his grip to tighten as he pushed your head into the ground. Just as he pressed himself inside, the quietest whimper slipped.

Your eyes met his with a smug expression; he returned it as a warning before your velvety walls swallowed him whole. He sighed—like a man being gifted after a long day of work. He didn’t give you time to adjust—immediately pulling out and setting a brutal pace, pounding into you with a force that rocked your entire body. Each thrust pushed you forward, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the burrow of grass. His balls slapped against your clit with every stroke—sending sparks of pleasure through you.

One of his hands left your hip, wrapping around your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to arch your spine. He fucked almost with a hatred. With every stroke, your body bounced forward, and you could swear you heard your vertebrae popping. Does he not know what gentle is?! No! He’s a Viltrumite, born and raised!

Unbeknownst to you, the dual stimulation of his balls slapping against your skin and the soft twitching of your pussy had him hunched over. He began to chase his own release—loud growls echoing in your ears as you could barely formulate sound. His free hand rested against your ass—enjoying its recoil as a pathetic whine scratched his throat. He was hellbent on burying himself within you, each thrust deepening with the swivel of his hips. His muscles tightened as his jaw clenched, heavy pants echoing between groans. It was beginning to sound needy—a rough greed that consumed him.

Your moans were muffled, his hearing sharp enough to catch every one, his tactics shifting subtly to bring you the utmost pleasure. God, why did he kill you? He could barely remember as his brain began to fizzle out from the pleasure. “Mphm… Mark… can’t breathe,” you muttered, his eyes finally snapping into focus. In a last-ditch effort, he tugged you back, ripping a hiss from you as your spine curved. Your back rested against his chest, and although the sex was rough, this was a moment of gentleness. “Aah—ugh, mm, fuck, I’m going to fill you,” he whispered, sheathing himself one final time as he came.

You two remained still as his stamina recovered; he pressed a chaste kiss against your lips, both of your suits ruined. No matter—he couldn't care less about flying into space naked. It was short-lived as he abruptly readied himself from a voice buzzing within his ear; you remained seated in absolute awe. “How long can you hold your breath?” he asked, a plan to return home brewing.

OmniMark

His gaze remained fixed on you, expression unimpressed as he observed. You had just defeated another swarm of enemies, their blood coating the streets. As you stumbled toward him, your breath came out in labored gasps, and your vision blurred, making it hard to focus on his figure. Mark—or rather, this mysterious figure in similar fashion—seemed to be studying you intently, his eyes piercing through your facade.

The sound of his cape billowing finally caught your attention. Roving over his figure, you observed his costume. A dried patch of blood littered his hand, pink lint from the fabric clinging to it. It resembled Omni-Man's and only struck you with confusion as your mind rang from your probable concussion. "Hey, are these giving you any trouble?" he asked, his body idly bobbing midair as he awaited an answer.

"Who are you, really? If you're Mark, why are you dressed like... well, like him?" You gestured to his costume, a near-perfect replica of Omni-Man's, complete with the red and white color scheme, only missing the distinctive 'O' emblem. He sighed—almost regretfully, as a realization seemed to dawn upon you. Omni-Man in his world was dead; just why did I have to run into this one?! He glided toward you with a strangely disturbing grace.

"I've come to defend you. There are many of us gathering over Chicago." Your question was swatted away like a fly as he continued. His response made you drop your guard—albeit naively—since there was no reason to trust him. He landed in front of you, dark goggles showing your reflection as he contemplated. "Why? What happened to me in your dimension?" you inquired.

He replied with the slightest look of pity and weariness. "She… was like a pet. Served her purpose and got in the way after I killed my father." His words made your heart drop. "I've been looking for you… for a new pet. So, understand me this time, and we can conquer together." The tone of his words was low— almost careful, like it somehow softened the demeaning blow. Every word was woven in silk, but underneath lay a quiet demand. His fingers gently wrapped around yours—his gloved thumbs ghosting over your knuckles.

Truthfully, he hated his dimension's version of you. Such a nuisance, but you were already proving to be more favorable. A glimpse into what you could've been.

"But you have more to offer than she did. She had no powers, no abilities… but she was cute while it lasted." A sense of sadness lingered in his voice as his eyes focused behind you—on the destruction your battle had caused.

"Fine, I'll let you protect me," you said, releasing his fingers.

"It’d be best if we stayed together at all times," he replied.

"I don’t think I could stomach being around you." It was a petty jab, spit with unintentional venom.

"I could change that," he quipped with the cockiness of his father, his palm outstretched to you.

Just how did you allow yourself to be swept away like this? Yes, the Mark you knew was the son of Omni-Man with morals; this one went against every principle you had when becoming a hero. Like father, like son. His words were sensitive—meticulously put together to string you along—not that you cared now, not with his fingers buried deep inside your cunt.

Somewhere along the way, he had flown you to Paris like some fancy vacation. The leveled city burned brightly, the embers painting your skin in a dewy orange that made you look so divine. The Eiffel Tower stood tall, almost as a harbinger of justice—and here you were, on the structure, being fingered by him. You let out a sharp cry as he started to stroke, his digits gliding through your wetness with ease. The very sight of your cunt had him in a hedonistic trance, his thumb slotting over your clit. He teased and circled—applying just the right amount of pressure to have your hips bucking beneath him. His pace quickened ever so slightly—reveling in the ridges of your pussy that he anticipated to hug him so snugly.

"You like that, don't you? You like it when I touch you like this?" he purred, watching as your face scrunched in pleasure. It wasn't like he needed a response; seeing your reaction was enough. Your abs began to tighten as your orgasm built, and just as your body lurched forward, his hands pulled away, leaving you clenching around air.

"You said that would be it," you whispered, watching as he smiled faintly, almost pleading. "I know, but it would be better this way… I can't monitor with just my fingers." He excused himself, and your eyes rolled sarcastically. "Last thing." It was a harsh spat that crawled from your throat and into his ear. "Last thing," he agreed—when you both knew he was the type to say that while fucking you senseless for the tenth time.

Against the cold metal, he spread your legs wide, his free hand freeing his weeping cock from its confinement. It's been punished enough for now. Clothes were shed quickly, eagerly, until you were both naked and pressed together, skin against skin. He hovered over you, his eyes roaming your exposed body hungrily. Circling his tip around your entrance, he finally pushed in—jaw clenching with a shaky exhale.

His hips began to build into a relentless pace, your bouncing legs wrapping firmly around him to pull him in deeper. He was becoming lost within you—quite literally—as your pussy swallowed him balls deep. No wonder his father remained active with Debbie; this was fucking godsent to him. Perhaps his words from earlier were no longer manipulation but the truth. He would vow to know you on a personal level later.

Moans of pleasure from you both echoed. He was shameless about his noise, enjoying the sound of skin slapping in the air. You could have sworn his particularly deep thrusts sent the tower shaking. Sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated, ab muscles flexing as he withheld his orgasm. Mark loved it here. He would do anything not to pull out. His body began to tremble with restraint, nearly convulsing with the overarching effort. Your bodies shifted with each powerful thrust. Lost in your own pleasure, you barely noticed your head now dangling from the structure.

His attempt at being romantic after destroying a city was dreadful. "Mark…!! Ah! I'm gonna fall, fuck—!" you wearily shouted, and he grimaced slightly, his fingers shoving themselves into your mouth to simulate sucking his cock as he watched you gag on them. "You know better… swearing doesn’t make you cool." He stated it so casually, as if he weren’t balls-deep inside you.

Flying you both into the air, his hands gripped your ass, fucking himself into you. His thrusts grew erratic, his whimpers barely contained. It was obvious—his toes curled in his shoes, his feet flexed, his eyes rolled back into his skull, the veins in his neck prominent. Clasping his chin, you focused his attention on you as your insides nearly squeezed him dry. It was your minute revenge. "T-Take what you… what you want." His lips were caught between his teeth. "I wo… won't stop you."

The words were weak, both of you heaving, breath fanning against each other's faces. Wrapping your legs tighter around him, and with bated breaths, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he came with a shout. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he hissed, unable to stop himself. After realizing what he had done, he ironically cursed under his breath.

"S… shit, I should’ve come in your mouth; it would’ve been better," he muttered, disappointed in himself. Wrapping your bare body within his cape, he gingerly kissed you with praise. His lips parted—as if to utter something sentimental, his gaze hardening. Suddenly—he observed heroes gathering within France to save the people. A grimace enveloped his face. He had enough decency to place you securely at your apartment before taking off. HeadCap Mark

“Oh…? And who do we have here?” he asked rhetorically, one hand resting at his side. His overzealous grin gleamed beneath the obscurity of his features. Not to mention was—was he bald? His appearance was a far cry from his better counterpart. You kept raking over every detail, unsure what unsettled you more.

“I… I don’t want to fight you. You look like my friend… I couldn’t,” you replied timidly, tension stunning your body. He landed without a sound, the silence eerie—like a grinning cat toying with its prey.

There was dried blood riddled through his costume, his demeanor confident as he strutted toward you with his head held high. You were awfully perturbed, not noticing him already in front of you. “Well, this is gonna be fun,” he chirped as he gazed expectantly at you—his amusement only growing. “You know how hard it was to find you? Your friend's bug brother straightened me out on my way here.” A series of sharp, satisfying cracks from his spine echoed through your ears, each pop releasing tension like bubble wrap as they twisted. His octave dropped a notch as he leaned in.

“Now it's time to straighten you out.” The words were of insincere politeness, their meaning striking you upside the head. His fingers curled around your neck as he guided you backward. The cold metal of a now disheveled and crumpled car met your back. “Ah ah ah, don’t even think about it,” he whispered—your ear tingling from its warmth, your fingers relaxed at your side.

The smile on his face was almost sweet as you complied, only begrudgingly allowing his touch. “Then move before I change my mind.” You snorted in response. It was scandalous; you’d never admit that the hand around your neck nearly made you weak. Just how could you reject a man so desperate to have you? He wasn’t going to deny you either; in fact, he felt almost obligated to show you he deserved this.

He shoved you roughly against the hood of the car, his fingers tracing the length of your curves. The loud creak of the vehicle settling, the sputtering electricity of nearby landline wires, and the open air of dust filling your lungs made you feel truly exposed. Even without the removal of clothing. His tongue flicked over his lips, a brief, deliberate motion—like a cat after cream. The elastic fabric of his costume fell down his muscled legs, his hands eager as they jutted forward. It was rushed—he stripped the latex from your body with the urgency of a man digging for gold.

Only then, when he saw the pretty lace covering such delicate areas, did an audible groan of delight scratch his throat. “Pretty,” he teased, his hands reaching into his boxers as they clung to his thighs. His dick was flushed a pale pink—longer than it was girthy—as bulging veins pathed their way to his tip. “Pretty,” you mimicked, legs spreading as he closed in like a moth to a flame. He left your bra and panties on, enjoying the sight too much to tear them off. Instead—he pulled the fabric aside to watch your tits bounce, your pussy lips already weeping.

His tip parted you like a river, his head hanging back as he bottomed out. Your walls fluttered to accommodate his length; if he wanted to, he could kiss your cervix. Your legs crossed over his shoulder, and his hips reared back before driving into you. Each thrust pushed you further up the car's hood, your breasts bouncing with the force of his movements.

Your hands reached to clasp at anything behind you—only to find a shattered windshield to dig your fingertips into. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he watched you bounce on his cock; it was something deserving of a painting. His head turned, tongue slithering across the soles of your feet in a gesture of worship. As much as he didn't care about this world—in this moment—he was determined to make you feel like a goddess. His pace quickened, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

The movements were entirely guided by lust; broken chuckles bubbled from his throat as moan after moan was ripped from him. Your eyes nearly lost focus—every stroke caused a slight bulge to imprint in your lower abdomen. Your moans encouraged him—urged him to go deeper, to claim you completely. “So… so much is d-different about this world, but this… t-this was made for me.” His lips grimaced as his hips purged through the trembles riddling his body. The car creaked as it rocked violently, his fluid motion throwing you against him in time with his thrusts.

The street fills with the unfiltered sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin. You could feel your throat becoming raw; he was practically silenced, communicating with the tightening of your cunt and its impending orgasm.

Propping yourself onto your hands, you leaned back slightly, one leg gingerly switching to his other shoulder, giving him a full view of how you drank him in. His thumb rolled tight circles around your clit, watching as your hole puckered so vigorously around him.

A ring of your juices—mixed with what he couldn’t tell was pre-cum or cum—sputtered against his pelvis. The sight was enough to tip him over the edge. “Come… all over my cock—mmm—like the good l-little ssslut you are!” he groaned, eyes darting between your folds and your eyes as he inhaled your intoxicating scent.

As he thrust into you with increasing fervor, you felt your body begin to tense, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm approached. He seemed to sense it, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release.

You cried out, fingernails scraping against the car's metal; his jaw clenched wearily as his knees grew weak. A weakened grin etched across his face once more—eyebrows knitting upward as he sighed shakily. With frantic pacing, he waited until his eyes nearly crossed before pulling out and ejaculating on your stomach.

You were winded, arms giving out as you rested against the car; he stared at you, unnaturally tired himself. But as he watched your juices bubble around your entrance, a new energy suddenly surged to his cock. “W-What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, stroking himself with a strangled whimper. “Mmm, I plan on using every inch of this car while I’m here.” Hooded Invincible

The momentary silence was deafening; the veiled mask drifted ever so slightly to show the grin lurking beneath. His costume had blood leaking down the front; the amount would suggest he’d been bested—yet he stood defiant and cocky before you. Just how powerful was he to remain standing? As you readied yourself for another battle, a sigh leaving your lips, his hands suddenly bound together over his head before slamming his full weight onto the concrete road. The rubble cracked beneath your feet, and a strong gust of wind slid you back. It wasn’t nearly as strong as anticipated. He was holding back.

“You won't be enough. You’re not even a fraction of my power!” He enunciated every other word—making the insult feel a little more scathing. “No wonder you get jumped so often, you fucking asshole,” you chided with annoyance. The dull ache in his head was the last thing he registered; the blow landed with a sickening thud—its crack making him stumble back slightly. “Oh, fuck off.” His return strike was swift, a flash of movement followed by a grunt of pain.

You nearly crumpled—the floor rushing to meet you before you regained stability. He was quick to compliment, almost too eager. “Okay… I’ll admit, you’re stronger than I thought.” The feeling of his hands cupping around your wrist—dried blood flaking from his palm. “That’s not why I’m here though,” he finished, his yellow-tinted goggles reflecting off the sunlight, a faint glimpse of his eyes meeting yours.

Just why did they have to have the warmth of your friend's? This was making it difficult to hate him. “Not interested,” you deadpanned, arms tugging within his grasp. He sucked his teeth with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t remember you being this fucking mouthy.” His head cocked slightly to view your expression change like his personal performance. “Wrong dimension; I’m not her.” Your words made him pause as that grin made its Broadway appearance. “Nah, you’re better; I love it when my girls are a bitch.” He taunted, your eyes searching for an escape route as you mentally dismissed him. “C’mon, give me a chance.” The words dripped from his lips, less of a plea and more of a certainty.

You couldn’t deny he had certainly piqued your interest in more ways than one. Suddenly, a pair of calloused fingertips ran a strip down the center of your costume—the fabric outlining a faint camel toe. His fingers pressed against the indent of your pussy lips—a desired dampness nearly causing him to groan. “Oh, you’re fucked,” he said with mocking restraint. In almost an instant—you were dragged into an alleyway and—with the weight of a feather—flipped upside down. “Put me down! What are you doing?!” you grit out, but the words lacked conviction, lost in the echo of his ragged breath.

He ignored your plea, fingers now deftly parting your swollen lips, teasing the clit that throbbed insistently through your costume. Your question was more of a criticism of his crassness. “Relax, you’ll like this.” He brushed off every critique, his focus narrowing to the only thing that mattered—his next dessert.

A firm finger dug into the fabric above your cunt before the screeching sound of fabric tearing. It was better than he imagined; his tongue already sought a taste as he admired the view. “That's it. I know you want this.” His tongue flicked out, tracing a wet path from your clit to your swollen opening. A jolt of electricity shot through you, silencing you momentarily as your hands dug into his hip. He chuckled again, pleased with your reaction. “See? Already loving it.” His response made your pleasure-filled veins run cold.

Returning the favor through shaky moans of your own, your fingers tore through the fabric of his clothing—leaving little time for him to react as your teeth sorted through the pocket of his boxers before his cock sprang out. Its tip was greeted with fervent kisses as a guttural growl rumbled from behind his veil. His tongue, hot and demanding, flicked out, tracing the sensitive flesh. A gasp escaped your lips, a mix of grit and nascent pleasure. He lapped at you with deliberate strokes, teasing and testing your limits. The fluttering of his tongue grew desperate to draw more sounds from you as you writhed.

That was until his toes curled upon a pair of nails dragging down the length of his swollen, veiny cock. He grumbled a string of curses, his tongue pursuing to ravage you in the wake of this being a competition. With practiced ease, your lips parted, bubbles of spit gathering around his tip as you toyed with him. “Fuuuuck me,” he sighed.

You took him in, the softness of your mouth enveloping him as you began to move, your head bobbing rhythmically. The swirl of your tongue was like pleasant lashings against his cock. Your throat relaxed as your nose met the tightening sack of his balls; he was losing his ability to resist. Every so often, you would flatten your tongue, ruining what might’ve been the build-up of his orgasm.

Your combined groans echoed mindlessly in the alleyway. With a clenched jaw, he flipped you right-side up, your hands dragging across the pavement momentarily. The sight of him frazzled you—his hair disheveled from the clenching of your thighs, and the front of his veiled mask drenched in your taste.

“How do you even have the energy to still hold me?” you asked, bewildered as he chuckled. “You underestimate my power.” His response made your eyes roll, and you both were winded nonetheless. He shifted again, his hands now gripping your thighs, spreading them wider. He positioned himself between your legs, his hard cock pressing against your clit, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. As he penetrated the twitching valley of your warmth, you both responded to one another with a moan—a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

Holy fuck, was he glad you couldn’t see his face. He was holding on by a thread, eyebrows furrowed with a quivering lip. “You probably… would’ve made me cum a-already if you didn’t keep playing,” he rasped, somewhat annoyed. “Shut the fuck up and keep going.” He couldn’t argue; his grip tightened against your upper thigh. With every drawback, you tightened around him, threatening to suck him in. Through labored breaths, his jaw went slack as his body nearly locked up on him. “Haa… ha… haa! You r-ready?” he drawled—dick pumping into you with his last shrivels of energy before his dick milked him dry inside you.

You both remained in somewhat of a daze. That’s when the familiar clang of Cecil's reAnimen echoed in the distance. Setting you down with a strange gentleness, he promised his return—leaving you with a hole in your pants. “Fuck.”

Masked Invincible

“Finally…” he whispered; you could’ve sworn his eyebrows creased beneath his mask—the full obscurity of his features made him difficult to identify. “Mark…?” you questioned, his shoulders drooping slightly as a relieved sigh left him. His costume was barely recognizable if it weren't for the signature black and blue; his frosted lenses left little to be discovered.

The instinct for danger—and to fight—was suddenly drained from you as he spoke. “We didn’t all make the same deal.” He approached, desperation weighing down his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, Mark. You all murdered thousands… I don’t know you. I don’t care to hear you plead your case.”

Your response stunted his movements as the sound of padded feet quickened their pace.

“I—I know, but it was for a good reason, I swear,” he continued with a slight stutter, his hands gesturing to his chest. This somehow felt manipulative. “I liked it here… I came back to bring you and my mom back with me. We can start over.” His hands clung to your shoulders as he spoke, fingernails digging into the flesh. “And why would I do that?” you inquired, your gaze hardening as you anticipated a response. “Because… because I need you.” The delivery was purely pathetic, a voice cracked, edging his words as he nearly pleaded.

Considering the whole ordeal, it didn’t sound like an awful offer. However, it would be unsafe to assume the woman you once loved in the past was the same in every dimension. His submission might’ve unlocked a new kink you were unaware of, the sentiment tugging at your heartstrings. He was similar to the Mark you knew—emotional—but this one felt far more dangerous, a dog off its leash. You began to lie through your teeth. If it meant having a variant as an ally rather than an enemy, then so be it.

“Okay. I’ll come with you if���” Your words were abruptly sawed off as his hands hastily lifted half his mask and his lips found yours with fever. He brushed his lips against yours, featherlight, as if testing the moment—savoring it. He sighed into the kiss, his hands cradling your face, drawing you closer, deepening the space between breath and bliss. His fingertips dug into your skull as he was encased in your warmth.

Just how could he have ever let this go? Not this time. No, he would do better. He’d imagined this countless times.

Hands quickly shifting to your hips, he decided your apartment was best. Being on his best behavior would convince you more, right? Landing on the balcony, he slid open the door as you shuffled backward into the kitchen. You both pulled away, erratic breaths dampening one another's faces. Interestingly, as his costume loosened and pooled around his ankles, the mask remained. He seemed truly hellbent on keeping it on—not that you paid any mind.

Slowly tugging each article of clothing from your body, he watched as if hypnotized. It was nearly comical watching him progressively become aroused as seconds ticked by. His mind and body were one. His ragged gasps produced a small cloud of condensation through his mask. His dick a red, irritated mess with smeared pre-cum. Messy. Desperate. Guiding him into a chair, he manspread to allow you plenty of room once you straddled him, feet hooking against his inner thigh.

His tip pierced through you, giving you little time to adjust as gravity pulled you downwards. Your puffy lips cushioned him between hungry blows, combined arousal leaving a stringy mess in his lap.

Gripping your hips, his jaw clenched as he assisted you in riding him, the pace solely reliant on his stamina. "Wait, wait, slow down," you gasp, trying to regain control. But he's too far gone, his lust clouding his judgment. He grips your hips tighter, slamming you down on his cock with bruising force.

The pleasure is intense—bordering on pain—but you can't deny how much you're enjoying it. He leans forward, his masked face inches from yours. "I—I can't slow down," he pants, his breath hot against your skin. "I've wa… wanted this for so long. Needed this."

You can feel him throbbing inside you, his desire for you evident. But you need to take back control, to show him who's in charge here. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as your ass meets the meat of his thighs from your efforts to ride him.

He groans, his head falling back as you take what you want from him. "F-fuck, yeesss," he hisses, his hands moving to your ass, squeezing and spreading it. "Take it all; take everything I have to give."

It was his most coherent sentence—just barely—as his voice cracked with a whimper.

Your moans began to mingle until it was a harmony unable to be differentiated. The sound bouncing off the walls sounded ten times louder than it was. His nose scrunched from beneath his mask, jaw flexing with an effort to remain sane.

"I am. And I'm going to use you until I'm satisfied." He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you at your words. You can tell he likes this—likes being used and controlled by you. After all he’s done, he’d gladly let you go for today.

Your hips slammed against his with every downward thrust. The sounds of skin meeting rang in your ears, a whine of pleasure filling your lungs as unrestrained sounds began to filter. His pubic hair caused delicious friction against your clit as he began to grow sloppy.

He reaches up, his hands cupping the back of your shoulders to hold you in place as he rams into you. The added stimulation sends you closer to the edge, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches.

"C-...Cum for me," he growls, his eyes watching you intently with the goal of watching your face contort in lust. "Fuck… fuck… fuck, yes! G-Give it to me! Please…!"

His voice nearly gave out as he came with a shout, finally being able to make you his.

You soon followed after, collapsing on his chest as remnants of a moan leave your lips. It takes a while for you two to finally gather your bearings. He pulls his mask down, a smile etched into the fabric, before that damned voice calls out within his ear. “I’m sorry… I—I have to go. I'll come back for you,” he stutters, reluctantly leaving and flying into the murky horizon.

This was actually fun to type up. (If interested in Mark's subplot (same scenario), it's linked: here.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[solxamber]

Making Up After an Argument with: Overblot Gang + Rollo

part 2 with vice housewardens + kalim

on this day, i offer you some hurt/comfort

It’s been two days. Two long, awkward, and uncomfortable days of silent treatment between you and him. The argument had been petty—something so small that you can’t even remember what sparked it. But pride, stubbornness, and a little bit of frustration had taken over, and now, here you are, locked in a stalemate.

You’ve been tiptoeing around each other, avoiding eye contact, pretending not to care. But in reality, the silence feels like it’s stretching forever, and you hate it. You hate the feeling of distance between you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.

You miss him. Even with him just a walk away, it feels like miles.

The realization hits you hard as you sit there, staring at your phone, hoping for a sign—any sign—that he’s willing to break first. But of course, nothing comes. He’s just as stubborn as you are. Maybe even more.

You let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping back in your seat. Ugh, fine. I’ll be the one to give in this time. It’s not the first time you’ve done it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. But deep down, you know you love him too much to let this go on. And you know he loves you too, even if neither of you will say it right now.

Riddle Rosehearts

You sigh dramatically, dragging your feet as you head towards Riddle’s dorm. The argument was dumb—you know that now. And if anyone could hold onto stubbornness like a grudge, it was Riddle Rosehearts. You, on the other hand, are way too tired of the silence, so it’s time for drastic measures.

As you approach his door, you pause, a silly idea forming in your mind. What’s the best way to apologize to someone like Riddle? With a flourish, of course. You rummage through your bag, pull out a red rose you happened to pick up earlier—totally coincidental, you promise yourself—and start plotting.

A few minutes later, you knock on his door, taking a deep breath. You hear footsteps, and then the door creaks open, revealing Riddle’s ever-serious face. His eyes flick up to you, then down to the rose in your hand, then back up again. He doesn’t say anything, though the faintest hint of curiosity flashes in his eyes.

Time to execute the plan.

You drop to one knee in an exaggerated, overly dramatic fashion, holding the rose high above your head like you’re a knight pledging allegiance to his queen. “My dearest Riddle, Queen of the Rose Garden, I come bearing an apology for my grievous offense. I’ve come to beg for your forgiveness,” you say, loud enough for the whole dorm to hear.

Riddle's eyes go wide, and for a moment, his face goes completely red—not from anger, but from pure, unfiltered embarrassment. He glances around, hoping no one else is witnessing this absolute spectacle you’re making.

"Please," you continue, voice wobbling as if you're on the verge of tears, "Grant me one more chance to bask in your presence! Your mercy, oh merciful ruler!" You bow dramatically, forehead almost touching the ground.

He sputters, clearly flustered beyond belief. "W-What are you doing? Get up! That's completely unnecessary—!"

"No!" You hold up the rose like a peace offering. "Not until you talk to me again! I will stay here on my knees if I must! Forever! Or until I get a cramp, whichever comes first!"

He’s torn between laughing at the ridiculousness of it and dying from second-hand embarrassment. “This is ridiculous! I—” He looks at the rose, then at you, eyes softening just a bit. “Fine, fine, just… stand up already.”

You spring to your feet, grinning triumphantly. “So, we’re good?”

Riddle sighs, rubbing his temples. "You're impossible."

“Does that mean yes?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him playfully.

“Yes. But stop being so dramatic. The whole dorm probably heard you…”

You don’t care. You throw your arms around him in a spontaneous hug, and for a second, Riddle freezes, stunned by the unexpected affection. Then, hesitantly, he returns the hug. He’s still embarrassed, but there’s a softness to his grip, a sign that he missed this closeness just as much as you did.

He pulls you into his room, and as soon as the door clicks shut, the embarrassment on his face fades, replaced with a quiet vulnerability. He avoids your eyes, walking over to his desk, his voice quieter now. “I… I was afraid,” he admits. “That maybe you were getting tired of me. I know I’m difficult sometimes, and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “Where is this coming from?”

He sits down, staring at the floor. “You could be with someone more… easygoing. Less rigid. Someone who doesn’t argue over every little thing.”

You blink, surprised. “Riddle, I knew what I was getting into when I started dating you. I chose you, remember?”

He looks up at you, eyes filled with uncertainty, and you notice his hands trembling just slightly. “But what if I drive you away? What if one day you just… stop trying?”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice. Before you can think, you step forward, kneeling in front of him. Without hesitation, you cup his face in your hands, gently brushing your thumb against his cheek. “That’s not going to happen. Ever.”

His eyes glisten slightly, the tension of the past few days unraveling as he leans into your touch. “But—”

“No buts,” you insist softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you. Stubbornness, rules, and all. And honestly, I think the petty arguments are kinda fun. It keeps things… interesting.”

He lets out a shaky breath, and you feel a few tears slip down his cheeks. “You don’t know how hard it is for me,” he whispers. “To balance everything, to try and be perfect all the time… I don’t want to lose you because of my shortcomings.”

You smile gently, brushing away the tears with your thumb as you lean in and kiss his cheek softly. “You’re not going to lose me. You don’t have to be perfect, Riddle. I didn’t fall in love with perfection, I fell in love with you.”

He stares at you for a moment, tears still threatening to spill over, but his grip on your hand tightens as if he’s holding on to your words. “I… I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve the world,” you whisper, pulling him into a tight hug, cradling his head against your shoulder as he allows himself to cry softly into your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, gently whispering reassurances as he finally lets go of the weight he’s been carrying.

“I missed you,” he mumbles between sniffles, his voice fragile in a way you’ve rarely heard before.

“I missed you too,” you say, kissing the top of his head. “Let’s never do this silent treatment thing again, okay?”

He nods, still clinging to you, and you feel his lips press a soft kiss against your shoulder, a wordless promise.

Leona Kingscholar

It’s been two long days of silence. And if you know one thing about Leona Kingscholar, it’s that his stubbornness rivals your own. You’ve been circling around each other, neither one of you willing to be the first to admit defeat. But the silence is eating away at you, and, well… you miss him.

So, you hatch a plan. A very dramatic, ridiculous, and completely unnecessary plan.

Armed with a large bouquet of sunflowers—because roses are too obvious—you march into Savanaclaw with all the confidence of someone who is absolutely not going to be embarrassed by this. Nope. You pass by several confused students on your way to Leona’s room, each one giving you strange looks as you carry the huge bouquet.

You stop in front of his door, take a deep breath, and knock. No answer. You knock again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Sighing, you decide to just barge in—because what’s a grand gesture without a bit of dramatic flair? Pushing open the door, you find Leona lounging on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes closed.

Perfect.

You march up to him and stand by his bed, holding the bouquet in front of you like a shield. “Leona Kingscholar, hear me out!” you declare, in a tone that’s probably more suited for a court jester than someone in an actual relationship.

One of his ears twitches, and his eyes crack open, glancing at you. You stand tall and proud, despite how ridiculous you feel, presenting the sunflowers like they’re some rare treasure. “I come bearing these humble sunflowers as an offering to ask for your forgiveness, O Great King of Beasts.”

He snorts. Actually snorts. “What are you on about, herbivore?”

You drop to one knee dramatically, holding the flowers up to him as if you’re a knight swearing fealty to his king. “Please, Leona! Forgive my transgressions! I was wrong to argue with you, and I cannot bear another moment without your esteemed company!”

Leona raises an eyebrow, staring at you with what can only be described as amusement. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

“I am but a humble servant, groveling for your mercy!” you continue, refusing to break character. “Please, take these sunflowers as a token of my undying affection and devotion!”

By now, Leona is fully awake, sitting up and resting his chin in his hand, clearly trying to hold back laughter. “Sunflowers, huh? How thoughtful of you.”

“Of course!” You stand up dramatically, thrusting the bouquet toward him. “They represent my radiant affection for you!”

Leona finally lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But do you forgive me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him.

He rolls his eyes, but the grin on his face betrays his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, you’re forgiven. Just stop with the theatrics, would ya?”

You grin, knowing you’ve won him over. But there’s something still lingering in the air, some tension that hasn’t quite disappeared yet. Leona might be laughing, but you can tell he’s still a bit on edge, still a little distant.

Setting the sunflowers aside, you walk over to the bed and sit next to him. “Leona, I know it was a dumb fight, but… you know you’re the only one for me, right?”

He glances at you, his smile fading slightly as he considers your words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, scooting closer. “I mean it. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, he’s quiet, and you can see the tension in his shoulders start to ease. Then, without a word, he shifts, pulling you down onto the bed with him, his body practically draping over yours like a big, heavy, warm blanket. His arms wrap around you, his tail curling possessively around your leg, anchoring you to him.

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, letting out a low, contented sigh. “You better not,” he mumbles against your skin. “I don’t feel like dealing with anyone else’s nonsense.”

You smile softly, running your fingers through his hair, scratching gently behind his ears. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Leona presses closer, his body relaxing fully against yours as if he’s been waiting for this. His weight is comforting, and you can feel the way he melts into your embrace, his tail tightening just slightly around you as if to say, mine.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him as close as you can, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours. “You okay now?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “Just don’t pull that silent treatment crap again. Hate it.”

You chuckle softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Deal.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but the way he snuggles even closer to you tells you that all is forgiven. You hold him tight, and in that moment, with him lying on top of you like a big, lazy cat, everything feels right again.

Azul Ashengrotto

It’s been two long, dreadful days of silence between you and Azul. And for someone like him—someone who thrives on words, on negotiation, on control—it’s been absolutely agonizing. But his pride won’t let him be the first to crack. He’s stubborn like that.

And you? Well, you’re not much better.

But enough is enough. The tension between you both is suffocating, and while you’re both great at the silent treatment, it’s clear this little game of emotional chicken has to end. You’ve had enough of this cold war, and after mulling over how to make amends, you come up with the most absurd, ridiculous plan that just might work.

You stand outside the Mostro Lounge, a grin on your face, feeling more than a little proud of yourself. In your arms is the biggest, gaudiest, most unnecessary floral arrangement imaginable—an explosion of blues and purples that makes it look like you’ve picked half of the Coral Sea to present to Azul. There are seashells, ribbons, and even a tiny fake octopus plush dangling from the bouquet, like the cherry on top of your ridiculous masterpiece.

You march into the Lounge, catching the attention of several customers, who stop to stare as you make your way toward Azul’s office. Ignoring their looks, you throw the door open dramatically, the bouquet nearly tipping you over with its weight.

“Azul Ashengrotto!” you declare, bursting into his office. He’s sitting at his desk, and the second he sees you and the monstrosity of flowers in your arms, his eyes go wide. “I have come to beg for your forgiveness!”

He blinks, clearly caught off guard by the sheer audacity of the display. “W-What…?”

You march up to him, practically dropping the bouquet on his desk with a flourish. “These flowers represent my sincere regret for my terrible behavior during our argument. As you can see, they are over-the-top and completely unnecessary, much like my stubbornness.”

Azul stares at the bouquet, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Y-You…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to compose himself, but there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his lips that suggests he’s seconds away from laughing. “This is absurd.”

“I know,” you reply with a dramatic sigh, throwing a hand to your forehead like a tragic figure. “I have been plagued with guilt these past two days, Azul. I couldn’t bear another moment without your lovely company.”

He finally cracks, letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only for you, darling.” You lean over the desk, waggling your eyebrows, and he sighs, shaking his head. His laughter is light, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that pulls at your heartstrings. He may be smiling, but something’s still weighing on him.

With a small smile, Azul stands from his desk and walks around it until he’s standing right in front of you. He reaches for your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles before looking up at you with a much softer expression than before.

“I’ll admit… I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “But I—” He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor, as if debating whether or not to say the next words. “Did you… only come back because you thought you had to? Or do you still… want me?”

His voice cracks, just a little, but it’s enough to make your heart break. You blink in surprise, your breath catching at the rawness in his question.

“Azul…” you say softly, stepping closer, cupping his face gently in your hands. His eyes dart to yours, filled with a mix of uncertainty and hope, and it almost shatters you. “Of course I want you. Always.”

He swallows hard, and you can see the tears welling up in his eyes, ones he’s desperately trying to hide. But you won’t let him. You pull him close, wrapping your arms around him tightly, holding him as if you could shield him from the insecurities swirling in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple. “I love you. I’ve always loved you since I met you, and I always will. No matter what.”

Azul clings to you, his arms wrapping around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder as his breath hitches. The tears come slowly, quietly, and you feel them soak into your shirt as he holds you like you’re his lifeline.

You kiss the top of his head, brushing your lips against his hair, then down to his tear-streaked cheeks. “I’m here,” you whisper between each kiss, your voice soft and soothing. “I’m right here. You’re not alone, Azul. You never were.”

He squeezes you tighter, as if afraid to let go, and you can feel the tension slowly leaving his body. You keep kissing away his tears, gentle and patient, letting him take all the time he needs. Eventually, his breathing steadies, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but filled with so much affection it makes your heart swell.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs again, though there’s no bite to his words. He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, his lips brushing yours in the lightest of touches.

“Ridiculous, but yours” you reply, grinning, and he huffs a quiet laugh.

“Yes… you are,” he whispers, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slow and tender, his lips soft but firm against yours, filled with all the love and relief he’s been holding back. You kiss him back with just as much affection, your arms wrapping around him as you both lose yourselves in the moment.

When he finally pulls away, you rest your forehead against his once more, both of you breathing a little heavier but feeling lighter than you have in days.

“No more arguments, okay?” you murmur, smiling softly.

“No promises,” he teases, but there’s a warmth in his voice now, a comfort that reassures you everything will be just fine.

And as you hold him close, with his head resting against your shoulder, you know it too. Everything will be just fine.

Jamil Viper

After two long days of silence, the weight of the unresolved argument with Jamil has become unbearable. You’re done waiting for him to make the first move, especially knowing how he can be—cautious, calculating, always one step ahead but never one to make the first emotional leap. You miss him, and more importantly, you want to make things right, even if it means doing something absolutely ridiculous.

Which is how you find yourself standing outside his dorm, holding a tray of… pancakes. Not just any pancakes, though. These are heart shaped, perfectly arranged to spell out “I’M SORRY” in big, syrup-drenched letters. You’re not sure what possessed you to make pancakes an apology tool, but hey, everyone loves pancakes, right?

With a deep breath, you knock on his door. After a moment, Jamil opens it, his expression neutral, but the second he spots the tray, his eyes narrow in confusion.

“What... is this?”

You grin sheepishly, lifting the tray up like a peace offering. “An apology. In pancake form.”

Jamil blinks at the sight, clearly trying to process this ridiculous gesture. “You… made pancakes to say sorry?”

“Yes. And they’re shaped like hearts. See? I even used syrup to write it out so there’s no confusion.” You point to the pancakes proudly. “You can’t stay mad at me after this, right?”

For a moment, Jamil just stares at the tray, his expression unreadable, before a slow, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Maybe, but I’m yours.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no denying the amusement in his eyes. “You could have just apologized with words, you know.”

“I could have,” you agree, “but where’s the fun in that?” You give him your best hopeful grin, offering him a plate. “Come on, at least eat one. They’re good! I even made them heart-shaped.”

Jamil sighs, taking the plate from you with a resigned smile. He grabs one of the heart-shaped pancakes and bites into it, giving you a side glance. “I suppose I can’t stay mad after this.”

You watch him closely, noticing the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. You know him well enough to see through his calm facade. Beneath it all, he’s still embarrassed—mostly about the argument, but also because he let his temper get the best of him. You can tell that’s what’s really bothering him, even now.

“You know,” you say softly, stepping closer, “it’s okay that we argued.”

Jamil looks at you, his brows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t have to feel bad for losing your temper. You don’t always have to hold everything in around me. It’s okay to let it out, to be angry, to argue. We’re not always going to agree, and that’s fine.” You place your hand gently on his arm. “I’ll always come back and fix things, even if you feel like you can’t. That’s what we do, right?”

Jamil stares at you for a moment, his expression softening as your words sink in. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, one that he rarely shows, and it breaks your heart just a little. Slowly, he sets the plate down and reaches for you, pulling you into his arms.

“You’re too forgiving,” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of your head.

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” you reply, wrapping your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. “I meant it. You don’t have to be perfect with me, Jamil. You can be yourself, temper and all.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, his grip tightening slightly around you. “You’ll regret saying that one day.”

“I doubt it,” you tease, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “But if I do, I’ll make more food.”

That earns you a small, genuine laugh, and before you can say anything else, Jamil leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His lips linger for a moment, and when he pulls back, his expression is softer than you’ve seen in days.

“You’re serious about that promise?” he asks quietly, his hand cupping your cheek. “That no matter what, you’ll always come back?”

You nod, holding his gaze. “Always. Even if we argue, even if things get tough, I’ll be right here. I’ll come back and fix it, even if you can’t.”

Jamil’s eyes flicker with emotion, and before you know it, he’s kissing you—soft and slow at first, but there’s a desperation behind it, a need for reassurance. You kiss him back with the same intensity, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer, trying to pour every bit of love and understanding into the kiss.

When you finally break apart, you’re both a little breathless, but the tension that had been there for the past two days is gone. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he exhales slowly.

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” he whispers, and you can hear the relief in his voice. “Just don’t make me wait this long next time.”

You smile, reaching up to brush your lips against his again. “Deal. But only if you agree to eat more pancakes.”

He chuckles, pulling you back into his arms. “Fine. But only because they’re heart-shaped.”

And just like that, everything feels right again.

Vil Schoenheit

After two days of tense silence between you and Vil, you know you need to go all out if you’re going to get him to forgive you. Apologies are one thing, but Vil is someone who values effort, refinement, and, of course, aesthetic appeal. You can’t just go in with flowers—no, you need to apologize in a way that matches his standards.

So naturally, you end up outside his dorm with a full-on spa set-up. A luxury at-home facial kit, to be precise, complete with rare, imported skincare masks and the finest essential oils. You may or may not have spent more on this than you’ve ever spent on yourself before, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

When Vil opens the door, his eyes immediately narrow at the sight of you holding a basket filled with beautifully arranged skincare products. “What… is this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You smile, trying to play it cool. “An apology. In skincare form.” You thrust the basket toward him. “I thought maybe you’d like to, uh, pamper yourself and—look! I even got the organic lavender serum you were talking about last month!”

Vil stares at the basket, then at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re bribing me with skincare?”

“Technically, I’m apologizing with skincare,” you correct, flashing a sheepish grin. “I know I messed up, and I know you like to unwind with your beauty routine, so I thought this might help smooth things over. Literally and figuratively.”

For a long moment, he just stands there, gazing at you with an unreadable expression. You’re starting to think you might’ve miscalculated when, suddenly, a soft chuckle escapes him. “You are… absolutely ridiculous.”

You blink. “So… that’s a yes on the skincare?”

Vil shakes his head, but the faintest smile is playing on his lips. “You’re lucky you’re my sweet potato.”

Relief floods through you at his words. “I’ll take that as forgiveness, then.”

He sighs, taking the basket from you and setting it on the table. “Yes, I forgive you.” But even as he says it, there’s a hesitation in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper that makes you pause.

You step closer, gently reaching for his hand. “Are you still mad?”

Vil glances away for a moment, and you can see the tension in his posture. When he speaks, his voice is softer, more vulnerable than usual. “No, I’m not mad. But… I was afraid. So, so afraid that I’d pushed you away too. That I’d lost the one person who could tolerate me.”

Your heart clenches at his words. You can feel the weight of all the pressure he’s put on himself, the fear of losing someone important. Without thinking, you pull him into a tight embrace, wrapping your arms around him as if you could shield him from that fear. “Vil, listen to me. I’m not here because I tolerate you. I’m here because I love you.”

He stiffens in your arms for a moment, but slowly, he relaxes, his hands coming to rest on your back. “You say that now, but—”

You cut him off, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, I mean it. Loving someone isn’t about tolerating them. It’s about being with them because you can’t imagine being anywhere else.” You brush a strand of hair from his face, your thumb gently tracing his cheek. “I’m here because you’re everything to me, Vil. Even if you’re mean sometimes. Even if we argue. I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes soften at your words, and for a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face. Then, without a word, he leans in and presses a soft, tender kiss to your lips, his hands gently cradling your face. The kiss is slow, almost tentative, as if he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

When he finally pulls away, you can see the unshed tears in his eyes, though he quickly blinks them away. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You do,” you whisper back, kissing him again, softer this time, lingering against his lips. “And I’m staying. Forever, even if you’re a diva sometimes.”

Vil lets out a soft, breathy laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Forever?” he repeats, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Forever,” you promise, pulling him closer until his arms wrap around you fully. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, holding him tight, and for the first time in two days, everything feels right again.

And as he hugs you back, his grip a little tighter than before, you know he believes you.

Idia Shroud

You stand outside of Idia’s room, holding a stack of video game cases in one hand and a ridiculously oversized plush of his favorite game character in the other. This might be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, but it’s not like you could just waltz in and hand him a flower. Idia isn’t exactly the flowers-and-chocolates type. No, he needs something bigger. Geekier. Something so outrageous that it’ll leave him flustered beyond belief—something that only you would dare to pull off.

So here you are, wearing a custom-made cosplay of the main character from his favorite RPG. And if this doesn’t get him to forgive you, you don’t know what will.

You knock on his door, bracing yourself for what’s about to come next. At first, there’s no response, so you knock again, louder this time. After a few seconds, you hear shuffling inside and the telltale sound of something crashing to the floor—classic Idia. Finally, the door creaks open just enough for you to see a pair of glowing eyes peeking through the gap.

“What… are you wearing?” His voice is barely audible, and you can already tell he’s regretting opening the door.

With a dramatic flourish, you throw your arms wide and hold out the plush. “Oh, mighty Idia, Lord of the Underworld and Master of All Games, I come bearing offerings to beg for your forgiveness!” You strike a pose, holding the plush in front of you like it’s some kind of magical artifact.

Idia’s eyes go wide, and you swear his hair flares up a notch, turning into a bright pink. He blinks, clearly stunned, before his hand shoots out to yank you inside his room, slamming the door shut behind you.

“W-What are you doing?!” His voice cracks as he looks at you, then the plush, then the video games. His hair is now a brilliant shade of neon pink, a sign that he’s absolutely mortified. “Are you trying to kill me from embarrassment?!”

You can’t help but grin at how flustered he is. “Hey, I had to go big! You were ignoring me for two whole days!”

“I wasn’t ignoring you!” He fidgets, avoiding eye contact as his hair flickers pink. “I just… thought maybe you were tired of me or something…”

Your grin fades, replaced with surprise. “Tired of you? What are you talking about?”

Idia sinks into his gaming chair, nervously picking at the hem of his hoodie. “I just figured… you know, you’d realize you could do better. I mean, c’mon, I’m not exactly ‘catch of the year’ material. You’re always out there, living in the real world, and I’m… well, here. Playing games and… avoiding people.”

You take a deep breath, moving closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “Idia,” you say firmly, “if you seriously think I’d ever get tired of you, you’re out of your mind.”

He glances up at you, clearly unconvinced, so you kneel down, placing the plush in his lap before grabbing his hands. “You mean the world to me. I’d literally fight God in a 1v1 death match if it meant keeping you.”

His eyes go wide again, his hair flaring even brighter. “Y-You’d what?”

“I mean it,” you continue, squeezing his hands. “I love you, okay? Whether we’re sitting in here gaming or you’re talking to me about your latest game binge, or even when you’re convinced that you’re somehow not enough. You are enough, Idia. You’re more than enough.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, processing your words. Then, slowly, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around you in the most awkward, yet endearing hug imaginable. His face is buried in your shoulder, and you can feel the heat radiating from his hair as it flares even pinker. “You’re… too good for me,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his voice small.

You chuckle softly, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tight. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, and you can see the vulnerability in them. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do.” You lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, watching as his hair flickers with warmth. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

Idia blinks a few times before he wraps his arms around you again, pulling you closer this time. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “But I guess… I forgive you. Not that I was really mad in the first place.”

You laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Good. ‘Cause I missed you.”

His grip tightens around you, and for a moment, you both stay like that—wrapped up in each other, the tension of the past few days melting away. Finally, he pulls back, his eyes flicking toward his gaming setup. “So, uh… you wanna play something?”

You grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The two of you settle onto the floor, your back leaning against his chest as he hands you a controller. He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, his hair still glowing a soft pink at the ends as the game starts up.

As you start playing, he presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Thanks. For, y’know… everything.”

You smile, leaning back into his warmth. “Anytime, Idia. Anytime.”

Malleus Draconia

The wind howls as you trudge across the campus, dragging a massive stone gargoyle behind you. It weighs approximately as much as a baby elephant, and if anyone else saw you right now, they’d think you’d completely lost it. But you know exactly what you’re doing. You know the storm swirling above Night Raven College is because of him, and if there’s one thing Malleus Draconia loves more than you (or so you like to tease), it’s a well-crafted gargoyle.

So here you are, yanking the poor stone creature across the wet grass like you’re on some kind of mission. Your arms ache, your back is screaming, and you’re about to regret this grand gesture entirely—until you finally see the towering spires of Diasomnia in the distance. Almost there.

You pause for a second to catch your breath, leaning on the gargoyle like it’s an old friend. “You’d better work,” you mutter to it, “because if I have to drag you all the way back, I swear—”

A gust of wind nearly knocks you over, reminding you why you’re out here in the first place. You shake off the rain, grit your teeth, and resume your march toward Diasomnia’s courtyard.

Once you arrive, you park the gargoyle right underneath Malleus’s window. Perfect placement. You could be a medieval decorator at this point.

You pick up a few rocks from the ground, size them up in your hand, and start tossing them at his window, each one making a soft thunk against the glass. After the third throw, the window creaks open, and Malleus leans out, looking down with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. His eyes land on the gargoyle first, then on you, soaked to the bone and holding a rock like you’re about to reenact some ancient ritual.

“Huh?” is all he says, blinking at the sight before him.

“Malleus!” you shout dramatically, “Come down! I brought you a peace offering!”

He stares at the gargoyle, then at you, before disappearing from the window in a blur. Within seconds, he’s outside, standing in front of you, his expression unreadable but his eyes glowing faintly with that magical storm swirling around them. The weather above you rumbles ominously, thunder echoing across the sky.

“Malleus, I—”

Before you can even finish, he pulls you into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You freeze for a second, surprised, then feel his body trembling slightly against yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low and filled with regret. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. The storm… I didn’t know it would affect you too.”

You realize then that his hands are shaking, gripping onto you like you’re his lifeline. Your heart softens, and you return the hug, pressing your face into his neck. “No, I’m sorry,” you mumble into his skin. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I should’ve come sooner… with or without the gargoyle.”

He lets out a shaky breath, and you feel the tension begin to fade from his body. Slowly, the storm above you starts to calm—the wind softens, the rain turns into a light drizzle, and the ominous clouds roll back as if they were never there to begin with.

You pull back just enough to look at him, his glowing eyes now gentle as they meet yours. “So, uh… do you like the gargoyle?” you ask, grinning a little.

Malleus chuckles softly, his eyes flicking to the stone statue behind you. “It’s… impressive. Though you didn’t have to go through such lengths.”

You shrug. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

He smiles, a genuine, relieved smile, and before you can say anything else, he tugs you back toward the castle. “Come inside,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “You’re soaked, and you brought a guest. We should both dry off.”

The two of you (and your new gargoyle friend) make your way to his room, and as soon as the door closes behind you, Malleus pulls you onto his bed, wrapping himself around you like a possessive dragon hoarding his most precious treasure. His arms curl around your waist, and his body presses snugly against yours as he buries his face in your neck.

You stroke his hair gently, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last bit of chill from the storm. “You know I love you, right?” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

“I know,” he replies quietly, his grip on you tightening slightly. “I just… sometimes, I worry.”

You pull back enough to kiss him properly, your lips brushing against his softly, reassuringly. “You don’t have to worry,” you murmur between kisses. “You mean everything to me. And if I have to drag a hundred gargoyles across campus to prove it, I will.”

Malleus chuckles against your lips, a low, warm sound that rumbles through his chest. “Please don’t. One is more than enough.”

You laugh softly, nuzzling into his neck as you both settle into a comfortable silence, the storm outside completely gone now, leaving only peace and quiet—and a very satisfied, if slightly confused, gargoyle standing guard outside.

Rollo Flamme

The argument with Rollo had left a strange tension in the air, but knowing him, it was probably accompanied by a quiet storm of overthinking and guilt on his end. Rollo Flamme wasn’t one to voice his frustrations loudly, but his brooding could be as heavy as the weight of the world.

You figure it’s time to fix this, and, because you can’t just do anything the normal way, you decide on something special—something that’d be just the right mix of thoughtful and ridiculous to get his attention.

That’s why you find yourself in the Bell Tower, with a bundle of parchment paper in your arms. Not just any parchment, though—carefully selected handwritten notes of every philosophical thought, poetry piece, and historical fact you know Rollo’s obsessed with. You’ve even bound it like a book, with a dramatic title on the front: “An Ode to Perfection: Why Rollo is Always Right (Sometimes)”. It’s sarcastic enough to make him smile, but sincere enough to show you care.

Climbing the stairs of the bell tower is no small feat, but you’re determined. Once at the top, you glance out at the courtyard, where you know he’ll be, and with a deep breath, you shout, “ROLLO FLAMME, I HAVE CLIMBED THE HEIGHTS TO OFFER YOU THIS SYMBOL OF MY UNDYING RESPECT AND HUMILITY!”

Your voice echoes dramatically through the courtyard, and sure enough, you see Rollo down below, startled out of his brooding. He looks up, eyes widening at the sight of you, but it’s hard to tell if he’s more confused or horrified by the spectacle.

“I OFFER THIS—” you hold the makeshift book high, “—AS A PEACE TREATY BETWEEN US, THAT WE MAY NEVER AGAIN BE SEPARATED BY MERE MORTAL PETTINESS!”

Rollo stares for a long moment, before he suddenly breaks into a full-on sprint toward the tower. He’s halfway up the stairs before you know it, and when he reaches the top, his face is a mix of red embarrassment and panic.

“What are you doing?” he half-hisses, half-pleads, his cheeks flushed from both the running and the mortification of what you’ve just done in full view of the school. His voice lowers as he grabs your arm and tries to pull you away from the edge. “Are you insane? You could’ve fallen, and—”

“I wasn’t going to fall!” you grin, holding out the “book” triumphantly. “I came to apologize.”

He stares at the bundle of papers in your hand, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What… is this?”

“An apology. Written in beautiful calligraphy and filled with all the reasons why you’re wonderful, overthinking, but still somehow right most of the time.” You wiggle the book in front of his face. “It’s all for you.”

Rollo’s face, already red from exertion, turns an even deeper shade of crimson. His lips part, but no words come out for a second as he glares at the book, then at you. “You… climbed the bell tower. Yelled in front of everyone. And wrote a whole book to—”

“Get you to forgive me, yeah,” you finish for him, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I figured you’d appreciate the effort, Mr. Perfectionist.”

He looks at the book again, his hands shaky as he takes it from you, carefully cradling it as if it’s some kind of sacred artifact. His voice drops to a whisper. “You… didn’t have to go this far. I was never angry at you.”

You blink, surprised by his words. “What do you mean?”

Rollo glances down, his fingers curling tighter around the book. “I thought… maybe you’d realize you didn’t need someone like me. That you’d see how much of a burden I am.”

Your heart clenches at his words. Without hesitation, you step closer, reaching out to cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Rollo Flamme, if you think for a second that I’d leave you, you’re wrong. I’d get into a fistfight with God for you, and win.”

His eyes widen, and a nervous chuckle escapes his lips. “That’s… quite dramatic.”

“You inspire drama,” you reply with a grin, but then your tone softens, and you pull him into a tight hug. “You mean the world to me, Rollo. I don’t care about your overthinking, your brooding, or your perfectionism. I care about you.”

He tenses for a moment in your embrace, but then slowly, almost hesitantly, he wraps his arms around you in return. His hands still tremble slightly, but he buries his face in your shoulder, his grip tightening as if he’s afraid to let go. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I don’t deserve you.”

You shake your head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his temple. “You deserve all of it. And more.”

For a moment, he just holds onto you, breathing deeply as if trying to calm his racing thoughts. Then, after a long silence, he pulls back slightly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looks at you. “I… apologize as well. For doubting… for everything.”

You smile, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face. “We’re both forgiven then.”

He nods, his face still flushed with embarrassment but now softened with relief. Without another word, he pulls you back into his room, where you spend the rest of the afternoon curled up together—Rollo resting his head against your shoulder, still clutching the book you made him, while you hold him close, reassuring him with soft kisses and whispered words of love.

The tower bells toll softly in the background, but for the two of you, there’s nothing but the warmth of each other’s presence.

Masterlist

[pitchsidestories]

all the stars are closer II Keira Walsh x Lioness!Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1284

summary: Keira's girlfriend watches from the bench as Keira scores her first goal for England and they share a sweet, unforgettable moment celebrating together after the match. requested

author's note: Hi everyone, a bit late and perhaps not the best timing after Tuesday's results, but we hope you'll still enjoy the oneshot. Happy reading !🤍🤍

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

You shrugged into your jacket with a smile as you took your seat on the subsitutes’ bench. That game had been so much fun. Everything had seemed to fall perfectly into place. Sure, you would’ve loved to stay on the pitch for longer, but you were more than happy to make room for one of the younger players. With 70 minutes of game time, you really couldn’t complain.

Watching from the bench wasn’t too bad either. It was just as entertaining, especially when the game had some surprises in store. Like when the ball landed right in front of Keiras feet. You expected her to pass, like she always did. But this time, she pulled back and took the shot.

“Oh my god!”, you yelled, leaping up from the bench and ready to celebrate the goal.

But the ball missed its target, rolling out of play.

Leah, already subbed off as well, gave you a lazy smirk: “Calm down, y/n. She missed.”

“But it was so close.”, you pouted playfully and plopping back down on the bench.

Ella leaned over to you: “Is it true that Kei has never scored for England? Seems like a curse.”

You opened your mouth to reply but Leah beat you to it: “You know her. She rather passes the ball to someone before actually shooting herself.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”, you added with a shrug.

Leah raised an eyebrow: “Even I scored more than her.”

“Yes but she makes other players shine with her decisions and position play.”, you countered which caused your teammates around you to groan loudly.

Elle let out a frustrated sigh and waved you off: “Stop talking to her, Lee. She only sees the girlfriend.”

“You’re right. Also it’s disgustingly cute how she’s Keiras number one fan.”, Leah rolled her eyes jokingly.

“Girls!”, Alessie cut in, directing the attention back towards the football pitch in front of you.

“What?”, Leah asked but you were already on your feet again, raising your arms in triumph.

“Kei just scored!”, you yelled, grinning from ear to ear.

Leahs jaw dropped: “No way.”

You hugged the defender in excitement: “She did it, Lee!”

“Can’t believe it.”

On the field, Keira was immediately embraced by her teammates, everyone immeasurably thrilled for her.

“Eight years in the making, I just googled it.”, Ella commented, holding up her phone and pointing to the screen.

Leah nodded: “Almost.”

You sank back into your seat with a contented sigh: “What a night.”

“She wanted to get that off her to-do list before turning 28.” Teasingly, the Lioness captain wiggled her eyebrows.

A cheeky whistle escaped Ella’s lips: “28? You girls are getting old, wait, is that a grey hair, Lee?”

“What? You’re only two years younger!”, Leah protested, her lips forming a pout.

With a playful glance at the Manchester United player, you quipped: “Not the brightest candle on the cake.”

“She still thinks she’s a youngster,” the Arsenal defender said, shaking her head in disbelief.

Alessia quickly turned everyone’s attention back to the pitch as the game came to an end: “Let’s join the others to celebrate the win!”

Excited, Aggie wrapped her arms around you for a quick hug as soon as your feet hit the grass: “Did you see her goal?! I told her to shoot more!”

“We did,” you replied, pausing before adding, “and well done yourself, Aggie.”

“Thanks,” she beamed at you, her eyes sparkling. The younger player had scored her first goal tonight too. There was definitely something in the air in Bristol tonight, something that made both the young and experienced player’s shine.

“You had a fantastic game.”, your words trailed off as your gaze found your girlfriend across the pitch. Your cheeks flushed, and you looked back at Aggie: “If you’ll excuse me for a second.”

"Sure, I’ll leave you lovebirds alone now.", the blonde smirked knowingly, clearly amused.

Still catching her breath, Keira greeted you with a smile that could light up the entire town: “Hi.”

“Hey,” you grinned at her, lifting her up effortlessly.

She let out a slightly embarrassed laugh, her hands running through her ponytail: “No, don’t.”

“Sorry, it had to be done,” you chuckled, slowly lowering her back to the ground.

Keira buried her face in the crook of your neck, mumbling: “You’re worse than Lee. She already squished me to death.”

“I’m not,” you disagreed. “She said you wanted to tick off the goal for England from your list of things to do before you turn 28.”

Keira groaned at the mention of a list she’d never even made. “That’s not true.” More seriously, the midfielder added, “It just felt right tonight.”

It seemed like the stars had aligned perfectly for this moment, under the lights, in front of home fans, with her family in the stands, and with you by her side. Everything about tonight felt destined to happen.

"Still proud of you, even if I know you don’t want to hear it," you said, your hands gently cupping her cheeks.

She smiled sheepishly: "You’re right, I don’t. But thank you anyway."

“You’re welcome.”, you replied, thrilled.  

Keira softly smiled at you, a hint of red creeping into her cheeks: ”I’m glad that I got to share it with you.”

“Me too. It was definitely a special night.”, you agreed sincerely and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

“It really was.”, she murmured, biting her lip.

Reluctantly you let go of her, smiling cheekily: “Come on, the people want to hear from you, goal scorer.”

“Oh no.”, Keira sighed when she spotted the journalists waiting impatiently for her, microphones in hand.

You chuckled quietly: “I know you can do this.”

“Sure.”, she said distractedly as she interlaced her fingers with yours and started to drag you along towards the press.

Once you realised what she was doing, you firmly planted your feet into the ground and stopped: “Excuse me? They don’t want to hear from me tonight.”

Keira nodded innocently: “Oh, they definitely do.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not!”

Still, you followed her, fingers brushing as you walked side by side. Just before parting ways to go to your respective interviews, you winked at her: “See you afterwards.”

“See you.”

In contrast to your girlfriend, you didn’t mind interviews at all. In fact, after nights like these you loved talking about the team’s performance and of course, you couldn’t stop yourself from praising the goalscorers.

While you were still mid-interview, Keira was already done, keeping things short and concise. She stood waiting on the edge of the pitch when Lucy walked over, a Belgium shirt slung over her shoulder.

“Done with media duties and waiting for your girlfriend, Kei?”, Lucy teased with a grin.

Keira nodded towards where you were standing behind a glass panel: “Yes. Apparently she can’t stop talking.”

“Typical for her.”, Lucy laughed.

“Takes forever.”

“There she comes.”

“Finally.”

You reached the, with a grin and wrapped your arm around Keira: “Time to go.”

“Please.”, Keira said with a pleading smile.

Together, you disappeared back into the dressing rooms, getting ready to go back to your team hotel. Just as you left the stadium to walk to the bus, your arm looped through Keiras, you pointed up towards the night sky.

“Don’t the stars look closer tonight?”

Keira followed your gaze, eyes squinting and nose scrunching: “Do they?”

“Yes, look.”, you nodded, insistent.

“I think you’re imagining that.”, the midfielder smirked.

“Hey, I don’t, okay?”

“Okay, whatever you say.”

You stopped and turned towards her: “Thank you.”

And so you stood there, under a sky full of stars, and kissed her once more, still basking in the glow of a night neither of you would forget.

As always, your comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. <3

[sushirrrry]

FRONTLINES - PART ONE. a harry styles x original character story. word count: 21,746 content warning: soldier PTSD, descriptions of injury, discussions of death, survivors guilt, war trauma, graphic details of WWII.

summary: a WWII hospital nurse and a wounded air force lieutenant form a bond in his recovery, stealing intimate moments that help them both heal.

author note - this is one of my favorite things I've ever written & I hope that you enjoy this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! this was going to be over 40k words, but I decided to give you two parts instead (that's more fun!)

disclaimer!! I have done a bit of research, but this is not a story based in reality or to be consistently based in research on 1940s England. so if there are some things that are not 100% correct, please know that it is just for fiction reasons.

so, with that, here is part one of Harry and Clare's story. enjoy.

____________________________

February, 1943.

England.

Harry came to his senses with a jolt that never quite made it to his limbs. It was a quick jolt – an electricity that urged him back into existence on Earth.

He was alive, that was certain.

His body was still, but inside, everything was moving—heart racing, thoughts spinning, lungs gulping air like he’d run ten miles. The ceiling above him was stark white, slightly stained in the corners, pulsing with the artificial flicker of overhead light. The air was thick with antiseptic and starch, too clean. It all felt too still. There was no wind, no sky, no engine hum. There’s pressure across his chest and an ache roaring in his shoulders, his side, his legs—everywhere.

His fingers twitched. Or maybe they didn’t. He couldn’t be sure.

His ears rang faintly, as if the explosion had followed him here. For a moment, he thought he was still mid-fall, that the burning smell clinging to his skin meant the wreckage was still around him. But no—there were sheets under him, not dirt. The heat came from bandages, not fire. And someone nearby was speaking.

“…waking up,” a man’s voice spoke off into the distance. “That’s something.”

“Shouldn’t be long now. Morphine’s wearing off,” said another unfamiliar voice, this one female. The sense of worry in her tone was there, but she held her own. She had seen this far too many times.

But then it was silence again. Or maybe it was just the roar in his own head.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry as paper. His tongue felt too thick, too numb. The only sound that escaped him was a rasp, almost like a growl. His limbs felt too heavy to lift. Every inch of his body ached—shoulders, legs, chest. His right side burned, not just skin-deep, but inside, like the muscles themselves were torn and blistered.

He opened his eyes as much as he could manage and blinked again, this time slower, and the world came into view in patches.

White walls. A window with blackout curtains barely cracked open. A curtain rail. A clipboard hanging from the foot of the bed.

He tried to sit up but the agony bloomed sharp and immediate across his ribs and down his side. His breath caught in his throat, and a low, involuntary noise rumbled from deep within him. A hand came to rest gently but firmly on his shoulder.

“Easy, Lieutenant,” It was the same woman’s voice this time; it was much closer this time. “Don’t move. You’re safe. You’re back in England.”

England.

The word hit him like diving into a pool of cold water. How long had it been since the crash? He turned his head just enough where he wasn’t in immense, shell-shocking pain.

In his short vision, she was a nurse. Early to mid-twenties, maybe, if he could guess. She had dark hair swept back in a twist, not a strand out of place. Her uniform was crisp, the navy collar straight, and her name tag flashed briefly before his eyes blurred again. She had a narrow face, pale from the overhead light, but steady.

She was in control of the situation as she moved around him now, knowing that he had woken up and may have to deal with questions and situations that were far too upsetting for most. She seemed to be the kind of person who could stare down chaos and not flinch.

“You’ve been sedated, quite heavily,” she told him briefly, checking on the bag of IV. “You were brought in from the field hospital in Calais. Can you tell me your name?”

His mouth worked, his lips were parting, but the words didn’t come easily as he blinked to try and make sense of what he needed to say. His throat burned like he’d swallowed smoke; he coughed then, everything hurt in a way that he hadn’t felt before in his life.

“Plane,” he managed out through the coughing, completely ignoring her question. “Went down. Over France.”

“Yes.” Her expression didn’t shift. Not with sympathy, not with surprise. Only the slightest flicker of her eyes betrayed her listening. “You were ejected midair; your plane went down. Ground team found you a few miles outside the wreckage.”

He let his eyes drift shut again. The memory was fractured with shards of color and sound. The red glow of the warning light. The wrenching scream of the fuselage breaking apart. Dean yelling. Bennett fumbling with the hatch. John screaming at them to eject.

“My crew,” he croaked, opening his eyes to try and get answers. “Where are they? Are they here?”

The nurse’s hands stilled as she tried to come up with a response that wouldn’t send him into a spiral – it happened quite often, upsetting them too quickly after they had woken up. That was the trauma of the war – it was the terrible aspect of life that had disrupted their lives.

“There’s no confirmation yet,” she told him in honesty, “You’re the only one they’ve recovered so far. It-“ She cleared her throat, “There was a lot of planes down, and many men were sent many places. It will take a while to get confirmations.”

He closed his eyes again, not from sleep this time but from something heavier. Something he didn’t want to face because that was how this war was.

Dean had a girl waiting for him in Bristol – he always carried her picture on him. Bennett used to whistle in the hangar like it annoyed everyone, even though they all secretly liked it. John could down beers and laugh with the best of them.

They couldn’t just be—

“They’ll find them,” the nurse reminded him. But there was no promise in her voice, only practice. Harry turned his face away as much as he could physically manage.

Silence settled between them; he didn’t want to be bothered, and she didn’t seem that she was going to give him the answers he was looking for. She moved around the bed, adjusting something at the IV stand. He heard the clink of glass and metal, the rustle of paper.

The movements were efficient, distant—like she was used to handling broken men in quiet rooms. The exhaustion that hit him was overwhelming, but he knew that when he closed his eyes he would just see the nightmare again and again.

“How bad is it?” he asked after a moment. She didn’t answer right away, just scribbled on the paper that was left by his bed.

“Well, you have burns along the right shoulder and ribs,” she told him; her eyes lifted to meet his. “Some deeper muscle damage in the thigh. More than likely a concussion from the fall. Fracture in your wrist. You’ll recover just fine, but you are quite beaten up.”

There wasn’t another beat before his eyes tried to meet hers: “Will I fly again?”

A pause.

“That’s not my call,” she said gently, but professionally. This time, he could tell that her empathy had been tested one too many times. “But you survived.”

As if that was the miracle it sounded to be.

Harry gave a humorless half-smile; it was then that he could feel he had a cut on his lip, probably along his eyebrow, as well. It felt foreign on his face. “Not sure if that’s lucky or not.”

The nurse didn’t answer; she didn’t say a single word.

Instead, she approached with a syringe, her touch brisk but not rough. “I’m giving you something for the pain. You’re shaking a bit. The adrenaline only kicks in every once in a while, but I suspect that you will be feeling it quite shortly.”

“I’m not—” But he was. He hadn’t noticed until her hand touched his forearm, steadying it on the small, bedded cot in the hospital ward. His skin felt too hot and too cold at once, fevered, electric. His breath came in shallow gulps.

She didn’t flinch, just pushed the needle in slowly. It was another thing he just chose not to feel, because it felt better that way. “It’ll ease off in a moment, just give it some time. You’ve had quite a long journey.”

“I don’t even know your name,” he swallowed, a bit of a slur in his voice as he felt the haze of the morphine already curling at the edges of his vision as he tried to focus in on her.

The woman gave him a quick, unabashed smile as she focused in on him. “Clare.”

He tried to hold onto that, Clare, but the drug moved fast, like warmth spreading through frozen limbs. The lights above him swam to create the blurriest lines in the worst way. His head lolled slightly to the side, and through half-lidded eyes, he saw her one last time.

She watched him fade, knowing that she had given him the relief that he was desperately asking for. Without another word, Clare let the air filter out of her lungs as she watched him fall into darkness. She was the only thing that didn’t hurt. For that, she was thankful.

+++

It had only been three days since the crash, though time passed differently in hospital wards.

Harry no longer woke in a blur of pain and morphine. He was more alert now, unfortunately more aware of every ache, every shift in the light, every passing moment that he wasn’t given any answers.

His burns were healing in increments he couldn’t feel, and the torn muscles in his thigh were no longer on fire, just throbbing due to the heavy medications they had him on. Still, he couldn't sit up on his own. His chest tightened every time he breathed too deep, and a nurse had told him – a blonde one with far too much joy, that his ribs were “knitting nicely.”

He’d snapped at her without meaning to. The guilt lingered, but not enough to make him apologize. He hadn’t seen that nurse again. In all certainty, he couldn’t stand the pity and the smile and the happiness that came with being alive.

The ward he was in only had twelve beds, though only seven were filled. It was one of the smaller military hospitals in the area. Most of the other men were in worse shape than he was—one with bandages wrapped around his entire head, another with a leg amputated just below the knee. Some slept all day, others groaned through their nightmares, sometimes waking up the whole ward in fits of screams and cries that were more than upsetting.

A few were like ghosts even while awake, eyes hollow, refusing to speak on what they had seen out there. Harry hated that he wasn’t the worst of them.

He hated the silence in the gaps between coughs and groans and footsteps. He hated the absence of his uniform and the new hospital clothes that they had put on his body while he was unconscious, removing his suit that was covered in blood and tears. Hated the sound of his own heartbeat, which was steady and undeserving, he knew. He hated thinking —

“Tea?”

It was a voice that came from his left – seeing a nurse standing there in her white. The navy collar around her neck, the pinned back dark hair that had felt so familiar to him. He had been startled slightly by the voice, but tried not to show it.

It was the night nurse again - Clare, he remembered. She stood at his bedside with a metal tray, a chipped mug in one hand, a folded cloth in the other. Her hair was pinned back again, and the shadows under her eyes were more pronounced tonight. He wondered if she ever slept, or if she just floated between wards.

“Only if there’s whisky in it,” he muttered, voice raspier than intended. He realized that he hadn’t spoken much, his throat feeling dryer than ever.

Clare didn’t smile, but one corner of her mouth quirked at the small bit of humor, barely there. “Not quite regulation, I’m afraid.”

She set the tray down on the bedside table and pulled a chair closer, settling into it with a sigh that sounded more out of habit than weariness. She didn’t look at him right away, just adjusted the angle of the lamp, the slope of his blanket.

Harry practically hadn't sleep here – he didn’t want to close his eyes. Most of the sleeping was due to medications. These nights were mostly spent sitting awake with his own thoughts, watching as the nurses would go from person to person, waiting for their medications or for something terrible to happen to bring in a bunch of soldiers.

All twelve of the beds hadn’t been completely filled since Harry had gotten there, which was a good thing, he supposed. But that may have just meant that they were dying out in the fields instead.

He could feel her watching him in the way trained people did—without making it obvious. She was checking his color, his alertness. The way his fingers twitched when he thought he was being still.

“Your color’s better,” he said, concluding his assumptions. “Are you sleeping?”

Harry shrugged in a nonchalance like he didn’t know how to respond, though it hurt to do it. “Enough.”

“You’re not feverish anymore,” she told him, nodding a few times. 

“Fantastic.”

That bitterness was back in his voice—he could hear it, taste it, but it still kept slipping out like a reflex.

Clare didn’t flinch at his roughness. She simply picked up a small cloth and dipped it into the water basin that had sat next to his bed, wringing it out over the tray. She was quiet for a while, the kind of quiet that didn’t demand conversation but made Harry guilty for snapping at her too.

Harry stared at the ceiling, trying not to think too much about it.

“Have they heard anything?” he asked, too quickly, too suddenly. “About Majors Rosenthal and Connolly? Or Tupolo?”

She paused; she knew from other nurses that he asked daily, almost multiple times a day, about his colleagues. About the men he had gone up in the plane with and hadn’t come down with.

“There’s been no word yet that I'm aware of.”

Her tone was gentle, but not soft. She didn’t look away. She didn’t coat it in false hope; he was happy that she didn’t lie to his face. That’s what made it worse.

Harry nodded a few times as he stared at the ceiling, feeling the water from the rag press against the cut on his brow. He felt the press of something sharp behind his ribs, too, and not the kind that came from injury.

“They were better than me,” he let out after a long moment. “More experienced. Dean could land a plane blind, and Bennett… Bennett’s the kind of lad who always has a cigarette, even when no one else does. He’s the one people follow,” He paused again, “And John was just a fucking kid.”

Clare didn’t interrupt as he started to talk about the men who he may have shared last minutes with. From the other nurses, they hadn’t heard much out of him, so his time to talk must have been at night rather than during the day.

“And me?” He let out a short, mirthless laugh. “I got ejected like bloody cargo. Popped out the side door and fell into a field while they went down in flames. And now, here I am.”

Clare was quick with her response, “You didn’t choose that.”

“No,” he snapped, eyes moving to look up at her. “But I survived it, didn’t I?”

His voice rose, just a little, enough to make the man in the next bed stir. Harry winced and turned his face away. Clare’s expression didn’t change, but she took the cloth from against his skin and rinse the muslin in the small basin. He exhaled through his nose, trying to push the anger back down.

“I keep thinking maybe if I’d stayed… if I’d tried harder to reach the cockpit, or—hell, if I’d stayed on the radio one second longer—”

“What was your duty station?” Clare’s initial attempt to change the conversation worked for a moment as he cleared his throat to give her an answer.

“Engineer,” Harry nodded, staring at the ceiling for a moment. “The – I mean, the last thing I can remember is we were shot from behind and the wing was damaged. We were falling out of the sky, but Bennett couldn’t – uh, he just couldn’t get the leverage to be able to land it, and – “

“You did everything that you could.” She told him in honesty, that’s what she had to say to these soldiers. There was nothing that could have been done – they were following their orders, they were young men in the world trying to make a difference and to fight for their freedoms.

“Did I?” He turned toward her, frustration lighting his eyes as he practically seethed at the question. “Maybe I would’ve burned with them. And maybe that would’ve made more sense.”

Clare met his gaze and held it; she didn’t shy away from making contact with him because that helped neither of them.

“And maybe it wouldn’t,” she told him, something in her eyes that made Harry close his mouth. “But you’re here. And that’s what we have to work with.”

Harry looked away first. When he did, Clare let go of the breath she held to stay strong.

The anger drained as quickly as it had come, leaving only the echo of it, hollow in his chest. The worst part wasn’t that he didn’t know where his crewmates were - it was that he couldn’t help them. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but lie in this quiet room surrounded by dying men and pitying nurses and wonder why he’d been spared.

Harry sat and wondered if they were out there laying in a field, dying. If they had someone to hold their hand and recite their last prayers to the almighty God.

Clare stood and placed the cloth gently on his forehead. It was cool, damp, soothing in a way that he wanted to reject, but didn’t.

“Most of the men who come through here,” she said, voice low to keep the other men from awaking around them, “They wake up disoriented, in tremendous pain. Screaming,” she cleared her throat “They don’t remember where they are, sometimes who they are - some don’t know their own names. You’re lucid. You’re angry. That’s not failing.”

Harry’s jaw was tight as he swallowed. “You sound like you’ve said that before.”

“I have.” Clare said, nodding. “It’s a reminder for the ones who lived. Thankfully, many have, but many are taking away the same nightmares.”

She took the mug from the tray and handed it to him. His hands were steadier than they’d been a few days ago, though the left one trembled slightly from the burns. The tea was always a bit of a trick to make sure that they were steady and there hadn’t been anymore shaking. He took the tea, even though it burned a bit.

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” he admitted after a long silence, possibly a bit overwhelmed with the situation. A bit muffed with how everything had turned out. He hadn’t had any information, or any way to get information. He didn’t know if they knew he was alive or dead – he didn’t know anything.

Clare pulled the chair a little closer, crossing her legs as she sat with him for a moment. “You rest. You heal.”

With a quick response, he shook his head, “That’s not enough.”

“For now, it has to be.”

The quick and emotionless duties of her responses were eerie in some ways. Now that Harry could sit here and look at her, he recognized how absolutely stunning she was – dark features, pink lips. Her eyes were cerulean, which popped against her dark hair that was pinned back.

But there was something about her that seemed troubled, almost just as stubborn and hurt as he could have been. Instead of making her night worse, he decided to possibly dive into the company.

As he took a sip of the tea, he looked over at her. “Is it hard?”

“What?” She asked him, checking over his paperwork that was next to his bed.

“This job. Seeing people like this.”

Clare didn’t answer him at first, because there really wasn’t a response to give. Hard was subjective; the job itself was easy because she knew how to handle tough situations, and she knew how to attend to the patients. But was it mentally draining, of course it was.

She glanced around the ward, her gaze briefly landing on the man two beds down who moaned softly in his sleep. That man had been shot in the head; he was barely hanging onto life as he knew it. He was only twenty-one.

“Yes,” she said eventually, giving him an answer. “But it’s harder when they don’t make it. Or when they do, but they give up.”

Harry didn’t reply, he didn’t want to look at her with that response, either. It felt pointed, almost like he was being punished for feeling sad. He sipped the tea—it was bitter and weak, but it grounded him.

The heat of the ceramic, the feel of his own breath fogging the rim, reminded him that he was real. That he was here. Not in the wreckage. Not floating over fields in a parachute. Not burning.

No, he was lying in a warm, hospital ward with a beautiful woman next to him as he had antibiotic medication soothing his burns. He took a deep breath in through his nose and settled against the pillow.

Clare stood again. She checked his chart, made a note, then paused. “Would you like me to bring you a book next time I’m on shift? To pass the time?"

He blinked at her, a bit unsure of where her question had come from.

“What sort of book?” He asked her, blinking a few more times to feel the tiredness in him.

“Hm,” she hummed, “You tell me.”

He thought for a moment, a bit of humor in his tone. “Nothing heroic. No war stories, please.”

She nodded, appreciating the bit of humor that he gave her. It had been nothing but pointed jabs and pessimism from him, but she could handle it. “Understood.”

As she turned to go, Harry called out, quietly, “Clare?”

She looked back at him, carrying the tray with her as she went. The man she was looking at was broken, he was physically and emotionally scarred, and she knew that there was built up anger and resentment. She didn’t hold that against him in the slightest bit; she knew it was just an uphill battle.

So, she gave him a bit of grace. She looked at the broken man giving him the grace and prosperity that he deserved.

“I’m not always like this, you know..”

She gave him a small, tired smile. Taking in a deep breath, she held the metal tray to her chest. “Neither am I.”

Then, without another word, she was gone. Her steps quiet on the polished floor, her silhouette swallowed by the dim light near the ward doors.

Harry lay back slowly, wincing as his side tensed. He stared at the ceiling again, but the pressure in his chest was softer now—less like a vise, more like a hand.

He thought of Bennett’s laugh. Of Dean swearing at the radio. Of the way the clouds looked from above, blinding and soft. Those were the most precious memories that he could hold. It was a euphoric feeling of being high above the cloud, through the clouds, being up that high gave you a sense of purpose.

But then there was the feeling of falling, then waking, and seeing her standing over him like a lighthouse in the smoke. What a way to awaken from the haunted visions.

He hadn’t seen the plane crash to the ground. But he’d survived it. And maybe, somehow, that would have to be enough.

Maybe, somehow, the others would have, as well.

+++

The next evening, Harry had been finishing up some of his supper – some meat, potatoes, cabbage, and carrots cooked in a sort of gravy sauce. It wasn’t the best meal he’s ever eaten, but it satisfied the pain in his stomach. He needed to continue to eat, or the medicine would make him sick to his stomach, he was told by the doctors.

But as he was finishing his meal, Clare returned with a book tucked under one arm. She had practically snuck it into the ward, keeping it away from the other soldiers and nurses, as if to make him feel special.

Harry noticed immediately. Not just the book—but her. The way she carried herself through the ward, less like a nurse and more like someone who belonged there. Someone who moved through pain without absorbing it. He didn’t understand it, not fully, but he was beginning to recognize it.

“Something told me you wouldn’t be one for poetry,” she said by way of greeting. She held out the book, letting the lopsided grin of hers take over her face.

He took it, eyebrows lifting at the cover. The Thirty-Nine Steps.

“Adventure. Espionage. No heroism,” she added, “Just as requested.”

Harry smirked faintly as he took it from her fingers. “I’m very glad you remembered,” he said to her, “I’ve been bored out of my mind.”

She pulled the chair closer again and sat, her posture a little more relaxed this time. It was getting easier to look at her without feeling like he might break.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat.

At this point, Clare looked around at his paperwork next to his bed – checking all the other nurses had properly done his medicines, changed his bandages, bathed him, and done right by him. “For the book?”

“For not treating me like a broken watch.” Harry pushed his tray away; Clare took it from his lap and set it down on another table as she noticed how he may have been in a bit more pain that day.

Clare smiled softly, her attitude may have been giving him the right to smile and feel better. “I wouldn’t know how to fix one of those, either.”

He gave a low laugh, but it turned quickly into a wince. His side still pulled tight if he moved too quickly. The way that his nose scrunched made her look worried, which was the most she had given to him empathetically. Clare breathed out, turning the conversation back to a different topic.

“I read that one when I was sixteen,” Clare continued, “My brother snuck it to me. My mother thought it was much too improper.”

“Because it had spies?”

“Because it had adventure,” she said, grinning now. “My mother was a schoolteacher. Believed anything fast and unrealistic was indecent.”

Harry opened the book with care but didn’t read any of the words yet. He liked the feel of it in his hands. Something to hold onto; it made him realize that his hands may have hurt a bit more than he had recalled from doing nothing with them. Something with a beginning and an end. Something someone else had finished.

He didn’t ask about her brother. Before he could speak again, the ward doors opened suddenly with pace and loud conversation that caught everyone’s attention.

A pair of orderlies wheeled in a stretcher, occupied by a soldier. The man on it was unconscious, his skin pallid, lips chapped, and a deep bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. One arm was splinted and strapped to his chest; his leg was covered in blood through the bandages.

Harry’s heart clenched when he watched the man be placed practically across from him.

“John?” he whispered before he could stop himself.

Clare looked up when she noticed that Harry’s demeanor had changed. “Do you know him, then?”

Harry nodded, stunned and unsure if his medications were playing a trick on him. “That’s- that’s John. Captain Tupolo. H-He was with my unit. He was our bombardier on the plane.”

The orderlies settled John into the bed across from Harry and pulled the curtain halfway; he was unable to see any longer, but his heart beat expeditiously. A nurse followed with a clipboard. There was quiet movement—vitals, tags, whispered instructions.

“Found him in a hedgerow,” one orderly muttered to another. “Alive, somehow. Someone must’ve moved him over there and thought he was a goner.”

Clare stood and crossed the room briefly, speaking in low tones with the nurse at John’s side. Harry tried to listen, but his ears buzzed too much, blood rushing with a new kind of urgency.

When Clare returned, her expression was cautious, but she gave him a smile.

“He’s stable, but in rough shape,” she told him gently, “Dislocated shoulder. His leg is badly infected and cut very deeply. But he’s lucid. He’s here.”

Harry exhaled a breath that he hadn’t been sure he had been holding in until it felt good to release. “Can I—”

“Soon. Let him wake fully.” Clare placed another quilt on the bottom of Harry’s cot, using her hands to make sure that he was comfortable.

She didn't sit again, and didn’t speak further, letting him sit with the information as she moved her way out of his space. Harry didn’t know what to do with the relief and the dread, crashing together like waves. Two men accounted for. Two still missing. He closed his eyes.

An hour passed. Then two. Another could have, but Harry had stopped keeping track. His sleep hadn't come.

Clare’s shift ended the next morning as usual, and another nurse took her place. But she’d left a note tucked into the book’s first page as soon as Harry had opened it when he was eating breakfast the following morning: If it gets too dull, tell me. I won’t take it personally. I’ll bring another one.

He read the first chapter, but his thoughts drifted. It felt silly to be reading about a world where this wasn't happening.

Across the room, John stirred on his own cot. A soft groan and a rustle of sheets made Harry’s eyes move towards the curtain that they had closed around him. Harry had learned that the worse cases got the longest curtain.

The nurse approached and murmured something before he realized that she was pulling the curtain away to let some daylight into the ward from the day, which allowed Harry see John for the first time.

“John,” Harry could see his friend, not far at all, right across from him. The man had been sat up, probably to keep the blood flow moving.

John’s voice came in a hoarse whisper as he really opened his eyes to see Harry sitting across from him; his eyes were swollen and he looked like he had a lot of trauma to the face, scrapes, brusing: “Styles?”

Harry snapped upright, then winced at the pain in such a movement.

“Bloody hell, mate,” he breathed, giving a humorless laugh before shaking his head, “You look like you lost a fight with a train.”

John gave a faint, broken laugh himself. “Takes one to know one.”

His eyes were sunken but sharp, and though pain was etched in every feature, he was unmistakably John. Harry wanted to ask a thousand things at once but didn’t know where to start – he didn’t know if he had any answers, or if he had anything further to discuss.

In some ways, he didn’t want to have John relive through moments that were probably horrifyingly troublesome.

“You’re here,” he said instead.

“Not for lack of trying otherwise.”

Harry stared, hands starting to shake as he had flashes of what had happened. “How the hell did you make it?”

“Got thrown clear when the fuselage split. Landed in a bog.” He paused, breath catching. “Stayed down. Played dead for a while because I couldn't move, could hear them around me. Some farmer found me and helped.”

“Jesus.” Harry breathed out, shaking his head. If that had happened, he had so much more hope for the other two.

After another moment, John cleared his own throat. “Figured you were gone, mate.”

Harry swallowed hard, holding onto the quilt Clare had put at the foot of his bed, but his hands were taped with gauze and he could barely hold anything tightly. “I thought the same about you.”

A heavy silence settled between them, almost like they both knew what the other was about to say. Harry made it there first.

“What about—” Harry started to speak but couldn’t say Dean’s name, Bennett's name was stuck in his throat, too. His throat closed; eyes welling up as he thought about the inevitable truth of possibly losing a friend.

John’s expression shifted but stayed rather bare.

“Bennett made it out. Got burns on his hands, think he had major damage to his skull. They airlifted him to another hospital up north. Some place near Leeds, I think. I heard that when I was being transported here.”

Relief and grief collided again, but Harry felt his mouth go dry. Three survived. “And Dean?”

John didn’t speak for a long time, but when he did, Harry heard the way that his voice broke at the first words.

“I saw it happen,” he said finally. “He tried to get the radio working again. Refused to bail. Last thing I heard was him shouting coordinates at me, but I –“ He paused for a moment, “I was pulled out before the plane exploded.”

Harry stared at the ceiling, blinking hard because crying meant losing. It meant he was giving up the façade the soliders built so hard to be respected for.

“I’m sorry, mate.” John said quietly; he had known that Dean and Harry had made their way through the unit trainings together, flying many trips. They had gone up multiple times in the year that they had been together – so, it hurt to know that one moment took Dean away forever.

Harry nodded slowly with his jaw clenched, thinking of the girl that Dean held with him in his pocket in a photo memory. “He was the best of us. I’m sure Rebecca got word, then”

“I’m sure she did.”

Silence. Thick, heavy, full of memories neither could voice. They didn’t talk again that night.

+++

The next day, Harry woke to find Clare back, sitting in the same chair with a steaming mug of tea and a handful of letters she was sorting through, looking for ones for him. When she didn't find any, she sat them down on the bedside table.

“You’ve got a roommate,” she said, nodding toward the next bed.

“Saw him,” Harry murmured out, a bit dazed. “Didn’t sleep much after.”

Clare studied him for a moment. “Must've been some relief to see him.”

Harry nodded, not knowing if he had much to say about it. It just made him think about other things. “Glad he made it out.”

Her eyes softened. She handed him the tea, watching as his hands still shook when he held it. “That’s something.”

He wanted to thank her again—he wasn’t sure why. Maybe for the way she didn’t ask too much but gave just enough acknowledgement for it to mean something. Maybe for always knowing when to sit in silence, or to let him grieve.

Instead, he said, “Do you always volunteer for the night shifts?”

She lifted her eyes to him, clearing her throat. “I don’t mind them." He could tell that there was something else there

“But?” He questioned.

Clare tilted her head. “But there’s a kind of quiet here at night that feels… honest.”

Harry sipped his tea - stronger today, which was good. “Is that what you look for?”

“Most days," she told him, shrugging with a smirk, "I'm not one for bullshit."

He considered her for a moment. The curve of her shoulders. The quiet steadiness in her eyes. There was something strong in her that had nothing to do with uniforms or rules. Something she carried into the room each time she walked in.

“You’ve seen a lot, haven’t you?” he asked her, feeling chattier the more she sat around him. Something about her made him want to know all of it.

Clare didn’t answer immediately. “I started as a nurse’s aide at seventeen. The men used to joke that I still looked like someone’s little sister.”

Harry's eyes traced her, really looking at her like he couldn't take his eyes off of her. “You don’t now.”

She raised an eyebrow, maybe feeling a bit of flush on her cheeks. “Is that a compliment or a comment on the war?”

“Both.”

She smiled again, but just barely, and stood. “You’ll need rest. The doctor wants you to try standing with assistance by week’s end.”

Harry groaned, feeling his eyes roll gently before he set his tea down. “Are they trying to kill me properly?”

Clare leaned in, adjusting his blanket. “No, Lieutenant. They’re trying to send you home.”

Her touch lingered briefly on his arm before she pulled back.

Harry watched her move to the next bed, speaking softly to John. The two of them exchanged a few words, and he heard Clare laugh—quiet, real. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he liked that sound.

He lay back, the book still on his lap.

Dean was gone. Bennett was alive. John was here.

And Clare—Clare was becoming something he didn’t know how to name. A tether, maybe. A warmth in a room full of wounds.

He didn’t know what was next. But for the first time since falling from the sky, he wasn’t completely afraid to find out.

+++

It was nearing half-past nine on a grey, sluggish evening when Clare found herself seated at the far end of the nurses’ station, a cup of tea cooling beside her half-finished patient chart. Rain tapped softly against the windowpanes, a rhythmic background to the scratch of pens, murmured updates, and the occasional weary yawn.

The night shift had bled into day like watercolor over damp paper—blurred, endless, quiet in that strange, exhausted way hospitals always were after dawn.

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the nape of her neck damp from the heat of the ward and tried to focus on finishing her notes for bed two—an older gentleman with a broken hip and an exceptional fondness for singing hymns at four in the morning.

Across the desk, Nurse Margaret tilted her chair back and fanned herself with a clipboard. “Lord, if I have to change one more dressing soaked through with iodine and self-pity…”

Nurse Ruth, sorting some medical supplies beside her, chuckled. “You mean the charming Mr. Abrams in ward six? He winked at me yesterday, said I’ve got the hands of a pianist and the face of a war bride.”

“You going to write him back when he leaves?” Margaret teased, giving a knowing eye.

“Oh, absolutely,” Ruth deadpanned back, “right after I put some bleach in my eyes.”

The small group of nurses laughed at that. Clare gave a quiet smile but didn’t join in. Her fingers remained poised on her own chart she was to complete for the doctors reference, her expression composed as her eyes fell over the name: Lt. Styles, Harry.

“It’s strange,” Ruth continued, sliding onto a stool as she tucked her ankles together. “Some of them flirt like it’s the only thing keeping them breathing. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I think it helps. Reminds them they’re still human. But it feels… I don’t know.”

“Like a game, maybe?” Clare offered softly to the conversation.

Ruth looked at her, surprised at her joining in. “Exactly. Like they’re playing dress-up in their own tragedy. To step away from the tragedy.”

Clare nodded once, not unkindly, her eyes drifting back to the chart. She didn’t say what she was thinking, that it didn’t always feel like a game to the men.

Sometimes, it was desperation disguised as charm. A last-ditch attempt to feel young, or funny, or alive again because they would leave here to go back to their units or back home to something that didn't matter anymore. Sometimes it was innocent. Sometimes it wasn’t. But always, it left a mark.

Margaret leaned forward, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial grin. “Speaking of inappropriate affections, has anyone noticed how Lieutenant Styles doesn’t respond to anyone except Clare?”

That earned a few lifted brows and a round of curious glances, maybe even a few gawks. Clare blinked slowly but didn’t lift her head as she tried to ignore the conspiracy altogether.

“Oh, come on,” Margaret continued, trying to push Clare, “I gave him his meds yesterday morning and he just nodded. Didn’t even thank me or give me the time of day. But you come near his bed and he sits up straighter than a schoolboy reciting Latin.”

“He’s quiet with everyone else,” Ruth said, more thoughtfully. “But he listens when Clare speaks.”

Clare gave a mild shrug, eyes still on the paperwork. “Perhaps he simply finds comfort in routine.”

“Comfort, sure. But the way he watches you…” Margaret trailed off with a knowing smirk.

“Like a man writing poetry in his head,��� Nurse Helen chimed in from the corner. “I saw it myself last week when you leaned in to check his shoulder dressing. His eyes didn’t blink the entire time – it was like he was memorizing you!”

“I think I blushed for you,” Ruth added with a simple giggle; she must have been kicking her feet under the chair.

Clare rolled her eyes, but the flush rising to her cheeks betrayed her from keeping quiet or not saying too much. She closed her chart with deliberate care and sipped her now-cold tea. “You lot spend far too much time crafting romances out of fever dreams, it seems.”

“We’re overworked, underpaid, and in the middle of a war, Clare,” Margaret said breezily, shaking her hand at her. “Let us have our stories.”

“He’s a patient.” Clare defended, trying to brush off the stares and the eyes knowing that they would but placed on them more heavily now.

“Yes,” Ruth said, watching her carefully, tilting her head, “but he’s also a man. And you’re not made of stone, especially with a face like that.”

Clare didn’t answer right away – her facial expression gave it away, surely. Her gaze dropped to her hands, stilling on a faint smear of ink on her palm. She rubbed it absentmindedly against her skirt, then finally looked up.

“It’s not that I don’t see it,” she said, with a calm tone. “The way he watches. I’d have to be blind not to. But don’t mistake that for anything more than what it is.”

“And what’s that?” Helen asked gently – the other girls leaning in to listen to her answer, surely wanting a bit more gossip than there was to give.

“Recognition,” Clare replied. “Of someone who’s walked into the fire and come back. Someone who knows what it costs,” She stood from her spot, shaking her head as she did it. “He’s a hero, and I’m just making sure he feels recognized for what he’s done. Especially when many of them feel like failures.”

The room quieted for a moment at her words; maybe even a bit of guilt from everyone as Clare felt guilty for bringing the mood down, but the girls may have felt a bit guilty for making a joke out of their duties.

Ruth nodded slowly, tucking her hands into her apron. “That’s fair.”

But, Margaret couldn’t resist one more jab, albeit softer this time. “Still, if he asks you to run off with him to the coast, at least let us know so we can throw you a proper goodbye party to relinquish you from your duties.”

Clare smiled faintly at that, shaking her head. “If he ever manages to walk across the ward without tripping over his IV line, I may consider it.”

That earned another round of laughter, and this time Clare let herself join in with it.

Still, when she returned to the ward twenty minutes later, chart tucked under her arm, her gaze wandered to the almost inevitable site where, near the bed corner window, the one screened slightly for privacy, was Harry’s bed.

And, as usual for this time of night, he was awake. Propped up on one elbow, book in hand. He wasn’t reading, though. He was watching her.

Not in the way a soldier watched a nurse, waiting for meds or instructions or for some sort of reaction of feeling needed. Not even in the way a man watched a woman he found pretty. No—it was quieter than that. It was much more present than that – like she was the only thing in the room he didn’t want to miss.

Clare held his gaze for a second longer than she meant to, tilting her chin forward to suggest she had been going to him for a reason. Then she turned and walked toward him, heart tapping a little too hard in her chest, voice steady as ever.

“Lieutenant Styles,” she said lightly with a sigh, quietly to allow the other men to sleep, “don’t tell me you’re pretending to read again.”

He smirked, the edge of it sharp and crooked, just for her. “Not pretending at all. Just distracted for a moment.”

“I wonder by what.” She asked him, quietly moving to fluff the pillow that sat behind his back, making sure that his posture was not taking a beating for the way that he sat.

Harry’s eyes reverted to the book in front of him, nodding a few times as he allowed the smirk to stay present on his face, “I think you know.”

She rolled her eyes again—but this time, she smiled as she did. And he saw it.

+++

The ward was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled only in the deepest stretch of night—when the men who could sleep, did, and the others tossed in silence, chasing ghosts behind their closed eyes.

Harry was somewhere in between those moments – he felt that sleep was to take him, but he struggled with falling.

He’d dozed off around midnight, propped up slightly on the pillows Clare had fluffed for him, her voice still echoing faintly in his head. “Try to get some rest. I’ll be on until morning if you need anything.”

She’d smiled before drawing the curtain halfway shut around his bed, promising safety in that gentle, practiced way of hers. But sleep wasn’t a peaceful place. Not anymore, at least.

He twitched once, then again, face tightening as his breath caught.

There he was back in the sky—cramped in the bomber’s gut, metal rattling all around him. There was smoke… fire. His oxygen mask tight against his face as the machine shook and rattled and adrenaline struck through his veins.

Someone was shouting over the intercom—Styles? Tupolo? He couldn’t tell; his senses were heightened, but the adrenaline and pulse was louder. The plane bucked beneath them like a dying animal, the nose tipping unnaturally downward as he tried to hold onto the side to try and escape from where he sat, gravity pulling against him.

Then—an explosion. Light, hot and blinding, consumed everything.

“Engine two’s out! We’ve got fire! We’ve got fire—Mayday! We need to eject!”

Harry was trying to move – every inch of him was trying to get to Dean who was stuck in the rear, thrown backwards by the explosion. His harness was caught; he couldn’t remove it.

He was screaming.

The heat was everywhere; the sound was everywhere. The fuselage was tearing open above his head. Sparks rained down. Dean’s voice was screaming his name—no, not screaming.

Gurgling. Like something inside him had broken. And it had; a piece of the plane had him pinned to the wall, blood circling around his abdomen as he fought The numbness felt like he couldn't move, but he needed to. He needed to get out, he needed to move.

“Bail out, Styles! Bail out!” John's voice called over the sound of the plane falling from the sky. Falling deeper and moving faster.

His hands fumbled to get himself out of the door. His shoulder screamed in protest. The world tipped again, violently, and his body hit the fuselage wall hard.

Red. Everything was red. And then, nothing. Freefall. He was falling.

Cold air against his face.

A silent, endless drop.

Harry jerked awake with a ragged gasp, his hands clutching the blanket twisted over his chest, heart pounding like it was trying to break through his ribs. His shirt was drenched with sweat, his shoulder seizing up with pain from the way he’d thrashed. He blinked rapidly into the dark, half-lost in the nightmare still clinging to his skin like smoke.

He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His body trembled violently, his breathing sharp and fast and wrong.

“Harry—”

The curtain rustled and Clare appeared in a second, hair pinned up but a few strands loose now, face open with concern. She was still in her uniform, though the collar was unbuttoned at the throat almost like she had been taking a break before hearing his struggling.

She didn’t speak again at first, just came to his bedside and placed a hand gently on his arm.

“You’re alright. It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, voice quivering just at the thought of the sounds, the noises, the sounds, the feeling of it – seeing Dean’s face. “I—I saw it – I almost,”

“I know,” she murmured, holding his hand, softly coaxing him to come to a manageable place. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” His voice cracked, quiet and raw, his throat felt right as he tried to whisper but the feeling of tears releasing from the sides of his eyes only made him want to speak less. “Dean didn’t make it. I saw - I left him in there. I left him, Clare.”

Clare pulled a chair up to the side of his bed and reached for his hand, wrapping her fingers firmly around his. Her touch felt like the burning.

“You didn’t leave him,” she told him flatly, “You were ordered to bail. You survived. That doesn’t make it wrong. That makes you human.”

His hand shook in hers, jaw clenched hard like he was trying to force the rest of it down. His hands hurt, he could practically feel the burn on them from hitting the side of the plane on the way down.

“I hear him sometimes. Even when I’m awake. It’s like—like he’s stuck in the moment I lost him.”

Clare exhaled softly and moved to the supply drawer by his bed, retrieving a small vial and a paper cup with practiced ease. Like she had done this hundreds of times. “This will help calm your nerves. Just enough to let your body rest, okay?”

“I don’t want to forget,” he said as she prepared the dose, watching her with a calmer notion. The feeling of her there was calming, it was helpful to not be alone when he felt so incredibly alone.

“You won’t,” her words were gentle with him, “But you won’t relive it over and over like this either.”

She handed him the cup, the small medications. His fingers were still trembling, so she steadied his hand as he drank.

When he was done, she eased him back against the pillow, brushing the damp curls from his forehead. Her touch was tender, but not fragile—like someone who had learned to be steady because the world wasn’t.

“I used to wait for the telegram,” she said after a while, voice barely above a whisper. “Every day for two years. My brother went straight to Germany. I thought if I stayed busy, if I worked hard enough, it wouldn’t come.”

Harry’s gaze shifted to her face, eyes focusing on the way that she held stoic and cold. Like showing emotion revolving around herself would hurt him more.

“They found his body six months ago,” she said, swallowing hard, nodding – a dry laugh left her as she turned away from him for a moment. “Sometimes I still wake up thinking he’s on leave and just forgot to write. I just get so wrapped up in staying busy that I feel guilty that I forget every once in a while.”

He didn’t speak, just watched her in the pale moonlight spilling through the window, her profile etched in soft blue and silver from the outside.

“You and I,” she shook her head, “we didn’t start this war. But we live in the middle of it, and we carry what it leaves behind.”

She looked back down at him, eyes deep and steady and full of a wisdom he hadn’t been ready to hear. “That’s not weakness, Harry. That’s survival.”

His throat tightened at her words, blinking at her with a mindful watch. “How do you do it? Keep your hands from shaking?”

“I don’t,” she admitted to him gently, showing him the shake in her right hand. “I just have to keep using them, anyways.”

The medication had started to work, dulling the edges of his panic. Harry had started to feel his body ease, though the grief hadn’t left—it just wasn’t screaming quite so loud anymore. There wasn’t a voice anymore, but just a noble reason.

Clare stood and tucked the blanket back around him, tucking it into his legs to keep him warm in the cold ward. “Try to sleep now. I’ll stay until you do.”

“You don’t have to.” He told her, watching as she took another seat next to him. Her eyes looked at the book that sat on his bedside table, dog-eared on the places that he stopped.

“I want to.”

He didn’t argue with that. His eyes drifted closed, and for the first time in days, when he exhaled, it didn’t feel like he was breathing through fire.

Clare sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on the edge of his bed, not holding on, but certainly not letting go either.

+++

There was rain by the midafternoon, pattering gently against the long windows that lined the ward. Outside, the grounds were turning a muddy brown, leaves wet and heavy from the wind. Inside, the heat in the woodstove ticked, and the scent of antiseptic still clung to every linen.

Harry sat upright in bed, legs over the edge, his hands gripping the frame for balance.

Every inch of movement still hurt—just less than it had a week ago. It had been almost two weeks now that Harry was here. His muscles ached, his burns were starting to heal as best as they could in the short time– the ones that were down to the bone were struggling, but there was progress. His hips were starting to get sore the more he sat around, waiting for the muscles to heal

The burns along his ribs itched under the bandages. But the doctors had informed him that he could start to walk now. Stand without help, even if he had to hold the wall. He’d taken six steps that morning, and felt like he could have collapsed. It felt like a bloody marathon.

“I heard you made it to the door and back,” Clare said, appearing beside him with a folded blanket. He hadn’t realized that she was back so soon – the day must have started to really fade from him.

“You forgot to mention how bloody far the door is.”

She grinned at his nonsense. “You can take it up with the nurse who designed the floor plan.”

“I will. Just as soon as I can walk without feeling like a newborn deer.”

He looked at her, and wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. There was something different about Clare today. Her shoulders were drawn in slightly, her smile a little thinner.

“Everything alright?” he asked. He could see that there was a look in her face that may have been more somber than before.

She nodded. “Just tired, I guess.”

Harry watched her for a beat longer, then glanced at the book on his side table. He’d nearly finished it now—stolen chapters late at night, flipping the pages when his thoughts turned too heavy.

“You’re off tonight, yeah?” he asked; Harry was quite chatty in normal conversation, maybe it didn’t seem that way when he was in here. He didn’t really know what to say, but he felt a bit more normal today as he was able to get up and walk around.

Clare paused what she had been doing before nodding back at him with a pressed smile. “I am, for a few days.”

“Going home?” He asked her quietly, watching as she readied his medicines.

A soft exhale. “Um, yes, I’m – going to see my father, I guess,” she bit on her lip softly, “The first time I’m seeing him since George died,” she paused for a moment, “Just the two of us. Mum died of influenza years ago now, so I just imagine it will be difficult.”

He nodded, thinking to himself. Then: “Clare?”

She looked back over at him without another word, as his words had drawn her in.

“You said once your brother gave you that book. The first time you read it. You didn’t have to give it to me, you know.”

Her smile faded. Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

“We were very close. Closer than most siblings, I guess. We used to sneak up to the roof of our childhood flat and watch the people pass below, pretending we could read their thoughts. He used to say the only thing worse than being ordinary was being forgettable.”

She folded the blanket with slow, deliberate hands.

“I think about him when the ward goes quiet,” she blinks at him before she writes something on his chart, “Reminds me quite a bit of you, actually. He was very cheeky.”

Harry let her talk, watching as she grabbed the stethoscope to listen to his lungs, moving closer to him before her eyes were naturally in front of his, “I see his face in every boy who flinches in his sleep. And every time someone dies, I wonder if he had someone like me with him when -”

Harry swallowed, his voice tight, nodding. “He did.”

She looked at him, startled at his confirmation – the positivity in his voice. It was new, so she blinked at him for a moment almost not catching his new comfort.

“I wasn’t there,” Harry said, “but I know he did. Someone held his hand. Someone stayed with him.”

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick, humming with what neither of them had said aloud yet. He went to stand slowly, muscles protesting as he pushed himself off of the cot and pushed his shoulders back.

“Still hurts like hell,” he muttered, stretching out his back.

Clare stepped toward him on instinct, almost like she was going to catch him if he fell, “Careful—”

But the problem with that was that Harry was quite taller than Clare, not by too much, but she would definitely not be able to lift him if he fell.

He waved her off with a tired smile, shaking his head as his hair fell into his eyes. “I’m alright, love. I just needed to stand while you talked about him. Felt like… like I should.”

She nodded, eyes shining before she studied him for a moment.

“Since you’re up, do you want to sit outside for a bit?” she asked. “The garden’s just through the hall.”

Harry blinked, a bit confused by her question. “You’re allowed to take patients for walks outside?”

“No,” she said, he could tell there was a bit of nonchalance in her voice, maybe a bit of weariness, “But you’re not a patient. You’re a soldier with a limp and poor judgment, and I feel it's the least we can do.”

He smiled back at her. “And you’re clearly a very bad nurse for not following protocol.”

“I’m the worst,” she said, already moving to grab an extra blanket to place around his shoulders in lieu of a jacket.

They made their way slowly through the corridor, Harry bracing himself on the walls when needed, Clare walking beside him like she wasn’t watching every breath he took. When they reached the door to the small, enclosed garden, she opened it gently and helped him step out.

The air was crisp, earthy with rain. The garden wasn’t large—just a few benches, some ivy climbing the walls, a rusted fountain with no water. But it was quiet. And private. Clare moved them over towards where they sat on a bench tucked near the back, out of sight from the windows.

Clare pulled her coat tighter. Harry tilted his face toward the sky; there wasn’t a cloud above them.

“I forgot what clean air smelled like.”

Clare watched him, making sure he was okay to maneuver before she helped him down on the bench. They sat on the wood for a moment, elbow to elbow, while she heard Harry take a few deep breaths. It was enough for him, she thought.

“I thought about writing my parents,” he said after a while. “But I don’t know what I’d say. They sent me off a whole son and I came back a cracked one.”

“You came back,” she said gently; her frustration didn’t lie with him, but with the situation. She knew he didn’t mean anything by it, and she allowed his own frustration to take over when he was obviously thinking of what happened in the sky. “That’s what matters.”

“For what? John’s still stuck in that bed. Dean’s gone. I was supposed to get us back – I was supposed to fix the plane.”

“You think you failed them,” Clare said matter-of-factly.

“I know I did.”

She shook her head. “You can’t keep measuring your worth by who did and didn't survive around you.”

“And how the hell should I measure it, then?” He was quick with his quip, turning his head to look at her and catching a glimmer in her eye.

“By who you still are.”

He looked at her, jaw tight. He noticed that there may have been a tear in her eye, so he backed down a bit quieter. “I can’t be who I was before.”

“Good,” Clare said, nodding, scoffing a bit. “He was probably full of himself.”

Harry gave a surprised laugh, sudden and short at the way she delivered that with such wit.

“I mean it,” she said, serious. Harry’s smile wiped away. “The man sitting here now? He’s still carrying everyone else’s weight. Still angry enough to walk, stubborn enough to argue. Still kind enough to ask about my brother. That sounds like someone I’d trust.”

He looked down at his hands. The backs of them were still healing, one wrapped loosely where the burns hadn’t closed yet. Her eyes looked down at them as he did.

Harry drew in a breath as he kept his voice to a whisper, “Do you ever think about what happens after?”

She didn’t ask what he meant – she didn’t have to.

“All the time,” she said. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

Harry nodded. “I think about being normal again. About laughing and meaning it. About sleeping through the night. But it feels like something only other people get to have.”

They sat in silence, the quiet between them thicker than the fog curling in the cool night air. The sky above was smudged with stars, barely visible behind drifting clouds, and the damp scent of earth and smoke hung in the air. The bench beneath them was cold, but Clare hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

Harry shifted slightly, only then realizing just how close they were. Her shoulder nearly brushed his. Her breath, soft and steady, fogged in the space between them.

“Do you believe in second chances?” he asked, voice low for just her to hear.

Clare didn’t look away. Her eyes, always steady, were darker in the twilight—watchful and unreadable, yet somehow gentle.

“I don’t know if I believe in chances at all,” she said finally, shaking her head. “But I believe in choosing. When something feels right, you choose it. Even if it’s only once.”

His breath caught, barely audible. Their fingers touched. Not by accident - she had reached for him, deliberate but featherlight, the back of her hand brushing his like a secret passage that only they both could see.

“I don’t know where I go from here,” Harry said quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. “I feel like I’m still falling in the sky.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” Clare said to him, honesty laced like honey around her words. “You’re allowed to just… be here.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Her voice softened, almost a whisper. “Harry.”

It was then that he looked at her. Really looked – it was a look that she had never seen before on someone. Her hair had loosened from its pins in the breeze, strands clinging to her cheek.

There was a smudge of ash near her collarbone from lighting the woodstove, and her coat wasn’t buttoned properly. For once, she didn’t fix it. She didn’t retreat behind the neat uniform, the calm nurse’s mask. Out here, she was only Clare.

It was the only person that she wanted Harry to see. Not the broken nurse who was looking for sympathy, or the girl who was losing everyone in her life at rapid rates.

“What?” he asked, barely above a breath. She could see his breath in the cold fog of the air.

She reached up, her fingers brushing his cheek. Not the raw, healing side—she didn’t flinch or pity. She chose the other, smooth and still familiar, as if to remind him that he hadn’t been erased. Her touch was warm against his cold skin; he noticed the shake in her fingers as she lifted her.

“If you asked me to stay,” she murmured, “I would.”

His throat worked around the lump that rose there. He stared at her, trying not to fall apart from something as simple and devastating as that.

And then he leaned in. Tentative. Careful. Like she was something fragile and holy and he was still learning how to hold anything without breaking it. Their foreheads touched – it was a bare touch, a touch she could have passed off as intimate. A breath passed between them, then another. His hand found her knee, grounding himself.

He didn’t kiss her.

But he could feel it—that pulse beneath the quiet longing that both of them held between them. The terrifying, beautiful possibility of being seen and chosen anyway.

Clare’s eyes drifted closed, only for a second, just a beat. Then she pulled back, slowly, as if severing something delicate.

“We should go in,” she said, voice hushed but with need. She needed to move away, or she would do something she could regret, “Your doctor would have my head if I let you catch cold.”

Harry swallowed, nodding. His chest ached, but not from pain this time. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, and for the first time in weeks, he rose without stumbling.

And Clare didn’t step away from him for a second, holding around his waist to help with movements. His legs and his body just hurt. It was hard to maneuver, but it was good for him to move like this.

They returned to the ward in silence, the corridor dimly lit by amber lamps – most of the soldiers were asleep, they made sure of it. Harry walked more steadily now, the rhythm of his steps echoing off the walls. Clare didn’t offer to hold his arm once they got inside—she didn’t have to. Something between them had already shifted, quiet but undeniable.

When they reached his small space—a small, curtained-off space tucked just past the main ward—he paused at the threshold.

“You can come in,” he said, turning his head to look at her then.

Clare hesitated only a second before following him. The room was quiet, softly lit by the lamp at his bedside. Compared to the ward, it felt warmer. More human. Harry had started to collect a few books from a few of the doctors and nurses, they were stacked neatly on the side table. An extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed, one that Clare had brought the other day. A small radio Harry never touched.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and Clare remained standing as she held her hands in front of her.

“Stay a moment?” he asked.

She nodded, drawing the curtain fully closed behind her.

The corridor had been quiet, the bustle of the hospital dimming quite drastically. Clare had just helped Harry back into bed, his body still stiff with the slow, frustrating ache of healing. She fluffed his pillow with practiced ease, smoothing the blanket over his lap as the ward had started to feel cold since the winter months were upon them.

“Fuck,” Harry cursed under his breath, shaking his head as he winced at the feeling of his leg stretching out. “God – fuck.”

“You’re wincing,” she countered, rolling her eyes at his face, “and you’re too proud to – “

He opened his mouth to retort, but then it happened— the noise was sharp and clear, the rising whine of a siren split the silence, its cry climbing like a scream into the darkening sky.

Harry froze; Clare’s head turned quickly towards the windows with a breath let out. His fingers clenched the edge of the blanket. “Bloody hell…”

Clare snapped towards the window that sat near Harry’s bed, where the thin lavender light of evening had turned grey and dark even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. That should have been their first warning.

Air raids never happened in cloudy conditions.

“That’s the second time this week,” she said, breath catching as she tried to remain calm. “They must be heading toward the docks again.”

“Always the bloody docks,” Harry muttered, but his voice had thinned. He wasn’t there anymore—not really; his brain had started to feel odd, like parts of him were there and other parts weren’t. He was back above the Channel, the smell of smoke in his nose, the thunder of anti-aircraft guns all around, Dean slumped beside him.

The siren wailed louder, and he pressed his palm against his forehead to stop the noise – he needed all of it to stop.

Clare turned quickly, flicking off the bedside lamp to plunge the room into shadows. “Harry— Harry, please, look at me.”

His eyes were glassy, unfocused. Her heart dropped at the way that he looked at her. She stepped closer, taking his hands, grounding him to stare at her for a moment while she spoke to him.

“We’re safe here. The ward is reinforced, and if we must move downstairs, we’ll do it quickly. I promise. We – you, you’re safe.”

Then came a sound he hadn’t realized he feared until it filled the room—the long, low thrum of engines. Dozens of them. Close. The windowpanes began to tremble in their frames.

Harry flinched, his hands beginning to shake as he felt a scream so internal and loud and completely overpowering overwhelming his thoughts. “I can’t— Clare—”

Ruth appeared in the doorway, face pale as Clare turned around to notice that many people had started to gather. “We need you, now. Casualties incoming. Triage staff first – we must move quickly.”

Clare’s grip on his hand tightened. He shook his head, almost like a child. “Please don’t leave me here—”

“I have to go,” she said, heart twisting at the mere promise that she had stated to him just before this – she would stay if he asked her to. But she had to go. “But I’ll be back. As soon as I can. Lie flat and stay away from the windows, alright? I will be back.”

His lips parted to protest, but she’d already gone, sprinting into the dim corridor, her silhouette swallowed by the chaos. The door clicked shut behind her as she walked out of the ward, and silence swept in, heavy and total—except for the rumble of the engines above.

The lights flickered. Harry stared at the ceiling, each second stretching like wire pulled taut. Then, from across the room, a low voice began to speak out into the darkness. Harry laid as flat as he could, pulling the blanket over him to try and silence the monsters that lay beyond him.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Harry turned his head. It was John, in the next bed, voice shaking but steady in its rhythm. “Hallowed be Thy name…”

The floor beneath them gave a subtle tremor, distant, but real.

They were bombing.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut to try and push away the thoughts that were racking in his brain. He could feel it in his chest again—the fire, the fall, the absence of Dean’s voice.

“Thy kingdom come…”

He didn’t pray often, but now, he mouthed the words too. Not for himself. For Clare. For Dean. For Bennett. For the kid in his squad whose name he never learned, only the way he cried for his mother when they dragged him from the wreckage with barely an arm attached to him.

Another boom sounded—closer.

“Deliver us from evil…”

Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took a shuddering breath. He felt like he was made of glass, every breath threatening to splinter him from the inside. Then he thought of Clare. Of her voice. Her hand on his and the feeling that it left; the burning sensation from her touch rather than from the sheer pain of trauma. Her eyes when she promised she’d be back.

The fear didn’t leave him. But it no longer had full control.

A few hours had passed; he hadn’t been sure of it. Harry laid awake under the covers, eyes heavy as hell, but refusing to shut completely. The bombing and the sirens had shut off; it had ended. They had made it through another night.

Clare returned hours later, past midnight, her apron streaked with soot and blood, her face pale but calm as she approached his bedside. She noticed that he was still underneath, possibly not seeing her approach.

Without a touch that may spook him, she spoke into the universe: “I told you I’d come back.”

And he, without hesitation, pulled the covers away from his eyes to see Clare standing there, and whispered, “You’re the only thing I believe in anymore.”

With tears in her eyes, her evening had been filled with different spectrums of emotions. Her eyes told a terror; Harry could see it from the way that she stood. Someone’s blood on her hands, her own hands still shaking.

Harry bit his lip as he looked at her but knew that words weren’t enough for her right now.

“Go get some rest,” he told her softly, knowing that it was the one thing she’d say to him. “You need to rest.”

Clare let a single tear run down her face, a sniffle followed as she gave him a tight smile, “I will.”

And with that, she turned to leave his small space– one day older, and another day further.

+++

It had been a few nights since Harry had laid eyes on Clare.

Most of the men had drifted into uneasy naps, the hush broken only by the hum of distant footsteps, the occasional clatter of a tray, and the low murmur of birdsong outside the tall windowpanes.

Clare had lingered after her rounds. Not out of duty, though she told herself that was part of it.

Harry had been awake all morning, his wounds no longer fresh enough to draw constant pain but still healing, still temperamental. He’d walked a full circuit of the ward that morning, joking gruffly with one of the orderlies, pushing through the ache in his thigh like it owed him something. He looked less like a patient and more like a man waiting for orders that wouldn’t come.

Now, with the curtains half-drawn and sunlight painting lazy patterns across the floor, Clare pulled a chair to the side of his bed. No chart in hand. No task pending. Just… company.

She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to.

Harry sat up slowly, back against the raised bed frame, and looked at her with that same unreadable expression he often wore when he was too tired to be guarded but too proud to ask for kindness.

The air raid had passed, though the ward still trembled with the tension it left behind. There were more men than before, and Harry had noticed that there was a lot more movement around the ward.

Outside, the clouds had begun to thin, but the scent of smoke clung stubbornly to the windowpanes, like something that didn’t want to be forgotten. Inside, the ward was dim again, lit only by a few low bulbs strung across the beams and the occasional flicker of light through the curtains.

Harry sat up in his cot, blanket gathered loosely around his waist, legs bent as he leaned forward over the small wooden crate they’d turned into a makeshift table. Cards lay scattered between them, worn at the edges from too many rounds. Clare sat across from him on a low stool, knees drawn together, her uniform sleeves pushed to her elbows.

Her fingers moved over the cards with quiet precision, shuffling them into a clean stack. He’d already lost two hands in a row.

“You’re ruthless,” Harry muttered, eyeing the cards she had just dealt him.

Clare gave him a half-smile, barely more than a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Have to be."

But something was off. She wasn’t gloating like usual. Her movements were slower, less sharp. And though her posture remained straight, her eyes weren’t quite focused.

Harry narrowed his gaze. “Everything alright?”

She kept her eyes on her cards, lips parted as if to respond—but didn’t.

The silence grew, coiled between them like a thin thread stretched too tight.

Clare laid her cards down. Not folded. Just… placed, side by side with delicate care. Her hands remained on the table for a long moment before she spoke.

“There was a man,” she said, her voice low, steady. “The night of the raid. In one of the overflow tents.”

Harry didn’t speak, only let her continue.

“Shrapnel in the abdomen,” she added, swallowing deeply. “Deep. There wasn’t anything we could do.”

Her gaze drifted down to her lap, where her fingers had clasped together. White-knuckled as she recalled.

“He kept calling for his wife,” she said, her voice even, measured. As if she’d rehearsed it to try to keep herself composed. “Didn’t know where he was. Just… cried out for her. Like if he said her name enough times, maybe she’d appear.”

Harry swallowed as the images came too easily to him. Too vividly. He knew what that looked like.

“I told him she was on her way,” Clare said, quieter now, staring at her hands. “That she’d gotten his letter. That she was coming to take him home.”

She looked up, then, just a flick of her gaze toward the window, as if she could see that other tent from that morning. That man.

“He smiled,” she said. “Right at the end. He said she made ginger cake on Sundays and always wore a yellow scarf in the spring.” Her mouth twitched, something between a laugh and a breath. “He smelled like blood – I’m not one to get lightheaded, but I felt ill.”

Harry’s chest tightened at her observation, the way she spoke and he let her speak. He didn't interrupt, he looked at her with pity but the kind that made him feel worse for bitching the way he did.

“I don’t cry with patients,” Clare went on, shaking her head. “Not once. Not even when they scream. Not even when they’re alone.”

She paused, but it was then, a single tear traced the curve of her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. Her face remained composed, still.

“But he…” she murmured, her voice wobbly. “He was the same age as my brother.”

Harry reached across the crate slowly, deliberately. His fingers found hers and held them there, gently. No pressure, no urgency—just warmth in the palm of his hand. Contact.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough.

Clare didn’t look at him immediately. She was breathing through her nose, quiet and slow, as if trying to pull all the emotion back in before it escaped.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” she said, pushing the tear away, “I– I just needed to talk about it.”

“You didn’t – the war is affecting us all, I –“

She shook her head, almost feeling silly for bringing it up to him, “I just… I didn’t want to forget it happened.”

“You won’t,” Harry told her. “Neither will I.”

Another tear fell, catching on her chin before she pulled in a deep breath, as though that small moment of release had to be enough.

She turned her hand beneath his, palm up now, fingers curling lightly around his. Her eyes met his—tired, honest, but dry again.

Then she let out a shaky exhale and, with a soft sniff, picked up her cards.

“You’re still losing, by the way,” she said, her voice steadier, teasing just enough to make it believable.

Harry grinned faintly, the lopsided grin that she had come to know fondly. “Don’t rub it in.”

“I’d never.” She looked up from under her lashes.

“You bloody would.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Only if I thought you could take it.”

And for a little while longer, they played their quiet game, their fingers occasionally brushing across the table when they would go to pick up a card or set one down, the warmth between them chasing away just enough of the cold that lingered in the corners of the night.

“I didn’t plan on making it back,” he said, voice low. “For a while, I didn’t even want to.”

Clare blinked, then looked at him fully. His face was thinner now, sharper in profile, the hollows beneath his cheekbones dark from restless nights. But his eyes were clearer. Still tired, still storm-swept—but clear.

The color green was undeniable; something she had come to miss when she wasn't on shift. She loved the way the green danced over her when she walked, like his eyes were magnets.

“You’re not alone in that,” she replied softly.

He nodded once, setting down a pair of hearts. “I think about them all the time. The ones who didn’t come back.”

His hand, wrapped lightly in gauze over the knuckles, drifted to the side, where a book she’d lent him sat closed on the nightstand. He tapped it once.

“I write their names down sometimes. When it’s quiet. Not because I’m afraid I’ll forget—but because I already feel like the world has.”

Clare leaned in slightly. “You don’t owe them your silence, Harry.”

He gave a short, dry laugh. “No. But I owe them something.”

He looked away, toward the window, where darkness has started to overcome them, pressed against the glass.

“I’ve got a sister back home. Older than me. Sharp as anything. She’s got two little ones—Alfie and Beth. My niece is five. She sent me a letter written in pink crayon. Told me she thinks soldiers are superheroes. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we’re not.”

Clare’s chest tightened, not just at the way he opened to her but the way that he seemed to love to talk about his loved ones – something in him lighting up just at the thought of them.

“My mum’s been trying to keep herself busy. Sewing circles, church things. My dad’s a quiet man, but he’s proud – I can tell. When he thinks no one’s looking, he’ll keep my letters folded in his shirt pocket like they’re medals. Pull ‘em out and tell his mates all about my travels.”

There was a long pause.

Clare’s voice was barely above a whisper. “They’ll be so glad to have you home.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His jaw flexed, eyes still fixed on some distant point outside.

“I’m not married,” he said finally. “No sweetheart. No children. And I still made it home. But the others… so many of them had people waiting. Wives. Toddlers. Boys who were just learning to speak themselves, really.”

Clare felt it then—his guilt settling over the room like dust.

“I know it’s not fair,” he continued. “I know it’s war. Goddamn random and cruel. But sometimes I sit up at night and think—why me? What did I do to deserve walking away when they didn’t even get to send a goodbye?”

Clare reached for his hand before she could second-guess it – she missed it between her fingers again, and even though she knew better, she was playing a game she wasn't sure she could win. She didn’t take it fully, just touched her fingers to the edge of his wrist, warm and steady.

“Harry,” she said, firm now. “You didn’t take their place. You didn’t steal their breath. You survived. And surviving doesn’t make you guilty. It makes you human.”

He looked at her. Really looked.

The hurt was there, but so was the gratitude. And something else—soft, unspoken. Like maybe, for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel quite so hollow.

He breathed in slowly. Let it out, breathing and taking in a breath. She hesitated.

“When my brother was still alive, we'd made plans. Where we’d travel, the books we’d read. The people we’d meet. Then he was gone, and the world felt smaller.”

He said nothing, but his hand turned slightly beneath hers, palm upward. This time, she took it.

“I don’t know if I believe in fate or destiny,” she said, quieter now, continuing. “But I do believe in timing. And in second chances. Maybe that’s what you have now.”

His thumb brushed over her fingers.

“What if I don’t know what to do with it?”

Clare gave a small, half-smile.

“Then maybe you take it one day at a time. Maybe you meet someone for a drink. Maybe you walk your niece to school and help your sister with her garden. Maybe you learn to live without apologizing for it, maybe you stay in London or see a new city," She swallowed, "Maybe you find yourself a sweetheart."

Harry leaned back slightly, as if the weight in his chest had eased just by her giving him choice and permission to move forward. The noise of the ward had returned, faintly—a distant conversation, a nurse laughing two rooms over.

But for a moment, everything else was still.

Clare reached for the book on his nightstand and opened it. Inside the front cover was her note—short, handwritten, her script looping in soft curves.

He looked down at the words, then back at her.

“Wasn't boring, by the way.” He told her, setting his cards down. “Was quite good.”

“Ready for another one, then?” Clare asked, setting the book back down.

Harry nodded with confirmation, giving her a faint smile. “Always ready.”

+++

It was late. The kind of late where the world went still, and the only sound in the ward was the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the supply cabinets and the soft, wheezy breath of a soldier two beds down.

Harry sat propped up in his cot, a dim reading lamp clipped to the shelf beside him. The book Clare had brought him weeks ago lay open on his lap, though his eyes hadn’t touched the words in some time. His thoughts kept drifting—to the war, to home, and mostly, to her.

Clare stepped into the ward quietly, her shoes silent on the polished floor. She wasn’t on shift. Not technically. But her hair was down and there was no clipboard in her hands, just a plain mug of tea and a knowing look.

Harry watched her approach like someone watching a secret arrive.

“You always drink a cup this late?” he asked, voice low so it wouldn’t carry.

“Only when I know someone’s still awake pretending to read, and I can sit with them for a bit.”

She offered the mug, and he took it with a small smile. “What gave me away?”

“You were on the same page when I checked an hour ago.”

He smirked, taking a sip of the tea. “Observant.”

“I’m a nurse. Comes with the territory. It's why you're getting better so quickly.”

Clare sat on the edge of the nearby supply bench, facing him. She didn’t look tired. Just quiet, thoughtful.

“I heard the brass came in today,” she said gently. “Paperwork’s through?”

Harry nodded, trying his best to put on a good face. “Yeah. I’m out in two days. Failed my physical test."

There was a long pause, then, like she was waiting for him to remember how good it would feel to leave, but knew how disappointed he had been in himself. Clare glanced down, twisting the ring on her finger that wasn’t for anyone. “You’ll be glad to get home, I’m sure.”

“Sure,” he said, a little too quickly, almost like he was lying to himself. Then, slower: “Yeah. I mean… it’s home, right?”

But the words hung there like something unfinished.

She looked up at him, keeping her eyes still. “You’ve got people waiting on you to return in one piece.”

“Haven’t seen them in… God, over two years now.” He gave a soft laugh. “They probably won’t even recognize me. Which might be for the best. No need to scare them off with all this.”

Clare frowned, her gaze flicking over the healing burns along his neck, the tension in his shoulders that came with healing.

“They’ll be proud,” she told him, honestly in her voice. He could see that she was trying to keep her hands busy, but didn’t know how to make it not obvious. “You came home, that's all that matters to them.”

Harry looked at her then, and something in his face shifted. That sharp, dry wit gave way to something bare and unsettled.

“Some of them didn’t,” he said, reminding her. “Men with wives. Children. And I’m the one packing my things.”

“Don’t do that,” Clare said softly – he could tell that he may have made a mistake in talking about men who had died, who weren’t there, “Don’t carry the guilt of being alive. You’ve carried enough,” she shook her head. “You don’t have to be brave in here.”

He was quiet for a long time, not knowing if he needed to respond, not knowing what he should say.

Then: “Feels heavier at night.”

She stood slowly, walked the few steps to his bedside, and sat beside him on the edge of the mattress. They didn’t touch. Not yet. But their arms were close enough that the warmth between them was unmistakable.

Harry’s voice was rough when he spoke. “It’s easier when you’re near.”

That silence again—thick and blooming with a charge neither of them could explain.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Clare said, but it was barely a whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll want to believe them.”

His hand shifted slightly on the blanket, like he was fighting the urge to reach for hers. But she leaned in first—just enough that their shoulders brushed, their breaths mingled. Her perfume was faint but familiar by now, notes of soft lavender. Clean linen.

She turned her head and looked at him, mouth parted as if she might say something. But she didn’t. Her eyes stared at his parted lips as if remembering what it would feel like to reach out and touch them. She couldn’t recall the last time she was touched like that.

Harry leaned just slightly closer, to the point where their noses almost touched. Her hand rested on the edge of the blanket, fingers curled loosely, and for a moment he thought—hoped—she might reach for him too.

But she pulled back a heartbeat before anything could happen.

“I should go,” she said quietly, standing without another word as she smoothed down her apron.

“Clare—” he started, voice thick. His hand reached out to grab at her, but he wasn’t quick enough. A sharp pain in his shoulder radiated before he winced quietly.

She looked back at him, something complicated shining in her eyes. It was a goodbye that she wasn’t prepared for, but somehow, knowing it was coming hurt more.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

And then she was gone, the soft sound of her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Harry stared at the door for a long time, heart pounding like he was still falling from the sky. It was weird how it did that – weird how feeling that way could make him feel like living and dying and loving were all synonymous.

But was glad that his heart could feel, even if his brain struggled.

+++

Five weeks.

That’s how long it had been since Harry was dragged unconscious into the military hospital—burned, broken, half-lucid, and gripping the fading image of a smoking French sky.

Now he could walk without assistance, eat without pain, and sit in the quiet without flinching every time the wind hit the windows wrong. Physically, he’d mended well enough. But the wound that mattered most—the empty space left by Dean, the weight of a crew scattered like ash—was nowhere near healing.

Tomorrow morning, he would be discharged. He would be sent back to Manchester.

The orders sat like a stone in his stomach.

The matron had delivered the final orders that afternoon. He was being sent back home to Manchester—no reassignment, no further duty. His left shoulder was too damaged to meet active service standards, the muscle strain and scar tissue compromising his full range of motion. His service to the Royal Air Force was officially complete.

Honorable discharge, they'd called it. But it didn't feel like honor. It felt like being sent home from a war he hadn’t finished fighting.

He sat at the edge of his bed in his small private space, elbows on knees, listening to the clatter of dishes down the hall, the distant crack of a radio playing swing music somewhere. The curtain was half drawn, the soft light of early evening stretching golden fingers across the tiled floor.

A half-packed satchel sat by his nightstand—just a few changes of clothes, the worn book Clare had lent him, and a letter John had helped him send to Bennett’s hospital.

He turned the book over in his hands now, thumb brushing the corner of the faded cover. A Farewell to Arms. Ironic, really. He'd finished it two days ago and hadn’t stopped thinking about the ending since.

There was a gentle knock on the frame outside the curtain. His heart reacted before his voice did because he knew that someone had come to say their goodbyes.

“Yeah?”

Clare stepped inside, her cap slightly askew, cheeks warm with color. She was out of uniform now—just her soft cardigan and skirt, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

“I thought you might still be here,” she said.

“I haven’t been sleeping much.” Harry told her, putting down a few of his items that he had been holding to pack away.

She nodded like she understood, then smiled faintly. Her breath was deep as she tilted her chin up, almost like she was trying to keep it together. “I heard it’s your last night.”

“That’s what they’re telling me.”

She reached into her bag and handed him a parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. “I brought you something.”

Harry stood then, taking it in his hands. He opened it slowly, careful not to tear it. Inside was a copy of A Farewell to Arms, a different edition than the hospital’s—hardcover, older, with a clothbound spine. He looked up at her.

“Couldn’t keep you reading the ward’s tattered one,” she said, shrugging. “Figured you’d need something to throw across the room when you get angry at the ending again.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Still not over it.”

“I know.”

He opened the cover, looking over the edition that she had given him and caught sight of her handwriting on the inside flap. Neat, but a little slanted, like she’d written it quickly.

Harry— Until you find your next story. —Clare

His throat caught around something he couldn’t quite name, eyebrows narrowing at it before he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Thanks,” he said, quieter than he meant.

“I was hoping you might write to me.” She moved to lean against the nearby dresser, arms crossed, but not defensively. More like she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. “I’d like to know how Manchester treats you once you arrive home.”

He glanced up, studying her. There was something deliberately casual in her tone, but her eyes were shining slightly. She was trying not to cry. That alone undid him.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next,” he admitted to her before he let his shoulders settle.

Clare nodded, shrugging with a small smile. “You’re not supposed to know.”

“They gave me this medal,” he said, showing her the item that was tucked into his satchel now. “Told me I’d shown bravery. I think they needed a reason to sign me off and not feel guilty.”

“You were brave.” Clare told him – a reminder she would give him forever, if he let her.

“I was lucky. That’s all.” Harry ran a hand through his hair then, sighing.

“Sometimes,” Clare said, stepping forward as she adjusted the collar of his shirt that he had been given; something different than the hospital wear, “surviving is harder than dying.”

That struck something in him, deep and cold. The kind of truth you only recognize after war has carved a hollow into you, but the way that her near him felt electrifying. Clare gave him a look before going to tuck her skirt beneath her knees, sitting on the edge of his bed. He followed.

He closed the book and set it on his lap, then looked up at her. “I want to take you for a drink sometime.”

That made her smile, slow and uncertain and lovely – not wanting to make it obvious that it was one of the things that she had wished for.

“You’d come to London?” she asked.

“I’ll make the trip,” he said. “Promise I’ll wear a clean shirt and everything.”

“Well,” she teased, “now I’m tempted to see what that looks like.”

He reached for her hand. She didn’t hesitate to give it to him.

Her fingers curled gently between his, and for a while, neither of them said anything. The hospital faded around them—the clatter and coughs, the smell of antiseptic, the ghost sounds of war.

“I don’t want this to be it,” he said finally, ghost of a whisper on his breath as he held her hand on his lap.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Her eyes were filled with tears; knowing that the five weeks together were the ones that kept her the sanest.

“But it might be.”

She didn’t argue. Clare was never the sort to make promises she couldn’t keep.

“This past month…” she began, then stopped. “It’s been different with you here, you know.”

“Better or worse?” The lopsided grin was back; eyes searching hers when they turned to face one another.

“Both,” she said, smiling gently. “But mostly better.”

He wanted to kiss her – he had never wanted to kiss her more than he had right now. But the room felt too still, too full of goodbye.

So instead, he whispered, “Will you write me back?”

Clare let out a dry laugh, shaking her head as she tried to keep her tears behind her eyelids, unsure of how she was doing it up until then, “Of course.”

Then, as if something cracked open inside him, he added, “You’re the only reason I didn’t lose my mind here.”

Clare exhaled, and the breath trembled. “I think you’re the reason I’ve lost mine.”

It was then that she found the utter need for the push and pull to draw her into him. She searched his lips, parted slightly before she allowed her hand to fall on the back of his neck, drawing her lips to his. She kissed him then—slowly, properly, like the space between them had finally closed.

When she pulled away, her hands lingered at his jaw, and her voice was low. “Don’t let this war define you. You get to choose who you are after this.”

Harry nodded, his eyes locked on hers.

“And when you’re ready,” she added, her eyes still laying on his lips as their foreheads pushed together, “come find me.”

With finality, she heard some steps around his room – she moved to her feet to move apart as she smoothed down her skirt. She stepped back, her silhouette framed by the curtain’s edge as she turned around for one last look.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Clare.”

She slipped out into the corridor, the curtain fluttering softly behind her. Harry stayed there long after she was gone, the book resting in his hands. He opened it again, rereading her note.

Until you find your next story.

He didn’t know where to start yet. But maybe—just maybe—it began with a letter.

+++

The train to Manchester had felt like it had taken one hundred years.

When Harry stepped off the train, satchel in hand, the air had smelled of coal smoke and cold steel, the same scent he'd known since boyhood. But everything else felt sharper, more fragile—like he was walking through a memory that hadn’t quite settled back into place. This didn’t feel like home anymore, it felt stranger than that.

His mum had cried as soon as she saw him. Not loud or dramatic, just a quiet kind of weeping, her hands wrapped around his face like she couldn’t believe it was real. His dad stood behind her, stiff-backed, his eyes red, though he never said why. When he finally clapped Harry on the shoulder, it was with the strength of a man who’d held back every emotion for four weeks too long.

His sister, Nora, had nearly tackled him, Alfie and Beth tumbling behind her like puppies, shouting “Uncle Harry!” and pulling at his coat like they thought he might vanish if they let go.

He’d sat at the kitchen table that night, the old kettle hissing in the background, and listened to them talk over one another. Every story, every small detail, felt like a lifeline anchoring him back to the living.

But underneath it all was the ache.

Because when Nora kissed her children goodnight, he thought about Dean, who would never see his own grow up. When his father poured him a glass of whisky, hand trembling just slightly, he thought of Bennett and wondered if he’d been able to write home yet. And when Beth handed him a drawing of the two of them standing under a rainbow, he had to turn away for a moment so she wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.

He was home, he was where he grew up and his family was. But part of him still felt like he hadn’t landed. Not completely. Not until he made his way to London.

Not until Clare.

+++

Three Months Later.

May, 1943. London.

The train rocked gently beneath Clare’s feet, a lull in the evening rhythm that almost matched the flutter in her chest. She sat by the window, a coat in her lap for the chilly evenings, a letter in her gloved hands. She had read it more times than she could count, but tonight—on her way to see him—it felt different.

It felt real.

Clare had been able to take the train back to her flat in London for the weekend, getting a break from the hospital. She didn’t tell the other nurses about this particular meet up – she'd be teased endlessly, but she knew that they had an inkling when she started messing with lipstick in her bag.

London was a few hours away, and somewhere in the maze of its streets, Harry was waiting for her.

She found a compartment with a few older women and a quiet soldier who nodded once in her direction and returned to his paper. The train lurched forward, wheels shrieking against the tracks, and Clare leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane. Fields slipped by, blurred in the bit of drizzle, but her mind was miles ahead, already at the corner of a pub, searching the crowd.

The journey stretched long and winding, as though time itself resisted her reunion with him. The envelope was soft now, its edges creased, and corners worn from being tucked into coat pockets and beside her pillow. His handwriting filled the page in a neat, deliberate scrawl, like he had taken his time, like he wasn’t used to writing anything that wasn’t a flight log or a report.

He was writing something a bit more important to him than those.

- Postmarked - May 5th, 1943 – Manchester Lt. Styles, Harry E.

My dearest Clare,

I’ve been trying to start this letter for days, but nothing felt quite right. Every piece of paper that I started got crumpled and thrown away because I needed this to be perfect. I wrote quite a lot to my friends and family during training, but those didn’t mean as much as this does.

Manchester is colder than I remember. My mum won’t stop feeding me, but my sister and father are very happy to have me home. I can tell that they’re proud of me. Dad has been keeping me busy with putting me to work on fixing things that aren’t broken, but I know he cares and wants me to be better. The people in town stare at me like I came back missing a limb instead of just not going back at all. But you were right. I do get to decide who I am after this.

I’ve decided I’m the sort of man who keeps his promises.

So, I’m writing because I’ll be in London for a few days come next week, Thursday through Sunday. I’ll be at The Red Lion on Argyle Street Thursday evening, around seven.

If you don’t come, I will assume that what we had shared in those difficult weeks was meant to shape me for who I am and was just a small part of the story I’m supposed to be writing for myself. I will make ends with that, and I wish you all the best. You gave me hope, and I will forever be grateful for every conversation we shared. I will move on, and so will you, but I will always think of this chapter.

If you do come, I will know that everything I felt then was real, and that you felt it too. I will recognize that who I am now is stronger than who I thought I was then. I would love to see you again, Clare. I’ll be the one trying not to look like I ironed my shirt just for you.

I hope you’re well, Clare. Truly. I hope your hands are warm and you’ve found ways to sleep through the nights. I hope your laughter still comes easily after everything you’ve seen. You deserve to smile, and the world needs to see it now more than ever.

Yours, always,

H

Clare folded the letter slowly, sliding it back into her bag as the train hissed to a halt. Her breathing was uneven, as she thought of his hands scribbling against the paper, wanting to feel something so badly.

By the time the train hissed into King’s Cross, her limbs were stiff and her mouth dry from nerves. She navigated the narrow corridor and stepped off into the crowded station, swallowed by the shuffle of coats and caps, voices and suitcases thudding along the stone. There was something about London, even in the midst of a terrible war, it hummed with movement, life refusing to be quieted.

The streets outside were still wet from afternoon rain, puddles reflecting the glow of gas lamps and storefronts. She walked with purpose, her heels clicking quietly against cobblestones, heart hammering beneath her navy-blue dress—the one her friend had helped her choose, the one she hadn’t worn since before the war began.

The color matched her eyes, her hair pinned neatly away from her face.

When she reached the pub, warm light spilled from the windows, the sound of music and soft laughter carrying into the street. She hesitated at the door for just a second, smoothing the fabric of her coat, and then stepped inside. The pub was warm and crowded, the floor a scuffed checkerboard of dancing feet and shuffled boots. Men in uniform leaned over pints. Women in soft cardigans and bright lipstick sat in small groups or danced between tables.

Clare scanned the room, her heart suddenly thrumming too loudly to hear the music.

He was already there. At a table near the back, turned slightly toward the door, Harry looked up the moment she walked in.

His uniform was clean, pressed to perfection. His RAF jacket fit perfectly against his broad shoulders as he sat, hands around a pint almost like he was more anxious than her – there was no doubt, he was. His hair was combed back, though it curled a little stubbornly at the nape of his neck.

But then his eyes saw her; he didn’t move at first, almost like he had thought it was a dream. He stood when he saw her, slower than a man without pain but steady on his feet, and smiled—a little unsure, a little shy, but unmistakably him with the dimple creeping into his cheek.

He moved toward her, weaving between people without a word, the pint glass abandoned. Clare met him halfway, her pulse loud in her ears, breath catching just before she said his name.

“Clare,” he said, greeting her softly, saying her name like a prayer. It was the one thing that felt rooted in God.

“Harry.”

For a moment, neither moved. Neither of them could imagine a world where they saw each other outside of the bubble they had created behind the curtains of his hospital bed.

But, here was their moment – here was the moment that Clare had referenced in survival. Every moment that had led to this was a moment that Harry couldn’t have accounted for.

Then she crossed the room, and he pulled her into a careful embrace—his good arm around her waist, the other resting gently at her back. They stood like that longer than was proper, longer than anyone else in the pub noticed, hearts pressed close as if they were still in the silence of that hospital ward.

“I,” He stopped for a moment; the scent of her perfume was overwhelming in a way that he couldn’t have imagined, “I didn’t know you’d come”

Clare held onto his jacket, pressed in the embrace as she took in the smell of tobacco, the smell of soap and warmth of smoke that wafted from the material like he had smoked a full pack before she arrived in anticipation, holding onto him like she didn’t know how to let go.

But for a moment, it was quiet between them. Still. The kind of still that doesn’t feel empty, but full with things unsaid, things still blooming.

She only looked at him, really looked, and saw the faint shadow of the man he’d been in the hospital: pale, exhausted, trying to stitch himself back into something whole. That memory curled beside the man now standing before her, eyes soft, shoulders no longer burdened quite the same. He had color in his cheeks. He had a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there in the ward, when the light had felt too far away.

And she hadn’t realized, until this moment landing between his arms, how much she’d needed this. How much she’d needed him.

Not just the man she missed, but the very act of missing someone. Of longing. Of hoping. Of standing in a room of strangers and seeing one face that made everything feel… rooted again. Like something could begin, even now. Even after everything.

Across from her, Harry couldn’t stop looking at her — like if he blinked, the vision might vanish. His fingers curled tighter around her, grounding himself in the reality of her warmth. In the scent of her hair and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled up at him like that.

He had been prepared for her not to come. When he had written that letter with equal parts courage and resignation, he realized that there was disappointment in life – he knew that more than anyone. But now, standing here with her hand in his and her breath still on his lips, he felt something collapse inside of him. A tension held too long. A question finally answered.

She came. She was here. She still wanted him — not the airman he used to be, but the man he was now. Scars and all.

They didn’t need to speak again just yet. There would be time for that. For stories. For apologies. For everything they hadn’t said in the soft ache of two months apart. But for now, they just stood — folded into one another like a secret, quiet and whole — while the rest of the world went on, none the wiser.

And Clare thought, as she let her head rest against his shoulder and he pressed a steady kiss to her temple,

So this is what it feels like… to be known, and still wanted. To arrive somewhere, and be seen.

She closed her eyes. She hadn’t known how much she’d needed to be held by someone who had missed her just as much. And she took a deep breath in that feeling, to know that there was something to look forward to.

Them.

[occamstfs]

Talismen IV: Deliverer

Alex does a few deliveries before meeting Nicky for lunch. His should be familiar route launches men into new lives as slobs, handymen, hairy tops, and twinks. All the while he struggles to understand the reality before him and his own changing form and his strange position in this new world.

Yowza that’s a long one, as stated it’s kind of a bunch of mini TF’s in a longer story though! In the order presented in the description :) Also I did end up including a gender change since it seemed there was some interest! Worry not, it's all very gay haha! The final poll will go up Sunday the 22nd and run for a week this time. Had quite a bit of fun writing this one, hope you all enjoy the penultimate chapter of Talismen! -Occam

Alex had just returned from another delivery to the sweet couple of bears next door when he received a text from his friend, Nicky. [Heyoo, when are you on lunch? Si’s meeting me for coffee in a bit right next to ur place if u wanna join~] Checking the time, Alex thinks he’ll probably have one more order before getting to clock off and tells Nicky as much. 

Already waiting alone in the cafe, the inadvertent magus’ eyes glimmer their unnatural red as he opts to cast a spell the old fashioned way and summon his friend by ordering some rangoons for himself. What better way to get what you want than to ask for it. 

Nicky smiles as he sees Alex reply [Should be good ! Zhao’ll probably have me do one more but I’ll be quick~] Getting in line the man’s fingers flex unknowingly as he whispers under his breath and winks to no one, “Yeah yeah, you’d better dude- Speed it up for me.” rather than typing this, he sends some in-joke emoji, totally unaware of the almost imperceptible red mist that falls from his mouth and shoots through the doors of the cafe towards the nearby delivery man.

It hits him just as he enters Wok’N’Talk, he shivers as it flows into him, lightning his dark brown enough to be black eyes for but a moment as the few hairs on his arm stand on end. He pauses as the bizarre staticky, pent-up sensation fills him, though not for long as he’s just as soon assailed by the owner calling him to get back to work, “小伙子! (Xiǎohuǒzǐ/Young Man!) Alex! The phone is blowing up! Can you do one more run before lunch?” 

“Just one?” Alex takes in the scene as he sees Zhao nervously gulp at the still printing orders, continuing to pile up. He well knew how the older man operates and figured implicitly offering to help more would butter him up enough to at the very least get the easiest jobs left on the table, “感谢上帝 (Gǎnxiè shàngdì/Thank god) for you Alex, there are two orders very very close- Do you think you can do them at once?” Alex nods and checks the addresses before being interrupted, “Ēn- ah! I forgot one just came in and they asked for you by name Alex-” He sheepishly looks at his young employee, “Would you mind?”

Checking it to find it’s clearly from Nicky he rolls his eyes and prepares to harangue his friend for piling more work on him. For now he simply acquiesces with a deep nod and Zhao comes over with the horde of takeout he’s to deliver. Alex tries to wave off his boss as the older man pats him on the back, “What would we do without you 小伙子- (Xiǎohuǒzǐ/Young Man-) No wonder they asked for you too eh?” Alex tilts his head as he sees a dreamy look appear in the owner’s eyes as he inhales the faintest wisp of red fog. At the same time he feels the man’s arm go limp on his back. Immediately concerned, he leans in to catch the man before he trips only to hear him whisper, “You always were one of my best boys.”

The delivery boy almost flinches back as his words are joined with loud pop music descending upon the restaurant, a stark shift from the traditional instrumentals Zhao prefers. Every inch of the place is suddenly painted in a red haze as the overhead lighting tints crimson. Alex looks up to see Zhao suddenly standing at the counter, “Mr. Zhao is- what is happening!?” He sees wrinkles disappear from his face as he removes his tie, “Why, dear Alex- What do you mean? Do you not long to be one of my 肌肉 (muscle)Jirou Heroes?” Alex backs away as he sees the man reach out and a leash appears in his hands. Smirking, the owner continues, “Tell him Xian.”

Alex didn’t see his closest friend on staff standing there before now, perhaps he wasn’t. Just as off put as the delivery man, the cook looks around, equally as uncomfortable and unsure of the surroundings as the delivery man by the door. That is, before Zhao twists his hand and the leash shoots to attach itself to Xian’s shirt collar, bending its fabric into a thick black bondage collar. The red lights flash as Alex’s friend grasps at the leash before his arms fall limp and his mouth falls agog. Fear fills the delivery man as he watches Xian swiftly contort as his leash is pulled taut.

Zhao just smirks as the once cook surges taller, sleeves immediately bursting to nothing as arms perfect for their new line of work bulge into existence. Pecs made to be oiled and abs made to be rubbed punch into existence. Each distinct muscle presses larger as Xian puts his arms behind his back, standing at attention until his boss, his owner, suggests otherwise. Alex covers his mouth in horror and grimaces as his stomach turns from seeing his friend’s body contort into a titan, into pure sex appeal. He tries to ignore the desire that fills him as he can’t help but stare at Xian. The leashed man briefly looks to Zhao for permission to speak, “Why are you scared Alex, just give in.”

His voice is stone cold and deep, raspy while betraying no emotion. Alex moves his hand to cover his eyes and bring it further away from a crotch that pulses with need. He clenches his eyes shut to hide the red light that seeps in through his fingertips as his chest tightens. Skipping breaths, he swears he feels his own chest beginning to grow just like Xian’s. “No, nono-” Alex clutches at his shirt and feels his chest burning, bulging into his hand. He struggles to tug at his shirt as his biceps press awkwardly against the new chest, making it clear that they too are thicker. Totally overwhelmed he stares at hands that contort larger, fingers stretch and palms widen. He stares at hands that are not his own and then he blinks. And all is normal.

“Yo Alex, you alright dude?” He feels the fan hanging above the door blow air against dried tears on his face. Xian calls out from the window into the kitchen, “Sure you don’t need an early lunch?” looking around he’s reminded of how short-staffed they are before continues, “I mean, no one else can do it but-” While unable to compartmentalize really, he can certainly perform normalcy enough to fool a man half a dozen yards away, “Yeah no problem dude! Just uh-” he sees a flash of Xian’s face sharpening to stone and harshness of his echoing bass, Alex’s voice cracks as he continues, “just spAced out- I’ll be back after lunch!” 

Forcing a smile, he grabs the delivery bags and runs as fast as he can manage into the streets. Stumbling out of eyesight he takes deep breaths of fresh air. What kind of episode was that? Knowing where the first delivery is, he starts the trip into the apartment building next door, home of all their number one customers, and a haven of normalcy that for good reason Alex is desperately craving. 

Already rationalizing whatever as his being overworked the young man doesn’t take a second to look behind as the cute neon sign Zhao has kept for years tinges red as it begins to shift from Wok’N’Talk to Jirou Heroes. Just as he saw, Xian stands behind the counter, bloating and flexing as the interior of the shop corrupts from an almost stereotypical Chinese food restaurant into this new, younger Zhao’s take on a muscle cafe. 

Alex is thankfully none the wiser as he keeps his nose on the grindstone to maintain at least the illusion of someone not mid-psychotic break, as anyone who sees prescient images of the future must to survive. Riding up past happy husband Rich Adam’s apartment he squirms to try and ignore the feeling that his clothes are tighter than usual. It’s in his head, he’s just stressed. And yet, were anyone there to see him they could not help but notice as the elevator continues to climb, his sleeves grow almost snug and pecs begin to give his torso profile it has never held before. Getting a little sweaty he puffs stuffy air into his shirt and swears it’s just nerves.

Frog in his throat he clears it as the elevator finally reaches the sixth floor. DING. The guys’ll offer him some water. He pauses to judge the heft of their order, weird that they’re all here today? Game day’s usually Friday, he thought. Well, he shrugs to himself- guess they’re allowed to hang out when they’re not role playing, or whatever. 

Alex sighs to himself as he makes it to their apartment door. Content to finally be back in sorts, he takes a moment to himself to ensure he’s indeed all there. Smiling wide just to feel the strain on his face, clenching his teeth to feel the pressure on his jaw. He takes a deep breath and ignores how his shirt tugs just a hair more against his stomach before knocking. 

Despite himself his raps on the door are quiet, he doesn’t notice as just like from Nicky, red mist falls from his mouth and slinks under the door. The humble host of this little gathering reaches for the door knob and just before turning it he freezes. Eyes flash red as just like Xian, just like Alex, he is struck with something inevitable. It then shoves past him as soon as it enters, tendrils launching out to the other occupants, to the meek miniature painter and a pair of friends having a not-quite-lovers spat about their campaign. 

But first and foremost it fills Ian who after a moment that lasts forever and never happened at all he returns to his mind, shivers and opens the door. “Heyyy Alex! Didn’t know you work Wednesdays too!” Alex sheepishly smiles, laughing and follows the man in. Despite meaning something worlds different when Zhao said it, the delivery boy was indeed popular with the Wok’s customers. Alex looks down and squints as he swears he can see, almost like string, a red trail into the apartment. The red brings images back to his mind of Xian growing out of his apron and fills him with nerves that he’s about to have another episode he tries to gulp and is reminded of his thirst. Forcing his mouth into a docile smile he doesn’t even begin to try to hide the fear in his eyes as he asks, “Hey Ian could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

The host doesn’t turn to look at Alex as he answers, his own eyes already glassy and distracted, “Yeah yeah, uhh- I’ll go grab it for ya. Think I hear a leak or somethin’ in there anyway,” Alex furrows his brow as he watches the man saunter away, his upper body dragged behind legs walking with a cocky gait that Ian would never deign to perform. Alex clutches at his chest and for the second time feeling pecs that have begun to amass once more he is filled with despair, though this time he feels he can get a jump on things. He can stop the changes. Looking back at the red chain ahead he can almost see footprints that lead toward the room where Wes, the painter, works.

He has seen what happens, he couldn’t save Xian then, but surely now. Surely he can stop anyone else from changing. Maybe you’re not supposed to go along with it, and maybe it’s already too late, but fuck man he can try and help. Propelled forward with purpose alien, Alex unknowingly stomps onward precisely where glowing red footprints lie. With each step forward his feet grow to fill them as his calves and thighs stretch larger with his all-consuming desire to get there faster. His shoes change to something bulkier, more fashionable as the soles of his feet grow wider and toes stretch longer, filling them before they simply burst larger to catch up every new step. His work pants are field to the bursting with powerful thighs now laced with veins as he wills them thicker, stronger, as he wills himself to be faster.

And then he’s there, Wes is quietly working as he often is. Though Alex often delivers the party their meals on game days, rarely is he ever alone with Wes, but the man seems a quiet sort. When the painter sees the man enter he smiles and offers a miniature to look at, “Ah! Nice to see you Alex!” The thin Wes’ eyes brighten with a smile, veiling the red behind his irises, “How’s this lil guy look?” Alex struggles to quiet his heavy breathing and temper his clear overreaction, clearly nothing is actually happening, he’s being delusional. Were he to look down at his lower body to find his pants rapidly changing texture and rising to become shorts and exposing his new beefy calves he’d surely maintain the right level of fear. Instead catching his breath he leans in close to inspect Wes’ work.

“Woah huh, yeah. That looks huh, crazy good Wes!” He can’t imagine the precision required for such deliberate brush strokes. Wes must be a man of great patience. And then he blinks and there is nothing in the man’s hand. In fact that cannot be the hand of this shy artist. Instead he’s staring at a meaty paw and punching himself for losing sight of his self-assigned mission as he sees the unreal take hold of reality once more. He hears a burp tear through the air as the man in front of him guffaws, “buUURRP- Huhhuh! Sorry bruh, didn’ mean to getcha with that one huh!” He can’t tear his eyes away as the man's arms grow thick with fat and muscle in equal part as he clumsily wipes red paint on his beyond ratty shirt.

The sleeves disappear as it morphs into a sweat and paint covered cutaway. All the while the man continues oppressively laughing. He scratches at his now exposed pits and Alex stares with fear as with each stroke his fingers drag through more, thicker, darker hair. Apathetic as he simultaneously mars his sticky pits with paint and coats his ungainly fingers with a musk that now seeps through the air. His legs similarly burst free from their confines as they are covered with thick curls from his newly bulging package to his lengthening hairy toes. Wes goes to grab his paint cup and raises it to drink. Alex doesn’t even have a chance to react as it shifts into a beer can.

The paint covered slob downs whatever swill left in the can in one gulp before clumsily crushing it against his bulky thigh and tossing it to the floor, “What’s wrong fucker, look like ya’ve seen a ghost huhuh! Oh waiiit shit you got our food, ya?” Again Alex doesn't speak up or even move as the barrel chested man barrels past him to get to the Chinese food left in a heap by the entrance. Wes’ meaty hand forced on Alex’s chest leaves a sickly red stain, launching his top to begin its change from a plain uniform to more of a slutty crop top, one perfect to display Alex’s new meatier arms as they hang lower from shoulders that widen with every heaving breath. Seeing the man leave he is filled with an urgency to move himself, he needs to get out of here. 

He needs to- his eyes flash from the door to Wes tearing through the delivered takeout, to the red trail bleeding towards the living room, before finally landing on the kitchen. His throat burns yet again, what a thoroughly unimportant need, but one that nonetheless must be sated. Despite the world around him, poor Alex simply needs a drink. 

Unfortunately for the struggling delivery man, upon entering the kitchen he only finds more otherworldly horror. Alex is promptly torn between instincts of flight and fight as what he sees fills him with fear. Thoroughly stuck, he sees a massive man struggling to free himself from underneath the kitchen sink. Despite knowing this cannot be the case, when he stares at the cut abdomen of this figure wrenching away at a pipe he simply knows it to be Ian. Alex tries to jam his eyes shut and picture the friendly man who greeted him upon his entry.

Unfortunately, as soon as he does so the only thing his psyche can do is imagine the piecemeal conversion of his acquaintance into the pornstar posing as a handyman before him. He sees the smiling eyes of Ian go vacant as a dull, horny hunger fills him. Sifting through a lifetime lived, he sees the man pretend to stretch and reveal the lowest row of abs that now punch out of his stomach. Thick hands reaching out to massage shoulders as every soul he stands in front of seems to him nothing more than the chance for some release. In the most immediate moments of Ian’s new life, Alex sees the brute grow frustrated with adjusting his constantly throbbing package through his pants before simply tearing them off as if they were nothing. 

The delivery man is then pulled back to the now. Frozen watching the man before him, grease covered forearms barely visible beside a sweat covered meaty chest. His deep, dumb voice echoing out from the cupboard, “Yeah you shoulda called me out here weeks ago dude- Gonna have to be coming out, like, uhhh, every day next week probably.” Alex fails to gulp again as he can almost hear the wanting smirk on Ian’s face in that dark crawlspace. Seeing a cup of water Ian must’ve laid out for him in his last moments of lucidity, Alex quickly downs it before responding, “Uhm, Ia-” he clears his throat as it remains itchy, only for it to resound deeper, “Ian, you-  this is your apartment.” 

The handyman apparent struggles to remove himself from under the counter, flexing performatively and humping the air as he ambles, bumping his head a good few times before his escape. Each time a throatier grunt ushers forth as his arms tangle and his shoulders grow unfortunately larger, almost wedging him intractably. Alex bites his lip as he is struck with an urge to help only waylaid by the concern that were he to get closer he’d accelerate the kitchen captive’s changes, or worse yet, spread them to himself. Inching closer he discovers it’s quite the former as with each sparing movement closer towards Ian, hair begins to cover him just as it did to the now-slovenly Wes. 

Pubes thicken and race up his waist as a jungle of hair grows thicker underneath arms that seem to be in a state of perpetual flexing. Acne and curls dance across his meaty chest as he finally disengages from the kitchen sink. Head now in the free air Alex watches as a mustache bursts from his upper lip. The man Ian has become dully looks around the kitchen and laughs as he indeed recognizes it as his own. Alex struggles to look away from the cock that now bobs free in the open air, having finally burst free from the strained compression shorts. Watching as the man scratches his stubbly chin with his pipe grease-covered hand as he struggles to produce some wanton thought, Alex wonders what he’s even doing here. 

Where once nothing but horror filled the delivery man’s mind upon seeing such transformation, now he is struck with the absurdity of the situation. Watching two friendly, thoughtful men morph into slobs beyond imagination Alex can’t help but wonder why. When Wes enters the kitchen using his paint covered mitts to fist loose fried rice into his mouth, spilling it all over the floor, Alex decides to simply wash his hands of whatever this bizarre situation is. He hears the two dullards talk in their fried voices, “duuude put some pants on we’ve got company-” “Ah it’s just Alex sure he doesn’t mind seeing my balls huhuh!”

On the way out he passes a hall mirror and for the first time sees what the workings of this impossible realm have done to him. He can’t help but grin as he sees the heavy arms now totally exposed. His thick but still soft hands trace his thin waist and play with the few hairs that make up a treasure trail. His skin burns with sensitivity as his fingers leave an unmistakable red trace as they dance on his tight stomach. He fights the urge to continue upward towards a chest that hangs clearly in between his new pistons though stays strong, in a way, and starts for the door. He has still kept his mind and surely when he leaves all will be normal. This isn’t happening and he’s not about to grope himself in a customer’s apartment. 

And yet, when he hears the sounds coming from Ian’s small den he can’t help but take a look. He remembers Wes mentioning the pair had been arguing over the direction of the campaign but clearly Tyler and Chuck have worked out their differences, as it were. Alex rolls his eyes at his presumably repressed psyche having lost the plot of whatever episode this is as he sees the once dungeon master lean in to aggressively make out with the player who had long been yearning for some romance in their sessions.

Alex can’t help but allow his hands to inch towards his own wanting crotch as he stands to watch. His eyes flash red as he sees the room as it was when he entered the apartment. The argument in the living room abruptly ending as the men are struck with swaths of red mist flown in from under the doorway, light from the afternoon deepens and shifts to stage lighting as if the den was only a set. Chuck jokes about more sensual and sex-themed RPGs as he puts his arms behind his head, ignoring as his hairline rapidly disappears and sweat stains appear in his pits. Tyler licks his lips as the small crystal on a string he never leaves home without quickly thickens and grows heavy as the crystal itself shifts into a lock he hasn’t the key for. 

Both men shift awkwardly as they are immediately struggling against a primal hunger that rolling dice could never satiate. They pull at their clothes soaking heavy with sweat and oil, Ty’s hair shortens into something barely longer than the new hair that begins to pattern his chest. The player gasps as his master’s new beard scratches against his own rough cheeks, when his head is forced down to the man's pillow chest he is torn between desires to lick and lavish or to bite and tear. The pair then fall onto the stained couch as Alex simply continues to watch. Unable to look away, unable to remove his own sweaty palm from a crotch that begins to strain against his shorts. From afar Alex begins to understand his place.

When his fingers catch in newly thick pubes he suddenly comes to his senses and falls away from the men moaning as they struggle to strip from clothes that are almost tight enough to act as bondage for the fucking pair. Alex stumbles backwards, grabbing the remaining orders he has left to deliver with the hand he didn’t begin to publicly masturbate with and sprints from this true hellhole of an apartment, hoping more than anything that just like at Zhao’s it was all in his head. Just an imagination that has suddenly become overactive and obsessed with transformation. He’d heard of the fetish at least, stranger things have happened, probably?

Free at last from the slobs and exhibitionists that clinging to hope are actually just friends chatting over takeout once more, Alex contemplates just turning himself in for his own safety. Surely he’s not expected to just continue doing his job in the middle of what can only be a psychotic break. At the same time, what if he is indeed some courier of change. What if he is the one doing this somehow.

Looking down he sees himself at the very least wearing suitable clothes once more, tracing up his shirt once more however he finds that his form has not been spared. His skin is warm to the touch and the muscle beneath is tight, powerful. He feels thicker hair trailing up from his pubes up decorating abs that he never spent a second working for. A chest that would require him to simply live a different life to earn.

Eyes on the ground he sees shoes a few sizes wider and pants catching on his thick thighs and powerful calves. So too does he see a path forward, laid out, inevitable. At once he understands that he is not truly acting, he is but a messenger, a deliverer, a shepard. What is happening is happening and he must be there to see it through. He is a psychopomp of the changing world and avoiding it, if that’s even an option, can only bring ill. Coming to terms with what he has seen and will see, for the first time he allows himself to grapple with the powerful, primal fulfillment that witnessing these transformations has brought him. Pleasure beyond what he thought was possible. It is no wonder the men did not fret as they were molded into their new forms, it felt, good.

When he remembers the final delivery of the day his curiosity is piqued, another couple. Jen and Rob. Through and through gay he wonders what the next situation has in store as he begins to walk down the long hallway, his footsteps silent leave a trail behind. While in Ian’s apartment he was following a path laid out for him, now that he has embraced the reality of this unreality, now that his will has aligned to get this over with, quickly, he holds the power within himself. Just as Nicky does, just as Timothy did. He steps forward precisely where his feet are supposed to land.

Before he knows it, as if he’s willed it closer, Alex stands outside the apartment. All the while he has continued to grow. His pecs inflate and traps swell and while his tee has expanded a few x’s larger to hide his bloating figure. His pants, having torn a few times over, have given up the ghost to become compression shorts that allow thighs thicker than his head and calves that could kill to remain on permanent display. Feeling his biceps strain against the sleeves of this pump cover that should be too large for any man, he toys with the idea of simply removing it.

Before knocking on the door he smirks as his mind flashes to the shitty man that lies inside, Rob won’t know what to do with himself when he sees the little prudish delivery boy has ballooned into something better than man. Feeling his package strain against his shorts as his thighs flex from the simplest movement, Alex prepares for the first time with intention, though not volition, begin a scene of transformation. He prepares to usher the couple into their new selves, his mind can’t help but skip forward and imagine some twinkish Rob being dominated. “Spoilers,” he whispers to himself grimly as he approaches the door, it opens without him even needing to beckon and he walks in with the couple’s lunch.

“Alex!” Jen cheers, her eyes alight with forced delight as she has clearly been in argument with her fiance, as he often finds them. She stands hands on the counter and her ever-frustrating partner sits on the couch playing Elden Ring, she motions for the delivery man to come in and finally her eyes land on the man who now stands a few heads taller than her. “Wha-,” her eyes flash red as her desires are more than clear to Alex, I want to be the man in the relationship. He doesn’t care all that much to explore the gender dynamics, nor does whatever power that moves through him as he sees the woman gasp and shiver as it becomes clear that she is a woman no longer. On the couch Rob complains.

“Babe what the fuck? Are you flirting with that little bitch to get a rise out of me?” At last Rob turns to inspect the pair standing in the doorway as he sees his fiancee rapidly bursting free from the tight top he whined at her, them, this morning to wear. Jen’s chest pulls inward as their upper body grows with strength they have always been discouraged to pursue, but never stopped hungering for. Hair prickles their chest as a sculpted patch bursts forth between heavy pecs and around nipples that have thankfully not decreased in size.

Below the belt it becomes clear that their, his, masculinity is not in question as Jen in the minds of every person present irrevocably becomes Jake. His hips jut forward against the kitchen counter as permanently shaved pubes race up to meet the garden of chest hair, and down to cover burgeoning balls that begin to fill his bloodstream with enough testosterone to make up for decades of hormonal imbalance. Hair growth is of course centered around a cock that would put any man to shame, the same could be said for Jake’s mind as he almost drools looking down at his new rod.

Stick thin arms become biceps that hide pits almost steaming with b.o. that a life ago she mocked Rob for having, now he simply delights in the new way to exercise his masculinity, his undeniable virility unto the world around him. Groping at his crotch Jake lets loose a deep moan as a new adams apple bulges out of a neck framed by traps still continuing to grow. Veins carrying changes through his growing form tinge red with every beat of his racing heart as for the first time pre drips from his new cock.

On the coach Rob struggles to rise as he sees his boyf- no not his, fiance? No. His eyes widen and he puffs up his chest as he struggles not to meet this obstacle like every one he has faced before now, brute force and a dim witted mind. Alex tilts his head and frowns before raising his hand and faster than anyone could possibly observe a red tendril shoots out, through Jake and into Rob, I want to be the man.

The man who has always been a man falls back and begins to writhe. Muscles barely honed begin to atrophy as the workings of the world fulfill Jake’s desires in the only way they care to. Rob’s stubbled chin begins to grow smooth and hairless as he begins his transformation into Jake’s trophy twink. His sweaty hands, sculpted to a playstation controller claw at the back of the couch as he struggles to climb up and see what is happening to Je-Jake. Fingers thin and nails shine with polish and attention. He feels his stomach contract as he gasps in desire as his, lover, has only continued to grow.

While his own chest and torso begin to suck in and smooth over, Jake’s has only continued to expand and amass power. Hair begins to pour from every pore on the new man as he bloats larger. Jake’s legs burn with power as his figure converts child bearing hips into dense powerful thighs and a waist that will allow him to keep his slutty twink bouncing for hours in bed. Meanwhile Robbie’s does precisely the opposite, waist thinning out to be easily grabbed and manhandled by his tank. Standing next Alex the man almost goes feral with the need to mount his mate as his rough hands clench the counter with a fury.

The already sparse hair on Robbie’s form sloughs off as Jake aggressively scratches at dense hair growing thicker in his pits before shifting to claw at his stubble as it becomes a thick messy beard on his face. Drool drips from his mouth as he groans with a voice that grows decibels deeper with each haphazard breath, Jake glowers at the feminine figure biting his lip as it bloats larger, moaning and posing on the couch as his hair lengthens and curls. It’s all Jake can do to avoid climbing like an animal over their kitchen island to pounce on the twink languishing on the couch, his skin softening and growing more supple by the second.

Alex watches disinterested as Rob grows thin, docile, hungry for pleasure that only Jake will be able to offer. He sees Jake become the man he always yearned to be, the man he was always going to be. In his mind's eye he sees the scene that will happen as soon as he leaves, as soon as he allows it. Furniture broken, not for the first time, as the pair fuck as if there was nothing else in the world but sexual fulfillment, perhaps there is nothing else in the world. Alex ponders the paths that the world may go down if this is to be the case, he searches for futures that don’t go down this route and struggles to find one.

Hearing Jake chomping at the bit, struggling with the urges of a new powerful pair of blue balls, and seeing Robbie’s mouth reflexively hang open with lustful abandon he understands that his work here is done. He nods at the new beast and Jake as he has always wanted jumps his fiance. Robbie is all too happy to be put in his place by a man who is more than he ever could be. Alex watches for a moment but despite his embrace, if not understanding, of his role in this tapestry, he knows he has work yet to do as his own form begins to ephemerally change.

He turns to leave and shuts the door behind him, barely dulling the sound of shattering glasses and fervent moans behind him. Down the hall he hears the festivities he set forth earlier have not stopped, in fact it sounds as if the neighbors to the apartment have joined in on the fun. Alex is sullen as he looks down the hallway, seeing tendrils launching forth from his footprints into each and every apartment passed. Masculine moans abound, deepening in some and rising higher in others. Flashes of cowboys getting creative with lasso, smoke seeping under door frames as once powerful executives try to hotbox their suite, pajamas shifting into uniforms before being removed with haste. Men fighting against their own changing lusts and bodies, and others who are more than happy to give into them. And Alex can do nothing but deliver, accelerate, and watch.

Something of a unique figure in this situation thanks to Nicky, Alex maintains his wits despite his urges to join in on the ‘fun’. Work yet to do, he flexes to simply use some of the energy building within him and his form graciously expands once more. His shorts turn to briefs which leave little at all to the imagination. Sighing, the melancholy psychopomp is nevertheless pleased with what an impressive figure he has become. Holding one final delivery in hand he sets off to the place he has all along said he would. Holding but a small package of rangoons with Nicky’s name on the receipt he takes the elevator down to the ground floor.

Alex pointedly doesn’t look towards Jirou Heroes as he exits onto the street, bestowed with whatever power Nicky unwittingly did, he is well aware of what he would see if he were to look anyway. With the solemnity of the reaper which he is, Alex walks into the cafe to see Simon has arrived ahead and broken the news less than gracefully. His beefy arms are around the catatonic haphazard spellcaster as Simon, kind but incable, tries to make right the impossible. Explain the incoherent, make Nicky aware of what is going on so they may work all of it out together. Alex purses his lips and hesitates before smiling morosely at his friend and offers forth the smallest bit of levity, “Rangoons for Nicky?”

To say his eyes fall is not accurate, his hands cover his mouth as he sees the direct handiwork of his twisted words. Where his irises should be there are only deep red pits, “This isn’t what I wanted. Why would I want any of this.” The Talisman he never truly asked for glows red enough to be seen through his shirt, Alex and Simon both see it and instantly understand that this is the true source of what happened at the gym, what is happening next door, what is happening in the cafe around them had they the bandwidth to notice. 

In the eye of a hurricane of change, Simon grabs Nicky’s hand and squeezes, Alex puts his new meaty palm on his dear friend’s shoulder. Understanding there is no time to waste, Nicky bucks up and with the support of these two men he has irrevocably changed, opens his eyes and grabs at the talisman. Though not at all knowing what he should do, he knows and Alex assures him that it must be done right now. His hands tremble and his eyes tear up from the pressure, red tears dripping down his cheeks. And then he does what must be done.

Potentialities:

Ah poor poor Nicky, lotta pressure on the guy let’s see what he ends up doing! While the others have primarily been choosing between transformations these last lot are choosing the ending, all will hold transformations galore of course!

Post’ll go up on Sunday as usual but it’ll last a week as I’m probably going to take the week of Christmas off haha!  

World Peace - 47.2%

Well now, is it not the real responsible thing when granted unlimited power to ensure that all problems are solved? What could go wrong when something already twisting desires and morphing every living being it can get its hands on receives explicit permission to work globally. Nothing untoward I’m sure.

Self-Sacrifice 26.7%

No time to think, alas the guilt ridden and noble Nicky says take me instead. Instantly we return to the mystical non-place where this all started. After a bit of chat, gambling, and discussion of what a big ask it is to not only end but undo the changes. The man who gave him the power to change it all decides what, or whom, his sacrifice is worth.

Pass the Buck 26.1%

Alex and Simon are here aren’t they? Surely a man already morosely writing off the world and another whose mind has been described as ‘gears barely turning’ a half-dozen times can figure something out.

[mattslilies]

Lost Love - M.S.

"i know baby. i know. we're going to be okay." or... the one where you suffer a tragic loss during your first pregnancy with matt, and it nearly destroys you. warnings: pregnancy loss, miscarriage, depression, a lot of sadness, a lot of angst. matt being an absolute saint even though it's killing him too. word count: 628 a/n: requested by anon! disclaimer: in no way is this meant to be insensitive, or a lightly brushed over topic. miscarriages and pregnancy loss are tragedies nobody should have to go through, and my deepest condolences go out to you if you've experienced either.

"i lost the baby."

matt's world collapsed at just four words.

he'd frozen in shock, staring at you with a look in his eyes that told you he was desperately hoping to be hallucinating, to have heard you wrong, to be dreaming.

"w-what?"

tears began to flow from your eyes, taking his shock as anger. fear radiated through you, the emotions overwhelming as you just sunk to the floor, crying. matt immediately jumped into action, body encapsulating yours.

tears hit your head, and as you processed the fact that they were matt's, grief and pain hit you in the chest, your heart clenching to tight you felt like you couldn't breathe.

you have no idea how long you two were sitting there, crying in each other's arms as you began to process your new reality, hoping for some kind of miracle. matt was the first to move, slowly pulling his body off of yours, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.

he didn't speak too much, gently holding your head up and using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your flowing tears. he softly kissed your forehead, silently encouraging you off the floor, letting you lay down against him on the couch. he grabbed some water from the side table, opening it and pointing it towards your lips.

"you need to drink something, baby."

you stared at the wall, not even acknowledging that he was there. your tears had stopped, numbness and silence suffocating the room.

"please."

the brokenness in his voice killed you. whatever was left of your heart shattered, and you realized you weren't the only one affected by this.

matt had just lost his child too.

you took a small sip of the water, matt forcing a smile out of his face as he told you he was proud of you.

"i don't know what i did wrong."

matt rushed to comfort you, reassure you immediately.

"no. this was not your fault. you were doing everything you could to take care of this baby. it is not your fault this happened."

you laughed, a cold, sharp, disbelieving one.

"then who's fault is it?"

"nobody's. sometimes this happens, and it's not comforting to know that. but it wasn't your fault."

you shook your head, tears forming again. you didn't attempt to stop them, crying into matt's chest as the waves of grief hit you once again.

"i don't know what to do."

"i know, baby. i know. we're going to be okay."

you looked up at him, eyes watery, blurry, his wet eyes looking back down at you.

"are we?"

he nodded, wiping a tear from your eye.

"we are. this is awful, and it's so hard, but we are going to be okay. this isn't going to ruin us."

you sighed, sadness encompassing your whole body, but finding comfort in knowing you weren't completely alone with this. you had help. you had support.

"i don't want to forget her."

matt hummed against your skin, quiet comfort radiating off of him.

"her?"

you nodded. you hadn't been far enough along to know the sex of the baby, but you had mother's intuition.

"it was a girl, matt. i can feel it."

matt stroked your hair, holding you tight against him.

"we won't forget her baby. there's no possible way. she'll live on in every piece of us, and we'll see parts of her in all of our life."

you nodded, tears beginning to flow once more. matt felt his eyes grow watery again, and just held you tighter to him. this was miserable, but he did sincerely believe his words.

you both were going to be okay. it would take a while, and it would be hard, but you would be okay.

[lottesreads]

Why Me? - Part 14

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Mitchell! Female Reader (Callsign Mantis)

Warnings: Forbidden relationship, some angst, fluff (yes fluff this time), lying, talk of abuse, swearing, mentions of death and cancer

Word Count: 6500

Summary: Your stay at Bob's is over and it's time to go back to work. It's different this time, knowing the two of you are on the same page, and you're excited to see where it takes you. Even if that means hiding it from everyone else.

A/N: I'm back my beautiful folks, it only took me being disappointed in real men again to want to write about the perfect fake one. That and Thunderbolts. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! I love to hear what you think and I am very happy to be back :) (reblogs and comments make me happy btw)

It's also been so long I hope the taglist is accurate (but pls let me know if you want to be added or I missed you)

Masterlist

That weekend you don’t spend the entire time holed up in your room. You don’t cry again. And you don’t shut yourself off to the world. You see a reason to look for the sun behind the clouds, and when it finally emerges that Sunday afternoon, you take the time to allow yourself to feel it warm your skin. The gleam reflecting on that delicate butterfly pendant is what wakes you, and you know everything is going to be ok.

You’re at ease with your dad, granted, he’s still a bit upset with you. But “upset” with your dad means he just sighs at you every couple of hours and remembers that he loves you after he forgets what he was mad about. When he does that though, you get a little gnawing of guilt in the back of your head. Like his exhalation of breath is steadily blowing up a balloon of your own wrongdoings that could pop at any second.

As you get ready for work the next morning, combing your hair back so not a single stray stands out, you’re being pulled in different directions. Your dad wants to see you succeed, and you want him to be able to do that… from a safe distance. He and everybody else at work are your painful reality. And sometimes it’s good to remind yourself you can’t have everything. Not yet. On the other hand, you want to be happy outside of your career. And you think Bob can do that for you. More importantly you’re hoping you can do that for Bob.

Patience is a virtue, but you’ve decidedly been patient for long enough. For multiple things. Now you’re ready to take what you want. Even as your father’s bike rumbles out of the garage, you’re impatiently fiddling with your flight suit in the mirror. Your eyes run up and down your form several times, almost like anyone would notice a single wrinkle. Even so, you still find yourself smoothing out any irregularity, until you reach your face.

You had thought about covering the bruise with makeup, just to avoid the questioning. But what do you have to hide? This one was an accident this time.

She had usually refrained from actually hitting you in the face. Mostly just pushing and grabbing at your wrists to get your attention. It wasn’t uncommon for her to grip your chin in her cold hands and force you to look at her, but that rarely left any kind of mark to be covered. Only when she was uncontrollably angry would she leave a mark that could be so blatantly seen, so hard to cover up. One of those including the last time you saw her. When she left you crying on the floor of your bedroom while she made her plans to change the locks the next morning.

Often the blows to your face would be an open palm. One that would hurt enough to leave a sting and a faint flush that would be gone as quick as it came. The feeling, however, wouldn't disappear as fast. You’d be stuck with the memory of the burning sensation and gut wrenching fear for the rest of your life. There’s the occasional scar you’ll remember every once in a while that you’ll try to rub off from over your shirt or pants. But it’s already become a part of you. A part of your story you try not to dwell on no matter how hard your brain tries to get you to revisit.

A knock to the door has you flinching as you run to answer. Bob stands with his hands behind his back and dares to look surprised as you answer.

“Hey”, he greets you with a smile.

“Hey”, you breathlessly smile back. “You know you could have just texted me, right?”

“Uh”, he scratches the back of his neck as he walks you to his truck, “I guess, but that didn’t feel right to me.” He stands to open your door, and once again you are floored by this man’s chivalry. You smile as he slides in on his side.

The streets are still damp with whatever water mother nature rained down last night, and the slight chill from the walk to Bob’s truck gives you goosebumps under your flight suit. As Bob pulls away the radio turns on and he starts humming to the familiar Johnny Cash tune. You turn and smirk as he absentmindedly mouths the words.

“I fell into the burning ring of fire”, he mutters as you shake your head. He turns at the motion. “What?”

“You are not beating those country boy allegations, Bob Floyd.”

“Who said I was denying them?”, he asks with a nervous smirk.

The drive is short, but comfortable. Eventually your hands drift closer together the further into your conversation. But it’s cut short when you make it to the front gates. At the sight you pull your hand back to your lap. Bob tries not to take offense, he knows he’ll have to get used to this part.

Bob parks his truck and the two of you stare at the building in front of you. You’re both so unsure of how things are going to look when you step inside, but you know you’ll have each other.

“Hey”, Bob gently knocks his hand into your knee, “You ok?”

“Yeah”, you nod. This is something you’re good at, you remind yourself. Pretending. “We’re just carpooling to work for the same reasons we told my dad, ok?” Bob furrows his brow and nods, as if taking orders from a superior. “If anyone asks, stick to the story. And if you have to tell anyone, don’t make it sound too rehearsed or too casual.” His brow ticks up and you elaborate, “There’s a fine line in there- but you already did a good job with my dad. So, nothing to worry about, right?” 

His brow is still furrowed in concentration but he forces the uptick of a smile. A grimace is what it is. You sigh and on instinct reach out to grab his hand before stopping and folding it in your lap instead. You realize you should have had a conversation before going to work, but this will have to do for now. “Just- act normal. We’re friends.”

“We are friends, Mantis”, he adds as you try not to get lost in his eyes. You know what he means. You were friends before you realized what you meant to each other, and you’re still friends. Nothing is going to change that.

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

You’re putting your bag in your locker when you hear Halo and Phoenix’s voices echoing across the tile. Taking a shallow breath, you grab what you need and turn to face them as they walk in.

“Morning!”, you smile.

“Morning, Mantis”, Phoenix responds before even looking at you. And then she turns. “Oh my GOD! What happened?!”, she asks as she gets close enough to inspect the bruise. 

“It was an accident, I took a baseball to the face on Friday”, you tell her as she scrutinizes the mark.

“Why the hell would you even be near a baseball? There’s no need for-”, she stops herself before the steam starts pouring out of her ears. If you ever had any doubt she was protective-  “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine”, you smile. Mostly just enraptured with the concern etched into her features. 

“Ok… But say the word and I will be ready to bash in some skulls.” Begrudgingly, Phoenix allows you to finish what you were doing as Halo grimaces at your face. The three of you go on with your morning, walking to the classroom only to be greeted by more eyes on you. You’re really not meaning to, but you catch on to Bob as he gives you a small smile.

And even as Fanboy starts speaking, your eyes stop on Rooster as he sits in the back, head resting on his fist. You’re sure if no one was talking you could audibly hear him gulp as he eyes your bruise in regret.

“Whoa-”, Fanboy stares, “What the hell happened to your face?”. You stare at him straight in the eye as everyone else looks on.

“That’s rude”, you playfully scoff, “I don’t go around asking what’s wrong with your face”, you deadpan as Payback laughs from beside him.

“Man, c’mon”, he mutters as you smile.

“I wasn’t paying attention when playing catch. Not a big deal”, you finally tell him as you sit behind Bob. He tries best not to stare, but then his eyes move behind you and you almost swear there’s a glare under those lenses as he glances at Rooster.

“Welcome back everyone!”, your dad announces as he takes his place at the podium. “Glad to see you’re all in good shape”, his eyes graze the room and he winces at his choice of words once he sees you, “Well, most of you anyway.” You do your best not to roll your eyes as he gets on with the objectives for the week.

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

When lunch rolls around you’re feeling good. You’ve had the chance to get in the air, just to practice a few basic maneuvers, no dog fights quite yet, but you’re ready for whatever gets thrown your way. Everyone else is already in the mess hall, and you take the chance to enjoy the blue skies as you walk to join Bob. Still, you’re made aware of someone walking next to you and with a glance you realize the tall doofus is Rooster. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him glancing at your face again. You really thought after Friday he was going to try and stay away. But you guess it’s hard when you have to see each other every day at work.

“Can I help you-”

“Why are you covering for me?”, he asks, interrupting you. You furrow your brow and continue on. “You could have told them it was my fault.” You can’t help but scoff.

“I’m not gonna stir the pot, there’s no need for them to hate you more than they already do.” He huffs, half out of laughing and the other out of the truth.

“Well thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” You make it to the entrance of the mess hall and spot Bob waiting for you at his usual table. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you’re reminded of what made you run to him in the first place.

Rooster goes to walk off to his sad little table by himself, but at the last second you stop him.

“Wait”, he turns at your voice, “That box that you brought over, how long did you have it?” He shrugs, thinking back.

“A long time. I didn’t even know I had it until I started moving.” 

“Did you have any idea what was in there?” He shuffles on his feet and starts picking at his thumbs. A nervous tick he’s had since he was a kid.

“I knew there was a letter for you. I didn’t open it. There was one for me, too.” He’s trying his best to look anywhere but at you. “Listen, if I knew what was in there I wouldn’t have left it sitting in storage for sixteen years.” He knows he’s not going to be on your good side in the near future. There wouldn’t be a reason for him to lie about this, and you’re inclined to believe him.

“Ok. Thank you.” The two of you stand there, longing to say anything else about the subject, to hear anything from a woman the two of you held so dear. Instead he clenches and unclenches his fist near his side. A way to stop himself from encroaching on your boundaries.

“You’re welcome”, he mutters indignantly. You sigh as you watch him walk away. Shaking the interaction off you make your way over to Bob.

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

The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. The rest of the week actually. Not a single thing out of place. Which unnerves you. Your dad has everyone back up in the air, practicing evasive maneuvers, target practice, any kind of skill the Navy doesn’t want rusting up before going back overseas. Whenever that’ll be.

You eventually tell Bob that he doesn’t have to walk up to your door every time he picks you up, but even as he texts you that he’s there, he’s waiting to open his truck door for you. And everytime it gets harder and harder to hide how giddy he makes you feel. You’re sure you can see on his face how he doesn’t tire of it. Almost like every time you walk out the door, he’s seeing you for the first time. And it makes you feel special. He makes you feel special. 

Even when you don’t see each other over the weekend, the first weekend in a while that you decide not to see each other, you’re still texting almost nonstop. Your dad decided to spend the weekend with you, which you’re grateful for, but it’s kind of hard to pay attention to The Goonies when Bob keeps sending you pictures of Sylvia sleeping in precarious positions.

“What’re you laughing at?”, your dad asks as you shut your phone off.

“Nothing, just a stupid meme Phoenix sent me”, you easily lie before he turns back to the movie.

“Something I wouldn’t understand I’m assuming?” You fix your attention on his face in the glow of the tv. You take your concerns and shove them to the back of your mind as he chuckles at Sloth and Chunk sharing a Baby Ruth.

“No. Probably not.”

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

“Dude, why have you been giving Mantis rides for the past week?”, Fanboy asks Bob as he sits down across from him.. Bob swallows his mouth full of food before remembering to stay calm, despite his accelerated heart rate. He shrugs in an attempt to make it seem, as you said “casual”.

“Her car’s in the shop after she came over to help me look for Sylvia. She ran out during the storm, and while Mantis was helping me look her car took some damage.” He glances at Fanboy, who shrugs and decides it makes sense. But right as Bob thinks he’s in the clear, Fanboy has to pipe up again.

“Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped” Bob tries not to laugh as he remembers Sylvia booking it upstairs last time Fanboy came around.

“If she saw you, she would have run the other way.”

“Yet you called Mantis.”

“It’s cause Syl actually likes her.” Bob sees the real distress on his face as he picks at his food.

“You told me she was just shy”, he shrugs in response as you take your seat next to him.

“Hey, what happened to your car?”, Fanboy asks as you dig into your lunch. Your hand freezes for a split second. Bob can almost see it in real time how you adjust from your relaxed self.

“Oh, that- Well a palm tree fell on it and-”

“A palm tree?”, he almost shouts.

“Yes, a palm tree. Shop says it’ll take a while to have everything fixed, but they’ll be able to do it.” Bob wonders why you haven’t said anything to him about it. He tried asking you on a ride home last week why you wouldn’t just get a new car if the damage was that extensive, but you brushed him off. Saying something about how the car’s sentimental to you. Even if it is a hunk of junk.

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

Even in late September the heat radiating off the runway is enough to make you sweat. Not only that, but you’re about to head up in your jet which will make it even harder to see straight. You’re not gonna complain, though. It could be worse. You could be stuck in Lemoore, landlocked without a beach in sight. At least here you get the ocean breeze.

An arm makes its way across your shoulders, and you don’t even need to look over to know who it is.

“You ready to kick some ass?”, Phoenix asks as she marches alongside you. You can’t help but laugh. She’s been saying the same iteration of the same few words since you met. Whether it was for a test you stayed up late studying for, teaming up for a game of beer pong, and even when she threatened to go kick your ex’s ass when she lovingly named him “lieutenant douchebag”. But that’s a whole other story in itself. Just another time she had your back.

“You bet I am”, you respond with determination. Bob jogs up and meets Phoenix on her other side. You give him a look from over your sunglasses and he clears his throat.

“Hey Phoenix, your boot’s untied”, he points to her shoes as the three of you stop.

“You guys go on ahead”, she shoos you to keep walking as she kneels to relace her boot. The rest of the tarmac is almost empty, save for the few technicians tending to the jets. Still, you keep a safe amount of distance between yourself and Bob as you leisurely make your way further.

“So uh-”, Bob starts as you turn to spare a glance in his direction, “Are you doing anything Friday?”

“Depends on what you’re about to ask me”, you say with a small smirk.

“Well, I was wondering if…”, he stops to take a look around before continuing, scratching the back of his neck in the process, “maybe that might be a good day to go on that date we talked about?” Your knee jerk reaction is to smile, and it takes everything in you to chew your lip and look straight ahead.

“Yeah”, you cough, “That would work.” Phoenix makes her way back to the two of you and the conversation ends there. Bob nearly trips over his own feet as he tries to get a last glance of you when you stop at your jet, and you have to turn away in order not to laugh.

“Whoa, you alright there Floyd?”, you hear Phoenix ask him.

“Yeah- yeah I’m alright”, he mutters as you sneak a look at him. He catches your eye and your smile wins over.

That drive home you don’t hesitate to take his hand when his truck rolls off base. You try to hide your smile by staring out the window, but Bob can still see it in the way your eyes crinkle at the sides. He simply squeezes your hand and keeps on driving. 

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

As soon as Friday rolls around, you’re having trouble trying to suppress your excitement for the night. Even as you beat Coyote in a dogfight, he raises an eyebrow at your overly animated figure giving him finger guns as he falls to do his pushups.

“Better luck next time Coyote!”, you throw over your shoulder as you head to lunch.

“Something’s different about you”, Phoenix comments under a squint while she points at you with her fork. She has you abruptly swallowing the bite of your lunch you were still chewing and you clear your throat before you choke.

“What are you talking about?”, you attempt to brush it off without even looking at her.

“I don’t know”, she muses. “You seem… lighter.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”, you ask with a dry laugh.

“No”, she waves her fork around again. Now sending salad dressing flying in specks over the table. “I just wanna know what changed.”

“Well”, you shift in your seat, “I have a standing therapy appointment every Wednesday and that’s been helpful.” Her eyes light up as she smiles. You didn’t realize you were so transparent. But maybe that’s just Phoenix. And your dad. They can see right through you even when you have trouble seeing yourself. Which is what makes it even harder to lie to them.

“That’s great!”, you nod in agreement and there’s a pause in the conversation before she mutters, “I thought you were on drugs or something.” You nearly spit your food out at the accusation.

“You do know what we do for a living, right? That’s a one-way ticket out of here.”

“I know, and I know you’re not the kind of person to go for that kind of thing… but it was just a big change in the last couple weeks.”

“Yeah”, you shrug, “I guess I just decided to stop wallowing and actually do something about it. Do things that will make me happy.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep up with it. I don’t like seeing mopey Mantis, it makes me sad.”

“I was not being mopey”, you can’t help but scoff, even if there’s a bit of truth to her words.

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

Bob drops you off at your house as per usual, but this time he lets you know he’ll be back to pick you up at 6:30. You nod and squeeze his hand one last time before running out of his truck and into the house. That’s only two hours from now so you decide to start getting ready immediately. Wash the smell of jet fuel off of your skin. Primp yourself in a way that you haven’t in a long time.

Oh god, you don’t even remember the last time you had to get ready for a date. This was different though. This was Bob.

Of course, even if you are happy like you told Phoenix, not everything goes exactly the way you intend it to. Now for example. Bob will be picking you up for your date in the next few minutes and your dad is supposed to be with Penny tonight. The sound of his bike pulling into the driveway gives way for the first crack in this whole plan. This is how it starts, you think to yourself.

“Whoa, why are you all dolled up?”, your dad’s voice stops you in your tracks as you cap the lipgloss you just got done swiping on. He was not supposed to be here, damn it.

“What, a girl can’t wear a dress for no reason anymore?”, you try to brush him off. In your defense it is a basic yellow sundress, not that the man can differentiate any kind of dress from another. To him any kind of dress or skirt equals fancy.

“No”, he reasons, “Just wondering why you’re wearing one to go dogsit.” You scrunch your nose in frustration. Ensuring your cover, you told your dad you were dog sitting Sylvia while Bob went on a date. Which wasn’t entirely untrue.

“Oh I don’t know, I’m just sick of wearing a flight suit day in and day out. I need to feel like a girl.” The words weigh down on your tongue as you try to come off as light and airy. Bob was supposed to be here any minute, why isn’t this man at his girlfriend’s house?

He nods as if thinking it over and he just about leaves before tapping the frame of your door.

“Oh, did I mention Ice is thinking of having a retirement party?” You turn to stare at him without the barrier of your mirror.

“Really? Or do you mean Sarah wants to throw him one?” He smirks and shakes his head.

“Either way, he’s in remission now and I think it’s as good as any reason to celebrate.” You nod and take a deep breath. You both know having to retire because of cancer wasn’t ideal for Admiral Kazansky. For a while there you weren’t sure if he would recover. You’re just glad he’s finally getting the opportunity to celebrate his career in the Navy, even if it didn’t end the way he wanted it to. He still went out in a blaze of glory, putting your dad exactly where he needed him. Where Rooster and yourself needed him. You remind yourself to text him later.

Your dad walks back down the stairs and you glance at the clock. Bob should be here any second.

“I thought you were going to Penny’s?” You yell down to him as he goes to the kitchen.

“I was, but Jimmy’s sick so she’s covering for him.” You can hear the clink of a glass bottle as he opens the fridge and you roll your eyes.

“So instead of going to see your girlfriend where she works at a bar, you’re choosing to drink alone for the night?” There’s a moment of silence and you know he’s rethinking his choices. “I’m sure she’d be happy to see you during a long shift.” He places his drink back in the fridge, and before you’re done doing up your shoes, a knock comes from the door. Shit. “I’ll get it!”, you yell down the stairs.

“Bob, hey”, you hear your dad greet him as you awkwardly shuffle down the steps with only one shoe on, the other barely hanging on.

Your dad’s back is turned toward you as Bob stands at the door. “I’m sorry”, you mouth in an attempt to wipe the panicked look off of his face. The wide look in his eyes softens as your dad moves out of the way, opening up his view of you. He blinks a couple times to gather himself and you’re able to admire what he’s wearing. It’s not dissimilar to what he wore to brunch, a button up shirt rolled up at the sleeves, tucked into some nice slacks. He awkwardly waves at you, and you’re stuck staring into his blue eyes.

“So Mantis tells me you’re going on a date?” The panicked look reappears on his face, and you cringe as he stumbles through his words.

“Uhh- yes sir. I- I am.”

“Good for you”, he claps him on the shoulder and if you’re not mistaken Bob flinches at the contact. “How’d you meet her, one of those apps?” A sense of calm washes over Bob as he takes a look at you. 

“No actually. I met her at the Hard Deck, sir.” Your heart warms as you walk closer to where the two men are standing. “She just caught my attention, and I haven’t been able to look away since.” Before your dad can sense the shift in energy, you clear your throat and take Bob by the arm.

“Right then”, you interrupt, “We should get going so you’re not late.” Bob’s feet follow the rest of his body as you drag him out to his truck and just when you think you’re out of reach your dad yells out the front door.

“Have fun Bob, be safe!”, he chuckles as you turn to him with wide eyes. Leave it to your father to embarrass you in front of someone he doesn’t even know you’re going on a date with. Parents must have the uncanny ability to know exactly when you’ll feel embarrassment the most, even if they don’t have any clue what they’ve done.

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

“Sorry about him”, you break the silence, “he was supposed to be with Penny.”

“Not a problem”, he glances over at you. “You look beautiful by the way.” You can feel your cheeks heat up as you smooth down the skirt of your dress.

“Thank you. You look really nice, too.” You reach over and take his hand, he squeezes a couple times as you let the radio take over the comfortable silence.

Of course Bob opens your door for you, and as soon as you're out of the truck he leads you up the walkway beating you to the front door. You’re not sure what to expect as he faces you.

“Now I know we can’t go out and have a normal date, but I’m hoping this might make up for it.” Reaching for the handle, he opens the door and follows you in.

“Bob”, you gasp. He walks behind you as you try to find every detail in what was once his kitchen. What stands before you now is a homey, dimly lit dinner. There’s a tablecloth over the old table you ate french toast at a couple weeks ago, plates are set with the appropriate silverware and napkins are folded underneath them. The sun peaking through the windows is the only thing lighting up the kitchen where an aroma of tomato, garlic, and herbs emanate your senses.

“It’s too much isn’t it?”, you turn as he rubs the back of his neck. Shaking your head you can’t hide your smile, and you can see the tension leave his shoulders.

“No, it’s- it’s perfect. When did you have time to do all this?” His hand finds the small of your back as he pulls your chair out for you.

“Well, I had this planned ever since I asked you out. I just kept putting off asking you again for some reason.”

“I already said yes, did you think I’d say no?” He bobs his head back and forth as he enters the kitchen, making you turn in your seat to watch him. He doesn’t answer as he grabs the food warming in the oven. “Bob”, you gape.

“I know you wouldn’t, but deep down there was some part of me that thought it was too good to be true.” He plates up your food and sets it down in front of you as you stare at him the entire time. The sun from the early beginnings of dusk settle over him and cast him in a soft glow. He belongs in this light you think. Brings to life the warm fuzzy feeling you get whenever you look at him.

“If it makes you feel better, sometimes I think you’re too good to be true.” He scoffs, but even as you reach across he still gives you his hand to squeeze

“Thank you”, he says as his eyes settle on you. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the daze you’ve put him in. “I hope you’re hungry.”

The two of you sit, eating a delicious meal that Bob made from scratch. Which you compliment him on and he accepts with a blush. He explains how Phoenix gave him the recipe, some family heirloom she wasn’t too eager to give over, but she only did it because it was for him. 

You continue to compliment him over and over on his cooking and attention to detail, although you shouldn’t be surprised. He is a man of precision, and you’re sure he’d be able to follow a simple recipe, but still. He did this for you, and it makes it even better.

The two of you sit at the table a bit longer, talking about everything and nothing. You sit until the sun starts to fall further into the sky, painting the kitchen in a golden hue. You stay that way until Bob starts taking your plate to the sink. You move to get up and help start the dishes, but he turns and gives you a pointed stare. You try to play innocent but he sees right through it, stopping you and taking the dishes from your hands.

“I was thinking we could go for a walk.” A distraction more like. “It’s real close. We could walk to the beach, and if by chance we see anyone we know, we tell them my date ended early and I was repaying you with ice cream.” Distraction or not, it works. But you can’t help but feel grateful and sad at the thoughtful notion.

Bob pointedly gives a look to the neighbors house as he takes Sylvia’s leash in one hand, and leaves the door open for you. He walks closest to the road with Sylvia, letting his free hand fall between the two of you. You offer the same as the backs of your hands brush together as you walk.

The two of you make the short walk to the ice cream shop you passed weeks ago, the one you barely remember making some short remark about. Of course he remembered. The sun casts a golden hue over your figure which distracts Bob long enough for you to pay. He tries to grumble, but you silence him with a look.

“You made dinner, I buy dessert”, you tell him. He shakes his head, but the two of you keep walking. You talk about mindless favorites, colors, animals, what you were obsessed with when you were kids. And you find out Bob had an obsession other than planes while growing up.

“You’re kidding me? Bugs?” He nods as you lead him and Sylvia to rest at a bench.

“Nope, I was pretty into the outdoors as a child. Helps that I grew up doing work outside and I’d find all sorts of things in the fields.” You can’t help but laugh at the irony. While you happen to not be a fan of bugs, particularly the praying mantis, Bob has had a soft spot for them this entire time.

“I even had a journal of all the insects I’d find. Wrote everything I could about them, even included a little drawing.”

“Your own encyclopedia”, you smile. He laughs while you attempt to turn back to your ice cream. If you ignore it any longer it will melt all over your dress. You sit for a bit longer admiring the view over the ocean, but you know you need to head back soon. The sun is disappearing beyond the horizon and you wish for just one moment it would stop. Because in this second, right here with Bob, even out in the open for anyone to see, you feel free.

A Beach Boys song starts playing somewhere further along the beach and you both turn your heads at the sound. As the music continues to set the soundtrack to the night, a couple start to stand and sway together on the sand. They stumble a couple times on the uneven terrain but laugh it off and continue to move together. 

Feeling Bob’s eyes on you, you turn to look back at him. He gives you a small smile drawing attention to the small dab of chocolate ice cream at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, you’ve got a little something right here”, you motion at your own face as he tries to wipe it clean with his hand. His attempt only smears it even more and you laugh as he continues to try and get rid of it. Relenting, you reach and wipe the melted chocolate off with your thumb. You slowly swipe over the corner of his lips, and with no napkin to wipe away the mess you’re left to lick it off your finger.

Bob just about chokes on air at your absentminded motion, but he manages to recover quickly. Hiding his shock under a cough as he stands. He stops himself from lingering on your hand after he offers his own to help you up, but you see the small twitch in his fingers as they fall back to his side.

The walk back is slower than the way over. You’re trying to savor this time, but much like ice cream you only have a short window before it’s gone. Hands brushing against each other, time starts to drip away as you get closer to the house. Your gaze is stuck on Bob the whole time, and you soften at the view. You’re surprised the ice cream didn’t melt any quicker in your hand the way you’re warming from the inside out.

He leads you through the front door and you stop in the living room as Sylvia pads off for bed. It’s already been a few hours since you got there and you know the end of the night has come. Bob steps forward and takes your hand in his. His thumb draws mindless shapes over the back of your hand. Reaching forward, you draw his face to look up at yours.

“You ok?”, you ask. He nods in your hand with a soft smile adorning his lips. You’re both thinking the same thing, you know it. There’s a bittersweet feeling that you can’t go out normally, that tonight might be a one off of walking together, getting ice cream. Normal date things.

“If this were any other ordinary date for you, what would you do differently?” You venture to ask. He takes a second to find his answer, still rubbing soft circles on your skin.

“I would have held your hand as we walked”, he brings your hand up as he kisses the back, “Put my arm around your shoulders as we watched the sunset”, he sets your hand over his shoulder, “And you know what I really wanted to do?” You shake your head as he takes your other hand in his, resting his free hand over your waist, eliciting a smattering of butterflies through your stomach. “I really wanted to ask you to dance.”

You shake your head as you relinquish your hold on Bob for a quick second. He furrows his brow as you scroll through your phone. Seconds later the melodic voices of the Beach Boys singing Don’t Worry Baby fill the living room. He laughs through a shy smile as you set your phone down and resume your position, only this time you put yourself a little closer to him.

“No reason we can’t do that right here”, you tell him. The song plays on as you rest your head on his shoulder, he soon follows suit and rests his head over your own. You’re surrounded by his scent and the only thing you can feel is him. The two of you sway slowly to the tune, but half of it is muffled by the sound of Bob’s heart beating.

Well it’s been building up inside of me

For, oh, I don’t know how long

I don’t know why

But I keep thinking

Something’s bound to go wrong

 You know he can feel you smile through his shirt because you feel him do the same above you.

“You know”, he whispers, “even if we could have done this, it wouldn’t have been any other ordinary kind of date.” You lift your head to get a better look at him.

But she looks in my eyes

“Why’s that?”, you whisper back, unintentionally flicking your eyes to his lips and back.

“You’re not any other ordinary kind of person.” His eyes follow your same motion as you don’t even try to suppress your admiration for this man.

And makes me realize

And she says “Don’t worry baby”

“Neither are you, Bobby.” And as fast as you’ve gone before, it’s almost agonizingly slow before the two of you meet in the middle. His lips are soft on yours, but not only that. They’re gentle. Much like the rest of him. The two of you take your time savoring each other. In the back of your mind you know you’re not worried about someone seeing this time. In the safety of Bob’s home and Bob’s arms you’re at peace. You move at your own pace and everything is perfect. Almost.

Don’t worry baby

Everything will turn out alright

Don’t worry baby

A/N: I love Val Kilmer and his death really solidified the fact that Ice was going to live on in this story. I hope it brings a little bit of comfort to other people, not just myself.

Taglist:

@lemmons1998

@itsmytimetoodream

@theamuz

@harrysgothicbitch

@mygyn

@luckyladycreator2

@marve2014

@wretchedmo

@callsignwidow

@finnydraws

@melsunshine

@jostan456

@okiegirl24

@beebeechaos

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@hunbomb

@nerdgirljen

@knight-of-the-doctor

@smoothdogsgirl

@planetaryempire-blog

@dumblani

@i-heart-marvel

[dollfacefantasy]

End of the Night

pairing: mafia!leon kennedy x reader

summary: leon comes home late from a job. he finds comfort in his pregnant wife who's fast asleep.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, somnophilia, pregnancy, mentions of blood and violence and typical crime stuff

word count: 2.7k

a/n: hey besties. here you go. hope everyone enjoys. if you're interested, check out my ko-fi. i appreciate the support you all give me oh so much. mwah <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld

Another late night. The car rumbles as it pulls into the driveway. He shuts it off and sits there for a moment, taking in the quiet of the neighborhood street. Moonlight illuminates his bruised knuckles and bloody sleeves. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, the skin beneath the dried crimson liquid turns white. A deep sigh seeps out of his lungs. 

He runs a hand through his dusty brown hair and looks in the rear view mirror, seeing his tired eyes looking back at him. He’d been meaning to get it cut, but he’d been busy as of late.

“It’s getting shaggy,” you’d tease him while scratching his scalp with your manicured nails. Then you’d lean in close and give him a big kiss on the cheek. “It looks good.”

You. His beautiful, darling wife. The greatest pride of his life. Only a few rooms apart, tucked away safe inside.

He lets out another sigh as he thinks of you, but this time it’s a breath of longing rather than exhaustion. You were why he was out here, cooling off. He’d promised himself since the day you got married those years ago, he wouldn’t let this affect you. Wouldn’t even let you get close to this side of him.

All the windows of the house are dark. He knows you’re asleep, curled up under one of the many plush blankets he’d gotten you. Face pressed into the silk pillowcase, your soft breaths drifting through the bedroom.

The mental picture brings a smile to his face instinctively. It quickly fades though as he looks down and crashes back to reality. Blood covered his suit, soaked into the fabric. He knew he’d have to just throw it away. He wouldn’t even bother asking you to wash this one.

He gets out of the car, careful to shut the door quietly. Walking up the stone path to your house, past the pristine lawn, he jams his key into the front door. The air in the house is so much warmer than the chill outside. It hits him in a rush, making his face feel numb. He slips his shoes off by the door, something you always asked him to do after one night when he had tracked remnants of some unfortunate guy all over the bedroom carpet.

Sometimes coming into the house almost made him unsettled. It was as if he still couldn’t believe it was his. That was how he felt about you too. Sure, he’d always expected to get married, but he never thought it’d be like this. Never thought he’d be happy.

He walks across the entryway and heads up the spiraling staircase, passing pictures of the two of you hung on the walls. When he reaches the bedroom, he sees exactly what he suspected. Even though he expected it, the sight of you fast asleep didn’t melt his heart any less. It filled his chest with warmth and made his head feel loopy with how much he adored you. The worst thing he could imagine was coming home and finding that bed empty. Whether you left or someone took you, he didn’t want to ever think about either. That was why he was always so careful. So that would never happen.

He pads across the room to your side of the bed and looks at your sleeping form with love in its most raw state. The kind that made him ache. He strokes your head and smooths your hair out. A light kiss lands on your forehead before he leans down and kisses your belly, swollen with his child.

More than anything on this earth, he wants to crawl into bed with you and do all that lovey dovey shit until the sun comes up. But he knew he needed to shower, not wanting to even imagine the disgust on your face if you woke up to his clothing, blotted red with blood, pressed to your skin.

He goes into the bathroom, making sure to be as close to silence as possible. He cringes when he turns the shower on, and just hopes the noise of the rushing water isn’t enough to wake you.

The next step in this little routine is taking out one of the disposable bags you now stored under the sink for nights like this. He peels off his suit and stuffs it into the plastic before dropping it in the trash. He’d take it out tomorrow.

He gives his body a once over in the mirror, looking at the stained and scarred skin before stepping into the shower. The hot water feels damn near euphoric on the taut muscles in his back. He lets out a muted groan. It sprays down on him and dampens his hair, the locks transforming from their lightened shade to a deeper brown. 

The white tile surrounding the drain turns red as the marks from work get washed away. He uses the little scrubby thing you bought him, making sure all of it is really gone. Washing his hair too, he uses some of your shampoo tonight just for your scent.

He can feel the pressure dissolving in his shoulders and the tight coils in his back beginning to unwind. He no longer feels like a live wire. The hot tension in his neck melts and rolls down his back, pooling in his belly. The heat of stress evolves into the warmth of desire.

When he’s finally done in the shower, he gets out and wraps a towel around his waist. Water droplets roll down his chest as he dries his hair. He then takes care of his other getting-ready-for-bed tasks and comes into the bedroom. He pulls on some flannel pajama pants and turns to his bed, ready to finally lay with his stunning wife and hold you till he passes out.

But when he looks over at you, that warmth that collected within him starts to bubble up into a boil. You had shifted positions, kicked the covers off so that you were much more exposed. It wasn’t unusual for you. The fact that it was freezing out now didn’t stop your body from heating up like a furnace while you slept. It started when you first fell pregnant, and while it caused you great discomfort, Leon secretly enjoyed it, infatuated with the warm, soft feeling of you against him in the night.

You were wearing a baby pink nighty he’d bought for you. It barely held your breasts which had just started to fill out more a few weeks ago. The lower part of the dress bunched up around your waist just below your bump, letting him see the matching panties you had on. He nearly drools as he imagines your lush thighs around his head, locking his face against that fabric.

God, and the final straw, your sweet, precious face. So clueless, not the slightest idea that your husband was a few feet away, leering at you. Slightly parted lips, twitching lashes, those cute round cheeks. It was too much. He had to do something even if it risked disturbing your slumber.

He had already drifted to the foot of the king-sized bed in his lustful stupor. Kneeling on the mattress, he leans forward and crawls to his target. One hand scoops up one of your legs, placing it on his shoulder. The other does the same to your second leg. It was just as he’d imagined, that familiar engulfing heat against his cheeks, around his neck.

Flat on his stomach, he brings his head in. His thumbs hook on your nightgown to slide it up a little more, resting it on the peak of your bump. His lips meet your clothed pussy in a gentle kiss. He then takes a deep breath, inhaling his favorite smell.

He trails some more kisses up the fabric to the level of your clit. The cloth gathers wet splotches from his saliva. Before removing the garment, he nuzzles your center, dragging his nose upwards against the silk.

Everything about you was soft, tender. From your voice as you spoke to the way you looked at him with love pooling in your eyes. His refuge from everything else, the blood, the betrayal, the guilt.

He loops his finger under the strip of fabric that conceals your cunt from him. After tugging them down, his eyes train on your folds. He locks his arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, smothering himself with you. Closing his eyes, he gets to work.

He delves his tongue between the velvety skin and licks stripes upward. His tongue draws skillful patterns on you and swirls around your clit before taking the sensitive bud between his lips to suck on it.

And there it is. You squirm ever so slightly. Your hips shift, but he keeps them pinned down in place. A small grunt leaves you and a smirk rises to his lips. So sweet, his innocent girl, never the wiser. 

In waking life, he wished he could keep you so blissfully unaware. Obviously, you weren’t privy to how deep the darkness of his work went. You had a basic idea though, and that was too much for his taste. You didn’t deserve to know any of that stuff even existed. He wanted to shield you from all of it. Just let you live like a princess in a castle without wondering how he could afford to give you that castle in the first place.

He shoos his concerns away by burying himself further in your cunt. He flicks his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves in rapid succession, applying pressure with his gentle sucking. A sense of satisfaction comes over him as he feels your slick beginning to coat his chin. He increases his efforts and flattens his tongue on your clit before going back down and working it into your hole.

He laps every drop of you he can, groaning at the taste. His arms squeeze tighter around your thighs, and he takes a deeper breath of that heady scent. He’s so laser focused on your pussy, he doesn’t fully register the moans beginning to spill from your lips.

Finally, he perks up when he hears possibly his favorite sound in the entire world.

“Leon?” you whimper, your voice soft and shaky with arousal.

He groans again, opening his mouth now to make out with your cunt. His tongue massages you and works inside you again.

“S’ok, baby, everything’s ok. Keep having those pretty dreams,” he mumbles into the junction of your thighs.

He doubts you could even hear that at the volume he spoke it, but he’s back to work anyways. Your squirming is getting more frequent as the coils of pleasure tighten within you. Your legs shift around in a futile attempt to alleviate the disruption to your rest.

More wetness collects between your legs, mixing with his spit and making your folds slippery. It’s the best feeling ever to him, he just can’t get enough. That smooth, slick skin. Your warm, plush thighs. He’d do this all day if he could. Any stress he’d had from work was as dead as the guy who’s blood had ruined his suit.

With one particular stroke of his tongue, you rouse from sleep. Your legs tighten around his head with a few conscious whimpers. You lift your head and look down at the mop of hair working at the apex of your thighs. You lazily run your fingers through the locks.

“What are you doing?” you mumble, your voice a little whiny from the nonstop ministrations to your cunt. Your head falls back to the pillow with a soft gasp.

“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing, sweetheart,” he teases before continuing.

“Bad day?” you rasp.

“No. Now shhh. Let me make you feel good, honey,” he says simply.

While Leon loved talking to you, he couldn’t eat you out till you were trembling if he was using his mouth for anything else. He returns his full attention to your pussy, devoting all his energy to getting you to that peak.

Your moans are louder now, becoming higher pitched as sparks of ecstasy fly inside you. The sheets gather and twist around your body as you writhe on the mattress. Toes curling as moon light shines through the curtains in your bedroom, you suck in a hushed gasp as his fingers slide inside you with ease.

You’re so sensitive from your condition that it only takes a few gentle pumps and scissoring motions of his fingers to have you dangling from that pleasurable edge. Your hips try to buck, but again, his palms have you secure, right where he wants you.

“Fuck… Leon. I- I- babe, I’m gonna-” you whimper while your breathing becomes more labored.

“Come on, babydoll,” he nearly growls, “You can do it. Cum for me. All over my face.”

Strained cries rise in your throat, your hips rhythmically rolling into the pleasure he provides. Not one to ever resist him, it’s only moments later that you do as he says, the band of euphoria inside you snapping.

He works you through it, not stopping his tongue or fingers. Your moans are deep and loud. There was no reason to be concerned with volume so you let the sounds fill the bedroom and spill into the hall. Wet noises bloom from the bottom of the bed as your release coats Leon’s fingers.

Not wanting to waste anything, he laps up every drop of you that he can. His tongue makes broad strokes over your cunt, and even as you begin coming down, he doesn’t let up right away. You squeal and squirm as your high overflows. Your feet weakly kick at his shoulder to signal it’s too much.

“Leon… can’t take it… fuck,” you whine and claw at each side of the pillow behind your head.

Normally, he’d keep going. Mouth would be latched on to your pussy for the next hour at least. Swirling circles around that pretty clit until you were crying and had gone hoarse. But right now, you’re carrying his baby. Your days are hard enough, and the last thing he wants is to be the cause of any discomfort for you.

He forces himself off of you, panting as he disconnects and pushes himself up. Looking up at you, his eyes are blown out with love. You roll on to your side, stretching your sleepy limbs as you slip back into the state of relaxation you were in before he’d woken you. He watches you, adoring the way your mouth widens into a yawn as he crawls up the bed to slot himself behind you.

Curling up against your warm body, he lets out a hum of satisfaction. He places a few tender kisses on your neck and behind your ear. His fingers run through your hair and stroke it back from your face in soothing motions.

“My pretty little wife,” he whispers.

Now you hum in satisfaction. Your hand finds his which was on your belly, rubbing your bump. You gently squeeze it before lifting it to your lips and kissing each one of his bruised knuckles. It was something you’d done hundreds of times at this point in your relationship, but it was never any less special to him.

“How’re my girls tonight?” he murmurs and places more kisses on the side of your head.

“We’ve been good,” you answer softly, voice becoming sleepy again already, “Well, she has. She’s just like her dad. Been kicking ass inside my stomach all night.”

Your eyes are closed, but it’s as if you can see the grin on Leon’s face. “She can act like me all she wants as long as she’s as cute as her mother,” he breathes with a peck to your temple.

No matter how many times he’d say things like that to you, you could never fight the heat that rose to your cheeks and the smile that broke out on your face. You turn and connect his lips in one final kiss before you settle into the pillows to sleep again.

He just watches you, the best way for him to unwind at the end of the day. When he looks at you it’s easier to remember that while tomorrow’s gonna be another day in his life full of gunshots and corpses, it’s also gonna be another one he spends with you, spends waiting for that perfect baby in your belly.

[stellamarielu]

friendly competition

declan o’hara x female reader

summary: on a business trip with declan, the two of you are forced to share a room which can only lead to rising tensions and unspoken realizations.

content: nsfw, 18+, enemies to lovers-ish, one bed trope lets gooo, angst, arguing, hate sex, infidelity [but does it really count if his wife left him??], oral m & f receiving, cock warming for a hot second, dirty talk, kinda rough, unprotected sex [oops], finishing inside [oops again]

author’s note: she’s hereee! i had so much fun writing this one so thank you to whoever suggested hate sex with declan lol i hope it lives up to your expectations

—

Declan didn’t work with you very often. He had exchanged plenty of pleasantries and seen you around the office enough to know he didn’t care to talk to you more than the occasional “Hello” or “How are you today?” He knew it was rude to be so judgmental and short with you, but he was only in the building for one thing and it wasn’t to make friends. He was there to produce hard hitting journalism in the form of an unoriginal talk show to please the one and only Tony fucking Baddingham.

His bad attitude about work wasn’t helped by the fact that his home life had become an absolute shit-show since moving to Rutshire. Between his failing marriage and his daughter’s constant frustration with him for meddling in her dating life, he found himself desperate to stay out of his own home. He worked late most nights and poured himself empty into the never-ending glass of Corinium television.

So when Tony asked him to go on an overnight trip to London for a work prospect, Declan agreed without so much as a second thought. His boss then decided to add that you of all people would be joining him, and it had Declan’s head spinning with regret.

You were everyone’s favorite producer and subsequently the one person Declan couldn’t stand sitting next to in meetings. Simply put– you annoyed him. The way you walked, the way you talked; Declan was constantly irritated by your happy go lucky personality. You were always so cheery and optimistic, and it got under his skin. It was so unrealistic for someone to be that happy all the time. It was all fake, he knew it had to be; the constant smiles, the sing-song tone of your voice, the way you had everyone wrapped around your finger with your constant jokes and can-do attitude. Surely it was all a ruse to become a network favorite so you could climb your way to the top. Whatever the reason was for your encouraging outlook on life, Declan told himself he could suck it up for a day and be cordial on this little business trip with you. 

He had done a good enough job once you arrived in London. The two of you were so busy with business matters that you didn’t interact much.

You were your usual polite and perky self, yet he found himself much less annoyed with you in this environment. Maybe it was because you weren’t around the others from the office, or perhaps he had psyched himself out the night before, losing sleep over the idea of being stuck with you for 24 hours, when the reality of it was much less jarring. 

The point was Declan was beginning to find your presence much less unbearable than usual.

However, that all came crumbling down once you checked into your hotel for the night. He was standing at the front desk fuming with annoyance while you were just standing next to him all pleasant and nonconfrontational. 

“Like I said before, neither of us booked the room. It’s through our company, but I can assure you there should be two separate rooms under the name.” 

Declan’s voice was loud and stern; not quite a yell, but if this woman at the front desk tried to convince him he didn’t know what he was talking about one more time, it would be. 

There had been some sort of mistake with the hotel booking. When you and Declan checked in you were given the keys for one room with a single bed. Declan had argued many times that you should have two rooms, but the woman across from him had no issue disputing his claims. She informed Declan that there was only one room on the reservation and the hotel was currently at capacity so there were no extra rooms available to even attempt solving the problem at hand. 

While Declan was growing more livid by the second, you were nothing but calm and cooperative– a complete pushover. 

“It’s really okay! We’ll figure something out, no worries.” 

Your voice was unphased and you were smiling apologetically at the staff that was now gathering at the front desk. You took the room key and shuffled Declan off toward the elevators. 

He was looking at you with the most aggravated expression imaginable. He wasn’t even close to being done debating with the hotel staff, he was determined to right their wrong. He always got what he wanted.

Yet here you were pulling him away from the conflict with an annoyingly hopeful tone in your voice, regardless of the shitty situation. Why the fuck were you being so nice.

“Declan, there’s nothing they can do. We’ll just have to figure it out with one room.” You were doing your best to level with the angry Irishman as he shot you another look of irritation. 

Pressing the button on the wall in front of you, you silently hoped that an elevator would come available so you could just get to your room as fast as possible. You were certain Declan was going to continue fighting you on this, so getting away from the lobby was your current priority. 

“That’s absurd, I’ll just take a train back home this is ridiculous.” 

“Seriously? That’s how big of an issue sharing a room is?” you were laughing at the silliness of the situation.

“We have a meeting in the morning with that guy from BBC. Are you planning to hop on another train to get back here by 8am?”

He just stared at you as if answering a silent, “if that’s what it takes.”

“Fine do whatever you want but I’m staying in room 553 and enjoying free breakfast in the morning.” Looking down at the key in your hand as you spoke, you recited the room number printed on it in a sleek black font.

With that, the elevator doors in front of you opened with a ‘ding’ and you were taking a step inside. Declan was deliberating for a split second before he followed behind you, the doors closing and sealing his fate. 

“I’ll even sleep on the floor if that makes you feel better.” You were lightly laughing but you meant it. 

You didn’t want Declan to be upset or uncomfortable. It was just one night; you could deal with whatever repercussions found you tomorrow if it meant he would be in a good mood and not yelling at hotel employees. 

After your offer to sleep on the floor echoed in the small space, his head snapped in your direction. His expression was a mixture of humor and impatience.

“You are absolutely not sleeping on the floor.” His voice was a low hum matching the deep whirring of the moving elevator. 

You looked ahead avoiding eye contact with Declan. The thought of sleeping next to him suddenly making your chest warm, and you couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or excitement. No– it couldn’t be excitement, you hated him. Well hate was a big word to describe the feeling you had toward Declan. It was more indifference with a hint of aggravation for the way he thought he was better than everyone else. He was always riding around the office on his high horse, so smug and reserved in his own little world detached from the rest of you, unless he needed something or wanted to overstep.

It was always about what Declan wanted and he never cared to interact with anyone who didn’t serve a purpose for whatever project he was working on.

He was nice, sure, but it was only ever surface level. He was all work and no play and, in this moment, the most stubborn man you had ever met. So why on earth did you have butterflies in your stomach at the thought of sharing a bed with him.

Maybe it was his thick accent, the one you noticed the first time he said hello to you months back. Or possibly, it was the way his hair was all messy from running his frustrated hands through it over and over again in the hotel lobby. No, it was probably because you hadn’t had sex in god knows how long, and the idea of sleeping next to a perfectly handsome man had you just a little worked up.

But this wasn’t just any man, it was your coworker. It was Declan O’Hara who was nothing but professional and arrogant. Not to mention he was married, so there was no way in hell anything would happen between the two of you, not that you wanted it to.

The elevator doors opened once again and the two of you were stepping off onto the fifth floor. This time you were following his lead. Of course he wanted to be the one in charge– shocking. 

“I’ll call down and see if there’s someone else, I can talk to.” Declan was saying from ahead of you leading the charge down the long hallway. 

“Declan it’s really okay, I don’t think it’ll kill us to be in the same room for a night.” You were laughing off his annoyance, but you’d be lying if you said his persistence wasn’t beginning to drive you bat-shit crazy. 

With that you were at the door to your room, Declan fidgeting with the key only to swing the door open and pace inside. You were hardly even through the entryway by the time he was calling down to the front desk. 

After two separate conversations that both ended in the same response and nearly an hour of huffing and puffing, Declan gave up.

You were laying on the fully made bed just listening to him rant when he finally came to terms with the reality of your situation. 

“I need a drink.” Was the last thing he grumbled out before trapsing out of the room and to the bar downstairs. 

Such a diva, you thought as you stared at the ceiling and listened to the door slam shut. But you also thought about how hot he looked when he was angrily pacing around the room. The way his eyebrows knit together in frustration and how his voice dropped an octave in annoyance. What the fuck was wrong with you? It was getting late, maybe you were just tired and in the beginning stages of a sleep deprived delusion. You gave in to your exhaustion, changing into comfortable clothes and crawling into the only bed in your shared hotel room.

Meanwhile, Declan was down in the lobby nursing a glass of bourbon.

If he were being honest with himself he needed a distraction. 

He had been so angry about the room situation earlier that he hadn’t even let himself think about the fact that he was going to sleep next to you. But then he was walking the floors of the shared room, fuming about the whole situation and you were just sprawled out on the queen size mattress with your eyes on him, listening. You were carefully paying attention as he spewed curses and complained about the woman at the front desk for the hundredth time in an hour. You didn’t even look annoyed. You were simply listening. It was unsettling and even a bit thoughtful the way you just laid there letting his angry words fill your ears without a single response or objection. Relaxed on your back with your head turned to face him as he paced the room, he couldn’t help the subtle drift of his eyes on your body. Your shirt had come untucked and was bunched at your waist exposing your midriff and Declan was staring, his eyes wandered to the skin of your stomach as he talked. It looked so soft- you looked so soft, all spread out on the bed like that. He quickly realized his gaze was raking over your body and he snapped back to reality, deciding to get a drink to clear his mind and prepare him for the night ahead. 

Now he was taking a small sip from the same glass of bourbon that he’d been working on since he sat down at the bar. Each sip of his drink only making him think more about you on that damn bed. The bed he would inevitably be laying in, right next to you. Maybe he should sleep on the floor.

He gave up hope that the alcohol would help with the problem at hand and downed the rest of his drink in one swig, standing from his chair and trudging toward the elevators. 

Once he was back inside your hotel room, Declan noticed your body underneath the covers of the bed, sound asleep by the looks of it. He searched through his things to find a change of clothes before walking to the bathroom, silently thankful that you left the lamp on in the corner of the room to illuminate his steps. Of course you would make sure to leave a light on for him- Jesus, did you always have to be so considerate? 

On his way back from changing clothes, he tried not to let himself think about how weird it was– seconds away from lying next to your sleeping body. Someone he barely knew and didn’t even like. 

“I figured you might try to spend the night in the lobby”

Your quiet voice was finding him as he made himself comfortable on his side of the bed, as far away from you as possible. He was surprised to hear you were awake, it somehow made everything feel even more awkward than before.

“Thought about it but I don’t know if I’d be able to get comfortable on the shitty barstools they’ve got down there.” His voice was stoic, barely a hint of humor in it despite the sarcasm of his words. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun you know. To smile or tell a joke every once and a while?” 

You were talking at the wall. Your bodies were facing away from each other, at least two feet of empty space between your backs. 

“That was a joke.”

“Jesus you’re so literal.”

You sounded annoyed. Declan had never heard such a cruel tone in your voice before. It was a far cry from your usual kind attitude.

“Sorry we can’t all be little rays of sunshine.” He was mumbling into his pillow, unsure if you could even hear him.

“I’d rather be a ray of sunshine than a grumpy, arrogant asshole.”

Declan was stunned into silence. 

“Sorry that was mean.” You were too polite to insult him without an immediate apology.

“Again with the apologies. Here I was thinkin’ you’d finally grown a backbone.” 

You sat straight up at his words, bringing the comforter with you causing Declan to roll over at the loss of warmth.

“What the fuck is your problem?” That was the second curse word to leave your mouth that day, must be a new personal record, Declan thought.

“My problem? My problem is havin’ to spend my entire day with someone so invested in what other’s think of her that she can’t even have a personality of her own.”

It sounded so harsh as it rolled off Declan’s tongue, but the day was catching up to him and he was beyond pissed, he had to take it out on someone, and your presence was all too convenient.  

“Yeah and my idea of fun is listening to you bitch about not getting your way all day.” 

Third curse word, you must be going for an Olympic medal.  

“I mean really Declan, the sooner you realize the world doesn’t revolve around you the happier you’ll be.” You were laying back down, your head meeting the pillow with a muffled thud as you looked up at the ceiling. 

“I’ve never met someone with such a gigantic stick up their ass.” 

Your words were left floating in the air between you. You were beginning to feel bad for being so rude, but you had finally had enough of his negative attitude, and you didn’t feel like playing nice anymore. The silence ringing in the room was deafening and you feared the two of you might not speak another word to each other for the remainder of the trip.

And then Declan was chuckling. A real, genuine sound of amusement.

“God you’re right, I’m a miserable fuckin’ bastard aren’t I?” 

He was staring at the ceiling alongside you mumbling something about the stick up his ass under his breath as he laughed.

He seemed tickled by your insult, but you couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t overheard all the gossip about his wife supposedly leaving him for another man. Not to mention how Tony Baddingham was always using Declan to fulfil his own personal vendettas. It was all just sad. No wonder he seemed so angry all the time. The poor guy needed a break, and instead you were just adding to his despair. 

After his soft laughter died down and the room was once again filled with silence you decided to speak up; putting your bright attitude that Declan despised so much to good use.

“Not all the time.” You were correcting his previous statement. The one about being a miserable bastard.  

You weren’t lying. There were times you found Declan charming– endearing even. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t found yourself glancing over at him in meetings to see the way he always listened so intently to Daysee when no one else did. Or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at one of Seb’s many dumb jokes. Come to think of it, maybe he wasn’t as self-absorbed as you had painted him out to be. 

“No?”

He was turning his head in your direction. His dark curls contrasted with the cotton pillowcase they rested on. You were staring into his eyes; they were surprisingly kind. It suddenly felt so intimate, lying in bed next to him. 

“Sometimes you get this goofy little smile on your face.”

As if on cue he unknowingly gave you the exact grin you were thinking of. You smiled back at him, the two of you facing each other in the dark. The light of the moon shining through the sheer window curtains was just bright enough for you to appreciate the gentle curve of his lips. 

“I can be mean you know.”

After allowing yourself to see the good in Declan, you wanted him to know he was just as wrong in his assumptions of you. Afterall, you did just curse at him three times. 

“Oh yeah?”

He was challenging you with a raise of his eyebrow. 

“Prove it.” He was still smiling at you from his side of the bed, his once silly grin now an enticing smirk. 

“Tell me what else you hate about me.”

His voice was like velvet in your ears, wrapping around your mind and tying your inhibitions back with a neat little bow.  

“You think you’re better than everyone else.” Your delivery was confident as you hit him with another insult.

“Is that right?”

He was slowly trailing his hand up the empty space between you, bringing it to rest gently on your face before tracing your jaw with his fingertips.

You were frozen under his touch, almost ashamed at how such a simple gesture had your heart racing. You were hungry for someone’s touch, anyone’s touch, and right now, Declan’s touch.  

“What else angel?” 

He was watching his own hand as his fingers drew lightly down the curve of your neck. The pet name fell so easily from his lips that you were convinced he’d thought about this before; about calling you sweet names with his hands on you.

“You always seem so unimpressed by everything.” You were listing off another of the many things that annoyed you about Declan, but you had to try your best to sound composed. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had you falling apart under his touch. 

“Nothing is ever good enough for you.” 

“Nothin’? I don’t know about that.”  

He was closing the space between you replacing the touch of his hand on your neck with his lips and you couldn’t keep a quiet gasp from slipping from your mouth. 

“Your company seems to meet my needs quite nicely at the moment. I’d say more than enough.”  The movement of his lips against your neck as he spoke sent a pleasant chill down your spine. 

Declan had no idea what possessed him to cross such a prominent line, perhaps it was the proximity of your scarcely clothed body, or the way he could feel the heat radiating from you underneath the shared blanket, or maybe it was the way you opposed him; after all, he would never turn down a friendly competition. 

He thought about his current relationship with his wife who claimed he paid no attention to her, while in fact she was the one paying no attention to him– running off to sleep with his best friend and shamelessly flirting with other men in his own home. He had been so loyal for so long, catering to her every whim and it did absolutely nothing to mend their broken connection. She kept him at her disposal, on a leash like a dog, and he had grown tired of it. She didn’t love him, not really– not anymore.

So why was he trying so hard to make her stay when he knew she wanted to leave; trying so hard to please her when he knew it was an impossible task. He had held onto her for dear life with the crippling fear that no one else could possibly want to be with him, yet here you were preening under his touch and whining at the feeling of his lips on your neck. 

All he knew in this moment was that he needed to hear more of how much you wanted him. He kissed down your jaw, savoring the sweet little sounds you made as his lips connected with the warmth of your skin. 

“Keep goin’ love. What else?” 

He was encouraging your harsh comments as his hand slid to the waistband of your shorts, his words humming into your skin. 

“You curse like a sailor.” That one made Declan chuckle into the crook of your neck. Such a harmless insult, fitting for the innocent lips speaking it. 

He was moving his body to hover over yours, your back now flat against the mattress. 

“Oh, so you don’t like my foul mouth, that it?” 

His voice was laced with ulterior motives as he continued placing kisses on your neck trailing them lower one by one until he was sliding his entire body down your torso, dragging the comforter to the foot of the bed as he moved. He pushed up your shirt ever so slightly placing one gentle kiss just above the waistband of your shorts looking up at you with a devilish grin. 

“Maybe I can change that.” 

He didn’t even bother taking off your pants, he just pulled your shorts and underwear right to the side in one swift movement and placed a hot wet kiss straight to the bundle of nerves at your center.

Another shocked gasp was leaving your lips at the sight of Declan between your legs. He was kissing and sucking on your clit, doing things with his mouth that you hadn’t felt in a very long time– or perhaps ever. You were trying to keep the moans from spilling from your mouth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing how good he was making you feel. 

Declan could feel it though, the way your body was tensing up and the sighs of relief that you were so desperately trying to hide. It only surged him on more, causing him to lap at your core in a way that he knew would have you losing your control.

The second you felt his tongue flat and heavy dragging through your folds, you were sending a hand down to thread through his curls. You were holding onto his hair in an attempt to gain some sort of stability, afraid that you might lose yourself in the pleasure coursing through your veins. 

You could feel your release spiraling closer all from the work of Declan’s tongue when it was all suddenly gone. The feeling of your core tightening, the warm sensation building in your chest, Declan’s mouth on your cunt; all of it gone in an instant. 

He was crawling back up to assume his position perched above you.

“How you feelin’ about my dirty mouth now angel?” His voice was so hushed and deep you thought you might drown in its bottomless allure. 

The familiar feeling of frustration for the man above you was clouding your mind as you sat up pushing him to his back. The sudden switch in positions gave you a control you’d always longed to have over Declan. 

“Like I said earlier,” 

You took this new opportunity of power to straddle his waist, running your hands over his chest. 

“Always so arrogant.” 

Your whisper held a sultry twist of innocence, and it had Declan stirring from underneath your body.

You decided to give Declan a taste of his own medicine and followed down his body with gentle kisses, mocking what his lips had done to you just moments ago. You were hooking your fingers in the waistband of his pants allowing him to lift his hips to assist you in undressing him. You were shoving them off and settling in between his legs, lowering your head to meet his erection and placing a sweet kiss to the tip of his length before taking him into your mouth.

The groan he let out at your actions was so guttural you couldn’t help but take him deeper into your throat. 

“Fuck- not as gentle as you let on, huh angel?”

He was practically growling as he caught a glimpse of you staring up at him. Seeing you like this was so out of character, the vulgarity of it had him throwing his head back on his pillow. 

You were absolutely ruining him with your mouth, his panting breath was like music to your ears. It was so satisfying having him like this. You were working deliberately with your tongue to coax more moans from the man before you, treating his pleasure like a challenge that you were determined to conquer. 

“Christ- that sweet little mouth of yours.” He was mumbling between moans and it had you humming onto his cock. 

You were ready to combust from the taste of dominance as you took your mouth off him, a small sigh escaping his lips.

“Thought you didn’t like how sweet my mouth was?” Your voice was taunting as you moved back to sit over his lap, your legs on either side of his hips. 

“Keep talking to me like that, and you might just convert me.”

He was eyeing you, the warm embrace of your cunt just one thrust away from his throbbing cock. 

In an instant you were easily sinking down onto him, already soaked from having his mouth on you. 

“Fuck darlin’.” His voice was a low snarl as he grabbed onto your hips pulling you down onto him until his cock was fully sheathed within you. 

You could feel his fingertips digging into your side. With your hands splayed out on his chest, you steadied yourself. Feeling the stretch of him as he filled you completely. You needed to move, needed the friction of him pushing into you, but his hands were holding onto you hard keeping you from rocking your hips against him.

“Feels good doesn’t it angel?” 

You were moaning out a muffled “mhmm” to his question but you were nearly shaking with anticipation as you waited for his grip to ease up so you could move. 

“You wanted this huh?” Another question was coming from his mouth.

“Didn’t complain about the one bed thing because you wanted to fuck me.”

You had no idea how he was carrying on a conversation all nonchalant like his dick wasn’t buried deep inside of you right now. 

“Probably been thinkin’ about it for a while now.” 

His voice was deep and on edge as he accused you of having dirty thoughts about him. Always so cocky, he couldn’t help but tease you in such a vulnerable position. 

“In your dreams O’Hara.” You fought back from on top of him, your voice only wavering slightly from the pleasure of your current state. 

He wasn’t expecting you to be such a smartass. He lifted you with the grip he had on your hips and pushed you back onto the bed, staying inside of you as he maneuvered your bodies. 

“What was that?” He was asking with an edge of annoyance in his voice. 

You couldn’t repeat yourself; couldn’t even think straight due to the sweet gratification of finally feeling him moving inside of you. Declan was thrusting into you at a slow pace, but he was driving deep with every movement.

“Cute that you thought I’d let you be in charge.” He was almost chuckling above you, but you could hear the words faltering at his own pleasure. 

“Now be the sweet little thing we both know you are and take it like a good girl.” His voice was breaking with grunts and groans as he pushed deeper into you with each thrust. 

You really didn’t care if his words were degrading, you would let him win this battle if it meant he’d keep fucking you like this. 

Your fingers were reaching up to intertwine in his hair, clutching and pulling at his dark locks and earning a deep moan from the man above you. His hips were snapping into you at a delicious pace and your hands were losing their grip in his hair only to slide down his back, leaving marks in their wake.

The sound of him mercilessly plunging into you was masked by the breathy noises falling from his lips. The sounds he was making were all the proof you needed to know he wanted this just as badly as you did. Both of you had been so desperate to be touched, to be appreciated, to finally feel some sort of release; the growing tension between you acted as a catalyst for your grand undoing. 

You were so wound-up, your release just within reach as Declan continued to hit a spot that had you whimpering out his name. 

“Fuck- so good.” His mumbles were nearly incoherent as he kept a quick pace against your body. 

“Gonna cum for me? I can feel ya sweetheart.” 

All of the endearing nicknames he was giving you were starting to add to the fuel of your pending relief. Maybe you had wanted this all along– maybe you longed to have Declan calling you sweet little names as he fucked his frustrations out on you. Everything about the current situation had your toes curling and your body tensing. 

“So tight baby.” His head was falling to the nape of your neck, sucking and kissing as he mumbled sweet nothings into your skin. 

He kept going and you were whining out in pleasure as you let the pressure building within you disperse, your release crashing onto you. Declan hardly acknowledged your orgasm, he just continued thrusting into you even harder than before.

You were squeezing and clenching around him as he fucked you through your orgasm and the feeling of it had him losing his mind. 

“God, I can’t take it anymore.” He was groaning into your neck as he drove into you at an insane pace. 

“Feel so fuckin’ good around me like that angel.” 

The feeling of him sliding in and out of you had you biting your lip from pure overstimulation. His words were so breathless and drawn out; just mumbles coming from a man on the edge of ecstasy, but they were turning you on in a way you couldn’t even understand. So you dug your nails ever so slightly into his shoulder blades bringing his body closer to yours, your chests meeting and heaving against one another. 

“Gonna cum sweetheart.” He was panting out a warning of his release, but you didn’t let him pull away, instead you pushed him further into you, signaling your need to have him finish deep inside. 

That’s what did him in; you grabbing at him, begging him to cum inside of you with the pull of his body against yours. Fuck it was hot. He was coming undone in seconds. The rush of his orgasm causing the filthiest profanities and whimpers to tumble out of his mouth. He was driving deep into you with each twitch of his cock, filling you with his warmth. 

“didn’t realize you’d be so good in bed.” you were smirking underneath his body, now lazily collapsed on top of you.

“must’ve felt good getting all of your pent-up frustration out.” Patting him condescendingly on the back, your sarcastic words flowed out as a breathless whisper.

Wearing an entertained expression, Declan Shifted his weight just enough to glance at you with an eyebrow raised.

“And I’m sure you enjoyed getting to let loose for once.” Returning your sarcasm with a jab of his own, he replied.

“Probably good for you to be a little bad sometimes.”

He was copying your demeaning gesture and patting you gently on the head, convinced that he had won this round.

my masterlist

[invis-o-william]

Dannymay 2025 - Day 19: Enemy

Danny couldn't take it anymore.

Sitting at the dinner table, hearing his parents rant on about ghosts for the hundredth time in as many days, was too much.

“Those pieces of ectoplasmic scum…”

“Evil remnants of post-human consciousness.”

“Rip them apart, molecule by molecule!”

Jack emphasized his statement, swinging his fork wildly. Danny flinched back as a drop of tomato sauce hit the tablecloth. He was on his own when it came to dinners anymore. Jazz had left for college a few months ago, and with her went her ability to keep their parents from excessively talking about their hatred of ghosts. 

She had managed to keep some of it at bay, claiming that it was the least she could do to help him. A large part of him wished she was still here, but he would never want to hold her back from her dreams. When she first left he figured he'd just have to endure his parents at mealtime, and if he could do that, he'd be fine. It's not as if his parents really left the lab for anything but meals and ghost hunting anymore. He barely spoke to them outside of dinner.

The reality was far different. The fact that their children were growing up seemed to hit the Doctors Fenton as their daughter settled into college, and they decided to spend more time with their son as a result. Now Danny saw his parents for two meals a day, and for at least an hour after school.

They had tried to ask their son about his day, his friends, and the like, but soon it became clear that they were bored with those topics. Jack and Maddie had never been great conversationalists after all, always preferring to speak about their work when possible. 

So that's exactly what they did. They began to talk with Danny about ghost-hunting. In excruciating detail. This would range from their theories on what made ghosts tick to their plans for ghost dissection once they caught a ‘more sentient’ one. 

For this evening meal, the popular topic of ‘the evils of ghosts’ had started up, and Danny was tired. He was tired of feeling scared and unsafe in his own home, and maybe tonight he could work on changing that.

“What if, like, ghosts are different than you think?” He asked cautiously, keeping his gaze fixed on his plate of spaghetti. “You don't know for sure that they're evil, right? Or that they can't feel pain. You've never caught one that could talk after all.” 

Danny chanced a look up only to find his parents�� concerned looks.

“We don't need to catch one to know what they are, dear.” Maddie pulled her HAZMAT hood, which she had absently kept on off her head. “Their existence alone proves it.”

“Right!” Jack interjected with gusto. “They're just ectoplasmic copies of post-human consciousness that assumes human form! Their whole purpose is deception!” Maddie nodded along with her husband before passing the pasta bowl over to him for seconds.

“But,” Danny ground his teeth in frustration. “you don't know that! Have you ever even talked to a ghost? Tried to figure out why they keep coming to Amity Park?”

Danny had spent two long years now since The Accident doing just that. At first, he had just fought the ghosts who had shown up, but with time he learned. There were always some ghosts who were just looking for a fight, but others? So many others just wanted the freedom to indulge in their Obsessions. So he would talk to those who were willing. Those with non-destructive Obsessions he left alone (so long as they didn't harm anyone), and for others like Spectra, he was more than willing to utilize his ghostly allies to keep them away.

“Of course we know why they're coming here, Dan-o!” Jack boomed. “Ever since the portal activated, they've been trying to get their hands on us Fentons for trying to explore their realm! We ghost hunters are their natural enemies after all”

“Which is why you should never talk to or even approach a ghost young man,” Maddie scolded. She and Jack were well aware of their children's sympathies towards ghosts, and we're hoping to educate them to the contrary.

Danny stared in stunned silence before silently nodding and returning his attention to his plate. Neither Jack nor Maddie seemed to notice he wasn't eating, just picking at his food. They were too busy boasting about their abilities to hunt ghosts to see the look of grim determination on their son's face.

.   .   .

Later that night, after his parents had gone to bed, Danny intangibly floated down to their basement lab. There, weapons and what looked suspiciously like torture devices were strewn about tables. Some were finished, with notes scribbled on random pieces of paper and post-its detailing their use. Others were still in pieces with odd wires sticking out from handles.

With a glance towards the ceiling where his parents were sleeping just two floors up, Danny made a decision.

With a charged ectoblast, he incinerated the tech. Ghost hunters were his enemy right? He had tried talking to his parents, both in human and ghost form. Talking hadn't worked, and it was well past time he started protecting himself from them.

[superluver]

Together again | Gojo Satoru

wc: 1282

warnings: MAJOR SPOILER WARNING, SPOILERS FOR SHIBUYA INCIDENT ARC AND MANGA, Chapter 236, mentions of pregnancy(literally one word), FEM!Reader, Wife reader — NOT PROOFREAD

(I didnt put an exact warning because it would literallt give away what happened)

Pairing: Husband!GojoxWife!Reader

desc: You meet with Gojo after two long months

He doesn't remember much, just a blink and he was back as his high school self. A female, hand on her hip, a curious expression written all over her face. Staring at him, she tilted her head. “Satoru? What are you doing here?”

Satoru Gojo wants to laugh, like this was all some cruel joke.

Here you were, in front of him after not having seen your face(though younger) in almost 2 months since the incident in Shibuya— where you died.

He partially blamed himself. He watched you during your last moments, and selfishly, he’s grateful he didn’t actually see your death. His wife, his one and only. He smiles, and laughes as he pulls you in by your waist into a hug. “My boy did so good,” you whisper, allowing him to dig his head further into your torso as you giggle, your own fingers curling in his hair.

You smell exactly the same, like home. A home he never got to give you.

After he’s done being whiny, and well, a child, he pouts, throwing his head back.

“Aw man this is awful!” He shouts, and you laugh. The person he doesn't realize sitting beside him speaks up.

Suguru. His best friend, the one he had to kill, the one that would keep him up at night. The one that—

“Guess you were wrong.” you giggle, and Suguru stares at the two of you like you were keeping a secret joke from him.

You point at him mischievously, “He was all like, when you die you die alone, to his students, but look at the reality of it— well not really reality but still!”

He whines, “(Y/N)!!!”

Suguru breaks the ice, “How was the king of curses?”

Satoru huffs, shaking his head with a half hearted grin. He nods his head so the side, the empty seat beside him— which you take, his hand taking yours while you sit

It’s cold, just like his.

The tip of his nose hits the back of your palm, his eyes are closed before opening halflidded, staring out into the floor. His eyes peer over the overly tinted glasses, responding, “That guy was too damn strong, and he wasn’t even trying.”

It was almost mumbled, like a child complaining. Still holding your hand, he looks at Suguru, “To be completely honest, I don’t think I would even be able win.. regardless if he had Megumi’s cursed technique or not. The guy had too much up his sleeve.”

Your free hand pats his arm, laughing loudly you shake him lightly with a coo, “It’s alright, you’re my loser anyways baby,” you say with pressed eyebrows and puckered lips, almost teasingly.

He rolls his eyes, biting your hand lightly.

“I gave everything I had. Just a little sad you guys weren't there to support me, maybe you would’ve been able to give me a slap on the back to motivate me,” He jokes, shaking his head with closed eyes, imagining Suguru and yourself in the crowd of students.

“I’m glad that he was the one to kill me.” He confessed.

Somebody stronger than me. He wanted to say.

“It’s kind of gross hearing that from you, Gojo. You sound like a samurai general.”

You’re laugher bubbles up from your throat, tears forming as you turn back feom your seat.

“Kento, you’ll never change, will you?” You laugh, watching Satoru smack Nanami on the head multiple times, ruffling his hair in the process. You get up, releasing Satoru’s hand to sit in the seat besides Nanami. Smiling as the seat behind you is now empty.

Shoko.

It was for her, she was the last of the group, and you hope she wouldn't be here for a while.

“I won’t justify him, but I’ll sympathize with you.. I guess..” he mumbles, causing you to slap him on the shoulder with no ill intent, laughter from his stoicness.

“Hey!” Satoru snaps back, and you reach over and pinch his cheek.

“What I’m trying to say is, it was a fitting way to go out, Gojo.”

“You should be morw polite to your Juniors.” You chastise Satoru.

“I was already nice enough to you!” He retorts, and you tilt your head with a smile. His hand takes yours that was clipped to his cheek back in his,

“What was it like for you guys in your last moments?”

You blink, looking around the room.

“It was kind of scary,” you start, and he clenches your hand slightly. He remembers how the two of you split, you pecked him on the cheek with a determined expression, clenching your fist you told him you would be back, before warping to Harajuku. It was the last time he woult see you conscious.

You had crossed paths with Mahito, and you had it under control, until you didn't. Your weak nature, strong virtue, Satoru told you these would get in the way of you becoming a sorcerer, but you would always brush him off, telling him, I’m fine.

But you couldn’t help it, seeing a small girl in the line of Mahito’s path of destruction. Your arm was the price to pay for her life.

And, maybe you had lost too much blood, you cant remember, it’s a blur, but Satoru remembers.

Your leg contorted in a way he coulf only asume was unfoxable, your arm missing, eye streaming blood, you were dead. But his six eyes said you were alive, that you both were. And he was hopeless, tued up by the prisom realm, watching your eyes dim, he watched you die.

“To be honest, I wanted to quit with Kento, but I just couldn't bring myself to leave you alone doing all this. I don’t regret it to the end,” you smile loving at him, and he feels like vomiting.

“I would do this a thousand times over if I got to be with you every time.” You tell him sweetly, and Nanami coughs, “Enough with the sappy shit.” He grumbles.

You laugh again, and stare at Suguru. He looks back at you, and you feel your lips curling back up into a brighter smile. The man who defected, the man who left you all, he was here, and with you all.

“Once,” all attention back to Nanami. “When I was discussing with Mei-san about where I should move, she told me to move North to become someone new, and to move south to stay the person you are. Naturally, I chose South. I think it’s ironic how I died while betting on my future. But it wasn’t too bad because of Haibara.”

Haibara grins, “Aw! You’re too kind!”

“I see..” Satoru says, and you squeeze his hand back. His head snaps upward, looking right in front of him to Yaga, his voice as annoying as ever, “Yo Yaga! I thought you said no sorcerer dies without regrets!”

You laugh, and he laughs back, the room filled with laughter, Riko, Kuroi, Kento and Yu, Suguru, even Yaga.

“Now I’m hoping this isn’t a dream.” He confesses, while standing up, and you smile.

“It’s not, ya big loser!”

You shout, standing up from your chair and throwing yourself over it, crushing him. He falls back onto the ground, and Suguru jumps on top of you, Yu crushing him as Satoru wheezes, and you see him smirk.

“Welcome back!” You grin, Suguru’s face smushed next to your own. Haibara’s chin resting in between the two of yours.

He takes in the scene in front of him, everybody he’s loved all together, and finally, his arms wrap around the three of you, and he’s just so happy, that he doesn’t even Think about going back.

CLEAR MINDSET THIS IS MY REALITY NO ONE TELLS ME OTHERWISE SHUSH

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Seduction

Prof! Minho x Student! Reader Synopsis: Minho finds your note, but is it too late? Have you moved on with Hayden? Are the games really over? Have you left for good? Warnings: Angst, fluff A/N: Part 4 is here!! Now y'all in addition to doing this series and other fics, I'm joining in with @breakmeoff to help her celebrate her 200 followers! If you'd like a fic written for it, head to her page or Here to check out the drink menu and submit your order in her Asks! I hope you all enjoy the chapter! Much love and thanks for reading! As usual, let me know if you want to be tagged! 💖

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Missing You

Minho stares at the note for a while, his own words slapping him in the face. He puts it down on the counter and pulls out his phone texting you.

So you just leave without telling me. Real mature.

He waits for a response, but he’s left on delivered. He sighs. He could go to your dorm, but how in the world would he explain what he’s doing there? The only thing he can do is wait till Monday when he sees you in class.

-

You see the message pop up on your screen, but you don’t actually click on it to read it, just skim it on the home screen as you board the plane. You sit down in your window seat, biting your lip as you stare out the window in thought.

What you did wasn’t great, but he deserved it. He was a total ass and you just wanted him to feel the pain you felt, except, as bad as you hated to admit it, it was hard as hell to leave him there sleeping. His face was softened, peaceful even. His light snores were sweet, and if the world wasn’t so cruel, you could see yourself waking up next to him for a long time. But that wasn’t reality, reality was, he deserved every single bit of what was coming to him.

It had finally happened, so you thought, that some level of a connection had been formed between you, and you ripped it away; cut him the way his words cut you.  

Even if you did fake the latter part of the aphrodisiac.

-

The day goes by without a word from you, Minho sees it as a game, one of the many he was sure you were playing. He knew you’d crack if he went cold and distant, so that was his plan. No contact, no stolen glances, no smirks or smiles, play the game better than you and it wouldn’t hurt so bad, right? It wouldn’t be real, right?

Little did he know he was the only one playing a game.

-

Monday comes around and you aren’t in class. He tries texting you at the end.

Reminder: one more absence and you fail.

Not two minutes later he see’s you’ve read the message. He waits for the chat bubbles to appear.

But they don’t.

I know you read the message, y/n. I don’t want to fail you but I will be forced to if you don’t show up tomorrow.

Once again you read the message and don’t respond. He sighs and puts his phone away going about his day.

Tuesday, once again no sign of you. He shakes his head, and tries to prove he isn’t playing games and goes to log into the system and searches for your name only to see it isn’t on his roster anymore.

“What the fuck,” he asks himself quietly. Confusion strikes him as he pulls out his phone, bypassing the text message this time.

-

The phone rings and you jump from the sudden loud noise.

“Hello?” you answer, voice completely and utterly sleep induced.

“What the hell, are you asleep? It’s 1 pm.” Minho’s voice cuts through the phone.

“For you maybe, it’s midnight here,” you explain as you lay with your back against the mattress, eyes closed not ready for this conversation.

“What the hell are you talking about? And did you switch professors without telling me?”

You sigh, “Good night, Minho.”

“Y/n, wait, what the hell is going on!” he asks, irritation audible in his voice, as well as a hint of panic.

“I’m not in Korea anymore, genius. Now good night!” you almost yell before hitting the end call button, huffing as tears brim your eyes. You cover your face sighing.

You missed Minho like crazy, despite his harsh words, and it had only been a few days, but realistically what did you expect? A relationship? How would that work when your student visa ran out? You hadn’t thought past the here now until the plane ride, convincing yourself this was the best possible thing for your future and for your current sanity.

Moving back to the states meant Minho could finally be a memory; he could be the ghost he was intended to be after the first night you met. Not to mention, you could move on with Hayden who cared about you. Who loved you and waited for you, was willing to let go of any of the dumb things you did while half a world away.

The next morning you were getting ready to enroll in your new college classes.

“Now it says here you were studying in Korea,” your counselor notes, “Why on earth would you want to leave not even a year into studying?”

“I had some personal matters that needed my attention here at home and I just didn’t think the university was the best fit for me anyway.” You smile through the lie. She doesn’t push, only helps you get set up.

You leave the office, the feeling surreal that you’re back. Now that school is set up, you decide to go over to Hayden’s apartment.

-

You knock on his door and a smiling Hayden answers.

“Y/n!” He cheers pulling you inside. The two of you sit on the couch, he asks about your flight, asks about school, all the while holding you like you’d disappear if he let go.

“I’m so glad your home,” he leaves a few feather light kisses on your neck. It didn’t feel like home, but it was.

You crane your neck to kiss his lips, softly moaning against them as a certain professor enters your mind. You furrow your brows.

No, you got your revenge, it’s over and done.

No more Minho.

Hayden notices your demeanor.

“Everything ok? You seem a little tense,” he trails off rubbing your arm up and down.

“I’m fine,” you smile as you kiss him again. This time, the thought of Minho holding you close the way he did that night as your bodies connected,  enters your brain and you pull away from Hayden.

“Why don’t we go out, do something fun before school starts up for me.” You smile.

-

Minho can’t believe it. You weren’t kidding, you really left. He’d gone to your dorm after the phone call and seen your clean room. He checked with your other professors to see if it was actually true; it was. He felt empty, lost and confused.

Had he been that horrible? Was it all a big joke to you? How could he not have seen it? He knew he had been harsh, but he tried to vulnerable with you, thought maybe, just maybe something between you had settled, but clearly, he was wrong.

Over the next several weeks Minho is a wreck. He’s barely holding himself together. How could a girl he spent so little time with really take up this much of his mind?

He misses simply seeing you in your seat during class, misses the flirty signals, misses reading your assignments, regardless of any innuendo’s you could work into them. There are countless nights he spends tossing and turning, dreaming of your last encounter. Wishing he could feel you, that he could apologize for the words he said, tell you that ‘rules be damned’ and that you were his and his only. He needed you, something in his brain functioned better with you around, something about him was lighter and brighter, despite how he made it sound.

He just hadn’t realized it until you left.

Everything reminds him of you. Birds singing in the morning?

He remembered the way you’d absent mindedly hum a tune in class while reading.

The flowers he would see on the way to his office?

He remembered how bright, full of life and beautiful you were.

Students laughing in the courtyard?

He remembered how beautiful your sweet laugh was and how he missed you being around.

He couldn’t turn anywhere without being reminded of you. And he can’t take it anymore. Minho knows he’s got to do something about it. The late nights and empty days are simply draining him of any life. He can’t take it anymore.

-

During those several weeks Minho doesn’t reach out. Both of you just trying to move on with your lives, but you find your self staring at his contact name more than you should; hoping he’ll call or text.

-

You and Hayden are going strong by the time December rolls around, winter break only a few days out, life has become mundane, easy, and honestly, a little boring.

Well other than the few weird things you’d found around Hayden the last few weeks. Some random hair ties, an earing he said belonged to his sister, as well as one of his sisters’ shirts on his bedroom floor, oddly tucked away in his laundry.

Did you believe it? At first. But once you found the shirt, a pit in your stomach began to form. However, you didn’t voice any concerns especially after a few weeks went by and nothing else was found.

Until the official start of winter break.

You’re getting in car, Hayden picking you up from your last class, and you’re on your way to get hot chocolate from Starbucks. You’re arranging your stuff in the back seat as he drives when you see it.

A Durex wrapper in the floor board.

Your breath hitches and you bite your bottom lip. You hadn’t had sex in his car, or all week for that matter, and Durex wasn’t what he used for condoms anyway.

At least, not with you.

You sit down in the seat; hands folded in your lap.

“I’m, uh, I’m not feeling much like a hot chocolate anymore. I have a headache. Can you take me home?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah, are you sure? Do I need to stop and get you anything?”

“Nope, I just need to lay down.” You try to smile at him.

“Yeah, ok.” He says before changing lanes to take you home.

-

He pulls into the drive way and before he can lean in to give you a kiss you get out of the car, slamming the front door. You grab your bags from the back seat, and silently, you place the wrapper on his console. He looks to it, then you, eyes wide. You scowl and slam the car door, running inside the house, flinging the door shut behind you.

“FUCK!”

You sink down to the floor against the back door, emotions stopping you in your tracks.

“Y/n, let me explain.” He pounds on the door.

“Explain what? That you’re cheating on me? You asked me to come home! You asked me to come back and this is how you do me? I left a once and a life time opportunity for you!” you scream at him as you open the door.

“So please, tell me how you can explain.”

“We were on a break, Zoe and I,”

“Zoe? Are you fucking serious? You let that nasty bitch touch you? Oh my god, then you touched me,” you gag at the thought.

“It was just sex,” he says and you scoff.

“And yet you were seeing her while I was home! If it was just ‘sex’ you would have cut it off! That wrapper wasn’t in the car two days ago so I know it’s fresh, Hayden!”

You slam the door again. You take a deep breath, arms wrapped around your body, as you set off to the living room. Hayden walks off defeated, both of you knowing the end has come.

-

“What a way to kick off winter break,” you sniffle to yourself as you watch some cheesy Christmas film on tv. You were dressed in comfortable pj’s with homemade  hot chocolate and snacks.

“Fucking bull shit,” you mutter at the tv as you toss some popcorn at the screen as the two main characters kiss. You huff as you feel the tears come back. You allow them to flow freely down your cheeks.

As you sniffle, wiping the tears away, you hear a faint knock on your door. You huff as you get up, padding to the door.

“Hayden I don’t want to see,” you’re cut off by a face you hadn’t expected to see at the door.

Minho.

Your mouth falls open, eyes wide. He’s in sweatpants, a t shirt and has take out in hand.

“Can I come in?” he asks holding up the bag. You can’t say anything, so you step aside allowing him into the house.

You’re too stunned to speak, too emotionally vulnerable to be angry at him right now, too everything to do anything rational. So you simply watch him as he methodically walks around the kitchen, letting the silence settle between you.

He finds your glasses, opens the fridge like he owns the place, and pours two glasses of wine.

He sets them down on the counter, looking you in the eye, neither of you exactly sure what to say to the other. You’re shaking, visibly, and his eyes rake over your body, noticing the details of stress evident in your body language.

“I um,” he says lowly, clearing his throat, “I got your address from the system, it was in your file that was sent to each professor,” he explains. Once again silence stretches between you.

“Y/n,” he breathes and you close your eyes and as he takes a step towards you; you step back in response.

“You should go,” you say barely above a mumble, opening the door for him.

“Y/n please,” he begs. It’s not soft, it’s not sweet, it’s desperate. It’s longing. It’s something you don’t recognize from him. He strides towards you, too quickly for you to move back, he shuts the door and he cups your face in his hands.

You force your eyes closed again, not daring to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, noses barely brushing each other.

“For what? You told me the truth. I can’t expect anymore than that.” You breathe shakily in his grip.

“No, baby, no I didn’t. I- fuck,” he sighs turning his head to the side in frustration, eyes briefly closing before turning back to you. He notices your lip tremble slightly, signaling tear filled eyes.

“Please, just let me stay. Let me explain.”

“You need to get back to Korea, get back to your current students.” You say as you force yourself away, walking past him, taking the glass of wine and the Italian food he brought over into the festively decorated living room. Minho peers in, the room is cozy, a Christmas tree in the corner, a fireplace and a TV with some cheesy movie on, he notices the popcorn and multiple blankets on the sectional that’s put together to look more like a large bed.

“Go home, Minho.” You call out, still being able to feel his presence despite your attention on the tv. He sighs before kicking his shoes off. Your body stiffens as he climbs on to the sectional with you, and gently takes the food and wine from you. You look past him, still angry with him.

“Kitten,” he barely whispers and you snap your neck in his direction.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare,” you seethe.

“You ignored me, you rejected me multiple times, fucked my math teacher with me in the room, then blatantly sat there and insulted me, and you think that just because you flew half way around the world I’m supposed to just be fucking grateful to you? Grateful that you decided, after I left, that you might want me? Are you serious right now?” You rise up to your knees, forcing Minho to relax back against the couch.

“You’re a shit human being, Minho. I get it, I wasn’t listening. But I am now. And I’m not going to sit here and just be grateful that you decided to come after me.” Your chest is heaving, cheeks tinted a shade of pink, eyes glassy and face twisted into something mixed with hurt, anxiety, and pure anger.

“And another thing, you men think you’re so fucking entitled, that we won’t figure shit out-,” you jab his chest before your cut off by Minho sitting up and crashing his lips to yours. You try to keep your resolve, gently trying to push him off you, but his lips are buttery soft, it’s forceful, but delicate all at the same time, his lips are uttering words his voice can’t. His hands find your face, gently cradling it like he did in the kitchen.

You fall back against the couch, Minho following you fluidly.

“Shut up,” he growls against your lips.

“Just shut,” his lips attach to your quickly, “the fuck up,” he mumbles and you can’t fight it anymore, your resolve is gone, something about him just crumbles you regardless of better judgment. Your hands are tangling in his hair, his body slowly pressing against yours as he groans against your lips as your hips shift upward.

“God, I’ve missed you so much,” his voice cracks so slightly, if you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it, as he moves his lips to your neck.

“What?” you ask breathless, lips kiss swollen as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your neck, causing you to groan and turn your head, giving him a better angle to suck, bite and lick.

“I said, I’ve missed you.” He mutters in your ear, causing goosebumps to flood your skin. He pulls back from you witnessing your shocked face, eyes glassy once more, still emotional from the earlier fight with Hayden.

“What’s wrong?” he searches your eyes as the pad of his thumb swipes over your cheek gently.

“Nothing, I just, it’s a lot,” your voice cracks.

“Don’t lie to me, what’s wrong,” his tone grows firm- protective. You look past him, biting your lip as the tv continues to play in the background.

“Minho, no offense, but you just showing up here,”

“Should tell you something about how I feel,” he interrupts.

“It’s been almost two months,” you mutter.

“I tried to move on, I really did. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t stop thinking about how we left things, how I spoke to you, how everything around me seemed to remind me of you, I tried to let you go but I couldn’t.” He explains and you stare at him, expression unreadable.

“But you’re avoiding my question,” he scolds. You sigh, a tear escaping your eye, one that Minho quickly kisses away, before closing his eyes.

“Baby,” he whispers as his forehead rests on yours, the breath from his nose ghosting over your chin. You had no idea Minho could be this… gentle. This… vulnerable.

“It’s just, today I found a fresh condom wrapper in Hayden’s car and we basically broke up, and, you know I left,” your voice begins to crack as tears fill your eyes, “I left because of our shit and he convinced me I’d be happier here and I thought we both could move on and I had a future with him, but that’s completely slipped through my fingers and now you’re here and I’m still pissed but I missed you like crazy and I-,” Minho’s lips cut you off again, this time, gently, like he has nothing but time, and plans on spending all of it with you.

The kiss turns from sweet to steamy as you pull him closer, fingers tangling in the ends of his hair, your palm to the back of his neck as he rests against you, body flush with yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes against you as your mouths separate for only a moment, this time, both of you exploring the other’s mouth, tongues gliding against each other. Your hand finds his wrist, guiding it to your clothed core, whimpering as his ghosts over it.

“No, no, no, not tonight, baby.” He says breathlessly. You pull back and look at him.

“What, but I thought,”

“We’ve got all week, ok? Tonight I just want to be with you and I’m not going anywhere,” he promises before kissing your forehead.

“And neither are you,” he playfully nudges you.

“You really came all this way, for me?” you ask quietly as he settles beside you.

“No actually I came because I wanted to see the snow.” He deadpans and you jab his side before he smiles.

“Baby, I’m absolutely crazy about you. It just took you leaving for me finally admit to myself.” He says quietly before kissing your lips again softly and allowing you to grab his food, and yours along with the drinks. You come back to the couch, settling in beside him to watch the rest of the Christmas movie, cuddling into his side. For the night, nothing else matters.

Just you and Minho.

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[dreamescapeswriting]

In The Quiet Moments ~ MYG

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅WORD COUNT:1.6K

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅PAIRING: Yoongi x reader

 ‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅GENRE: Established relationships, comfort fic, loving, sweet, yoongi being there for you

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - October 2024

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅MASTERLIST

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅a/n: I hope you’re doing okay my love, sending all my love and hugs

The world became a blur after the phone call, the phone call that had left you shattered and broken. The moment you heard the words, everything stopped making sense and you felt numb to everything else around you. You don’t even remember dropping your phone, only the heavy weight in your chest, suffocating you as reality set in.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just sat there on the couch, staring at nothing.

Yoongi was beside you instantly, his arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you into him. He didn’t say anything, he didn't need to say anything, he knew there were no words that would fix this, no simple comfort to ease the ache in your heart. How could he even begin to comfort you when he knew your world was shattering around you?

Instead, he let you rest your head on his chest, his hand gently rubbing your arm as the world continued to fall apart around you and he stayed there with you. Grounding you and making sure you had someone by your side, someone to comfort and hold you until you could come back to him.

The day blurred into night, though you weren’t sure when it happened. Time didn’t seem to matter anymore, Yoongi watched you from the kitchen as he started making you a warm drink. You hadn’t moved much since the call. When he'd asked you about how you were feeling you told him that...Everything felt...heavy.

Yoongi stayed beside you through it all, there was no way he was going to leave you when he knew you needed him...Even if you weren't open to him being there at first. You'd battled for him to leave, telling him you wanted to be alone but he knew it was your grief talking. That a part of you felt so upset you were pushing everyone away so you'd never have to feel this way again.

His presence was constant, silent, and steady, he was the rock you needed. Even when you couldn’t form words, he stayed close to you. You leaned against him on the couch, your mind a tangled mess of disbelief and grief.

“Do you want some tea?” he asked gently, his voice soft in the quiet. He slowly put the tray down on the table in front of you, the teapot was steaming and there were two mugs sitting on the tray.

You shook your head at first, but after a moment, you changed your mind. Maybe tea would help. Maybe it would ground you somehow. Your granddad had always told you that tea was something that always helped him in a time of comfort. Leaning forward Yoongi poured you both a cup and handed you the teacup he was holding,

“Just drink a little,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “It’ll help.” You took a small sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. The taste barely registered, but the effort he’d put into it made you feel just a little lighter.

"Thanks, Yoongi," you whispered, your voice hoarse after all of the crying you'd been doing that day. Yoongi leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he murmured. “I’m here. Always.”

It was on the third day that the weight of everything truly hit. You woke up feeling more exhausted than you ever had before in your life, your body heavy and unwilling to move. The numbness you’d felt since the phone call had faded, replaced by a pain so deep, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You’d been sitting on the bed when the tears started—silent at first before they turned into full, uncontrollable sobs. It was as if your body couldn’t handle the grief any longer, and it spilt out in waves, breaking you apart with every breath. Yoongi had already called into work to tell them he wasn't coming in and he would be spending this time to be close to you.

The moment he'd heard you crying he was beside you in an instant, toothpaste down his chin, his hair a mess but he didn't give a shit. He jumped into bed with you and wrapped his arms around you. He didn’t try to quiet your sobs or tell you everything would be okay because he knew right now that it wouldn't be, that to you right now it felt like the end of the world. So he just wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly against his chest as you cried into him.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over your sobs. He stroked your back gently and continued to remind you that he was there for you. You clung to him, desperate for something solid to hold onto. Your fingers created creases in his clothes as you cried into him. His shirt was damp from your tears, but he didn’t care. His hand continued to stroke your back gently, soothing you as your body shook with grief.

Hours passed like this. You cried until you couldn’t anymore until your throat was raw and your eyes were swollen. Even then, Yoongi stayed with you, his touch soft and constant.

Eventually, when you finally pulled back, drained and exhausted, Yoongi wiped your tears with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Let me get you some water and cold teabags for your eyes,” he murmured, disappearing briefly before returning with a glass and two teabags just like he said.

"They'll take down the swelling," He explained, you carefully took the glass of water and took a few sips, your hands shaking slightly. You didn't even know where to start with how you were feeling, everything felt as though it was slipping away from you.

“I feel...so lost,” you whispered, your voice barely there. Yoongi took the glass away from your hands gently set the glass down and sat beside you, his hand finding yours.

“You don’t have to know how to feel right now,” he said quietly. “You’re allowed to be lost.”

By the fifth day, the tears had slowed, but the ache in your chest hadn’t faded. You found yourself thinking about your granddad more and more—the little moments that suddenly felt so important. Every photo you saw on your family's social media brought you into sadness and yet happiness all at the same time, remembering the way he had lived his life and everything he'd gone through. But with those memories came an overwhelming sense of loss, of knowing he wasn’t there anymore.

Yoongi noticed, as he always did.

One evening, the two of you sat together in the living room, the silence comfortable but heavy. After a while, Yoongi spoke up softly.

“You used to tell me stories about him all the time.” You glanced at him, surprised by the sudden mention. You sniffled a little,

“Yeah?” He smiled faintly, nodding.

“You told me once that he was the one who got you into music.” A small, sad smile tugged at your lips. He'd been the one to call you 'piano fingers' as a little girl, he'd bought you your first keyboard - even though it was a little kiddy one - and he'd always been there letting you explore your love for it.

“He did. He taught me how to play the piano when I was little.” Yoongi’s eyes softened, his hand finding yours.

“He must have been so proud of you.” You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn't remember the last time you'd played for him and it made your chest tighten,

“I wish he could’ve seen me play again,” you whispered, your voice breaking. Yoongi squeezed your hand gently.

“He’d be so proud of everything you’ve done. You know that, right?” The tears finally spilt over, and Yoongi pulled you into his arms, letting you cry into his chest.

“I miss him,” you choked out between sobs.

“I know,” he whispered, his hand running through your hair soothingly. “But he’s still with you in everything you do. In every note you play.”

The days blurred into weeks, and though the pain was still there, it wasn’t as sharp as it had been. You were learning to live with it, to carry it with you instead of letting it drown you. You learnt to remember your granddad with love and the way he would want you to move on instead of dwelling over it.

Yoongi stayed by your side through it all. He made sure you ate, even when you didn’t want to. He reminded you to sleep, even when your mind wouldn’t let you rest. He was there in every quiet moment, never pushing you, never asking more of you than you could give.

One night, as you lay beside him in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you finally spoke.

“Do you think I’ll ever be okay again?” Yoongi shifted beside you, his hand sliding over yours.

“I think...it’ll take time. I don’t know if it’ll ever feel the same, but it’ll hurt less.” You nodded, the weight in your chest still there but not as suffocating as before. This was the first time you'd ever lost someone so close to you, everything was still so new and unknown.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the dark. Yoongi turned his head to look at you, his eyes soft with affection.

“You won’t ever have to find out.” He kissed your forehead gently, pulling you closer into his arms, your head pressed against his chest. You closed your eyes, feeling his steady heartbeat against your ear, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again.

@chiisaiblog@sw33tnight@kaitieskidmore97@laylasbunbunny@tinyoonsblog@whitefoxgirl@katnisspeetaprim@acciocriativity@choisoorin@heyjiminnie@btsiguess-kpop@halesandy@gothic4under4lord@soulphoenix1618@aerastus@jin-from-the-block@lenfilms@elizaschuyler18@piratequeen-impact @Namgiswifey@delulu18@xyahrinx@katsukis1wife@anthropologymajorkpopmultistan@blairscott@4-chan-inpadella@swga-ficrecs@niktwazny303@armystay89@myyouthdonut@xakx@kittymaryam-thebrowniefairy@kpopmenace143@loveforred@b1nn1e-1s-cut3@elissasimp @royallyjjk @parkjennykim @piercedddriver

[goldsainz]

❝ IN MY HEAD, WE BELONG ❞

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . . art donaldson x reader

◦∘｡ﾟ. warnings . . . smut (riding, protected sex), cheating, reader’s kinda delusional, toxic behaviour, not proofread.

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . all it takes is a text and a lonely hotel room.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . first art fic i am beyond excited 🤭 many more to come and my requests are open so if you have any ideas feel free to leave them in my inbox!!!!!! forgot how fun writing smut was, kinda crazy to have my first art fic be smut but i hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless 💙

[ word count: 1,7k ]

You know it is wrong to long for Art Donaldson. To not have moved on, but your life is incomplete without him. You tried to find someone else, someone who can compare to him, yet there is no one like him.

He’s not yours, no, in fact he’s married now. He has managed to move on from you, he has created a life for himself and he doesn't need you. Not like you need him, anyway.

You tune in for his matches, watch him beat his opponents and then run to his beautiful wife to celebrate. They actually looked good together, seemed like a proper couple and were the perfect faces of tennis. You could not be that for Art, you're too much of a mess to even dare to be as idyllic as Tashi Duncan.

Maybe that's why it feels so good that he’s currently under you, that it's your name he's moaning and your kisses he’s searching for. Maybe that’s the reason why you feel so unbothered by wrecking a home, because if he cheats, is there even much of a home to begin with? You don't think so. 

He’s like a vice you cannot seem to quit. Even when you first broke up, it took less than two days for him to hit you up and for you to be outside his house. Nobody knows you like Art, and nobody knows Art like you. You wonder if his wife is aware of how much he dreams of you, that when he’s with her, he’s thinking about you.

All it takes is for one of you to reach out, and you both throw all dignity out the window. The measly barriers you both created collapse in a second, no words need to be said to know what the other wants. It is quite simple between you two, perhaps in a way that is too carnal and not emotional enough. 

That is why, for some reason you don’t care enough to think about, he’s in your hotel room. 

You’re in New York City, alone in a hotel room that feels too big for just one person. You tried to go to a bar, tried to mingle with people in hopes of making your life less lonely. For just one night, at least.

It is not intentional that Art is also in New York, in fact, you’ve tried to steer clear of him and his overbearing presence in your life. It has been months since your last conversation, which consisted of him saying “Happy birthday” and you answering “Thanks”. 

You go back to your hotel room after your attempts at not being alone fail miserably. It is partly your fault, because you always end up in the same vicious cycle of comparing the men you meet to Art. No one can compare to him, and you damn your heart for taking over and not letting you have some enjoyment. 

You’re sprawled out on the bed, wearing your pajamas and scrolling mindlessly through your phone. You consider going to sleep, but something inside you tells you to stay awake and you receive your answer in the form of an imessage notification.

Art (Do NOT contact)

Hey, I heard you’re in NYC.

You

Yeah.

Art (Do NOT contact)

Wanna meet up?

You

Why?

Art (Do NOT contact)

Don’t know. 

Just missed you.

You

You can’t just say that.

Art (Do NOT contact)

I know. 

Are you free right now?

You

It’s 11pm, Art.

Art (Do NOT contact)

So? 

Send me your location.

You

[Location] 

Room 904.

Art (Do NOT contact)

Be there in 20. 

You’re thrust back into reality when he moves beneath you, hitting a spot that makes you arch your back and has you mewling. Guilt doesn’t even make its way through your mind, if anything, the scandalous nature of what you’re doing makes you wetter than you care to admit. 

Art looks up at you like you’re a goddess, a siren that he fell prey to, his eyes shine when he takes in the sight above him. Your tits are bouncing in front of his face, and he has to resist the urge to attach his mouth to one of them, but he’s too concentrated on the faces you make. 

You whine when he grabs your hips and moves you up and down quicker than before. Your hands are planted on his chest, grabbing onto whatever semblance of support you can get. You know how much he likes for you to be on top, loves it when you take control but today he’s antsier and needs to take some control back. So, he settles for tightly gripping your hips and deciding the pace of your movements.

You lean down and connect your lips with his. The kiss is sloppy, teeths clashing and your mouths open to let out a moan when the other does something that makes your toes curl. 

“Please,” he breathes out against your mouth, “Please, let me come.”

“Do you deserve it?” you ask, rearing back to look at him but you don't slow your movements either. 

“Yes, yes I do,” he pants, brows furrowing when he feels the heat in his core bubbling up.

“Only if I come first,” you say, taking one of his hands and placing it on your sensitive nub. 

Art moans at your response and his moves are hasty, rubbing you like his life depends on it. You let out short breaths at his touch, the heat inside you creeping up and ready to set off like fireworks.

He looks at your blissed out expression, how your bottom lip is between your teeth in an attempt to conceal the beautiful sounds you make. He’s tempted to use the other hand that’s on your hip to take your lip away from your teeth, but his thoughts are cut short when you clench tightly around him.

“I’m close, Art,” The blonde doesnt need to hear you say it, he knows your body like the back of his hand. 

It is no surprise when you come around him, a high-pitched moan escapes your mouth when your body shakes from pleasure. Like clockwork, Art spills inside his condom almost instantly after your release washes over you. 

He gives a few sloppy thrusts after he comes, feeling you collapse onto his chest, tired out from your orgasm. Art kisses the side of your head, heavily breathing and trying to form a coherent thought. Though it is quite hard when he is so fucked out. 

You separate yourself from his chest and press another kiss to his lips. Relishing on the closeness between you, he places his hand on the nape of your neck and keeps you in place.

After a few seconds he slips himself out of you. You whine at the loss of the fullness you felt, but he quickly shushes you with a simple kiss. It’s softer this time, sweeter than you deserve and more romantic than you’d like. 

You remove yourself from being on top of him, and lay down beside him. The pillow is soft and comforting, you keep your gaze trained on the ceiling and try to calm your harsh breathing down. You hear the rustle of the bed sheets and then feel yourself being covered by them, the soft touch of Art’s hand when he handles the sheets and brushes his knuckles against your chest makes you shiver

“This was fun,” he lets out, like he just got off an amusement park attraction. 

You can only hum in response, slightly turning your head to look at him. That is your mistake, because once you take in his beauty you cannot stop doing so. It makes you want to do things you shouldn’t, say things that would ruin whatever’s going on between you two.

“How long are you staying here for?” the question takes you aback, do you want him to know you schedule? A small part of you, the rational one, tells you to lie and put this little rendezvous behind you. But the part that makes most of the decision, the one that you damn each day, makes you tell him the truth.

“Until friday,” you respond, playing with the corner of the bedsheets between your fingers.

“Okay, cool,” he says back, it’s tuesday and that leaves you with just a couple days to see the other. How badly you wish that this wasn't what your relationship was now, but you have to make do with what you have. At least until you're pulled back into reality. 

You’re not sure why but the idea of him seeking you out once more, feels your tummy with a fuzzy feeling akin to butterflies.

“Yeah,”

Time seems to stand still for a few minutes, with his hands behind his head and yours resting just below your chest. It’s as if neither of you want to break the moment that’s happening, one that has a close expiration date.

After a moment of quiet, he finally breaks the silence, “I’m glad I’m here,”

You don't know how to respond so you settle for a simple, “Me too,”

For a moment, you both just look at each other, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. It's a fleeting connection, intense yet fragile, and you know that despite it neither of you belong to the other.

“I should get going,” he tells you, sitting up from his laid down position in bed and searching for his sprawled around clothes.

“Sure,” you answer as you watch him clothe himself, intently keeping your eyes trained on his figure.

“I’ll text you,” he says when he’s done clothing himself, “We could hang out again,”

“Okay,”

He looks at you once more, and you swear you see him hesitate when he reaches for the door handle. Something inside you aches for him to kiss you goodbye, to give you that intimacy that youre no longer privy to.

But as quick as that thought crosses your mind, he’s out the door.

Art doesn't text you as he said he would. You want to be mad at him, but you know you’ll be waiting for the day he messages you, and you can tally another clandestine meeting to your board. After all, you belong eternally to him and he to you. 

[evieelyzabethh]

Love your work. <3 Could you write something with reader x spike where they're kinda' pining for one another, but one night he gets injured and has to stay over at her house? She patches him up and maybe offers him a bite? Doesn't have to be nsfw but +5 cool points if it is. <3

Hello, my loves, long time no see!!! I hope this is to your liking <3

Spike is so incredibly reckless. You knew this, he knew, everybody knew that Spike was a walking accident waiting to happen'. He likes to think he can handle himself. "I'm bad, baby," he'd tell you, "M' the big bad slayer killer. I can handle a few scratches." But you were never worried about what he could handle, you were worried about the fact that his blood was always staining your couch. That and the fact that his lack of self-preservation kept you up at night.

Usually, he has some decorum. He doesn't come to you with every scrape and bruise, even though you handled him with much more care than he was capable of extending to himself. It was his way of punishing himself, depriving himself of your head scratches and soft hands for bothering you too much. You scolded him for this, of course. It seems like its every other week (more like every other day) when you and he argue, most often in front of the Scoobies who waited anxiously for you take your arguments to the bedroom, about him leaving you to worry about whether or not he was ash.

"I mean, fuck Spike. Is it really that hard to just give me a call if you plan on bleeding at your place. A little 'Hi, yeah, I don't think I need my wounds treated with modern medicine, I'm gonna take my chances with old whisky and tetanus like the good ol' days'." And every time he takes his well-earned lecture with a smirk and a bowed head.

"Yes, mother, next time I'll break your door down at three in the morning for some pretty pink bandages."

"If you were so ashamed of the pretty pink bandages, maybe you should think before you run into knives!"

Spike has maybe told the truth a grand total of two times in his whole life, so his word means absolutely nothing. He continues to ignore your street like the plague unless it's an absolute emergency.

Now was an emergency.

You barely heard the faint knocks on your door from your bedroom, where you sat on your bed, music blasting from your stereo and some reality court show droning on in the background, catching your attention when someone decided to be particularly messy. You had thought it was your neighbors blind dog scratching at your door again until something large and loud hit it. Quickly arming yourself with a frying pan, you crept to your door, tearing it open for a very injured Spike to nearly fall flat on your floor before he caught himself using your doorframe.

His left hand clutched at his bleeding side and he walked with a limp over to his couch which now had a plastic cover. His dead heart was touched.

"Aw, you were waiting for me, " he croaked out. He fell on his back, one of his hands falling over the side and his eyes closing as soon as his head at the pillow. His shirt had claw marks that were lined with blood and his duster had barely escaped the carnage, a few holes separate from the preexisting moth holes sticky with some supernatural substance.

"Have to be prepared when it comes to you." You patted his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbones to try and arouse some consciousness. "Can't have you fallin' asleep on me. You might not wake up." You weren't going to leave his side until you were sure he wasn't going to die in your absence.

He babbled unintelligently, his mouth moving but having no connection to his brain to form any sort of actual thought. His eyes flit between closed and aware, his head moving to catch up with the spinning room, his mouth impossibly dry, and his head pounding. In his head, he insisted he was fine, but the words wouldn't come out right. He spat them out garbled and messy until he was too choked up to even try anymore.

He was barely conscious when he felt your wrist at his mouth. He had enough sense to shake his head and nudge away your wrist with his nose, but his lack of strength made his attempts futile. "No," he mumbled.

"You'll feel better," your voice swam around in his head until the words lost meaning and he just smiled at the sound of your voice. You swiped your thumb across one of his canines, the red contrasting with the pearly whites of his teeth swiftly wiped away by the pink of his tongue. After the taste of your blood was on his tongue, his sense was surrendered to instinct as he brought your wrist to his lips.

You didn't know what you were getting into. Vampires get their life force from blood, so it just made sense to have him feed from you to expedite the healing process. The more he drank, the louder your heartbeat grew in your ear and the closer he pulled you to him. You had only done this once before, when you were both drunk and dizzy and jokes being whispered in your ear turned into tiny nips from your neck that Buffy nearly walked in on.

In complete shock of what had happened then, you never brought it up, halfway convincing yourself that it never happened in the first place. If it did happen, he had enough sense to pull away then and you hoped he had the sense the pull away now, but now was much different. Now, there was a newfound hunger. A desperation. Like he had been starving himself for years and you were the first bite of food he had eaten. Had to have been good food to, with the way he inhaled you, indulged in you like you were some ambrosia or golden mead.

"Spike," you moaned. "I'm getting a bit light-headed." Your voice was high and thin, fearful as you made attempts to pull your arm from his lips. Through his haze, his fangs contracted back, and his tongue swiped whatever lingered on your skin.

"I'm sorry." Sorry for going too far, sorry for almost turning you into an empty Capri Sun pouch, sorry for being reckless again.

" 's ok."

You wobbled a bit as you stood, fingers wrapped around your wound as you shuffled into your kitchen in pursuit of your first aid kit. "You gonna tell me what happened?" He only groaned from the couch.

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired." You laughed on your way over to him, wrist already covered in gauze with an all too familiar needle and thread in hand.

"You're tired?" The smell of your blood was all too pungent, still. He turned his head towards the wall, studying the numerous music posters and paintings you had hanging.

"Going out to fight evil is a very hard job." You chuckled.

"I know. That's why I stay in here to patch you up." Your fingers were like magic. They always had a way of calming him down. Especially the way you hummed to yourself while you worked. You were never content with just silence. "I expect an answer in the morning." He smiled.

"Yes, ma'am." He fell asleep before you even finished and by the time you were done, you were too tired to walk the down the hall to your bed. You laid your head down on his chest, with no heartbeat to thrum and no breath to rock you, you still fell asleep just like that. Who knew cold bodies were so comfortable.