#that you have no life and no home and nobody

[piastriprincess]

caught  up  in  circles ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  time  loop  ,  f1  med  staff!reader  ,  strangers  to  lovers  ,  slow  burn  . tw  one  crash  ,  z*k  br*wn  and  chr*stian  h*rner  mentions  lol word  count  9.9k author’s  note  this  one  is  for  my  piastri  princesses  !  aka  it’s  all  about  oscar  and  entirely  self - indulgent  but  i  hope  you  all  like  it  too  !  inspired  by  palm  springs  -  one  of  my  favorite  movies  which  for  some  reason  made  me  think  of  osc  the  last  time  i  was  watching  it  <3  this  is  lowkey  long  as  hell  but  in  my  opinion  it’s  worth  it  .  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  and  my  inbox  is  open  for  requests  !  i’m  hoping  to  have  an  event  up  in  the  next  couple  of  days  too  .  love  you  all  MWAH  !  title  is  from  time  after  time  by  cyndi  lauper  .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it. 

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop. 

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep. 

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains. 

Number two: he can alter the day. 

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet. 

Number three: he can’t die. 

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him. 

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out. 

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there. 

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him. 

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset. 

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest. 

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side. 

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock. 

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads. 

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words. 

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet. 

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied. 

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still. 

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word. 

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway. 

You’re not here. 

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine. 

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache. 

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before. 

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters. 

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it. 

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around. 

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood. 

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his. 

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him. 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.” 

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice. 

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear. 

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri. 

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!! 

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes. 

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend. 

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on. 

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either. 

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water. 

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan. 

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent. 

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.” 

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters. 

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does. 

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin. 

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets). 

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing. 

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water. 

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic. 

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head. 

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht. 

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment. 

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck. 

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing. 

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t. 

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time. 

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake. 

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you. 

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to. 

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you. 

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap. 

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache. 

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life. 

And then he jumps. 

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly. 

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air. 

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours. 

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook. 

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment. 

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet. 

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own. 

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always. 

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today. 

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now. 

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment. 

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone. 

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it. 

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences. 

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion. 

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table. 

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food. 

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?” 

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice. 

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you. 

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth. 

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped. 

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you. 

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done. 

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart. 

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it. 

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow. 

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it. 

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries. 

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you. 

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure. 

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling. 

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.” 

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time. 

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you. 

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising. 

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors. 

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time. 

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened. 

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once. 

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you. 

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit. 

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different. 

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof. 

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness. 

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir. 

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else. 

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips. 

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it. 

[peanutheaddd]

(translation:

petey: heeeyyyyy i rreaaaaallyy like youuu... you know that , right ? my cute little puppyyyy

dm: he smells like booze...)

ive been thinking abt dusk au a lot so huge dusk au lore dump under cut Heh.. Hahaha... MY AUUUUUUUUU

their time in high school is called sunset era . their main plot is called . u guessed it . dusk era.

dm is well known within their hometown bc hes basically just . a living science experiment . hes one of the most interesting parts of the town . also he helps out a lot with odd jobs here and there so a lot of people know of him

despite this people still sorta keep their distance from him and dont rlly bother to get close to him . dm is used to this at this point . this is also why cares abt lp so much . this little guy is probs the first person to actually care about him as a person after. yk . petey. Lmfao.

i reckon dm immediately recognizes how lp and petey look nearly identical . i think hed feel weird about it initially (mostly just sad) but eventually just dismiss it as a coincidence . obvs until he meets petey and realizes Okay this is Not a coincidence.

their hometown is like . a mountain town . a town in a mountainous region . yeah

"dog man" used to be a name he was called in high school in like. a Mean way. and he did Not like it. but overtime he just got desensitized to it because Nobody would call him by his actual name . now he truly does not care about being called dog man . its just a title for him .

this is also a part of the reason why he misses petey . he was like the only person to call him greg . he may not care abt being caleld dm but he misses being called greg.

for majority of dusk au petey calls dm dog man . he doesnt call him greg until they acknowledge their shared history . i reckon the first time he calls him greg in dusk era dm gets a little emotional LMFAO

back in high school dm was homeless . he was able to sleep at school bc chief (principal of school) would let him spend the nights in his office . he was like his dad in a way . he couldnt rlly adopt him js bc he had his own life stuff going on and he felt woefully underprepared to have total responsibility of a child especially not a teen but he always made sure he was safe and ate well .

anyways this means that whenever he and petey walked home it was more so dm just walking petey home and making sure he got home safe and then turning around and going back to school . he never told him that . he just pretended like his house was a little further down the road .

the convenience store is also smth that chief helped him with . like getting the actual building in the first place and setting it up

that being said the convenience store is also dms house . theres like a studio in the back that he js lives in .

i think chief has a vague idea that something happened eith dm and petey pregrad and thats the reason dm is insisting on staying in their hometown even tho he used to seem pretty open to the idea of leaving town for his education. this is also why hes kinda skeptical when petey comes back and dm tells him abt how theyve been spending time tgth again ESP when dm tells him that peteys completely avoiding talking about their history . he js wants the best for dm 😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

theres are several canon events during the sunset era:

-> event where petey is riled up and pissed off and lwk freaking out and dm takes him to coin karaoke to get him to blow off steam . they get rlly drunk off of cheap booze and just . generally have a good time . its also one of the fastest and most effective ways petey has Ever been calmed down in his life and he tries to ignore how that makes him feel kinda soft

-> event where dm and petey take a bus to the coast at like 2 am or smth . and they just sorta talk and splash around in the water . Heavily inspired by the yeosu sea . (listen to yeosu night sea by busker busker!) since theyre used to being surrounded by mountains, being in such an open place is very refreshing for them both. esp petey who feels suffocated and trapped by their hometown . like yes his moving away post grad was partially bc of dm but also he never liked their hometown . at all. also smth smth petey being scared of water but dm makes him feel safe and that freaks him out a little (bro is showing vulnerability)

-> event where peteys calling dms bluff and basically syaing ooohh youd never get a piercing and dms like nuh uh try me except when petey tries to pierce his ear he sees the needle and freaks out a little (medical trauma !) . he expects petey to make fun of him (not necessarily a judgement on peteys character more so like a "ooh i acted so tough about it but now im backing out thats kinda cringe 😬😬") but peteys just like man whatever and dm feels a little confused about it . hes used to having to uphold a certain persona of sorts as like someone carefree and dependable so that people dont get unnerved by him being a freak of nature for lack of a better word . like making up for his very existence by being approachable. so seeing petey just. not give a shit that he Obviously has some problems is. idk a litle refreshing ig ? like he doesnt rlly have to uphold a facade in front of him bc he dgaf .

-> confession event ! this happens a very short time before their grad (a few weeks to a month at most) during their walk home. sun is setting, its basically summer so its humid as hell, cicadas are chirping, dragonflies in the air, etc etc .

ok thats al i gyatt for now Heh

[oneofstarkskids]

redemption

THUNDERBOLTS* END CREDITS SPOILERS:

genre; angst with a splash of fluff

summary: bucky knows that even when he feels like there's no one he can rely on, nobody who's willing to stay, you'll be right there beside him.

"it went poorly," bucky tells yelena about his call to sam. part of bucky wanted to be angry with sam.

how could he sit there, knowing this was what bucky's always wanted- purpose, redemption- and try to take it away from him?

at the same time, bucky felt almost guilty. like it was his own fault. he should've done something. said something. told everyone it was another one of valentina's scams.

but he couldn't. not when there were so many people cheering and chanting for him. they weren't calling him the winter soldier. a monster. not a criminal, but an avenger.

a true hero.

he went home to you, heart feeling heavy.

"hey sweetheart," you greeted him at the door, wrapping your arms around his neck.

you ran your hands through his blown out curls, brushing them out of his pretty face. you noticed the tired look in his eyes. "everything okay?"

he sighed before pulling you into him, caging you against him in a crushing embrace.

you didn't push the matter. you just let him hold you like that for as long as he needed, and eventually he sat down and confided in you.

"sam called," he started, but paused. you smiled a bit at the mention of your friend. he'd been there countless times for both you and bucky.

bucky had gone to visit him about a year ago, but it had been awhile since you had talked to him without having to dial his number.

"how is he?" you asked.

"he's suing me," he said flatly. you furrowed your brows and shook your head, trying to wrap your mind around it. "well, not just me, the new avengers. for copyright."

it suddenly made sense.

"oh, bucky," you sat down next to him, interlocking his metal fingers with your flesh ones.

he kept his gaze on the floor, "he was pissed. and maybe he has every right to be."

you didn't say anything. what could you say?

you could see it from sam's point of view. he was an avenger. and he'd lost so many of his teammates.

bucky had even told you that sam was planning to rebuild the avengers a while back. you were so sure that he would've asked bucky to join.

but it looks like he never got the chance.

and bucky. your bucky. this meant so much to him. it's not like he went out searching for it. this team, these lonely, messed up people, just happened to fall right in his lap.

they were just like him. people who'd fucked up beyond redemption.

but here they were, getting the clean slate each of them had only ever dreamt of.

he was supposed to throw that all away?

he rested his forehead on your shoulder, "i don't know what to do. you know, after steve..." you waited for him to finish, knowing it was a rough topic.

"after steve left, i thought i would never have that kind of bond with anyone else," he whispered.

"besides you, of course," he looked up at you with a lopsided grin.

you smiled back, softly.

"but then sam and i...we really started to understand each other. we were forced to work together, and despite him being an annoying pain in my ass... he's filled the emptiness that steve left behind." his face contorts with pain.

you took his face into your hands, thumbs brushing across his cheeks.

"what if he never forgives me?" he asks the question that leaves the room thick with the loss and pain he's lived with his entire life.

you shook your head once more, "buck, don't say that. he's sam. he's pissed off, probably hurting, but he loves you."

"a brief argument over the phone is never going to change that. you two will work this out," you said confidently. it helped that you truly believed the words coming out of your mouth.

there were some bumps in the road of bucky and sam's relationship, but ultimately, they were the captain and his sergeant. inseparable.

bucky was in awe of you. your unwavering faith in him. your never-ending love and support. his blue eyes shined with affection.

"i'm glad that it's you by my side, doll," he whispered. "even if nobody else is."

you pressed your forehead against his and frowned, "which they are."

he couldn't help but chuckle at how adamant you were.

"c'mere," he lifted your chin slightly and kissed you tenderly, his love for you evident in the way his lips lingered against your own.

[gay-dorito-dust]

i love your hc’s about dante and reader being Nero’s parents!! can we get a backstory on how they became his found parents or more hc’s about dante and reader being Nero’s parents?

you and dante had found Nero at an orphanage in the town of Fortuna after a mission, the boy with the glowing demonic arm and white hair that made his blue eyes pop obviously had sparda heratige. There was no doudt about that, especially not to Dante, who was hellbent on giving him the upbringing he deserved.

You pretty much punched someone for calling Nero a ‘child of the devil’ nobody insults your baby and gets away with it.

Dante did the exact same thing when another person called him devil spawn for having such an unsightly arm, an arm only belonging to that of the devil itself. He didn’t take too kindly to religious folk spouting their bigoted rhetoric, especially towards a small child like Nero who was giving you flowers he had plucked from the ground.

Neither of you mess about when it came to Nero and you both were sure as shit to make it known to all that if they spoke ill of your son, they’d have you and Dante to answer to or walk away with a busted nose.

‘Are you my new family?’ Baby Nero asked, his big blue eyes peering up at you and Dante’s he tried to hide his glowing arm behind his back, but was stoped when you grabbed both of his tiny hands within his own and smiled.

‘Yes we are my sweet boy, and you’ll never have to fight for your spot at the table nor second guess yourself or your worth. Not anymore.’ You tell him as you pressed a kiss to his head. ‘Your family Nero and family never give up on each other, never.’

‘Yeah kiddo, you’re stuck with us.’ Dante says as he ruffles Nero’s hair, causing the boy to pout and swat away his hand but it was clear to you and Dante that he was happy to finally having gotten out of the orphanage when he did.

You spoil baby Nero rotten by getting him whether you he wanted while cuddling and smothering your baby boy in kisses until he was laughing, trying to push you away as Dante watched from the doorway, happy to see his little family he was blessed to get back home to after each mission.

It was something that Dante didn’t think he’d ever get with how fucked his life had been thus far, but he was grateful that you had given him a chance and stay long enough to the point where you now have a son that you two would absolutely go to war for just to see smile.

He had to pinch himself most days, hoping that this wasn’t a dream he’d wake up from, alone and without a loving partner and a sweet little boy who’d he knew would one day grow up into a man who’d teach him a few things later on in life. Either way he didn’t want to wake up alone, so he joins you and little Nero by bringing you both into his arms as it was his turn to shower you both in kisses, his stubble tickling you both as you and baby Nero were left laughing and melting into his strong protective arms.

‘I’m thankful for you both’ was a phrase that came out of Dante’s mouth more often then not as he tucks you both into bed, kissing you both on your foreheads before joining you and Nero and holding you to his chest while you held Nero close to yours, a small family sharing a crappy bed but none of that mattered when you were together.

Baby Nero did get a little cheeky sometimes and had eaten some of Dante’s strawberry sundae once, he was immediately proven guilty by Dante as he wiped the melted ice cream from Nero’s cheek, gave it a sniff and knew that his son had taken a little bite out of his strawberry sundae that he had been saving for a while.

Yet he could never bring himself to be mad when Nero was most likely suffering from a brain freeze, and decided to hold his son close to his chest, kiss his forehead and hum a small tune his mother use to use for him and Vergil just before they went to sleep as the brain freeze subsided and Nero fell asleep within the warm embrace of his newfound father.

From then on Dante would split his sundae with Nero, but making sure the boy didn’t have too much for another brain freeze.

You had come across the scene one too many times where Dante and Nero’s face were smeared in the sweet sundae, looking at you with wide eyes as you laughed at the pair, ruffling their hair as you stole some sundae for yourself before reprimanded Dante for indulging Nero into becoming a sweet tooth like him.

‘Guilty as charged sweetheart.’ He’d show off those little fangs of his that he knew made you go a little nuts.

‘Then you’ll be responsible for when he gets a sugar rush then?’ You asked playfully as you picked up Nero after hearing him yawn, nuzzling his nose with your own as he practically clings onto you, babbling his baby nonsense as you rubbed his back.

‘Do I have you?’ Dante asks, pouting.

You peck his lips. ‘If you’re going to indulge our son, then you’re responsible for what happens when he has one too many strawberry sundaes.’ You tell him sweetly as you pecked his lips once more before walking up the stairs to put Nero to bed.

Dante would tell Nero of the tale of how you and him got together, the half demon and the angel as he’s called it becuase what else would he call it? You were borderline perfect -if not- the definition of perfection in his eyes. He told Nero how you’d fell in love, how you were always there for him and how he recalled fighting Hell itself in order to get you back, all the way to the softer moments where you and Dante would cuddle closely and kiss each other before missions and after missions.

‘Our relationship might not be a normal one in any sense but it’s ours and we love it regardless because we couldn’t ask for anything more then each other.’ He tells the quarter demon, who had only baby babbled at him.

‘Exactly son, exactly.’ Dante replies, acting as though he could understand Nero as the baby squealed and laughed, making the red coated half demon smile himself.

Your family maybe small but you and Dante loved your little family more then anything as you had a family album dedicated to all the moments you got with little baby Nero, mainly to embarrass him in front of his future girlfriend, but that was neither here nor there just yet.

[antimony-medusa]

Was wondering with all your excellent thoughts on creator's boundaries and keeping fan things in fan spaces, do you have any thoughts on the opposite happening, as in creators going into fan only spaces?

I was thinking about this because I have seen multiple streamers read fanfic on camera that had "if you're the streamer please just ignore this" written on them and that always feels like it's slightly icky to the boundaries of the fanfic writer but I can also see the argument that it has the streamers name on it, therefore they can do what they want with it.

Also felt a bit weird with Wilbur posting something he intended to be canon for the dsmp on ao3, a fandom space explicitly for fan creations, but that's a slightly different can of worms

Would love to hear your thoughts if you have the time!

Right. So, my formless thoughts after having written an essay for most of the day.

I do not— love— creators in fandom spaces. I have not seen any specific instances of creators reading fic that has "if you're the streamer please ignore this", but I have seen multiple instances of creators reading fic specifically with the intention of finding fic that's weird/funny/bad and making fun of it. They always seem to end up on self-insert fic obviously written by some 16 year old with a crush, too, and read that out to thousands of people to make fun of it, and man. It doesn't feel great!

However, I do see the argument that if has their name on it they can do what they want with it, but especially if you're talking about fic with "streamer don't interact" on it, like, I feel like creators are misunderstanding the purpose of that story. That's not intended for them to look at it, the writer is probably mortified that they saw it. It is not the same thing but the emotional equivalent is approximately aligned with my friend comes over, I say "make yourself at home", and my friend starts going through my embarrassing medical devices. Like I did say make yourself at home but why are you sorting my meds and googling what they're prescribed for? You were technically invited but idk man. I kind of thought that you weren't going to go through my medicine cabinet??? Now you know that I have some serious medical issues which I have not been talking about, and that's hovering in the air between us? I just wanted to discuss video games with you?

Okay like, I see the argument that creators should be able to look at anything that has their names on it and do whatever. But I feel like creators just baseline do not get fandom, a lot of the time, which is fair! Fandom is a bunch of people getting way too fucking into a creator/concept/story and then displaying their thoughts for the edification of other people who are also distinctly abnormal about that idea. And if creators walk into a fandom space with 'fandom" above the door, nobody's going to enjoy what happens. I was DMing with a friend today and we were talking about emduo trusting each other enough to fall asleep together and then we just spammed crying emojis at each other for a while because oh my god character feelings. I don't want Philza to see that! That's for my friends who I have my "instead of brain there is emduo" feelings with. I don't even do that in front of my normal friends who I discuss life goals with. Fandom is for people who have decided to go absolutely around the twist about their blorbos, and like if you are a normal person, and especially if you are a normal person who shares a username with the guy I'm torturing, you are going to find this space weird.

And so you get creators who walk into a space, and then it's weird, and then they are uncomfortable and say hahahah these guys are weird, and nobody profits! Nobody is having a good time! This sucks for everyone involved!

I feel like if creators are in a place where they go "If I google my name I will see shit but that's on me" and then they google their name anyways, that's one thing. But most of the time they don't even have that framework, it's just walking up to someone you don't know and going "huh huh huh are you talking about me what are you saying can I see" but in this case the people you're talking too are kind of obsessed with the ongoing roleplay at lunch you have with your friends where you're playing out betrayals and bloody deaths over the mashed potatoes, and nobody is going to be happy if those people detail the extended bloody death scene they wrote for you, much less the alternative happy ending where platonic arranged marriage stops the war.

There's a thing where like the saying is "eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves" and like, it's not the same thing here, but it holds. If they wanted you to know, they would have TOLD you. And they're not telling you cause they know the aging down a character into a sad baby to be kidnapped is not going to hit the same to the guy whose name it is. They're keeping that over here, archive locked, where only the other freaks obsessed with the lunch roleplay are sharing notes. Drags hands down face. Like the thing is I do understand on a baseline if people want to see what other people are saying about them, but the thing is, it does not ever go well. I do see the argument of well I should see what you're doing to my persona, but like— fandom is weird. If you have a fandom of any sort, and you are aware you have a fandom, you should know that even if entirely platonic, the fandom is doing horrible things to your character. War crimes are just the start. You either need to be prepared to see the war crimes, or know how to filter and bounce your eyes, or you— and I think we would all be much happier— can just stay away. Like let the weirdos in their discords talk about giving your character a mental breakdown, they're just following the honourable tradition of putting blorbo in a hydraulic press, but if THEY know that it would be weird to show it to you, why are YOU breaking into their house to find the weird stuff? This doesn't sound like a winning social activity for anyone involved.

Anyways yeah. I don't love creators in fan spaces. Click the box to make your fic not googleable and consider archive locking. Can we PLEASE keep fandom space and creators separate.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Whispers in the Void

The summer of your seventeenth year was a relentless crucible, its heat pressing down on New York like a judgment. The city shimmered under a golden haze, alive with the pulse of freedom—children shrieking in sprinklers, music spilling from open windows, the scent of hot asphalt and street vendor pretzels thick in the air. For others, summer was a reprieve, a canvas of possibility. For you, it was a sentence, each day stretching into an eternity of isolation and dread. You were Tony Stark’s daughter, a name that should have draped you in invincibility, but instead, it was a chain, tethering you to a life where you were perpetually unseen.

School was out, but the torment that defined your days didn’t pause for the season. The kids who made your life a nightmare during the academic year—those sharp-eyed vultures who thrived on your pain—found you in the wilds of summer. They roamed the streets near Stark Tower, their laughter a siren call of cruelty. You’d try to slip through the city unnoticed, your worn sneakers silent against the pavement, your head down, clutching a few crumpled dollars you’d earned from odd jobs—organizing files for Pepper, fetching coffee for Tony’s assistants, tasks that made you feel like a ghost in your own home. But they always found you.

“Hey, Stark’s kid!” The shout was a blade, slicing through the humid air. Caleb, the ringleader, was tall and wiry, his smirk a weapon. His posse—Mia, Tyler, and a rotating cast of others—closed in like wolves. They’d circle you, their voices a cacophony of mockery. “What’s it like being a nobody with a famous dad?” Mia would taunt, her eyes glinting with malice. Your money, meant for a slushie or a used book to escape into, was snatched from your fingers. “Thanks for the donation,” Tyler would sneer, pocketing the bills. You learned not to fight back; resistance only sharpened their claws.

Their cruelty wasn’t just theft. It was physical, deliberate, a ritual of breaking you down. Caleb once shoved you into a chain-link fence behind a bodega, the metal biting into your back as he leaned close, his breath sour. “You’re nothing without your daddy’s money,” he hissed, his fist grazing your shoulder, hard enough to bruise. Mia was worse, her cruelty laced with a theatrical flair. One blistering afternoon, she cornered you near a vacant lot, a pocketknife glinting in her hand. The blade danced inches from your cheek, catching the sunlight as she whispered, “Bet no one would even notice if I cut you.” Your heart thundered, your body frozen, until she laughed and snapped the knife shut, sauntering off with her friends’ cackles echoing behind her. Another time, they trapped you in a dumpster, the stench of rotting fruit and damp cardboard choking you as they wedged a crate against the lid. You screamed, your fists pounding metal, until a homeless man, his eyes kind but weary, pried it open hours later. He didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t offer answers. His pity was a weight you carried home.

The city itself seemed complicit. Shopkeepers, distracted by their own hustle, didn’t notice the kids harassing you outside their stores. Neighbors, dazzled by the Stark name, saw only a privileged girl, not the one trembling in their periphery. You’d tried, during the school year, to tell teachers about the torment—the fists, the taunts, the time someone snipped chunks of your hair in the bathroom, leaving you to gather the strands from the tiles. “They’re just jealous,” one teacher had said, her voice dismissive. “You’re Tony Stark’s daughter. They want what you have.” Another had sighed, “Kids will be kids,” and turned back to her lesson plans. Summer stripped away even that flimsy recourse. There were no authority figures to appeal to, no one to witness the slow erosion of your spirit.

Home was no refuge. Stark Tower was a marvel of glass and steel, its panoramic views a testament to your father’s genius. Inside, it buzzed with life—JARVIS’s smooth voice orchestrating the tower’s systems, the Avengers’ laughter spilling from the common areas, Tony’s frenetic energy as he tinkered in his lab. But for you, it was a mausoleum, cold and hollow despite its warmth. Tony Stark was a supernova, his brilliance illuminating the world but casting you in shadow. He was Iron Man, the man who defied gods and monsters, the man who built empires from nothing. To you, he was a stranger who shared your eyes, your stubborn jaw, but none of his attention.

You’d see him in fragments—rushing through the tower, a phone pressed to his ear, or bantering with the Avengers over pizza in the lounge. Natasha’s sharp wit cut through the air, Steve’s quiet strength anchored the group, Thor’s booming laugh shook the walls, and Bruce’s gentle curiosity softened the edges. They were a family, forged in battle and loyalty, but you were an outsider, a specter hovering at the edges of their world. They didn’t know you, not really. Natasha’s keen eyes never caught the tremor in your hands. Steve’s kind smiles never lingered on you. Clint, with his easy humor, never tossed a joke your way. You were Tony’s daughter, a fact they acknowledged with polite nods, but you were invisible, a footnote in their epic saga.

You’d tried to reach your father once, a desperate bid to pierce the veil between you. It was late, the tower quiet except for the hum of his lab. You stood in the doorway, your hands twisting together, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dad, I need to talk.” He glanced up from a holographic display, his eyes bleary but sharp. “Yeah, kid, what’s up?” he said, his fingers still dancing across a tablet. You swallowed, the words clawing at your throat. “It’s… it’s hard. Out there, with people. They—they hurt me, Dad. They take things, they push me around, and I don’t know how to make it stop.” Your voice cracked, tears burning your eyes, but he was already half-gone, his attention drifting back to his work. He flashed a crooked smile, the one that charmed the world. “You’re a Stark, sweetheart. You’re tougher than they are. Just keep your chin up, okay? You’ll figure it out.” He turned back to his hologram, the light casting his face in blue, and you were dismissed. You nodded, though he didn’t see, and slipped away, the ache in your chest blooming like a bruise.

You didn’t try again. Why beg for a light that would never reach you?

The days bled together, each one a fresh wound. You’d wander the city until dusk, avoiding the tower for as long as possible. At night, you’d lie in your room, the city skyline glittering through your window like a cruel promise. The mirror showed a stranger—hollow eyes, cheekbones too sharp, a body curling in suffixes. You felt like a ghost, haunting your own life. Worthless. Nothing. The thoughts were a tide, pulling you under. *You’re a burden. You’re invisible. You’ll never be enough.* You’d trace the bruises on your arms, the faint scars from moments you tried to forget, and wonder why you kept going.

Dreams were your only escape, fragile and fleeting. You’d imagine a world where you were seen, where your voice mattered, where you could be someone—someone who laughed without fear, who walked without looking over her shoulder. You dreamed of being an artist, maybe, your hands stained with paint, creating something beautiful enough to make the world pause. Or a writer, weaving stories that would outlive you. But dreams were dangerous; they made the fall back to reality sharper, the pain more acute. Each taunt, each shove, each indifferent glance chipped away at them, until they were gossamer, too delicate to hold.

The Avengers remained oblivious. You’d pass them in the tower, your head down, your heart a silent scream. Once, you lingered in the lounge, hoping someone might notice you. Natasha was cleaning her knives, her movements precise. Steve was sketching, his brow furrowed. Thor was regaling Clint with a tale of Asgard, his voice a thunderstorm. You sat on the edge of a couch, clutching a book you weren’t reading, waiting for a glance, a word, anything. But the moment passed, and you slipped away, unnoticed. They didn’t know you were drowning. They didn’t know you were fading.

One evening, as summer’s heat clung to the city like a fever, you found yourself far from the tower. The cliff was a jagged scar on the earth, perched over a sea that churned with restless hunger. You’d come here before, drawn by its solitude, its wildness. The sky was a canvas of crimson and violet, the clouds bruised and heavy. The wind howled, tugging at your clothes, whispering secrets you’d never share. You stood at the edge, your toes curling over the precipice, your heart a fragile thing, battered by too many storms.

You thought of your father, his distracted smile, his unseeing eyes. You thought of the Avengers, their laughter a world you’d never touch. You thought of the kids who’d broken you, piece by piece, and the world that had let them. You thought of your dreams—those beautiful, fleeting things you’d guarded in silence, never daring to speak aloud. A life where you were enough. A life where you were seen.

The waves below roared, their rhythm a lullaby of peace, of release. You closed your eyes, the wind weaving through your hair like a final embrace. The world didn’t know you, didn’t need you. Your story, unwritten and untold, folded into the darkness. With a breath, you let go, surrendering to the call of the void, your heart a silent hymn to a life that might have been.

The city spun on, its lights glittering like stars indifferent to your absence. Tony worked in his lab, unaware of the hole in his world. The Avengers fought their battles, their bonds unbroken. The kids who’d tormented you moved on, their cruelty a fleeting game. No one paused, no one mourned. You were gone, a whisper lost in the wind, your dreams buried in the deep, where no one would ever find them. The girl you were—quiet, broken, yearning—faded into the silence, her heart a secret the world would never know.

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Nude”

Harry Da Souza x f!Reader

Masterlist here

Summary: You start to notice your husband drifting away. One lonely night, you send him a spicy photo to remind him of what he’s missing.

WC: 4.2k

Warnings/tags: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, unprotected piv, fingering, oral (f!receiving), creampie, established relationship, reader is Harry’s wife.

A/N: This one goes to this person who asked me to write about Harry, I finally did it. (I hope it’s not a disappointment).

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Being married to Harry wasn’t the easiest thing on the planet. But you loved that man more than life itself.

Sure, you knew it before marrying him. Knew about his lack of availability. About the long nights where God only knew where he was. About the ambiguity of his job—one he never wanted to discuss, always saying it was better to keep you “on the line.” But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen the dried blood under his nails more than once.

And yet you married him, because even with all his flaws as a husband, he was the only man you’d ever loved. Because nobody had ever made you feel like he did.

Some nights, when it got too late, you couldn’t help but worry. You’d sit there, every muscle tense, checking the clock like it held some secret. The minutes ticked by, slow and sharp, each one slicing a little deeper. You’d imagine headlines. Accidents. Sirens. Or worse—just silence. Permanent silence.

And some nights, you couldn’t help but wonder if his job was just an excuse. Your mind went darker, quieter. It whispered things you didn’t want to believe. That maybe he wasn’t staying away because of danger. Maybe he was staying away because he didn’t want to come home. Because someone else—someone new—had captured his attention.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The rain hammered against the windows of the penthouse like it had something to prove. You sat curled up on the edge of the leather couch, knees tucked beneath you, your eyes fixed on the clock.

9:47 PM.

He was late. Again.

The candles you lit hours ago had burned low, their wax puddled into soft amber pools. The meal you cooked—his favorite, because you were trying—sat untouched on the table, cold. You’d taken the time to look pretty, to wear that silk camisole he once said drove him crazy. But now it felt foolish. Like you were playing house alone.

A sound at the door.

Keys. The heavy metal click of the deadbolt. You stood slowly, arms crossing over your chest, your heart pounding in a rhythm you couldn’t control.

Harry stepped inside. Black coat soaked. Jaw set like stone. His dark eyes scanned the room until they found you.

You didn’t move.

“Hi, love,” he said, like that word could fix everything. “Babe?”

“You’re late,” you replied softly. Controlled. Careful.

He closed the door behind him and shrugged off his coat. Rain dripped onto the floor. “Jesus, babe. Good night to you too, how have you been?”

“You’re late” you repeated.

“I know. I’m sorry, alright? Work ran over. You know how it is, don’t you?”

“You say that every night.” You met his eyes, refusing to break first. “Is that really where you’ve been, Harry?”

He blinked, slowly. A small shift in his stance. Guilt? Anger? Defense? You couldn’t tell.

“Of course it is,” he said. “Where else d’you think I’d be?”

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I never know where you are, what you’re doing… or who you’re with.”

He exhaled hard. “Alright, I reckon I know where this is going. This isn’t about work, is it?” He narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m steppin’ out on you.”

Your throat burned. “I don’t know, Harry. You tell me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, stepped forward, voice low and rough with something dangerous. “You think I’d fuck someone else behind your back?”

“I think you’re not here,” you whispered. “And that leaves space for a lot of doubt, Harry.”

Harry crossed the room in two strides and took your face in his hands—not rough, not hard, but with a desperation that made your knees weak. The way he gripped your jaw wasn’t about power. It was about fear. Fear that he was losing you. That you were slipping through his fingers.

“You listen to me, babe, yeah?” he said, his voice shaking. ““I’m out there doin’ shit I don’t even wanna talk about. But I do it for you. For us. I ain’t out messin’ about. I’m not even lookin’. I come home to you. I want you. Every second. Even when I’m not here. Especially then.”

You blinked back the tears. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

He pressed his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling like he’d been running. But he hadn’t been running from work. He’d been running from this. From you. From what he knew you’d say the minute he walked through the door.

“Cause I’ve been a right shit husband lately,” he muttered. “But not a cheating one. Never have. Never will. I love you. I love you, babe. You think I’d ever let another woman in when I already have the only one I need?”

“You know you can talk to me, Harry. About anything.”

“I know, yeah?” he said. “I know. But I swear on everything—there’s no one else. Never has been. Never will be. I don’t give a toss about anyone else. I don’t even see ’em. Don’t want ’em.”

He shifted closer, hand resting on your thigh. The heat of his palm through the silk made you shiver. Not because you were cold. But because, for the first time in a long time, he felt real. Tangible. Like maybe he still wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

“I’m your husband.”

“That stopped meaning something when I started sleeping alone five nights a week.”

You lay across the bed in nothing but a thin lace bra and matching black underwear, one leg bent lazily, the other stretched long against the sheets. A low storm rumbled outside—soft thunder somewhere in the distance, just enough to make the windows whisper. But inside, the air was hotter than it had any right to be.

Harry had been gone since morning. No call. No message. No clue when he’d walk back through the door.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the flicker of the bedside lamp. You looked like a dream. Like a sin. The kind of woman a man could ruin his whole life for.

It was pointless to wear such sexy lingerie when your husband wasn’t home to see it. It had been pointless for a long time. Lately with Harry, it was mostly rushed quickies in the shower before he left in the morning. Not long nights of worshipping your body. Not the kind of nights where he made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.

You missed how it used to be. How he’d strip you slow, kiss every inch like it mattered. How he’d growl when you pulled his hair, how he’d fuck you like the world might end in the next five minutes. You missed that version of him—the raw, greedy version.

You reached for your phone. Fingers trailing over your chest, arms pressed in to lift your breasts beneath the lace, squeezing them together. The cups lifted your breasts just enough that they swelled between your arms as you pressed them together, one nipple peeking out beneath, pushing them up, making them look even fuller—exactly how he liked.

You lifted your phone, aimed the camera, and snapped a photo.

You typed:

Maybe I should find someone who appreciates this.

And sent it.

It was a blunt lie. You didn’t want anyone else. Not even close. But you wanted to provoke a reaction.

Delivered.

Read.

You stretched out on the bed, expecting silence. Maybe a flirty, disinterested message back in an hour, something like "Looking good, babe” or a thumbs up emoji. Maybe nothing until morning.

A few minutes later, you heard it. A sound from inside the house. The front door slammed hard. Not careless—furious. Controlled fury. The kind Harry rarely showed unless someone had pissed him off. And this time, it was you. You knew it. You wanted it.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Fast. Determined. The floor creaked under the weight of him.

Your body responded before your brain could. Legs shifting open slightly, preparing to give him the full view of your covered cunt as soon as he walked through the door. Nipples tightening beneath the lace. Your breath hitched, just from the sound of him coming closer.

The door opened with a sharp swing—and there he was.

Harry stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes black with fury and want. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, looking at you.

Like he didn’t know whether to fuck you or strangle you.

Rainwater clung to his hair, plastering it to his forehead. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through, outlining every hard line of his body. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking just beneath his skin. But his eyes—Christ, his eyes—were locked on your thighs, your breasts, your cunt, like he hadn’t eaten in days and you were the only meal he’d ever wanted.

“Feelin’ cheeky, are you?” he said, voice low and rough.

You arched a brow, stretching slowly like a cat. “Did you like it?”

He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a heavy click.

“You think that’s funny, do you?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous. “What was the plan, then? Wind me up?”

“Maybe. Did it work?”

He stalked toward you and his hand was around your ankle before you could blink, dragging you down to the edge of the mattress in one hard, fluid motion. The contact sparked straight up your spine.

His grip was rough—almost punishing—but you could feel the tremble in it. He wasn’t just angry. He was desperate. Desperate to show you that he still had you. That no one else ever would.

His other hand curled around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, yanking your mouth up to his. The kiss was all tongue and teeth and mine. Possessive. Furious.

“I was gonna be back in half an hour,” he muttered against your lips. “Saw that fuckin’ picture and I near wrecked the car. Seriously, babe, you can’t send shit like that—I might’ve run someone over just to get home faster.”

You gasped into him, arms sliding around his shoulders, fingers clawing into the soaked fabric of his shirt.

“I just wanted to remind you of what you had waiting for you at home.”

He leaned back enough to look you in the eye, his chest still rising and falling with ragged breath.

“Yeah?” His voice was ragged. “That why you’re lyin’ here like a fuckin’ pin-up? Legs open, lace on, sendin’ me shit that makes my head go blank?”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “It worked.”

He let out a low, dangerous laugh that made your stomach clench.

“Oh, it fuckin’ worked, alright.”

He dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, hands curling around your calves, thumbs stroking the inside of your thighs.

“You wanted my attention, love?” His voice was gravel. “You’ve got it. Every last second of it.”

He dragged you toward him, hard, until your ass was nearly off the edge of the bed, your legs over his shoulders, his mouth close to where you needed him.

“You know what that photo said to me?” he asked, voice like smoke and grit.

You shook your head, barely able to breathe.

“Said, ‘Get your arse home before someone else does.’”

“Then it served its purpose,” you whispered.

His beard scraped along the soft inside of your thigh as he pressed open-mouthed kisses up your leg, each one wetter, hungrier, than the last. His lips burned paths into your skin. Your muscles tensed under every press of his mouth.

“You tellin’ me someone else deserves this?” he asked darkly. “These thighs. This mouth. This cunt?”

“No,” you gasped.

“That’s right.” He bit your inner thigh just hard enough to leave a mark. “Because it’s fuckin’ mine. Tell me what you wanted, babe, when you took that picture.”

“Your cock,” you said bluntly. You knew how much Harry loved it when you spoke like that.

He muttered curses, something like fuck me, Jesus.

“Turn off your phone, Harry.”

“Babe… babe, you know I can’t do that.”

“I’m serious, Harry. I want my husband. And I don’t want any interruptions.”

“Let’s be reasonable here, yeah?”

“I said turn off the fucking phone.”

“Alright, alright. On it,” he said, digging for the device in his pocket. Once he found it, he turned it off in front of you and tossed it aside without another word.

“The burner phone too”

“Jesus, woman.” he muttered, his hands rushing to turn it off too. He wasn’t thinking straight now. He was thinking with his cock.

For once, it was just the two of you. No job. No secrets. No interruptions.

He dragged his nose up along the seam of your underwear, inhaling deeply like the scent of your arousal alone was going to make him lose his mind.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered. “Knew you’d be soaked for me.”

You whined, lifting your hips toward him, needy and shameless.

He hooked two fingers under the waistband of your panties and yanked them down your legs, rough and impatient. The fabric snagged slightly at your heel, but he didn’t stop—he wanted them off, wanted nothing between you and his mouth.

“Look at that. That is the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen in my life, innit?”

And then he dove in. Tongue flat and wide, dragging up your soaked folds with a groan so guttural it sounded like it ripped straight from his chest, like it physically pained him to have gone this long without you. Your thighs tried to clamp shut around his head, but he forced them open again, holding you down like a man starved.

He ate you like you were his last meal. Messy. Desperate. Like he was trying to undo every second he’d been away from you. His mouth moved with skill but no mercy—circling your clit, then flicking it with the tip of his tongue until your back arched off the bed.

“Fuck—Harry—”

It had been a long time. Too long since Harry had eaten you out like this—since he’d taken his time with you, laid you out across the mattress like a feast he’d starved himself for. And now that he had you here, bare and spread and trembling beneath his mouth, he wasn’t going to waste a single second.

“You look proper fit like this,” he rasped. “Makin’ a mess on my fuckin’ face. Tastes so good, babe.”

He slid a finger into you—slow, then a second, the stretch making you moan out loud. The slick sounds of him fucking his fingers into you filled the room, obscene and wet, and he was smiling. Grinning like a man possessed. Like this was exactly what he needed to come back to life.

His tongue swirled and flicked, lapped and pressed, deliberate and greedy. His spit mixed with your arousal, running down to your ass in a glistening trail.

“Tell me you missed this,” he said, voice low and filthy.

You could barely breathe, let alone speak. But you nodded. “I did. I—I missed your mouth.”

Your legs started to shake. That knot in your belly—tightening with every stroke of his tongue, every curl of his fingers inside you—threatened to snap.

“Harry, I’m—oh my god—”

“Don’t hold back,” he said roughly, licking up every drop of you. “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it.”

He flattened his tongue and licked you from hole to clit, again and again, moaning against you like he needed it as badly as you did. When he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, your vision went white. He was curling his fingers expertly, finding that perfect spot that made your toes curl.

“That’s it,” he growled into your cunt, pulling away just long enough to spit on you and dive back in. “Give it to me. Cum on my fuckin’ face, babe. Show me how much you missed me.”

You came with a cry, loud and wild, clenching around his fingers while he licked you through it like he never wanted to stop tasting you. He groaned into you like he’d just won a fight. He didn’t pull away—he stayed buried between your legs, licking and sucking until your whole body went limp.

He pulled back finally, face slick with you, chest heaving.

“Good girl,” he growled through gritted teeth, voice rough and frayed with how close he was. “What a good girl you are—cumming for your husband like this…”

“Still think some other bloke could do that for you?” he asked darkly, voice shot to hell. “Still think some other cunt deserves what I just tasted?”

You shook your head, dazed and trembling.

“Didn’t think so,” he growled. “Now turn ‘round.”

You blinked up at him.

“Turn. The fuck. Around,” he repeated, unbuckling his belt with a slow, menacing clink of metal.

You rolled onto your stomach, body still quaking from your orgasm, and braced yourself on your elbows, you dragged your knees apart, arched your spine until your ass was up high in the air, flushed and glistening, shamelessly offered. Your elbows sunk into the mattress, spine dipped like a bowstring, cunt still fluttering from the aftershocks of his mouth. You gave yourself to him. Just like he wanted. Just like you needed.

You heard the sound of his zipper, the low curse under his breath when he freed himself from his jeans. And then the hot, heavy weight of his cock slap against your ass, against your thigh—thick, hard, leaking at the tip.

He gripped himself and dragged the blunt head through your soaked folds, spreading your slickness and his precum in messy, dripping trails. He circled your entrance with it, teasing, threatening, never pushing in. Just letting you feel how badly he wanted it.

“Beg me,” he said, voice like thunder.

You whimpered and pushed back, grinding against his cock like a bitch in heat. You’d never been so filthy, so desperate, so feral.

You pushed back against him. “Please. Harry.”

His palm cracked down against your ass in a sharp slap that made you yelp. Then again. And again. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to make your whole body burn.

“Not good enough. Try again.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted.

“Please fuck me, Harry. I need it. I need you. I need my husband.”

That was all it took. He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, forcing a gasp from your throat. You cried out—high and sharp—your hands clawing at the sheets as he filled you to the hilt. The stretch of him was overwhelming, so deep, so delicious. Your walls fluttered around him instantly. Every thrust a claim. Every stroke saying mine, mine, mine.

He grabbed your hips, fingers bruising into your skin, and started to fuck you hard—no teasing, no mercy.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoed through the room, the mattress rocking beneath you, your moans, his grunts, the wet sound of him filling you over and over—obscene, frantic, addictive.

You could hear how soaked you were, how loudly your cunt welcomed him, how hungry your body was for every inch he gave.

He leaned over you, one hand curling around your throat from behind, pulling your back to his chest. His cock never stopped, spearing into you again and again with bruising force.

“Say it,” he snarled into your ear. “Say who this cunt belongs to.”

“You,” you whimpered. “You, Harry—only you.”

He snarled and bit down on your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin as his hips snapped forward harder, faster. Each thrust knocked the air from your lungs, shoved your body forward, sent heat coiling tight in your gut.

He was pounding into you with brutal efficiency now—each thrust a hammer blow, his cock splitting you open with obscene wet sounds, your slick coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs. He was so deep it felt like he was in your belly, hitting something deep inside you.

“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice strained and raw. “That’s what you do to me. Turn me into a fuckin’ animal.”

Then he slowed—just enough to make your breath catch. Dragged his cock out to the very tip before slamming back in so hard your vision went white. Over and over. Deep, punishing thrusts meant to be felt for days. You could hear your own pussy sucking him back in every time he pulled out. You were drenched, utterly soaked for him, and he knew it.

“You love this cock, don’t you?” he hissed into your ear. “Say it. Say how much you need me to fill you.”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “God, yes, Harry—please, please cum inside me. I want it so bad. I want to feel you leaking out of me, want to be so full I can’t think.”

Suddenly, he pulled out, dragging his cock from your soaking wet cunt, and before you could protest, he manhandled you onto your back. His hands were rough, desperate, needy. Like he couldn’t bear to be out of you for even a second.

“I want to see your face when I cum. I want to see the face of my beautiful wife when I fill her up.”

Your legs spread for him automatically, trembling and slick, and he grabbed them—threw them over his shoulders and sank back into you with a filthy groan.

The angle now was different—devastating. He hit deeper, harder, his pelvis grinding into your clit with every thrust. His cock curved perfectly against your sweet spot, coaxing a fresh gush of arousal from you every time.

Even if Harry was in his mid-forties, you never would’ve known it when he was buried inside you. He moved like a man half his age, full of energy and stamina when it came to you—driven, tireless, fucking you like he had something to prove. Like he needed to remind you, over and over, that no one else could do what he did to your body.

And the way he moved inside you? That wasn’t youth—it was the experience his age gave him. It was knowing exactly how to angle his hips to hit that perfect spot that made you cry out. Knowing how long to tease before giving you what you needed. How to read the little hitch in your breath, the way your thighs started to tremble, the way your fingers fisted the sheets when you were close.

And that mix—the stamina of someone younger, paired with the slow, brutal finesse of someone who knew exactly what he was doing—it wrecked you every time. There was no doubt. You were his. And he was still in his prime. A man built to ruin you.

“Touch yourself,” he growled. “Rub that pretty clit for me, babe. I want to feel you cum while I’m still inside you.”

Your hand slipped between your bodies, two fingers finding that aching, swollen bundle of nerves. You barely had to touch it—just a few tight circles—and you were gone.

You came with a scream, your whole body locking up, cunt clenching and spasming around his cock like it never wanted to let him go. You felt your release gush out around him, soaking the sheets, the slick, messy squelch of your orgasm driving him right to the edge.

He cursed loudly, hips stuttering.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

And then he slammed home one last time and spilled into you. hot, thick, endless. His cock twitching deep inside you, ropes of cum coating your walls. He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed there, cock still twitching, still seated inside you, as you both trembled and gasped for air. You could feel his cum dripping out already, warm and slow between your thighs, mixing with your own orgasm and soaking the sheets.

“It’s been so long since I’ve cum like that,” you said, voice hoarse, lips still parted from where he’d kissed you breathless.

You were sprawled beneath him, body flushed and slick, thighs still trembling from the intensity. Your chest rose and fell fast, skin sticky with sweat and sex. His weight lingered over you, one arm propped beside your head, the other resting possessively over your stomach, keeping you pinned, claimed.

He leaned down and kissed the hollow of your throat, slow and soft. You felt him sigh, the heat of his breath ghosting across your collarbone.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, babe. I’ve just… been so caught up in work. So fuckin’ distracted. And thinkin’ of another man gettin’ you—because I didn’t appreciate you enough—”

“Harry, it’s—”

“No. Wait.” He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes stopped you cold. “Let me finish.”

His hand slid from your belly to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple almost absently, not in a filthy way, but as if he needed to be touching you while he said it. Something to anchor him.

“I don’t ever want anyone else seein’ you like that,” he said, voice thick. “Don’t want anyone else hearin’ you like that. Hearin’ how you sound when you cum. When you fall apart on my cock. That’s mine. It’s always been mine.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek. His scruff rasped against your palm, warm and damp with sweat. “No one else will,” you whispered. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

There was a pause, thick with everything unspoken—guilt, longing, relief. Then he dropped his forehead to yours and exhaled hard, like he’d been holding that tension for weeks.

“This was incredible , babe.” His voice cracked on it. “I—I really missed it. Missed us.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. Instead, you slid your fingers into his hair and pulled him into another kiss—slow, messy, wet with the taste of everything you’d just poured into each other.

When you pulled away, he looked like a man wrecked. Wrecked in the best way.

“Me too,” you said. “You have no idea how much.”

He smirked—small, tired, but genuine. His hand slid down your thigh, gripping the soft flesh just behind your knee, still nestled between your legs. You could feel him softening inside you, but not pulling out yet. He didn’t want to. You could tell.

“Sundays, yeah?” he said. “They’re all yours. Full day. Anything you want. No work. No bullshit. Just us.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something. And coming from him—the man who hadn’t slowed down in months, who never stopped checking his phone, who never made promises he didn’t plan to keep—it was everything.

You raised a brow. “And your phone stays off the entire day.”

He grunted. Rolled his hips a little inside you, like he couldn’t help it. The movement made you whimper.

“I’ll put it on silent,” he bargained, nuzzling into your neck. “That’ll do?”

You sighed—exhausted, blissed out, full of him and still faintly aching for more. “Deal.”

And you both lay there, tangled in the wreckage of each other. Sundays were a start. A good one.

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics‬

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Marina behind the cut, who asked for something with Tucker and is getting “but it’s weird that it happened twice”. I wrote, like . . . twice as much of this as I meant to, haha, I kinda hit a groove here. Sorry for giving you /checks smudged writing on hand/ twice as much clone angst and teenagers in stressful situations having to handle life-threatening issues that are way out of their league with zero support from anyone who should be helping them? Yeahhhhh, nobody got on THIS blog for either of THOSE things, hahaha. Content warnings: clone degradation, chronic illness/pain, threat to the life of a minor, medical emergency. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Access: zero-four-three-zero-four prime!” Jazz shouts–the emergency-open code for the lab door, which Tucker hasn’t heard in a while but definitely has not forgotten–and the door’s already snapping back into the wall as she hits the bottom of the stairs, but she’s running so fast she still hits her shoulder on it as she runs through the doorway. Tucker is slightly worse at running, so manages not to have that problem, but he heard how hard her shoulder hit. 

She didn’t drop the Ecto-Dejecto, though, because, like–Jazz. So yeah, no surprise there. 

“DANNY!” Jazz cries–or “DANI!”, because admittedly that is unclear sometimes and can get especially unclear in crisis situations, which this absolutely is–and Tucker runs through the door after her and sees her on her knees on the floor right next to a tangled pile of barely-corporeal bodies. Dani’s crumpled down small in Danny’s arms, flickering in and out of intangibility and visibly melting, and Superboy’s still holding her hand and hasn’t let go, and is flickering in and out in perfect sync with her. Danny’s a beat behind every erratic, unpredictable flicker, but managing to keep at least mostly on the same level of tangibility as Dani’s. Enough that she’s not falling through the floor, at least. 

Yet. 

“Dani, you just–just for a sec, okay, you just have to concentrate enough to stabilize for a second for the epi–” Danny half-babbles at her, and Jazz’s hands flutter helplessly above Dani, her eyes wide and panicked and Danny’s voice cracked and panicked, and Dani’s skin is melting, her body is melting, her face is melting, and Tucker is useless and needs to–needs to– 

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the chrome, huh, boo?” Superboy says, and Dani–

“H-huh?” she stammers, and her flickering–skips, and– 

“The chrome. There really is a fuckton of the stuff,” Superboy says, looking around the lab and cocking an eyebrow. “How do they keep it all shiny like this? Like is there a polishing schedule? Like a daily rotation?” 

“M-man, I dunno, I dunno how y-you clean ch-chrome,” Dani manages with a stuttered laugh, and her flickering stops, just for a second. Stops on tangible, just for a second. 

But like Danny said, a second’s all Jazz needs to jab her. 

Jazz jerks out with the epi of Ecto-Dejecto and stabs it into Dani’s thigh, and Dani yelps as the needle pierces through her jeans, the yelp cutting off into a stifled hiss, and Tucker desperately needs her to not phase out again before the whole shot injects and is totally goddamn useless to help her do that, and Superboy says, “I guess we could google it or whatever? That’s what I usually do for the normie shit I don’t know shit about.” 

“W-what, no c-chrome in your lab’s home-sweet-home?” Dani asks with another stuttered laugh, and Superboy grins brightly at her. 

“C’mon, boo, you know I never cleaned that place, I only ever fucked it up,” he tells her jokingly, and she laughs shakily, and Jazz exhales, and pulls back the empty epi. Dani’s melting face shivers, and quivers, and slowly, slowly starts, like–unmelting, and Superboy squeezes her hand and leans down in closer to her and peers over the top of his sunglasses at her with a wider grin. “Hey, boo. There’s that pretty face again.” 

Dani laughs wetly, then ducks her head with a strangled little sob of a sound and turns tighter into Danny, burying a sob against his shoulder. Tucker doesn’t know if it’s pain or stress or–what, exactly, but Ancients, he hates the sound of it. He hates it. 

He knows it was a tripled-up dose in that shot. The concentrated mix. Jazz told them she was loading a triple for next time. So like, unless they used it while he was gone–unless they did that, it was a triple dose. 

It was a triple dose, and even after a triple, Dani’s still taking this long to fully come back together. 

Tucker really wants to like, go puke or have a freakout or something, but that would not actually be helpful right now, and it definitely wouldn’t fix anything. And like–and he needs to fix this, because that’s what he’s for in this damn fraid. That’s like–that’s just what he’s for period. 

He doesn’t know how to fix this. He just–he doesn’t know. And he’s supposed to know. He’s just–supposed to. 

“It hurt worse that time,” Dani croaks, then laughs helplessly past another sob; around another sob. Danny’s grip on her tightens, and Tucker sees how hard he swallows. He whips out his PDA again, and the reflex is just–

“How much worse?” he asks, ready to type in whatever she says. “Like–scale of one to ten on the pain scale, last episode and this one.” 

“It just fucking hurts, Tucker!” Dani yells into Danny’s shoulder, then chokes on another sob, and it just sounds angry. Danny’s jaw tightens and he squeezes his arms around her, and she sobs in actual fury. “Vlad was too stupid to make me right and I’m gonna fall apart because he was so stupid and it just fucking hurts, okay?! It hurts!” 

She hasn’t let go of Superboy’s hand, and he hasn’t let go of hers either. 

“I–yeah, I know,” Tucker says, and his throat just–burns, it feels like. “It just–symptoms, okay? We need to track those, remember?” 

“I don’t care!” Dani yells. “It’s stupid, it’s stupid, I don’t care, Vlad made me wrong and I’m wrong and this isn’t–this isn’t gonna work, I’m not–!” 

“Dani,” Danny says, his voice tight and strangled as he hugs her closer and buries his face in her shoulder too. She just sobs again. “Dani, I swear–we’re not gonna give up. We’re gonna figure this out. We’ll figure this out even if Tucker has to kidnap, like, the whole freaking Justice League.” 

“I mean I have some theories about the process,” Tucker admits, mostly because he’s hoping it’ll distract her, and Dani sobs out a laugh, and then just sobs. 

“It hurt so bad,” she chokes. “It still hurts. It hurts so bad, it’s so bad, Danny!” 

“I–yeah, I know,” Danny says roughly, his own voice coming out a little choked too. “I just–I know, Dani, it’s–it’s–I’ve got you. We��ve got you. Whole fraid. I swear. We’ll go back to Frostbite for the eighty billionth time, we’ll go raid Vlad’s stupid froot loop lab, we’ll–we’ll figure something out. We will.” 

Tucker is actually, like, going to go insane, he’s pretty sure.

[nats-w1fe]

Choose

Shauna Shipman x Reader/Lottie Mathews x Reader

Summary: Winter started to creep up, and you all realized it was time. Time for another hunt.

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Not accurate to how the actual scene went!!, Betrayal, major character death, angst, bad writing tbh

A/n: working on a Shaunahat piss kink request atm (I say as casually as I can)! For now you guys can have this!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You knew food was starting to become harder to come by, and you knew soon winter would come and those cards would soon too come out. But for now, till the snow fell—you salvaged any moment of peace you could get.

You’d been dating Shauna and Lottie since way before the crash, the three of you kept your relationship a secret until doomcoming. Everyone was surprisingly very supportive.

To say you were happy together would be an understatement, even in such a cruel place you knew you had each other. And those girls protected you like it was the most important thing in the world. Because, to them, you were the most important thing in the world.

They were the first ones that you told about your autism, but of course they could already tell. You had always been different You got overwhelmed easily, certain textures made you uncomfortable and could even make you cry. You were sensitive, very sensitive.

They never made fun of you for the way you were though, no, they helped you in any way they could. The favoritism was evident.

If there was spare food, it was yours. If there were spare blankets, they were yours. Someone built the best hut? That hut was now yours. Nobody seemed to care much for the favoritism though, which confused you. When you brought it up to Van all she said was, “well your Y/n, so y’know” she smiled at you as if the answer was obvious and made any sense.

Everyone was kind to you, you never argued with people. Even if people hated Shauna, they never hated you. Which made life easy for you.

But as happy as you may have been, you still missed home. You missed the warm embrace from your mother and father, you missed your little brother Jake who would force you to play cars with him. You regretted all the times that you turned down that offer.

But when the chance to go home finally came. You were stopped. Stopped by the two people you least expected, yet at the same time, it couldn’t be anyone else.

Lottie was first to refuse, then Shauna joined her. You could only stare in shock as Natalie scolded them. You tried to argue, to reason. But Shauna shut you down with a quick glare. Lottie comforted you that night as you cried in her arms, crying harder than you ever had before. She whispered to you about the wilderness needing you to stay here.

Specific words of hers caught your attention though, “It’s not done with you Y/n, I’ve seen the vision, of what it needs from you, don’t worry, only a few more days” you didn’t understand what she meant by that, you didn’t think you’d ever understand.

And on that night, when the snow fell, all your hope had faded away. You finally gave up. You were stuck here, for life, no matter how much you tried to deny it. The wilderness was too rooted deep inside you to leave anyway.

--

The sound of screaming was what woke you up. You rose from your bed that you shared with Shauna and Lottie.

Lottie groaned and gripped your waist, not wanting to let go, “Lot, we have to go look” you told her in a quiet whisper, “Shauna’s already gone”. She grumbled something under her breath before getting up and walking out with you.

You held her hand as the two of you walked together, the cold breeze shot a chill down your spine and you instinctively moved closer to Lottie.

When you arrived at the animal pen, where the scream came from, your eyes widened at the sight and you felt your stomach drop. The animals laid on the floor, dead.

You quickly covered your mouth with your hand, holding back bile that tried to force its way out your throat. “What happened…” Shauna muttered looking around at the state of the place. You looked over at Akilah who was knelt on the floor, clutching the body of a goat.

Your heart broke out the sight and you slowly made your way over to her. You crouched beside her and pulled her into a hug. "It's just like in my vision. They're gone, my babies, they..." she muttered frantically.

"How?" you asked, looking at the bodies that surrounded all of you, it was a horrid sight that made your stomach churn. "Maybe it wants us to leave" Natalie said. You all turned to her.

Maybe she was right.

"We got too arrogant. It's unhappy with us. We have to prove our faithfulness. It wants blood" Lottie announced, looking at you. You turned to Lottie. She stood next to Shauna. The two of them looked so powerful, yet terrifying. You hesitantly stood up and walked over to them. "We've done nothing but spill blood. Coach, the scientist, the... the guide." you listed off to them.

"But they were all our enemies." Mari spoke up. You quickly turned to her, furrowing your brows. Why was she agreeing with them? Mari of all people. "Mari what are you talking about?" Natalie asked her.

"Mari's right. We haven't offered it ourselves. It's not a real sacrifice unless we cherish it. We have to have another hunt." Lottie suddenly said. Your heart dropped. Your eyes widened and you stepped closer to her and Shauna. Your voice lowered to a whisper. "Lot, are you sure this is a good idea?" you asked her, putting your hand on her arm.

She gave you a gentle smile, but it only unsettled you more. She took your hand and held it in hers. "Baby, it’s what it wants, trust me" she laid a gentle kiss on your hand.

"I agree. And we have to do it right this time. We have to show the Wilderness our respect." Shauna said, mostly to you. You looked down at the ground, your mind reeling and heart racing. Shauna put her arm around your waist and pulled you close to her. "Nothing will happen to you, baby" she whispered, "I'll make sure".

--

That morning came quicker than you had hoped it would. When you finally woke up you were greeted by the bright sun shining through the cracks of the hut. Your brows furrowed and you reached for Shauna who laid beside you.

You practically climbed on top of her, burying your face in her neck to hide your eyes from the sun. Shauna chuckled and gently rubbed your back in slow, gentle circles.

"Morning" she whispered to you. You lifted your head and looked at her with a small smile. The sun reflected onto you perfectly. Shauna thought. You looked beautiful, angelic even. "Morning babe" you replied, your voice quiet.

"can we sleep in?" you asked her. One good thing that came out of Shauna becoming the antler queen was that you got to sleep in. She was in charge so you wouldn't get told off. Shauna shook her head, "Not today doll, sorry" she gave you a gentle kiss. You returned it eagerly and when she pulled away you sat up with an exaggerated groan.

"Once your dressed go help Lottie with her chores" Shauna told you as she stood up. She leaned forward and gently tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. You stood up and gave her another kiss. She chuckled slightly into the kiss but made no move to pull away.

Once you pulled away you smiled up at her, "I love you" you said. You had said it a million times before. It was nothing new. Yet, this time, it had so much more meaning. She kept her smile, but it altered to a bit of a more confused smile. "You okay?" she asked you, gently cupping your face in her hands. You nodded, "I'm fine" you gave her one last peck on the lips before getting changed and walking out of the hut.

You found Lottie standing out in the snow, she was staring up at the trees and seemed to be muttering something. You walked over to her, she turned around, probably hearing your incoming steps. “Hiya” you smiled at her

She smiled too, but you knew Lottie, you knew when something was wrong. Your brows furrowed and you stepped closer to her. “Whats wrong?” you asked her, putting a hand on her arm. She hesitated for a moment.

“I feel, weird, about this hunt” she admitted. Your eyes widened slightly. Lottie never usually felt anything that went against the wilderness and her usual beliefs, so now you were concerned. “Lot, you know we don’t have to do this? I’m sure everyone would much prefer to not do it anyway” you said with a chuckle, but she shook her head. “No, it has to be done, I just…a vision I had, I’m scared it’ll come true” she admitted to you.

Before you could even begin to ask her to elaborate, the others started walking out of their huts. Shauna began instructing them all to stand in a circle and they did as they were told without question. Yet, you could see the hesitation in their eyes, the fear, the regret.

You made your way over, standing beside Hannah. You took a deep breath and watched as Van shuffled the cards. She glanced at Taissa then to Natalie. Your brows furrowed, wondering what was going on. “Sh-Should I…?” Van asked, her voice was shaky. Shauna gave a rough nod, “You can start”.

Van picked a card off of the deck, you couldn’t see what it was, but it wasn’t the queen and that’s what mattered. The cards continued their way around the group. You noticed the continuous glances between Van and Taissa but you said nothing. Then all of a sudden, Shauna moved, she stood beside you. You looked slightly confused. “Shauna, what... You don't need to take any extra risk. You can go back to your spot.” Taissa told her, holding her hand out.

Shauna cocked a brow and tilted her head, “How'd you get into AP Stats? It doesn't change the odds. Besides, I trust whatever It wills. Misty, keep going.” She insisted. Misty did as she said, continuing to hand the cards out to everyone. Then she got to Shauna. You looked at her as she pulled the card off of the deck. It wasn’t the queen. You let out a sigh of relief. She smiled at you and then it was your turn.

You didn’t realise your hand was shaking until you reached out and took the card. All eyes were on you. Your heart raced. You turned the card around and your heart dropped. Tears filled your eyes almost instantly. You showed the card to the group. “No…redraw! We’re doing it again!” Shauna yelled, grabbing the cards roughly from Misty’s hands. “No! It chose…” Lottie told you all, she stepped forward, clutching an axe in her hand.

You looked at Lottie, “One…” she started to count. You felt your heart break into a million pieces. “Shauna” you called to her, your voice shaking. She couldn’t even look at you.

You looked at the others, Van, crying and avoiding your gaze. Taissa stared at you, too shocked to speak. That was the same for the others. You quickly took the cloak off of yourself.

You stumbled backwards, Lottie continued to count and as she got to four you sprinted off as fast as she could. The wind blew through your face, the sharp stabs of snowflakes slapped your face as you ran but you tried to ignore them.

Your heart was in your throat, fear pumped adrenaline threw your body and you ran faster than you had ever run before. Then you heard the howling, they were coming. They were hunting you like an animal. You fell to the floor, cutting your foot on a branch.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, clutching your foot. You sobbed, looking around to see if anyone had gotten close. You then saw Van, Natalie, Mari and Melissa approach. You quickly tried to get up to your feet. “No, no, no, no” you muttered, trying to run but you fell over.

Van rushed to your side, she brought you up to your feet, you screamed. “Please don’t! Van please!” you cried. “Y/n! Look at me!” she exclaimed, you looked at her, sniffling.

“We’re not going to kill you, we’ve got a plan to get home, we need you to be a decoy, to divert Shauna, Lottie and a few of the others away, can you do that?” she asked you, speaking slowly and kindly for you.

You shook your head frantically, “I can’t, I can’t” you sobbed, “I wanna go home” your flexed and unflexed your hands repeatedly, stimming. Natalie come over to you, taking your hand in hers. “Hey, hey, Y/n look at me” she spoke calmly but you could still hear the fear in her voice. You looked at her, “I know this is stressful and scary, but this is how we can go home okay? Take deep breaths and try your best okay?” she asked you, gently rubbing your arm to try and soothe you.

You nodded and finally managed to calm yourself as much as you could though your heart still pounded in your chest. “I’ll try” you assured them, Van suddenly lunged at you, pulling you into a tight hug. “Be safe Y/n” Van asked you.

Once she pulled away you ran off in the direction you heard the howling coming from. You turned to look behind you but just as you did you ran straight into someone. You grunted and fell to the floor. Your eyes widened but you physically relaxed when you realised it was just Lottie. You quickly stood up. “Lottie, you’ve gotta help me” you asked her, grabbing her hand. You noticed the way her eyes filled with guilt, you looked confused, “Lot?” you asked. “I’m sorry baby, its what it wants” she grabbed you by the back of your neck and lifted a knife. You screamed and tried to shove her hand away, “I’m so sorry baby” she muttered.

Just as she was about to bring the knife down, Mari shoved her away. You looked at her, “Run!” she yelled to you. You turned on your heels and sprinted off.

Lottie was going to kill you. Your Lottie. She was really going to kill you.

You stopped in your tracks when you noticed some others, including Shauna, starting to approach, they were at all angles. There was no where you could go now.

You choked out a sob, standing in the middle of them all as they slowly approached, “Shauna” you called to her, sniffling. She looked at you through her mask, she tightened her grip on the handle of her knife. “Please..” you muttered, knowing she could hear still, “I’m scared”. You heard someone running up behind you, you quickly turned and stumbled back.

Then all of a sudden, the sound of twigs snapping came from underneath you. and you dropped. You didn’t know how long you fell for, but when you felt the spikes impale you, you knew it was over.

--

“NO!” Shauna screamed, she dropped her knife, running over to the pit. She looked down and saw your body laying there. Spikes stuck through your body in numerous places. She fell to her knees beside the pit, crying out. Lottie came up behind her, “It’s what it wanted Shauna, I saw the vision, its why we had to stay, it was so desperate for her…she was different, she was struggling and it freed her”

[elodieunderglass]

We know Killie can get a little dapper with it, but I have to ask. How messy is his bedroom? Is he meticulous and tidy, or is he frantically shoving dirty socks under the bed when someone comes over?

(Killie the jockey OC)

Killie perceived that he spent a lot of his childhood and teen years putting things away properly. When his shared bedroom abruptly became a bedroom for only one person, he realised that it wasn't him who'd been messy. He suddenly found that things stayed where he put them. Killie is tidy-minded, and has little else to occupy him; he quietly imposes order on his space, simply because he passes through and automatically orders it.

There is never very much of Killie to be found in his material possessions, and he doesn't have much to put away. He is very rarely indoors, or at home, anyway. He doesn't own trinkets, or watch television, or read books or magazines, or have little hobbies that leave bits of things scattered around. Apart from the hand-tailored proper clothes, you could probably replicate everything in his home by a visit to a saddlery, and then to a sport supply shop. And a toothbrush.

Upon leaving his parents' family home, he has variously lived with Pippa/Rossa/other jockeys in shared rentals, and upon becoming a stable jockey, briefly lived above the stables in a dorm-style bunk accommodation provided by his employer, with the permanent grooms/stablehands. Eventually he moved to a microscopic, but private, flat of his very own on the employer's property - it might be a caravan (trailer) type accommodation, or a few rooms tucked above another stable. But the kitchen has practically nothing in it, the bed's just where he sleeps, and he could move out by packing a few suitcases. Nobody ever comes over - but if they did, his bedroom would never shame him. Even his laundry is terribly easy.

He brings his trophies and things home to the Tiernan base of operations in County Meath, because they have a Room to Put the Family Trophies In, and that's what you do. The place where he lives isn't his to decorate - it's his employer's - and besides, it's good enough that he knows that it's at home.

I think the advent of a Guy Who Declares They Are Boyfriends Now would bring a lot of quiet dismay to Killie, who would suddenly find himself beset by rapid changes. What's happened. Why is Killie always cleaning the kitchen again for some reason. Why are things always moving around? and getting dirty? Why is it hard to put stuff away properly, because there's already something there. What is HAPPENING? What do you MEAN the place is too small?

which is just a funny situation to put him in. Sorry Killie, people usually live in their living spaces. welcome to life.

[inkyrainstorms]

how this all appear to him? Ford spent thirty years bringing Stanley back, but Stanley fully believed Ford left him for dead. Probably was told that too. but it wasn’t true, and Stanley has to understand that. is this resentment? some odd stomach churning guilt? (your twins spent thirty years bringing you back. he could have made a life for himself)

For my thought process of this au, I had to think about the original Stan Twins, by making Ford go through the Portal and Stan stay what it did to Stan. It gave Stan a place to feel stable for 30 years, it gave Stan a goal of redemption, he had time to soften, to build a family. If Ford and Stan swapped places I think the same would happen to Ford. The man melted like a puppy when he saw his grandniece and nephew, in my mind he’s just as family oriented as Stan. So by pushing Stan into the portal, by pushing people away I think that would make Ford course correct hard.

Because I think that’s what Ford does, when he makes a mistake, he tries to correct that mistake by doing the opposite of what he initially did. Trusted the wrong person? Trust nobody. Pushing Stanley away leads to him having to shoot Stanley with the memory gun to fix his mistake? Ford spends the rest of his life with Stanley.

So by pushing Stanley into the portal, I think he would try to let his family in, and tries to be with them.

However for Stanley, I think getting pushed into the Portal…it changes him. Because he dropped everything to come help Ford, after years of holding out hope that he’ll make it back to family, snapped. Because he ended up back where he started ten years ago.

He can never come back to family. He’s losing a game, so why try?

It’s heartbreaking but he gives up on the idea that love can be reciprocated for him.

And with Bill throwing out the idea, that Stanley maybe was thrown through the portal as a sacrifice to buy Ford some time, Stan doesn’t want to believe it. But as the extra Stan, that’s what he was always for wasn’t he?

As years on the run from bill go on, the memory is a fickle thing. He goes back and forth, between the idea. Ford would never sacrifice him, he was his brother!

But then again it was ten years, he hadn’t see his brother in a long time. And he didn’t think it was possible for Ford to be Buddy Buddy with a demon, but somehow Ford managed to.

Was Stan remembering Ford correctly that night? Or could it be that Stan only was remembering that night through rose tinted glasses out of the hope that his brother would save him?

Struck by indescion, Stan does what he does best. He gambles or in this case makes a wager with himself.

Ford was the genius who built the portal right?

So if this whole thing was an accident, then Stanley would probably be out of here soon.

Because Ford, would try to save him. However if this whole thing was in fact a way for Ford to save his own skin, Stanley would not be able to make it back.

So if he gets rescued in a year or so, it was an accident. If he’s still stuck out here, then Ford tried to use him as a way to save himself.

So as the year goes by and Stan meets several Fords that say that they wouldn’t save Stanley, it just confirms it in Stan’s mind that Bill at least in that instance was telling the truth.

And Stanley can’t even get mad at Ford for it.

He just feels… like it just slotted something into place. Ford, was like everyone else, he just saw Stan as a thing to use, just like everyone else on the streets.

Funny, how he wasn’t even able to be a good sacrifice. Bill was still alive trying to get his brother. And even if Ford saw him as a way to survive, that’s fine. He’ll just have to do what he was sent to do. And save Ford, kill the triangle and get rid of Ford’s problems in one fell swoop.

So he watches what other Fords do, pretends to be one of them, to steal plans from them.

He watches other dimension trying to find one where they succeed in killing Bill so he can replicate it.

There was no use in getting home, there was never any use of getting home.

Might as do what he was born to do instead.

Also once Ford does bring him home, Stan’s still in that mindset, he needs to save Ford. And by the end of the summer he needs to leave before he gets kicked out, he can’t let himself be vulnerable and get his heart stabbed again.

Anyways so those were my thoughts/ Stan interlude a bit?

OH MY GOD ANON YOU ARE A GENIUS AND ALSO EVIL DID YOU KNOW THAT

god. Okay. We’re calling this part 3.5 where I get stabbed in the gut by feels for new and interesting reasons

of COURSE he’s being distant if he’s trying to protect himself. Of course he can’t bring himself to believe he’s worth something in the eyes of his family after not believing so for 30 years.

[pupfemmes]

hii 🫶🫶 i wanted to offer the scenario with mordern!Mizu when she and reader (wlw/gn) are friends, hopelessly in love, but too stubborn to notice it and how the bubble of denial would finaly break 🥰 dunno, i think it might be funny, especially with random people around mistaking them for couple while at the mall or something phaha

🏷️: best friends to lovers, queerplatonic friendship vibes, modern!au, loser!mizu, slow burn if you squint, weed usage, mizu gets her first kiss, sesbian lex is implied, t*igen mentioned sorry

🐾:ty for the ask my love!! i am always so excited to write mizu omg… as someone who was in a queer platonic friendship all throughout high school i relate so heavy to this scenario.. 🤭

you and mizu have been friends for years. since she’d moved into the house opposite yours, and you’d complimented her high tops and she’d just pushed you to avoid having to say thank you. you immediately asked her to be best friends.

over the years you’d become quite literally inseparable. you’d been ecstatic when you both got put in almost all of the same classes for high school, and you were at each other’s houses so often that it became normal to just walk in randomly, even when the other wasn’t home.

you had your group of friends, of course, but it was undeniable that the two of you were simply on another level of friendship. nobody seemed to understand you like mizu did, and vice versa.

throughout life you got closer— and even came out to each other at the exact same time, in mizu’s car after sharing a joint. she’d turned to you and said “hey, i have something to tell you,” and you’d repeated it, and at the same time you’d both very awkwardly come out to each other, and collapsed into a fit of giggles after.

your friends began to question the two of you in college, when you moved in together because both of you had insisted that totally random roommates would be weird. when you went everywhere together, when you argued like married people while decorating the apartment.

although you and mizu had separate rooms, every time your friend group stayed over after drinking, she’d let akemi and taigen take her bed, ringo would take the couch, and she’d sleep with you. nobody even had to convince her because she offered, and you were just as eager. it wasn’t weird to you two, you’d been sharing beds since childhood. but admittedly, when akemi found the two of you sleeping quite literally on top of each other—mizu’s hand on your waist and yours on hers—the next morning and told you it’s not friendship behaviour, you did start thinking.

any time you two went out together people stared. sure, you were odd looking people, but you lived in a part of the city practically infested with other queer people, so the stares probably weren’t judgemental… probably.

you and mizu had a tendency to go on dates without realising. you’d go to the aquarium so mizu could take pictures for an art project, or you’d go get coffee just for fun, you’d go just the two of you on fancy dinners when your friends cancelled, and you’d go grocery shopping together like an old married couple.

what made the both of you realise that maybe this behaviour wasn’t just friendship was when you were talking to a couple you’d met at the mall and one of them had asked you, “so where did you two meet? you seem so romantic!” and mizu had quite literally done a double take and immediately jumped to deny the claim.

that same night you were laid on the couch together, you on one end and mizu on the other with your legs criss crossed, when she’d turned to you and said, without missing a beat, “so, like.. what are we?” and it had led to a long and complicated conversation.

well, not really. you’d sort of just looked at her and said, “what do you think we are?” to which she’d just snorted. “i actually don’t know,” she confessed. “people seem to think we’re dating.”

“do you want to?” you’d replied, a little too quick for your liking. “well.. we basically already are.” and you’d both laughed and just accepted that maybe you were already dating, you just hadn’t realised it.

that same night, you’d given mizu her first actual kiss— and a whole lot more than that.

[fafodill]

I saw this somewhere, "The people who grew up in broken and dysfunctional homes often don't have big dreams. They usually only dream of having a home nobody can take away, and a person who won't abandon them."

Do you think this was the case for Severus?

I think he did have big dreams! On top of growing up in a dysfunctional home, he was also very poor and we know that he couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts and get his magical education. It was as much an escape as a promise for his future.

And then he got hit by reality, which was that his social and blood status were preventing him from being respected and recognized - and this a big part of why he was a prime candidate to becoming a DE. His dreams had been crushed. He knew he was intelligent but none of his teachers saw it (especially not his Head of House who was his potion professor!). Tom Riddle was showering them with promises of power. After spending 7 more years being bullied 4 vs 1, he was craving power and recognition. He wanted to be seen.

And this is - in my opinion - because he craved as much (if not even more) a community in which he was really welcomed in. Friends. Not one, but many, being nice to him and accepting of him and his interests. He craved love and I think he craved the unconditional kind. It is, after all, what he felt for Lily despite her flaws, what he kept on feeling even after she had cut ties with him.

Deep down, I think he craved both. A better life and strong, unconditional love.

[fancyfeathers]

Burn It All Down

(Yandere!Justice League & Yandere!Young Justice)

Based on Yandere!Justice League with their darling!children AU

Previous Chapter <- Chapter Twenty, Hope Burns Bright -> Next Chapter

This chapter is told from the perspective of Hal Jordan’s Daughter!Reader

Each chapter will be from the perspective of the reader, but as the different children since when I originally had this concept, they were all darling/reader characters.

You were sitting down at the kitchen table in your boyfriend’s apartment, still wrapped up in a blanket with your knees curled up to your chest, with a blanket still wrapped around you like a caterpillar. It was fairly early in the morning, but you could hardly sleep last night, and Kyle decided to stay up with you, binge-watching old movies with you until the two of you must have fallen asleep eventually. You had felt constantly overstimulated by the last day that you still had not come down from that horrible high, but perhaps it was more of a crash, going so fast that you hit a wall. 

“Here you go, pretty girl.” Your attention is caught when you hear your boyfriend’s voice as he sets down a mug filled with a lighter brown liquid inside, it smelled sweeter which meant it was not coffee, which did not surprise you given your already alert state which gave you jitters, so adding coffee to the mix would have just amped it up a hundred times. “It’s just some hot chocolate mixed with some cappuccino mix I got from the store yesterday for you.” “Mhm… thanks, Kyle…” You sighed, staring down at the cup in front of you before picking it up with both of your hands, cradling the warm ceramic between your fingers as you brought the sweet and hot mixture to your lips, it tasted nice, something to take your mind off of the weight of the world that bared down on your shoulders. “Thanks for everything…”

“Don’t think about it, you’d do the same for me.” He leaned over, pressing a kiss to your face, the skin beside your eye, on the side of your face, before he walked back over to the kitchen, the open design of the apartment still allowing you to watch him. “How do you want your eggs, babe?”

“Just toast for me-”

“Nuh-uh, last time you had breakfast with me and you wanted just toast, you ended up eating some of my eggs.” Your face grew all flushed at his comment, tucking yourself into your blanket even further, which only made Kyle laugh at your reaction. “Is over easy fine?”

“Ya… ya, that’s fine.” You replied to and your boyfriend responded with a nod. You leaned back in your chair, still holding your mug as you turned to look out the window to watch the busy city go by in a rush, not even knowing you were there. Is that what you were, a nobody? So what if you were given a Blue Lantern Ring? That does not mean you will ever be important, after all, you felt like you would practically be useless in a real bloody fight without a Green Lantern nearby. The others had their own natural skills, Songbird was agile and a trained vigilante, Huntian was literally trained by mythical warriors, your twin brother was a goddamn genuis, then, Hex was an actual magican, of course, Supergirl, Dreamcatcher, Blitz, and Pisces all had powers that they were all born with or developed later in life that they inherited from their parents.

Then what was your weapon? Optimism…

Ya, you do not feel like much of an optimist right now.

You must have been off in your mind longer than you expected, since the next thing that pulled you out of your slump was Kyle setting a plate down in front of you before coming to sit across from you at the small round table. 

“I have to leave for Oa later today, got the call last night while you were asleep, I didn’t want to wake you up.” He spoke to you as you brought one of the pieces of toast up to your lips, nibbling at the corner. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but you are more than welcome to stay here, this is your home-”

“Can I come with you?” The question slipped from your lips before you could even think about what you were saying, it just came out of your mouth as if it was an instinct you had that you never knew about. Kyle almost reminded you of one of those street cats that lurked around your neighborhood growing up, the ones whose eyes went wide when you offered them a piece of what was left of your school lunch on your walk home from the bus stop. “Sorry… that was… I shouldn’t come with if it is official work for the Green Lantern Corp-”

“No- wait, no, I mean yes.” Kyle stumbled over his words as he interrupted you, trying to form a response that made a little bit of sense. “Yes, you can come with… please come with.”

“Wow, you are eager.” You laugh, a spark of life coming back to your eyes as you saw his cheeks grow all red. “You have something you wanna tell me?”

“No… Just wanna show off my beautiful Blue Lantern.” You watched as he moved his chair over to you was more so sitting next to you rather than across from you, being able to lean over and kiss your face, pressing kisses to your lips in between words. “Because. I. Love. You. So. Much.” 

“Mhm, you’re sweet…Hey- mphm!” You laughed as Kyle maneuvered you around, sliding you out of your chair and pressing your back against the table so you could move to straddle his lap, your arms coming to wrap around his neck as he kissed you, a mix between playful kisses and a makeout, leaving you both breathless as you pulled away. “We’re saving breakfast for later, right?”

“Yep.”

You liked flying; it was a freeing feeling, really. No gravity to pull you back down like when you jump, just the open space all around you. 

Your fingers were intertwined with Kyle’s hand as you flew through the nothingness all around you, the stars millions of light years away, zooming past like in those old movies you used to watch with your dad when you were younger. Once upon a time, your dad brought you and your brother to Oa when you were babies, there was some sort of long-term training, and he did not want to leave you two and your mom to stay in the Watchtower that long so he made the decision to bring you along, but there was no doubt in the back of your mind that it was also to show the both of you off, after all he was so proud of the two of you, even when you were that small.

“Excited to see your dad again?”

“I…” Your blood ran cold at hearing his question. You thought your dad was back on Earth, there was no way in hell that you were ready to see him again, not yet, not now. “W-what?”

“Ya, apparently it wasn’t just me who was called, it’s all of our space sector’s Green Lanterns.” Your boyfriend shrugged as if it was not something to worry about, but for you, it sent shivers down your spine. “The others left earlier than we did, so they’ll probably be the ones to brief us on what’s going on, going to meet them outside of the hazard simulation facility, the training facility in other words.”

“Oh… great.” Your words must have finally filled in your boyfriend about your current state of mind. You two froze in mid-air, the nothingness all around you fading away in your mind; it did not matter right now.

“Dulce niña… are you alright?” Kyle’s hands came to cup either side of your face, bringing your face up to look him in the eye from behind both of your masks. “You know you can always talk to me, right? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I…I wasn’t completely honest with you when I told you I moved out…” You started in your words, unsure how well this would go over, after all, the truth can hurt sometimes. “My brother and I… we ran away together… I got my ring about a week after we left home, that’s why my dad doesn’t know.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I…I…” You thought for a moment on how to answer his question, you knew your brother left home because of the truth about your parents’ relationship, but you did not run away because of that, after all you loved your dad, you were much closer with him than your brother was, you could never be as hateful and full of rage like your brother was the night you left home. “My…my brother talked me into it, I guess I left because I didn’t want him to be alone, but now… I’m glad I left, and I don’t think I can go back after the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had… but I still miss home.”

“Hey, come here, Mi Amorcita.” You did not fight it when he pulled you into a hug, leaning your head against his chest as his fingers brushed through your hair, pressing his lips against the top of your head. “No one blames you for anything, and if they do, then they have to answer to me, ya?”

“Ya…”

“I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

Oa was not exactly what you were expecting. It was something straight out of the sci-fi movies you binged with your friends on the bus on the way to a volleyball game in another city. California was a big state, so you could get a good few of them in before you arrived at your destination. But Oa was far different than Odym, the home planet of the Blue Lantern Corps. Odym was more forest, like a wilder rainforest, but Oa was just far more developed than what you expected; it made sense in a way, after all, the Green Lantern Corps has been around much longer than the Blue Lanterns, and after all, they protected so much of the known universe. You could see different Green Lanterns shoot glances your way as you flew by, after all, it was not every day that they saw a Blue Lantern, especially a Blue Lantern visiting Oa alongside one of their own.

“Hey, don’t psych yourself out, besides, we’ll be talking to Lanterns from Earth, not meeting with the Guardians of the Universe.” 

“Somehow, that only makes me more nervous.” You sigh, shaking your head as you spot another Green Lantern flying by, who is staring at you, so you forced a smile and waved at them, you could see a brief look of shock on their face at you noticing them before giving you a wave in return with a bright smile tugging at their lips. “But it’s good to know that I’m not a total freak here.”

“You’re not a freak at all.”

“Say that to my old classmates who thought I was some sort of dropout from how much school I missed from whenever my dad was off planet, and he had us staying in the Watchtower, pretty sure they thought I was in a mental hospital half the time.” You felt Kyle give your hand a tight squeeze at your words, taking your mind off of your past for a second. “Sometimes it wasn’t easy having a Green Lantern for a dad.”

“Makes me think if we’ll be good parents or not- I mean that is if we have kids… sorry that’s a conversation for later.” You let a laugh slip out at his awkward trail off, you were not quite sure if you wanted to be a parent, you would be away so often, your childhood was wonderful, besides the anxiety attacks, and when your dad was off the planet. “Well, speaking of your dad… looks like we’ve been spotted.” 

You sucked in a breath as you followed where your boyfriend was pointing, about a hundred feet below stood two men, standing in a plaza like area outside what you assumed was the training facility Kyle mentions, both looking up at the two of you. One of them you did not know, but you recognized him at least, the red hair and the Green Lantern suit, Guy Gardner, you remembered your dad saying he was a tool, but had a good heart deep down. The other man was someone you recognized and knew extremely well, and there was a near-unreadable look on his face, but if you had to place it, it would be a mixture of concern, stress, relief, and worst of all, disappointment. Your dad was never disappointed with you.

You had a sinking feeling in your gut as your feet landed on the ground, right alongside Kyle, standing in front of the other lanterns in front of you. Your eyes drift to look closer to the ground, unable to say anything, unsure if you should.

“Thank god you’re okay.” You tensed up when you felt arms envelop you, pulling you close to him, a tight squeeze before you felt his hands slip away from your side and to cup either side of your face, turning your head over each way like he did when he rescued you as Green Lantern when you snuck out and nearly got killed by construction equipment falling on you. “What were you thinking?”

“Dad, I’m fine-”

“I don’t think running away from home is fine, do you know what could have happened to you?!” You heard your dad sigh before glancing over at Guy and Kyle. “Guy, fill Kyle in, I need to talk to her-”

“But-”

“Alone. Now.” You tensed up when you felt his hand grab onto your forearm, you could not fight him as he pulled you up with him, your own lantern ring supporting you as your feet lifted up the ground. “Cmon, let’s go.”

“Hey-”

“Kyle, don’t.” You cut Kyle off as your feet were a few feet above the ground and flying higher. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Oh… oh okay.”

The flight itself was silent, just a certain tenseness between the two of you before you finally landed on what you assumed to be some sort of balcony to some rooms, living spaces, apartment, whatever you wished to call it. As you both stepped forward, just after your feet landed on the ground, you saw your dad’s Green Lantern suit dissipate, dressed casually like he would be when he was picking you up from school when you were little, including that same old Air Force jacket. He stepped a few steps deeper into the room, which resembled a living room, his hand tangling in his hair, stress taking hold as he struggled for what to say.

“Is your brother okay?”

“Ya, he’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes- Dad, what is this about?”

“You ran away and you are asking what this is about?” You were taken back by his tense attitude towards you, normally he was more patient with you than anyone else, but it seems you have tried his patience too far this time, sneaking out was one thing but running away from home was another. “Look, you can’t-“

“Are those my stuffed animals?” You cut your dad off, your curiosity getting the better of you as you saw a stack of boxes tucked away in a corner, like ones someone would bring if they were moving, and out of one of them you saw the leg of your childhood stuffed rabbit sticking out, one that you have had since you were a little girl, the once bright pink fur all faded. You walked over to the box, pulling out the rabbit by the head and holding it in your hands. “Dad, what’s going-“

“Hal, is someone here?” Your ears perked up at another all too familiar voice, your heart pounding in your chest and the world pausing all around you. “I swear to god I- Oh… oh my god…”

Your heart stopped in your chest as you turned your head around to see your mom, sitting in her wheelchair, having come to check what all the commotion was about. She looked completely shocked at the sight of you and it was rare that anything surprised her anymore, after all, she was a detective for the Federal Bureau of Investigation before she had an accident while on a case which resulted in a spinal injury and leaving her wheelchair bound, but this was long before you were even born.

“Mama?” You tilted your head, probably looking like a sad and confused puppy dog in a way. “W-what… what’s going on… if you’re off earth then she should be in the Watchtower o-or Coast City if it’s a short t-trip… that’s always how it is… my rabbit is here… what’s going on?”

“Sweetheart, just breathe, you’re starting to spiral.” You felt your dad’s hands come to rest on your arms, just below your elbows. “Focus on your breathing… in… and… out… I’ve got you…”

Begrudgingly you followed his instructions, you did not know how many times before your dad had helped you through a panic attack, having been diagnosed with a panic disorder among other things around the start of high school which made you feel even more ostracized from your other classmates and peers growing up, feeling like a total mess…

Breathe in for four seconds…

Hold for four seconds….

Breathe out for four seconds…

Control and safety.

“Can you name five things you see, sweetheart?”

“T-the ground… the windows… t-the furniture… you… and m-mom…”

“Good. That’s good. What about four things you can touch?”

“My ring… my hands… my suit… my hair…”

You and your dad have developed a whole process for your panic attacks now, breathing exercises, sitting down together, then naming five things you can see, naming four things you can touch, naming three things you can hear, naming two things you can smell, and naming one thing you can taste until the world slowly slides back into focus, until your body starts to feel like your own again. If you were back home then you would have your weighted blanket and he would sit down with you until it was all over.

“Alright, are you with me sweetheart?” 

“I…I’m with you…”

“That’s good, sweetheart… I need you to stay calm when I tell you what I’m about to say, think you can do that?”

“Y-ya…”

“Your mom and I can’t go back to Earth, at least not right now… no Green Lantern can.”

“W-what?”

You have already heard of the Reach before your dad sat you down to talk to you, you remember Blitz and Apollo filling you in about the recent United Nations press conference a few days ago now, or so you guessed since you were sure trip to Oa took a few days but you could never be quite sure given the lack of cycle of night and day in the void of space, but you certainly did not know their history before you were finally told. Following a history of conquest, the Reach, a powerful race of aliens, was forced to change tactics after being forced to sign a peace treaty with the Guardians of the Universe. The treaty forbade them from invading any planet unless they were invited. Apparently they were so powerful that it took the entire Green Lantern Corps to halt their rampage.

But the most important detail…

If the Reach is invited to a planet then a Green Lantern could never return there again.

“Oh my god…” You felt sick to your stomach when your dad finished explaining the current situation to you. “You… you can’t be serious… oh my god.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but look for the meantime you and your mom will be safe here, and I’m in contact with the Justice League members still on earth and if they bring your brother to the Watchtower then-“

“You can’t be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not staying here…” you reply, your hands threading through your hair as you thought back to everything you still had on earth, your team, your friends back home in Coast City, all the people you promised yourself that you would help and protect. “I can’t just abandon my friends and my team… they need me right now- especially right now, I’m not about to let a bunch of fucking lunatics take over my home.”

“You are a bunch of kids-“

“I’m almost twenty!”

“And you think you can handle yourself out there with all of this?” Your dad never raised his voice at you, just staring you down from where he leaned against the wall and where you sat down. “Sweetheart, I just want the best for you and keep you safe, and I can’t do that if you are a million miles away and in the middle of a goddamn battlefield.”

“I was given a lantern ring for a reason-“

“But you aren’t ready for it, not yet.” 

“And what if you’re wrong? What if I’m ready for it?”

“We both know that’s not true, I’m just trying to protect you-“

“Enough!” Your mom finally snapped, exhausted from hearing the two of you argue on the side lines. “Hal, you need to let her go-“

“I’m not letting her walk into a suicide mission.”

“I’m not asking for your permission, dammit! I am telling you!” You snapped, pushing your dad’s hand away as you stood up from the oddly shaped couch, walking back to the balcony that led out into all of Oa, ready to leap out and fly off, shooting a glance back at your parents. “I’m sorry, but if… if I have a chance then I have to try.”

You could hear your dad yell your name as you jumped off the balcony, your ring holding you up in the air so you could fly off, zooming away to try to find Kyle first. Your first instinct is to go back to the training simulation facility to see if he was still waiting outside for you to return, and in a way your instincts were correct in the worst way possible.

Bamm!!

You groaned as your head crashed into someone else’s head as you zipped around a corner, your head ringing for a moment as you regained your balance to see that the person you literally ran into was Kyle, he was probably coming to look for you.

“Oh my god, babe… I am so sorry.” You cringed as you apologized, seeing Kyle rub his forehead with the base of his hand. “Look I… I new to talk to you.“

“I need to talk to you, Mi Amorcita.”

“Oh, love birds are we?” You groaned as you heard a comment come from your home planet’s other Green Lantern as he turned the corner, following after Kyle, and to which his comment earned a sharp glare from your boyfriend.

“Shut. Up.”

“Fine, fine… I’ll just watch.”

“Just… god, you are the worst.” Kyle rolled his eyes, before looking at you, his voice still seeming somewhat strong if not sad as his eyes locked with yours from behind your masks. “I…I can’t go back to earth.”

“I… I know…” You replied to his statement, honestly you had no idea how much this would truly affect you, your dad not being on earth was one thing, but now coming to have to face the fact that Kyle was not going to be there was another, he was the one who brought you something to believe in again, gave you a reason to have hope for the future. “But… I… I have to go back, Kyle…. If there is anything I can do… anything at all, I have to try-“

“And what are you going to do, little lady? A blue lantern can’t even hold a solid construct without-“ You did not even think about it before the palm of your hand connected with Guy Gardner’s face. Deep down you knew he meant it as some sort of joke but honestly you could not bring yourself to laugh and even then you did not even find it funny in the slightest. You watched as a red spot formed on his face, covering his check, as he was left flabbergasted. “Ow!”

“You’re fine… jesus.” You watched as Kyle rolled his eyes, before trying to turn the moment sincere again, his hands coming to hold your own as he pulled you along and leaving the other human lantern behind, flying off from the one who tried to screw around during your conversation. “I won’t stop you, but are you sure about this?”

“I am…”

“Alright, then I support your decision.” You two finally stopped when you were a few hundred feet away from the other Green Lantern, giving the two of you a moment of peace between the two of you as you were pulled into a hug, his arms holding you close and squeezing you tight. “But, just stay the night, rest and recuperate before making the trip back, gather your thoughts, and I’ll see you off in the morning, mkay?”

“Oh… uhm okay." You muttered with a smile, pressing your head against his chest. You knew he meant to stay with him but you felt like there was somewhere else you should be during this last night. “I… I’m going to stay with my dad tonight… is that okay?”

“Of course it is, Mi Amorcita.”

You just needed this one night…

Pretend everything is normal again…

Like you are back home again…

Play pretend…

Just for one more night before what could be a suicide mission.

In fearful day, in raging night, With strong hearts full, our souls ignite, When all seems lost in the War of Light, Look to the stars-- For hope burns bright!

[hidden-poet]

Animal part 2

Synopsis: After visiting a bathhouse Logan meets you, and the animal within him starts clawing out.

Warnings: not canon, dark!, non-con, a little bit of romantisation of things that should not be romanticized, kidnapping, Dark!logan(jimmy? james?), dom/sub vibes, , female reader who is described quite a bit, rough sex, graphic sex, basically born with little plot, unedited and written in a couple of hours, dead dove to not eat.

Part 1 here

Part 2 (final)

AN: written and posted. Not looked over once.

You were silent the whole way from the plane to his truck. 

It worried him. You should be screaming. Hitting and kicking. But you weren’t. 

Was something wrong with you? 

He opens his old truck's door and you slide into the passenger seat willingly. 

Logan shakes his head as he closes the door. His resolve had softened if you ran now, he would have let you go. But instead, he places the bag into the bed of the truck. 

The car door squeaks as he opens it, and his seat makes a tired sound when he sits down. The car was old and often unused. 

He wondered if you liked motorcycles. He then wondered how often you would really be away from the house. 

“Alrighty then”, he comments, turning the engine over, “All ready?”. 

You don’t answer him, just turn your head to the window. 

The radio playing softly helped to fill the air with something other than the awkward tension.

He wondered why you weren’t crying. Why the begging had stopped. He would have loved to know what was going on inside of your head but you gave him no indication. 

Only when Logan began to drive from the city did you begin to twist your hands together in worry. He at least now knew you had a healthy dose of fear.  

“You hungry?” he asks, “we can stop and get something to eat”.

His offer is ignored. He glances over to see you still as a rock looking out the window.

Snow covered most of the landscape. All you saw was lumps of white and the odd car.

“Hey?”, he questions. He reaches out to place a hand on your knee to draw your attention, you knock your leg from under him, and he retreats his touch back to the steering wheel. 

“Maybe you just want to head home”, he talks to himself. 

“Home?”, you mock, “Where are we going?”

“Westchester county. We’re still about an hour or so from it. You’ll like it there. I’ve got an apartment just up from the school. Nobody will bother us there”. 

“You live near a school?” you ask. 

“Yeah, well I work there actually. It’s a special school. For mutant kids. We teach them how to control their abilities. Given em’ a chance no one else will give”. 

You are quiet for a second, taking the time to pull logans’ jacket tighter around you, trying to fight off the shivers encroaching your body. 

“I voted for mutant rights, you know”, you say. 

Logan reaches to the center console turning the heat as high as it would go. 

“Here , put your hands closer”, he orders. 

He reaches out to take your hands into his but you yank away from his touch. 

“I aint gonna hurt ya” he told you. 

“So long as I do what you want, right?” you quip. 

“No’ Logan protests, “No, no matter what.”

You turn back to the window. Your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. 

Logan leaves it, focusing on the road ahead. 

It’s an hour and a half of silence until he is finally travelling up the windy road to his home. 

The road is covered in snow, and thick forest covers the area. 

The large estate looked out of place in a mysterious and cold atmosphere. 

A warm, inviting glow invited passing buyers to stop. It looked full of life in isolation of the cold dead forest. 

Your eyes were glued to it as Logan drove past. You supposed it would have to be hidden, but you weren’t sure who benefited the most. There were some humans who would do harm to mutants, but there were some mutants who would do harm to humans too. 

“Pretty impressive isn’t it?” Logan asks with a hint of playfulness in his voice. 

“How many students are there?”, you ask, 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a hundred”, Logan guesses. 

“A hundred mutants in just one place”, you say out loud. 

“Kids”, he corrects. His tone carried his annoyance. “A hundred kids in one place”.

You dont say anything further, in fear of upsetting him. 

Logan’s house was high in the mountains. There was nothing but his house and trees.

There was no one around to help. He could do whatever he pleased. You wonder if he would drop the nice guy act. 

He doesn’t. He parks the car, and carries the bags from the back. 

You follow him to the door slowly, he never hurries you. Just occasionally looks back on the journey to the driveway to the front door. 

The house didn’t look large. 3 bedrooms at the most. While the main build was plaster, it had a lot of wooden features. 

The door was a good oak wood, a long wooden bench was pressed up against the entry wall, a dull, yellow light shined from inside a wooden light fixture. 

When Logan opened the door, wooden floor boards greeted you. They squeaked as you entered the home. 

Logan flicks on the lights and you see a wooden table and chairs, an old worn sofa, a beaten up white fridge and rubbish everywhere. 

The bags are dropped to the floor to free his hands to clean. 

He picks up as many empty beer cans he can hold, and throws an old flannel that was thrown across a bar stool over his shoulder. 

“Sorry about the mess” he apologies, “Ah, i wasn’t expecting, ah”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, going to the kitchen to throw the cans away. The kitchen was immediately to the left of the door, an open living concept meant that you never lost eye sight of him as he moved.

“Didn’t think you’d go through with it?” you finished for him. 

Logan sighs, leaning against the counter with his hands. 

“I am not sure what I  was thinking”, he admits. 

“How long do you plan to keep me here for?”, you ask.

Logan shuts his eyes, his hands balled into fists on the counter, “I don’t know, darl”. 

“Right, well” you say without fear, “would you mind if I had a shower? It’s been a long day”.

Logan unravels himself at your request, heading from the kitchen down to the hallway. 

“Follow me”, he orders.

You do and he leads you to the bathroom at the end. It was spacious enough to hold a toilet, bathtub and shower. The floor was white tile, matching the sink. It was kept in good condition. Apart from the toothpaste on the counter, everything was in its place. 

Directly across was a sliding, wooden cupboard that Logan took a brown towel from. 

“The hot water takes a second”, he advises pushing the towel into your hands, “If you need anything let me know. I’ll in the end room”. 

You nod, going to shut the door between you two. He continues to stand there until the door is completely shut in his face. 

The tears that pool in your eyes are finally released. You don’t make a sound but the tears roll down your cheeks as you start the water and begin to take off your clothes. 

You didn’t really know where you were. No one knew where you were. And you were here, trapped with a mutant that commands blades to come out from his hands. He’s strong too, a quick healer and who knows what else. 

How could you possibly fight back against him? 

There was nothing you could do other than obey. He said he was a good guy. You mostly believe him. Perhaps this would be a quick trip and you would be back home within the week. 

The shower helps sooth you. You wished you had all your lotions and shampoos. He had one bottle of the cheapest shampoo on the shelf, and a bar of unscented soap. You use them anyway. 

Your skin felt sticky after everything that you had gone through. 

You turn the shower off and wipe your face clean of your tears before drying off in the towel. 

Your old clothes lay on the floor. You think about putting them on again but you finally feel clean, and what was the point of hiding, he had seen everything before. 

With the towel wrapped around you, you patter down to the end room. Logan was changing the sheets on his queen bed. 

He looks up as he stretches across the bed to fit the sheet. Seeing you standing there in nothing but a towel froze him. 

“Hey”, he says, still unmoving. 

You look around the room rather than at him. 

Logan didn’t have much, and you had a feeling that was a choice. 

The bed had mis-matched sheets, the table on the right side of the bed only had a lamp. There was a set of wooden, built-in cupboards that stretched nearly across the whole wall, you bet there were only a few items in there. 

Logan forgets the bedsheet, crawling off the bed and over to you, dripping wet on his floor. 

His finger hooks under the front of your towel and with an eyebrow raised, he tugs the fabric from you. 

It falls in the heap at your feet. You feel your face turn red as Logan looks over you, saying nothing. 

His eyes flick up after a moment, and he takes a hold of the side of your face, bringing you in for a kiss. 

Your hair drips over him as assaults your lips. You mumble against him but your lips are captured again and again before you could make a full word. 

He steps forward wrapping his arms around you so he could lift your feet off the ground and carry you over to the bed. 

He drops you on the part of the sheet that covers the bed in its unfinished state. 

It doesn’t seem like he was looking at you, as he stands between your legs and unbuckles his belt. 

His eyes cast off just beside where you lay, and a scowl covers his face.

With his pants down, he still doesn’t look at you. He lays his body over yours, and buries his head in your neck. 

His hand grips your thigh over his hip, and his other posts on the bed to keep his weight off you. 

Your hands dig in his hair, taking a firm grip and bracing yourself for his entrance. 

He shoves his entire length in the first go and it knocks an ‘oft’ out of you. 

He never leaves you, quick, needly thrusts jackhammer into you.

You feel so completely full with him inside of you. His body cages you, you felt you could do nothing more than take it. 

Logan grunts fill your ears. You had no space to even move your head to quieten the sounds. 

In his rush, his white t-shirt stayed on, you could feel the faint outline of his dog tags as he pressed against you.

You began to get sensitive, the more stimulated you got. Your hips bucked away from the pressure, but Logan's strong grip made escape impossible. 

“Stay fucking still”, he comanded. 

You do. Letting him runt into you, until he finally came with a soft moan. 

Your hands drop from his hair onto the bed but he remains in the same position. His face buried into your neck and his cock buried into your cunt.  

“You alright?” he asks in a soft voice against your neck. 

“I need another shower”, you comment. 

Logan lets you have the bed to yourself. He makes a make-shift cot on the floor beside you.

The sheets smell nice, although they are old and worn. 

His packing of your bags was done hastily and in a clouded mindset. You have four pairs of jeans, six tops, a handful of handerwear, a pair of leggings that were stuffed in with the jeans, and a grey singlet. No toiletries and only the brah you wore.

He had promised to take you to the shops to collect what you need, but he didn’t say when. For now you wore your leggings and one of his clean flannel shirts.

He leaves the lamp on for you and puts an extra blanket on the end of the bed in case you got cold during the night. 

The night was quiet. No car, nor animal could be heard outside. You were completely alone here. 

You wondered if Logan was asleep. It had been at least an hour since he last spoke or tossed. 

You turn to look at him on the floor. He looked asleep. His eyes were closed and his hand rested on his chest. 

He was quite handsome. It was too bad he was a mutant. 

You had nothing against them before this. That could have been because you had never come across one. But who could say? He looked so normal. 

How many other men in the bathhouses were mutants? How many thought about doing what he has done because no one could stop them?

You turn back away from him, the salt of your tears running down to your lips.

How hopeless it all felt. The only reason you worked for the bathhouse in a strange city was in the search of freedom and independence. Now it has cost you exactly that.

Who knows if he would even let you live after this. If he was one of the good mutants, who fought for man-kind, could he risk having this slip up against his name?

You sob at the image of his sharp claws digging through your stomach. 

“Hey” you hear Logan call, but you couldn’t stop crying. He leaps up from the floor and nestles up behind you. 

“Hey, stop that. It’s alright”, his arms goes under your pillow and his hand brushes the hair back again and again while he speaks into your ear, “Sh, it’s alright. Just go to sleep”. 

With his petting, and long day, your eyes droop into a restless sleep. 

—------

Once you woke the next morning, Logan was still in the bed with you.

His arm slung over your waist and his other under your pillow. 

You rise without him. Going out to the living room where living alone meant anything could go anywhere. 

You think about making a run for it, but it is zero degrees outside and you had no idea where you were going. The closest thing was the school, and you know mutants protect their own kind. 

Instead, you begin to tidy up. You begin with the rubbish which makes a huge difference. 

The kitchen had a dishwasher and you begin a new cycle with the dirty dinnerware.  Most of them were empty cups. He seemed to like coffee and alcohol more than food. 

You take inventory of his food. Most of it was out of date. You had wanted toast but the bread was moldy and the butter was scrapped bare. 

You open a can of peaches and eat those instead. You hoped he would make good on his shopping promise. 

Three peach slices in, you hear his bare feet as they bound against the floor. 

He looks frazzled reaching the living room.  His hands grip the frame of the entry as he brings himself to a halt seeing you in the kitchen. Only in his boxes and white shirt, he gazes at you like you were the one who was crazy. 

“You’re still here”, he comments. 

You pop another peach slice in your mouth before answering, “yep”. 

“You should have left”, he accuses. 

“Would I have got far?” you ask. 

He straightens up as he thinks about it, his hand comes off the door as he makes his way towards you. 

“No”, he confirms. 

He looks around the room in its tidy state, “Christ” he complains, throwing up his hands, “You didn’t have to. I don’t expect you to do things like that for me”. 

“I know what you expect from me”, you bite. 

“Hm”, he hums, once again avoiding eye contact with you as he walks your way.  

When he reaches you, he places both hands on the counter either side of you, trapping you once more. 

“Whatch’a eating?”. 

You hold a peach slice on your fork to show him. He leans forward, taking the peach into his mouth. 

“You want eggs?”, he asks. 

You nod your head, and he pushes back against the counter away from you. 

He takes the egg carton out of the beaten fridge along with mushrooms that had seen fresher days. 

The fridge door is kicked closed and you realise why it is in such bad shape. The ingredients are dumped on the kitchen counter in front of you. 

He takes a large knife out of the draw and throws it to the bench before reaching behind you to take a wooden chopping board that you had used for display. 

“You do the eggs, I’ll chop the mushroom”, you offer. 

“You like mushrooms?” he questioned as he reached for a plastic bowl. 

You nod once more and begin your task of slicing the mushrooms. You cut off the bad parts which leave only a small amount of mushrooms left. 

Logan whisks the eggs with salt and pepper in the bowl. 

“Did you sleep okay last night?”, he disrupts the peaceful quietness of focusing on the tasks.

“As good as can be expected”, you answer. 

He clears his throat, looking at the eggs as he speaks, “I’ll take you shopping today, if you want. We can go into town”.

He reaches for the mushrooms. You don’t think, you only do and pick up the knife driving it into his lower stomach. 

He grunts as its lodges but he shows no other physical effects. 

Blood leaks from the wound, redding his white shirt. With an eye roll he yanks the knife from himself and throws it into the sink. 

“That’s incredible” you say. The large wound should bleed furiously but it looked like it had stopped already. You raise his shirt enough to see the wound had already healed. Not a scar in its place. 

“Look, bub, I don’t mind a bit of foreplay but how about a warning next time, huh?”, he snaps. 

‘Does it hurt?”

“Yes” he grunts, shoving your hand away from his shirt.  “But lucky, I am a fast healer”. 

“What else can you do?” you ask once more. 

Logan falls away exasperated, “Look, you want eggs or not?”

He forgets the mushrooms and pours the egg mixture onto a pan. 

“I am sorry”, although you weren’t sure why, “I didn’t think it would hurt you”. 

“You want an omelet?”, he avoids the topic. 

He scraps the egg around the plan, attempting to flip it but the egg rips apart and falls back into the man. 

“You want scrambled eggs?” he jokes. 

You huff, looking at the egg in the pan. 

“However the chef prepares it, is fine”, you tease. 

He smiles at you, the knife incident long forgotten. 

You both eat at the table. Neither one of you having anything to say. 

“So, ah, I have to go to the school for a bit. I've been M.I.A for a while now” Logan says. 

He used to hate the thought of responsibility, being tied down by something but now it gave him a sense of purpose. The kids needed him. The school gave him a home, and he wouldn’t disregard that.

You nod your head. You could care less what he did. 

“What do you teach?”, you ask. 

“History” he answers, “I also help train them. Teach em’ how to use their abilities for good”.

“You said you did bad things. That doesn’t sound bad”.

“Yeah well, some people don’t want to be taught”, he growls. 

“Ah” you acknowledge, “You’re a mutant killer. “

“I am something”, he mutters. His appetite is gone so he pushes his plate away from him and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“So whats your plan?”, you ask him, poking at your eggs. 

“I’ll only be gone a few hours, after that we can go to town”.

“No”, you interject, “I mean for me. After all this”. 

He wasn’t sure how to answer. How could he tell you there was no after this? That he would do anything to keep you. 

“Bub”, he states, “I’ll never hurt you. I can promise you that”.

You look at him, unbelieving but say nothing more. 

He gets up from his chair and holds out his hand for you. 

“I want to show you something”, he explains. 

Curious, you take his hand and lead you back to his bedroom closet where he digs through to find a thermal jacket and a beanie. 

He places the beanie on your head and wraps the jacket over you. You stand there drawing in the material while he digs further into his messy closet. 

He finds what he is looking for with a satisfied grunt and produces thermal pants.

“What are you doing?” you ask him as he helps you step into the pants. 

“I just want to show you something” he repeats. 

Now dressed he takes your hand and leads you to the front door, where he stops to take big heavy boots from a line of perfectly organized shoes. 

“Logan”, you question in a tense voice. 

He continues to place the shoes on your feet, tying the laces as tight as they would go. 

With a sigh, he rises, reaching for the door and swinging it wide open. 

The cold air blows in. Snow covered the landscape, but had stopped falling from the sky a while ago. Yet everything remained frozen. 

“Go”, he states. He peers at you softly, bringing the hood of the coat up. His touch is gentle, and it leaves you quickly.

“Go?” you question. 

Where would you go to? You decided against running this morning, why would you now take the chance?

“Go” he repeats, “Don’t worry, I’ll come after you. I just want to show you what’s going to happen if you decide to leave while I am gone”.

You decide maybe you should go. It would be a good opportunity to test his limits. See what he can really do. 

You slip past him, running out to the surrounding forest. 

He makes no move to follow you. When you look back, he is still there watching from the doorway. 

When you could see nothing but trees, you realise that this was stupid. 

You had no idea where you were. How could you get to safety? You didnt even know if you were heading in the right direction. You were heading down from the mountain but once you got to the bottom would you reach a clearing? Your best hope was that a passing car would come, but you didn’t see any on the way here, what would be the chances of crossing one when you really needed it. 

Still Logan was a strange man, you shouldn’t give up, just because the odds seem impossible. 

You pick up a large branch and smooth over the snow, easing your footprints. 

The journey was cold. The wind picked up adding to your misery. You wondered if he let you go so you could die in the woods. You heard nothing as the wind howled, saw nothing but white. 

He was either giving you a wide head start or he simply wasn’t following at all. You couldn’t decide what was worse. 

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted you felt as if you were being watched but couldn’t see anyone or anything. 

Your feet pick up pace, the branch brushes your footprints away with ferocity. 

It’s in your head, you told yourself. You would have seen or heard him if he was close. 

When you feel hands on your hips with such strength that it stops you from moving, you second guess yourself. 

“Gotcha”, his voice teased. He leans down to your ear and softly bites your helix 

With a push to your hips, you are thrown into snow beneath you. 

You turn to face him, crawling backwards with the branch in your hand. 

“How?” you ask him. 

He follows with an amused expression on his face. He was dressed in only his jeans, a grey singlet and an overlay of a flannel. Yet he showed no signs of being cold. 

“Bub, there’s not a single place on this earth that you can go that I wont find you”. 

He raises his foot and presses it down on the branch you clung to. 

You stop crawling. 

“I believe you” you state, looking up at him. 

“Get up”, he tells you.

You don’t move, despite the snow melting into your protective gear and frozen hands. 

He drops to his knees in front of you. You preferred the distance when he stood but when you began to crawl back, he grabbed your ankles and slid you back over the snow. 

Once you were close enough, he leaned his body over you trappin you between him and the snow.

With his hands in the snow on either side of your head, he leans down to the side of your head and whispers in your ear. 

“You want it in the snow?” he coos. 

You push back against his shoulders when he reaches for the waistband of your pants. It doesn’t deter him so you raise your hand to slap him across the face. 

You don’t think he even registered it but you cry out in pain as the ripple effect shoots down your arm. 

“Careful” he tuts.

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you up into a sitting position. You clutch your sore hand to your chest, and crouches in front of you, swiping his thumb across your lips. 

He gets up fully, reaching for the button of his jeans, his pubic hair springing out with no underpants on. 

“We’ll make it quick” he promises you.

You think about fighting but remember your sore hand, and past half an hour alone in the snow. 

Instead, you kneel into position. He seems surprised at your compliance as he positions himself in front of you. He lowers his jeans just enough to free his member, and you take it into mouth. 

He grunts as you behind to suck, throwing his head back. His hands dig into your hair to keep you there as you work your mouth around him. 

“You feel so good”, he sighs, almost reluctantly. 

Your tongue pads around him, you feel his cock twitch. 

The quiet atmosphere is broken by the sound of your wet mouth working him. 

The more worked up he got, the harsher the hold on your hair hurt to the point of pain. 

You try to pry the hold off. You thought he would know he was hurting you, but with his head turned to the sky, you weren’t even sure that he could feel your hands yanking at his finger. 

You stop, opening your mouth but unable to move your head. 

His next groan was angry, and he flings his gaze down at you. If his cock wasnt still in your mouth, you would have explained yourself.

He didn’t give you the opportunity, using the hold on your head, he drags you over to the nearest tree. You dont have enough time to get your bearing before your head is knocked into the tree as stopping point and he thrusts his hips into your mouth. 

Sitting on your bottom against the tree, rather then on your knees, you lose a lot of leverage. His pull on your hair keeps you from slumping as he drives his length into you. 

You begin to suck again, hoping to get him off so he would get off you. 

This wasn’t logan, this was the wolverine. An animal driven only by his needs. 

Your sucking calmed him a bit. His thrusts slowed and he rests his forehead against the tree with his eyes closed shut. 

He comes without a sound. No great groan that lets you know his salty cum was coming. 

He steps back, gathering himself. While he zips his jeans, you lay against the tree with his taste in your mouth. 

“Come on” he says softly. He picks you up and stands you on your feet. 

With a hold on your arm, he leads you back to the house. 

The thirty minute journey was walked in silence.

You wondered if he really wanted to show you his strength or if he just wanted an excuse.

He seemed eager to get back. It felt as if he was pulling you behind.

Once you reach the doorway, you are out of breath from his pace. 

He is fine, however, his breath even but his eyes clouded and angry.

The door was left unlocked, not giving you a second of reprieve as he pushes past it. 

As soon as you are through the threshold, he turns and pushes it close behind you before striping you of your layers.

“More?” you question as his needy hands push you towards the couch. 

“Baby, I am just getting started”, he answers. 

The arm of the couch takes out your knees as you are pushed over it. Logan climbs on top, going straight to your neck.

“What about the school?” you breathe. 

“Fuck the school”, he says, nestling himself between your legs. 

He rises only to take off his shirts, and reach for yours. 

Your bare chest is attacked with his lips while his hands reach for your pants. 

His hips buck into your soaked panties, the heat almost driving you insane. 

Did he have some mutant power to make you react this way? It confused you which upset you. You shouldn't be confused. You shouldn’t want him. 

You didn’t realise your pussy was bare until he enters you. 

You claw at his back as he thrusts into you. It seemed to encourage him.

“You’re so beautiful”, he says, “feel so good around me”. 

His brutal thrusts could not be slowed. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders trying to ease the force from his thrusts. 

Your head was no longer on the cushion of the couch but dug into his neck, completely wrapping yourself around his body. 

All too soon, you unravel around him but his cock continues to drive into you. 

Your moan couldnt be stopped. Your position meant it went directly into his ear. 

His chuckle tickles the shell of your ear. He thrusts now too harshly into your sensitive pussy. 

His hand wraps its way into the back of your head and he yanks you back down into the couch. 

With you there, the hand travels down to your clint and he begins rubbing while he thrust his cock in and out of you. 

You whine in pain from the over stimulation. Being pushished  for coming too quickly. 

You push against his hand with your own, begging him to stop. 

He does stop only to grab your hand and brings it down into your own wetness. 

“You do it” he demands. 

You cry out again, unable to form words as his cock spears into you. 

His grip is too tight to pull back although you try. 

“Do it” he commands again. 

You do as he asks, using your pointer to swirl around clint as he pounds you. 

With a free hand, he massages your breast, pinching at the nipple and rolling the flesh in his hand. 

“Don’t stop”, he orders as your hand stills, ‘keep going, thats a good girl”. 

Your tears pool. It was a bittersweet type of torture but torture all the same. 

Through your blurry eyes you could see him focusing on not hurting you. Fighting with himself to keep the animal in check enough to not hurt you. 

With a handful of your breast, he explodes inside of you and his thrusts stop, giving your sore pussy a break. 

He leans over you once more this time out of breath. You put your hand up on his chest, your finger slick with your wetness. 

You pant with him, your tears slowly choking you.

“You alright, darl’n?” Logan was back. The animal going to sleep after his victory. 

A sob croaks out of your throat. 

His eyes meet yours as his thumb wipes away your falling tears. 

“It’s alright, sh, it’s alright.”. 

He kisses your cheek softly before helping you up off the couch. 

“Lets get you cleaned up. Alright”, he says, gently leading you to the bathroom. 

You already were undressed so he turns on the shower. Cold water comes out at first and he holds you close while it turns hot. 

Your head rests on his chest and he wraps both arms around your shoulders. He keeps the position as he enters the stream. You sob quietly against him as you both stand under the water.

When you finally stop, Logan uses one hand to cup the water to wash your face. 

You look up at his hazel eyes, somewhere beneath them, the beast looks back. 

Freshly showered, you are dressed in another pair of your leggings and short shirt and placed back into bed. 

Logan lays next to you, back in jeans and a white singlet, not saying anything. 

A hard knock on the door breaks the stillness and you sit up in bed, surprised there was someone, anyone, out here. 

‘I’ll get it. Stay here”, he directs. 

He could smell the scent of the school lingering as he neared the door. He wondered which teacher was sent to lecture him or if Alexander took the time to do it himself.

The sight of three school kids was a surprise. 

He knew them well. Barely 16 but thought they knew the world. 

‘What are you doing here?”, he growls at them.

“When are you coming back to school?” Nortan asked. He was a funny looking kids with glasses too big, and a long torso that towered him over his classmates. He could break his particles apart and disappear into the air. 

“When I feel like it”, Logan quips. 

“You were supposed to be back today”, Lucy demanded, “We organised a class party”. 

She had the longest black hair Logan had ever seen. Smart as a whip but a massive stick in the mud. Her parents were accountants, and avoided talking about Lucy’s ability to turn her body into mental on command. 

“I am sure you all had a great time without me” Logan answers, going to shut the door on the children. 

Lucy’s mental hand wedged itself between the door and the frame, preventing it from shutting. Logan sighs. Children were a pain in the ass. Due to his mutation he could never breed, and now he feels grateful for it. 

“Is there something you want kids? What do I gotta do to get you off my doorstep?”he scolds.

“We want you to come back”, Lucy demands. 

The third boy, big and impossibly strong, now with a driver licence nodded his head in agreement. He said very little but heard everything that went on around him. 

“I’ll be back on monday. I promise. Now get back to school before I get called to go look for you”, he sho’s the children away. 

“If you are not back on Monday, we’ll bring the whole class to you”, Lucy threatens as the door closes in her face. 

“Yeah, yeah”, Logan dismisses. 

With that dealt with he goes to the kitchen and turns the jug on. He finds his prettiest cup and puts a tea bag in it while he waits for the water to boil. 

Your scream jolts his heart. He runs to you, claws out and at the ready. 

You stood in the middle of the bedroom with your hands covering your mouth, staring at the young boy in front of you. 

Norton stands there frozen. Mouth half a gap, shocked to see you.

“Get out of here!” Logan screams. 

Norton disappears into particles again, going out the same way he came in. 

Logan puts away his claws, rushing over to take you into his arms as you cry from the surprise. 

With one hand on the back of your head, and the other wrapped securely around your shoulders, he holds you close, speaking gently. 

“It’s alright. It’s alright. It was just a kid. You're safe”. 

“I hate mutants”, you sob, “all of you”. 

“Yeah” logan sighs, “I know”. 

—--------------

“Hey Bub” logan calls as he heads to the door, “I am going out for a smoke”. 

He lights the cigar as soon as his feet land on the porch. The past four years he has lived here, he has always smoked inside. The fresh air felt nice as he puffed away. 

He liked having you here. It brought him a sense of peace that he had long abandoned. 

A few seconds later, the door opens again and you appear wearing his winter coat. You stand awkwardly against the wall without a word. 

He is cautious of the smoke that blows over to you, and takes a few steps away, hiding the cigar down below his leg to stop its contamination. 

You scoff at him. 

“Really? worried about second hand smoke”, you taunt. 

“I heal, you don’t” he reminds you. 

“Who’s to say? Maybe smoking is your weakness and you die from good old cancer, just like the rest of us”. 

Logan takes another puff of his cigar, blowing the smoke back out. 

“Been smoking these for 60 odd years, haven’t killed me yet”.

“What?” you say astonished, “ 60 years?”.

“Nothing, forget it”, Logan dismissed. He felt embarrassed to admit his age. He was a dirty old man that didn’t deserve to touch the skin of you. 

“You going to tell me you can fly next” you muse. 

Logan laughs, taking another puff before answering, “I’ve been thrown from enough heights to know I definitely don’t fly”. 

The cold air has turned your nose pink, and a strong wind blew cold air down your jacket.

You sniffle as you pull it tighter around yourself. Logan, who is adaptable to the weather, stands unshaken. 

“It’s cold, why don’t you head back inside”, he says, pointing his cigar to the door. 

“Why don’t you stop telling me what to do? You have these intense mood swings. I never know who I am going to get Mr nice guy or Mr shut up and take it”, you bite. 

Logan sucks on his cigar, puffing away his frustrations. 

“I don’t know what you do to me, but I am not like that”, he argues. 

“Oh so it’s my fault?”, you mock 

“Christ, I didn’t say that” he waves the cigar in the air, losing interest as it burns, “You say you never know who you’re going to get, while neither do I. I’m-” Logan takes another drag of his cigar before finishing his sentence, you wait patiently for him, “I’m not myself around you. I am something entirely different. A thing I thought I left behind years ago”. 

“An animal” you deduct. 

“Yeah” Logan says in a hard voice, having another puff. 

“The wolverine”, you continue. 

Logan reaches up to take his dog tags in his hand. He couldn’t remember how he got the name, but he was stamped with it for life. 

“Go back inside”, he demanded. 

This time you do. 

—----------------------

Logan takes you to the shop first thing the next morning, letting you fill the shopping trolley with anything you like. 

He pushes the trolley behind you as you scan the aisle. He waits for a scream, a worried look given to a fellow shopper but  you remain calm and your eyes train on a bottle of shampoo as you read the label. 

He wondered what he would do if you did decide to show resistance. He tells himself he wouldn’t fight to keep you. Mutants already had a bad wrap, he didn’t need to make it worse. 

Although, he doubted he could do it. Just the image of someone standing between you and him had the pain in his hands shooting out. 

“Logan?” his name falls on deaf ears, so you try again, “logan?”

“Huh? What?” He answers, finally looking at you.

“Do you have a preference on body wash?”, you repeat, 

“Ah, no, whatever”. 

You throw the bottle into the cart and move down the aisle. 

“Look whats wrong with you?”, he asks in an accusatory tone. 

An elderly women makes her way down past them and Logan quietens his voice so no one can hear. 

“Why haven’t you tried to get away? You should do something”, he demands. 

“Ah, i’ve got Logan today”, you announce moving further down. 

“You’ve got Logan every day”. He follows you slowly, wheeling the trolley in front of him. 

“Bub, you should try”, he pesters. 

You stop in your tracks entirely, staring at him. Without a word, you approach him, coming up to his side and running your finger across his knuckles in answer. 

“I wouldn’t”, he breathes. 

Again you are silent. Just looking at the puzzle of a man in front of you. 

“Stay then”, you tell him. 

You break away from Logan, walking forward from him. 

He stands still, doing as he is told. He watches you as you walk away in no particular hurry. 

You get to the end of the aisle before his feet involuntarily move after you. 

You laugh at him as he catches up, but he feels the heat of embarrassment and shame. 

Like a stray dog, he chases after you. With matted fur and baring teeth.

—---------------------------

You help Logan inside with the groceries. Your addition to his life brought twice the stuff. 

The empty pantry was now full again, the bathroom racks had more than one type of shampoo and your toothbrush sat proudly next to his. 

It was a life Logan had long forgotten about. This place had felt like solitary confinement, a punishment for being a dangerous dog, but now it was a home. A place he could return to once the killing was done. 

He shows his appreciation by backing you into the corner of the kitchen counter by your hips and kissing you deeply. 

He doesn’t know why he did it, but he bit down on your lower lip, drawing blood. 

You made a startling sound, the pain of your lip almost instant. 

He pulls back shocked that he did such a thing. You look up at him, tears in your eyes and a quivering lip. 

“Shit”, he expressed, “Bub, I am sorry”.

He rushes to go get some paper towel to stop the bleeding. 

“Let me have a look”. 

You dont allow him. Pulling your head back. He takes your chin in his hand and pulls your head back to him. 

“I am sorry. I don’t know why I did that’, he apologized as he pressed the white paper towel to your lower lip. 

You don’t accept it, crying loudly. 

“Please, I am sorry”, he begs, “it wont happen again”. 

 You take the paper towel and press it to your lip yourself. Unable to form words. 

Logan takes a step closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and giving the side of your head a gentle kiss. 

“Shit, Logan”, you scold. 

He can feel you trying to push away but he won't allow you to. Why did he have to ruin everything he touched? 

“I am sorry”, he says again. 

He pulls back to take your chin between his fingers to examine the bite. It has split your lower lip, leaving a nasty red line through the pink flesh. 

“Bub-I-”, he stumbles, “I am so sorry. I’ll never hurt you again”.

“Move”, you told him in a stern voice. 

He does at once, and push past him to the bedroom. 

He gives you space for the rest of the night. Going out to the porch to smoke cigar after cigar. 

It gave you freedom to potter in the kitchen to make your dinner. 

He felt so guilty as you slammed draws shut. He was still unsure what possessed him to bite down. Until you reacted, he hadn’t realised his teeth were sinking into your lip. 

What else would he do carelessly? How long before he did something fatal? 

He should have let you disappear at the store. If he was a better man, he would have got in his car and left. But as time proved again, and again, he was not a good man. He was underversing of all good things, so why wouldn’t he keep a tight grip on you?

He would just have to learn to be more cautious. To watch what he is doing at all times. The animal within him would be put on a leash. No one, not even him, would hurt you again. 

Logan rubs out his lit cigar on the wood of the porch, throwing the end into his ashtray and going back inside. 

You don’t pay him any attention, continuing to stir a sauce in a pan with no acknowledgement. 

It was the silence that he hated. He could take abuse. But to treat him as if he didn’t exist was cruel. 

Even as he came closer, you pretended not to notice him. 

When he picks you up and places you on the counter, it does earn your attention. You stare at him in surprise as he edges his way between your legs. 

“I am sorry”, he repeats again. He kisses you this time gently, showing you he can control himself. 

“I am sorry”, once more, as he tugs you into him with a pull of your thighs.

“I only ever want to make you feel good”, he promises, his lips moving to your neck. 

To his surprise, you pull him closer, your fingers wrap themselves into his hair, and your legs entrap him where he stood. 

He takes it as permission to move his hands to the button of your jeans. 

You make no comment as he pulls them off, disregarding them on the floor. 

His own jeans prove harder to undo with the small space allowed, but he manages, and he closes the cold gap between your bodies. 

His lips continue their way around your body, kissing every inch he could find. Your breaths become ragged, and your fingers become stiff in his hair.

“You want it?” he asks, before he inserts himself. His tip slides through your thickness, shooting electricity through your body. 

“Logan”, you whine, pressing your head back into the kitchen cabinets. 

“I asked you a question”, he snapped. He needed to hear it. That you didn’t think he was a completely unworthy, unloved, animal. That the initial attraction at the bath house was all in his head. He needed to hear you wanted him, even one tenth as much as he wanted you. 

“Yes, please”, you beg, “please”. 

He groans as he sinks himself into you. He keeps his pace, even and gentle, watching your face for any discomfort. 

He found none. You kept your eyes closed and your fingers tugged at his hair almost in encouragement. 

The sauce makes an awful sound as it boils over, your eyes shoot open, watching as it spills over the sides. 

“Logan” you complain. 

He blindly reaches for the handle, not stopping his pace, and shoves it off the heat. 

You bear it no more mind, moving your fingers from his hair to his arms. 

This time you kiss him. He tastes the blood as your lip reopens causing him to pull back away from you.  

Shame fills him once more, and he is forced to bury his head into your collar bone to hide his face. 

“Oh princess”, he complains. His hands ball at your shirt, keeping a statue form so he remained in control at all times. 

“Logan”, you moan as an orgasm approaches. 

 He reaches up to place both hands on the side of your neck, feeling your pulse beneath his finger tips. 

It quickens as you come. Your sweet sounds fill his ears. For a second he continues, but he feels your hips begin to pull away. 

He forces himself to pull out. You hated the overstimulation, he knew that but driven by instinct he often continued until he got his fill. Not today. Today, Logan would remain in control. 

He looks distressed as he yanks himself away from you. His eyes narrow at the floor and his breaths are deep and angry. 

You could see him fighting with himself as he reaches for his pants. He didn’t finish. His need still clear on his face. 

“Hey”, you call. His eyes flicker up to you, and you beckon him to come closer. 

You take him back into your arms. Wrapping one around his shoulders while your hand reached for his cock. 

He shudders as you  stroke him. His hands grip the countertop, scared to touch you in his current state. 

It was so unexpected. Happened so fast he couldn’t wrap his head around it. He rested his forehead against your shoulder. Your scent attacked his nose, driving him into a frenzy. 

Your hand worked its way around his cock. It was still wet with your own cum, making a sloppy sound as you jerked him off. 

He came with a loud groan, the kitchen counter crumbled under the power of his hands, and the wall behind you was punctured by the tip of his claws. 

You yelp as they make impact into the drywood. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s okay”, he puffs. 

You rest your head back into the cabinet behind you, regaining your breath while Logan tugs away his claws and cock. 

“Clean this up”, you command of him, “I’ll finish dinner”. 

Later that night, Logan draws you a bath, and washes your hair. Wanting you to experience the peace you brought him. 

“Weird to be on the other end”, you comment as his fingers massage the shampoo into your scalp. 

“You just relax, baby’’, he tells you. 

You do, leaning into his soapy touch as he worked the knots out of your neck and shoulders, 

“You know”, you say after a moment, “You said you were going to tell me”. 

“Tell you what?” Logan asks. 

“Everything”, you answer, “I found a box in your cupboard. It was filled with war medals, and old photos”. 

“Jesus, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to touch other people's shit”, he quips. 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”. Your comment silenced him. His hands move off you and onto the rag, wringing out all the water. 

“Alright, what do you want to know?”, he relents. 

“How many wars have you been a part of?”, you question him. 

“Too many”.

“That’s not an answer”, you complain. 

“Best one  I’ve got. Here lean back”, he washes the shampoo from your hair gently. Taking his time to do so, to avoid any more questions. 

But as you rise once more into a sitting position, you target him again. 

“How did you become what you are?”, you ask him shyly. 

“I was born this way. At least I think so. There’s a large crucial part I don’t remember. Some story about a general making me into a weapon, but I am not too sure I believe it. I think I’ve always been like this: violent”. 

“You are not violent, Logan”, you protest, turning to look him in the eye, “I am not sure what you are. A stray loyal dog, a man so frightened and lonely. The wolverine”, You lean closer to him, handing over the tub in bare form. 

“All of the above. But not violent”, you reach out with your wet hand to his flannel sleeves, “A violent man could never be as gentle as you can be”.

“I’ve done bad things”, he whispers, “hurt people. Hurt you. I am so sorry, bub”. 

“You are not an animal, Logan”, you state. 

You look at the man in front of you. His big, brown eyes speaking of his hurt. The wolverine was nowhere in sight. Logan knelt before you fully man. A man who had been through so much pain and suffering. The wolverine protected all he loved, but left him with a feeling of being unworthy of it all. 

The men who wanted to use him branded him as an animal. Something they could own and control. But his nature fought back. He wasn’t a weapon, he was a soldier who fought to protect.

He gets up suddenly, stepping into the bath still clothed in jeans and singlet and his flannel. His lips met yours in need which you return and he lays himself across you in the tub. 

You claw at his clothes, helping them off his body. 

The water sloshes around, over the side of the tub, toppling onto the floor. 

You clutch his dog tags in your hands. Your thumb glazes over the indents of his name, while Logans attacks your neck in gentle kisses. 

You flip the metal, feeling the letters on the other side w-o-l-v-e-r-i-n-e. 

—-----------------

The next morning you watch as Logan gets ready to go to work. 

You could tell he was excited, if not nervous to leave you for the day. 

He straightens out his jacket, looking around for anything he might need for the day. 

“I’ll ah leave the keys to the truck here” he states, placing them down on the table, “in case you want to go anywhere”.

In haste, he goes to the door, picking up his motorcycle keys and reaching for the handle. 

“See you, baby”, he says. 

“Hey, Logan”, you call out after him. 

He pauses in the doorway, turning his head to you but leaving his body in flight. 

You walk up to him, still dressed in his t-shirt from bed, and take his face into your hands bringing him in for a kiss. 

“Have a good day”, you tell him. 

“You too”, he grins back, “I’ll be home soon. Wait for me?”.

You nod your head, and with another quick kiss he is on his way. 

You close the door after him to keep the cold out. But you hear the roar of his old motorcycle speed down the driveway. 

—------

Logan tries to keep his mind off you all day. 

He wonders when he returned if you would still be there. He decided it was enough to be loved even for a short time. He couldn’t chase after you. But he would remember you for the rest of his horrible mutant life. 

Still he remembers how his heart pounded, and his feet shifted by themselves at the grocery store. Even with his best intentions, would he be able to stop himself?

He avoids Xavier all day. With his defences so weak he wasn’t sure he could keep the old man out of his head. 

The kids help to distract him. At least while he was focused on helping them, he wasn’t thinking about the potential heartbreak of going home. He was loved here, he knew that. But they loved the wolverine. 

The protector, the leader, the mentor. The animal. The weapon that would keep them all safe.

He smiles through the class party thrown for him, welcoming him back. 

Why couldn’t this be enough? To be a part of a safe haven for kids? He had lived without love for so long, why now did he yearn for it?

The quiet sound of Xaviers chair rolls up next to him. Cornering Logan at his own party. 

“You have been avoiding me”, he states. 

“I’ve been busy”, Logan returns.  

“So I have heard”, Xavier quipped. 

Logan's blood ran cold. How did Xavier know? He was sure to kick Logan out of the x-men. He would be pushed away from the only family he knew, and he deserved every bit of it. 

“Listen”, Logan begins but Xavier interrupts him before he can self incriminate. 

“You should know the children hold you in too high regard to tattle on you. I was worried about you, old friend. So when I heard Norton thinking your name, I couldn’t help myself”, he explained. 

“Professor, I-”, how would he explain this in a light that doesn’t leave him the bad guy. 

“It’s quite alright, Logan. She doesn’t want to leave”, Xavier finally looks at Logan, “I followed you to the grocery store”.

He wheels his chair back, looking to make an exit. “I’ll be checking in from time to time, the second she decides otherwise, I’ll be there, and yes, I am working on your request. How were you going to break that one to me, old boy”. 

Xavier moves on to other guests, but Logan is forced to take a seat.

—----------

Logan lets his last class of the day go early. He himself was eager to get back home. 

He could smell you inside as he put his motorcycle away. The smell of you eases his mind. It was true you didn’t want to leave. Even after everything he had done. 

His hand reaches for the door, but his fingers fail to grasp it. Instead he retreats to the fence of the porch, gazing out to the snow. 

For the longest time, he had no idea who he was. His dog tags the only link to his past life. The professor has helped fill in a few dots. But mostly only brought nightmares of the animal he once was. 

He thought that's all he could be. All he was. 

The wolverine was a part of him, yes, but so was Logan. For the first time, he would discover who he was, not what he could do.

He hears the door open behind him, and your bare feet against the wood. 

“Hey, are you coming in?” you ask him. 

He turns back over his shoulder to look at you. Dressed snuggly in his jacket with his flannel poking out underneath. 

“Come here”, he requests, opening his arms. 

You fall into them easily, and he hugs you tightly against him. 

Kuekuatsu, the word enters his brain. He is unable to shake it. He wonders what it means and where it came from. 

He doesn’t dwell on it too long, as you are pulling him inside, and he follows like a dog on a leash. 

[persoj]

AND. PETE. MY BOY. Imagine if Ted was in the box. Your brother, your whole life, who's been missing for years - this girl, the woman you love, the woman you barely know - your friend, this prude, this girl who's having a crisis of faith - your bully, this kid, this dead body, this living zombie, this vessel - your best friends, these two nerds, these two murdered kids - can you imagine how much pressure he was under? Obviously they all were, but like. If Richie and Ruth were first, then it's safe to assume Pete was next. And he's smart, he will have figured that out too. Can you imagine? Your life is under threat, you're in love for the first time ever, you're meeting five gods, and one of them knows your name, and that's your brother, oh fuck that's YOUR BROTHER, YOUR MISSING BROTHER- can you imagine how much he was going through? Everything was actively crumbling around him. Can you imagine how he went around in the weeks after? How he was treated at school? You've gone from being bullied to death to dating the most popular girl in school, and your best friends are DEAD, and you can't escape the reminders- their faces are everywhere- and so is your bully's. And hes getting more attention, of course he is, he was the star quarterback- but god, your friends deserve it as well? Don't they? They were murdered too. They were murdered by HIM. IN THE SCHOOL. But nobody knows, and you can't say that because you'll sound insane, and your brother-

I'm a big believer in the headcanon that Pete lives/lived with Ted. BUT. but if he lived with his parents. Can you imagine him going home after that?

Hey Pete how was your day? Oh yeah, good, I'm dating a girl and I assisted in a murder and I saw my missing brother and my two best friends are dead, and-

Can you imagine what he would've said? What would he say? What is there to say? Can you imagine Mr and Mrs Spankoffski speaking to him after that? He's so out of it, just talking about how he saw his dead brother and he's not dead, he's alive, but you can't get him back, and he's dating a girl, and he met five gods so he isn't Presbyterian anymore, and- what do you do? If you take him to a therapist, they'll think he's insane. You certainly do. What are you meant to do?

And can you imagine how Pete would've reacted to their reactions? They all think he's insane, but he's not. He knows he's not. He saw them all, he saw it. He knows he did. But they all think he's insane. Can you imagine how much he isolates himself? Can you imagine how much him, Grace, and Steph all rely on each other? There's no way they don't all become co-dependent. They won't have been able to cope with being away from each other for more than five seconds.

I love Pete ☹️ my baby boy ☹️ my poor traumatised guy ☹️☹️☹️

People who talk about the nerdy prudes not mourning Richie and Ruth annoy me sm. Like yes, their friends died, but also - they were going through an EXTREMELY traumatic time. They'd just MURDERED someone for God's sake. They can't process trauma properly. Yes, it's not healthy, but it's more than likely that they were all suppressing it because they physically didn't have time to process it. They had to worry about Max, about Grace, about the fact that their friends were being murdered- they couldn't mourn because they had to constantly be vigilant and worry about 'am I next, am I next, am I next' and whether they were going to get arrested or not. People fail to realise that they were literally on the run. And they were seeing shit that was barely within their comprehension - Steph, Pete and Grace all met FIVE GODS! And if Ted's religious (Presbyterian or whatever he says) then it's likely Pete is too, so it's entirely justified to think that Pete and Grace have both just had their entire sense of faith crushed before their eyes. And if Tinky already had Ted in the Bastard's Box, then Pete's also just been forced to see his (missing/assumed dead) brother. Steph's just found out that her dad is involved with five Gods who created Hatchetfield and who want her to KILL the guy she loves - there are lots of big emotions happening and NONE of them are going to be able to process their grief or ANYTHING properly because their lives are actively falling apart around them. I personally think the reason Grace goes over to the LiB so easily is because she needs something to put her faith in again. She can't cope without the concept of God ("DO SOMETHING YOU SON OF A BITCH" - A line I will never understand why people laugh at) and she needs to find something to fall back on.

I just. Idk. Grief is a big thing and trauma is a big thing and trauma and grief are a terrible mix that means you process neither thing properly.

People also aren't tapping into the ability to make a hurt/comfort fic with all this. Like - imagine Grace, Pete and Steph just having a sleepover and talking about all of it. Getting out all their big emotions. Supporting each other. It'd be so nice 🥺.

But yeah. Don't get me started on people using it as justification to go 'LOOK THEY WEREN'T FRIENDS BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T MOURN'. They couldn't!!