#the same thing happened with mitski | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartepub · 4 months ago

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from the vantage point of death

summary. when the lord of the dead meets the goddess of spring, all his plans are derailed. pairing. hades!choi seungcheol x f!persephone!reader genre/tags. fantasy/mythology, reverse hades and persephone au, bastardizing mythologies to form my version of it, unhinged mc (but we love her), NO STOCKHOLM SYNDROME, implied weirdo suitors, one crude joke, yearning, mdni (borderline nsfw ending) wc. 13.8k suggested listening. arsonist's lullabye, hozier // nfwmb, hozier // would that i, hozier // 난 (me), 에스쿱스 (s.coups) // me and my husband, mitski // dust to dust, the civil wars // my love will never die, hozier // work song, hozier

notes. sorry for the delay hnnng—it was a mix of bad timing (again) and overshooting the wordcount (again). not fully satisfied but this is probably the best i can manage atm. hades!csc is suprisingly pouty and morally upright. shoutout to hozier, my main sponsor for this videyow.

It is true what they say about whispers thriving in darkness.

Seungcheol hears them constantly, finds them woven into the fabric of the air, waiting to be unraveled. The whispers crawl in from the edge of his realm, carried by the rivers and into his ears. They keep him abreast of what is happening above ground, sometimes even more than the news Jeonghan would bring when he reports news from the Pantheon.

Some days, he tells himself it would not do to listen. The job of the King of the Underworld is endless; the dead do not stop dying. But listening to the whispers from elsewhere is the only way to distract him from the ones that plague his own mind; the curling, insidious darkness that is not the one he has made a home in, but rather one that threatens to consume him. So he finds the whispers, entertains the rumours that find the darkness. Seungcheol beckons them forward, pushing his own demons to the back of his mind.

One of them is particularly persistent, sneaking past even the drapes of his chambers, the one place all the other whispers should not reach. It curls around him, flirts with the curve of his earlobe. The message is the same, every time it comes:

The Goddess of Spring is sick.

The first time he had heard it, he called Jeonghan immediately; as the God of Death, he was more in touch with its threads than even he. Despite the gold thread that marks one as immortal, the luster is slowly and surely fading. Both of them confirmed this, even as Jeonghan had mused that it did not make much sense. Seungcheol agreed.

There are precious few things that make immortals fall; for minor deities, it is almost always the lack of devotion, the slow death that comes with the fickle memory of mortals. Yet a goddess of spring would not have the same problem, even if she were not one of those graced to have a seat at the Pantheon. There are still temples undoubtedly to this Goddess’ name, incense and wine poured to honor the first sowing of seeds before the planting season.

The whisper soon reached his other trusted companions. It was Jisoo, the ferryman, who reported what he heard by the riverbank: by some mistake, the Goddess ingested mortal food, and the disease was now infecting her immortal blood.

The urge of duty beckons him, a voice in his ear reasoning that if a Goddess were indeed about to cross over to his realm, the least he could do was be the one to escort her there. He could ask her how this happened, if she were ready to speak to him, perhaps even bring her case to the High Palace to ask how the balance of the world were to be maintained.

Decided, he grabs his travelling robes.

For the first time in millennia, Seungcheol walks above ground.

As expected, the Goddess of Spring’s domain is a lush garden, nothing but Life as far as the eye can see. He enters much more easily than expected; the wards have weakened concerningly so, even as the lingering magic in the air hint at their former strength.

As he ventures in, the leaves sway to some invisible wind, a smidgen more alive-seeming than they would be in the mortal realm. Still, there is yellowing on some trees. Dead petals litter the floor, and he feels the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he moves forward—further pieces of evidence that point to the weakening of the Goddess’ magic.

“Goddess, are you here?” He calls.

In the distance, he hears a hacking cough.

Seungcheol breaks into a jog, alarmed. He plucks at the threads of death that he senses, filtering them out until a single golden string remains, though its luster seems to dull with every minute that passes. He follows it forward.

“Goddess?”

“Here,” he finally hears a weak voice croak, and he turns, finding you sprawled on the floor, a few feet shy of what is evidently your bed.

Seungcheol does not hesitate to lift you in his arms, walking up the steps you were collapsed on. Your breath escapes your mouth in reedy pants, eyes hazy as you gaze at him without recognition. His heart aches.

“Oh Goddess, how did this happen to you?” Seungcheol lowers you onto your bed, fluffing and adjusting the pillows the best he could. He finds a jug of water and a cup resting on a nearby table. Filling the cup, he helps you tilt it up your lips. “Here. Drink.” You take small sips, holding not the cup, but his hands as he feeds the water to you. He feels your fingers trembling. Once a small noise of protest leaves you at the water still falling past your lips, Seungcheol quickly sets the cup aside, swiping the droplets on your chin with his sleeve and easing you into a lying position.

You close your eyes, breathing finally steady. Sorrow tugs at his heartstrings as he dabs at the sweat off your brow with a cloth he had conjured.

It has been many centuries since the last time an immortal crossed the River. He wonders if the Underworld would be to your taste, absent of Life as it is. Only the lands of the blessed are lush with any kind of greenery, as it is near enough to Life, housing souls getting ready for reincarnation.

Lost in his thoughts, he does not notice the string of death that guided him to you suddenly wink into brilliant gold and disappear.

The Goddess’ eyes snap open, and Seungcheol startles. All too quickly, he feels strong hands grasp at his forearms and push. He stumbles back, almost tripping over his robes, but before he is able to resist, he lands in the middle of what he realizes is a ritual circle. The runes around his feet burst into brilliant gold light, washing the world in their glow. Vines rapidly begin to sprout, curling, tangling, and twisting above and around him. From beyond the light, he hears a faint voice chanting.

It is magic, but one entirely foreign to his eyes.

Finally, the glow fades. That same force he sensed earlier seems to be binding him in place, making his limbs ten times heavier than normal. Seungcheol fights to stand, grasping at the structure in front of him to help himself up. A great tangle of vines surrounds him; despite their flimsy appearance, they refuse to break or wilt with any amount of magic he forces into them.

In fact, they only seem to grow stronger.

Confusion gives way to realization, and then dawning fury. He zeroes in on the woman on the other side of the cage. The haze in your eyes has disappeared, replaced with a sharp gaze and a triumphant smirk. Around you, the air crackles with power.

“Caught you.”

“Goddess,” Seungcheol begins, raising his hands, palms up. “I mean you no ill.”

Everything had happened so quickly that he could not get a good look at you. Now, he not only feels, but he sees. Your magic lingers in the air, a sharp crackle of citrus undercut by the heavy, warning weight of wood. When he first saw you, you had been seconds away from becoming another shade to bring to the Underworld. Now, power thrums from you everywhere, even on the thin skin under your eyelashes. Your robes almost seem to glow.

You approach his cage with a fluid, almost feline grace. He feels your eyes cataloguing him, taking in his garb and the stiff, straight-backed posture he carries himself with, even outside the throne room. “I had certainly many assumptions of whom my trap would attract, but even this is unexpected. Let us hear it then: what brings the Unseen One into my domain?”

“I had received word of your illness, goddess, and thought it a duty and courtesy to escort you to my realm.”

“Escort me into your realm? Duty? I’ve heard of dowries and courtesy, but never duty,” you muse. Your eyes remain ever-scrutinizing; he resists the urge to squirm. Has he been so out of touch with the Pantheon norms that he no longer knows how theoi treat each other? Heat rushes to his ears at your intent gaze. “It must be true that there is no love in the Underworld. Your attempts at wooing are unconventional, but ineffective.”

“Excuse me?”

“Certainly new,” you continue, almost to yourself. “Out of all the suitors sent my way, or the ones that would take advantage of the rumours I had spread, your approach is the most unique.”

“Have your plants overtaken your mind?” His mouth twists in derision. “I have told you; I am here only out of my duty.”

“Not a suitor then? Hm.”

“As there seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he sighs, already tired, “If My Lady would be so kind to release me, we can leave this all behind us.”

You stare at him, head tilted. After a moment, a small smile pulls at your features. “I think not.”

Disbelief floods him, and he cannot hold back the scowl that pulls over his features. Seungcheol’s eyes flash dangerously. “That was not a request, Goddess.” He expects you to give in; no being of the Pantheon can bear to be around Death for so long, much less a minor goddess.

Then you do something entirely unexpected; you throw your head back and laugh.

“My, you are interesting! I do not think you are in a position to make your demands in my domain.”

For fuck’s sake—he inhales through his teeth, biting back the anger that has been steadily rising with the length of his stay in this vined cage. He tries phasing into shadow—you could not keep him here if he could simply slip back to his realm—but more vines wrap around him, absorbing his magic, rendering it null. Your grin just stretches wider.

“On what grounds do you keep me?” He hisses.

“First, as I said, you are interesting.” You shrug. “Second, perhaps your presence will ward off all the other suitors the Pantheon has been attempting to send my way. Third, my domain seems to react to you in interesting ways.” You look pointedly at his hand, the locus where his magic seems to be siphoning into your realm.

“My powers are those for the dead,” he informs you. “They will do nothing for Life, certainly nothing for the Goddess of Spring.”

“Well, we shall not know until we conduct some more investigation, no?”

He tries a different tactic. “Goddess, you must let me return. The Underworld cannot be parted with its King.”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “Oh please. No one misses Death. Perhaps those poor souls will even be glad for their judgement to be postponed.” The thought seems to please you, as you release a satisfied little huff. “It is settled. You are mine for the time being, Lord of the Dead.”

No matter how many times Seungcheol has tried phasing into shadow again, the realm simply absorbs his magic. It seems that being held by a being that controlled Life, any magic relating to his return could not work. You had informed him, somewhat gleefully, that the wards of your realm have been refashioned to mimic a smokescreen—drawing from some of the magic that the realm had absorbed from him. It does not block visitors; rather, you boasted, it was a mix of concealment and compulsion charms to urge them to respect your privacy as you suffer through your malaise.

His magic, aside from this strange new affinity to life, is most prominently for keeping the barrier between his realm and the rest of the world intact. If you had borrowed from that…he is well and truly stuck.

It could be worse. He could have been captured with the intent of harming the Underworld, or weakening the barrier between the living and the dead. It could have been someone who demanded he give up his hound.

But he cannot call himself an oppressed prisoner. The heaviness of his limbs had quickly been resolved after a modification of the runes outside his prison, though his magical reserves continue to drain into your realm. You also insisted on ensuring all his needs are met, including bedding, pillows, water—both for bathing and drinking—and food, which you have taken to cooking in front of him, to prove there is no poison.

He accepts the bedding and pillows, as well as the water; he pours the drinking water into the same basin he uses for his baths. But nothing passes his mouth. Seungcheol is not sure why you are putting in the effort; your kind need little food and rest, after all. He does not know how much time has passed, only that he is utterly miserable. He considered yelling, crying out for help, but no one would hear him.

Meanwhile, he feels your realm sucking away at his reserves. Vast as they are, even a drop of water against a rock eventually wears it down. He could only imagine what Jeonghan must be thinking now, at his prolonged and unplanned absence. Seungcheol grits his teeth, resisting the urge to lay down at the ever-creeping fatigue that grows as his magic wanes. He found out the hard way that the more of his body was in contact with your realm, the faster he would waste away. It is a battle to just stay awake.

“Your Grace!” He hears, and it feels vaguely far away. You are running to him, robes fluttering around you as you move, light-footed, across your realm. Seungcheol bites back a grimace, self-conscious of the way his draining magic must make him look paler and sicklier than usual. “Please hold onto a vine.”

At his refusal, you roll your eyes. “Let me try something, Your Grace. I think I know how to replenish your magic; I swear on your River that I mean no ill.”

Seungcheol’s distrustful stare does not cease, but he does relax his shoulders and hold out his right hand, palm facing up. Taking a deep breath, you wave a hand.

A thorn grows from where his hand is gripping the vine. Though ichor drips from his wrist down to his elbow, golden and oozing, Seungcheol refuses to flinch. Even as he bleeds, his palm is already beginning to heal, the tissue stitching itself around his wound and ejecting the thorn from his skin. Your focus is not on him though. As you watch, his blood is absorbed into the vine.

Almost immediately, moss begins to grow under his hand. Flowers bloom at his feet from where the ichor drips onto the earth. Excited, you move a few steps closer, touching the new life now growing on your vines.

“This is…” he removes his hand from the vine, eyes flitting from between his now-healed hand and the vine he had held earlier, which now had not only moss, but flowers blooming from where his blood had touched the plant. He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“It worked,” you murmur, almost wondrously. “Ha! It cannot be true that your magic is only for the Dead.”

Seungcheol is stunned.

Certainly not an emotion he has ever felt very often, much less to this degree. You don’t seem to be done. Stepping forward, you clasp his hand in between yours. He startles, feeling the Life-magic from you rush into him. Slowly, he feels his reserves begin to return. When you let go, his magic has not fully returned to its full capacity, yet there is enough that he feels sufficiently energized.

“Spring,” you declare, looking at the astonished god, “is simply Life that follows after Death, after all. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

“A clever trick,” he says eventually. “You have had your fun, then. Now release me.”

You just smile. “Actually, this little experiment has just proven an interesting point. You are not my prisoner, Your Grace. Though it would be a shame to let you go, I will not keep you here against your will. The Lord of the Dead must be busy, after all.”

The change in your script has him dizzy. “I am not your prisoner?”

“It would seem so. That is what my investigation says.” You shrug. “I made a mistake with my earlier oath to the River, and now I have to mean you no ill in everything. So I can no longer lie to you. Not that I have, ever, anyway.”

Seungcheol tugs at the vines, ignoring how they now curiously seem to sway into his touch. But even as they do, no matter what he tries, they do not break. “So release me, then.”

“Now, where is the fun in that? I have given you a clue on how to release yourself, did I not? Spring is Life that follows after Death. And I have replenished some of your reserves, since you do not wish to bother with my cooking.”

At his confused silence, you huff a little laugh. “Oh, Your Grace, what am I to do with you?”

Seungcheol tucks his irritation behind his teeth, exhaling long and slow. “You could release me.”

“I told you, Your Grace is no prisoner of mine. You can very easily break this cage if you wished to. That is no longer my problem.” You shrug. “I swear it on your River and my magic. But do send messages to the Underworld, should you feel your absence take even longer. My wards will accommodate the correspondence.”

Days pass. He does indeed end up sending messages to the Underworld. To Jeonghan, to be exact.

While concerned, the God of Death’s immediate reaction is one of amusement, even admiration. It does nothing to quell Seungcheol’s irritation, especially when Jeonghan points out that you were right, the River binds you to tell only the truth, and mean no ill. He is just unlucky that no ill is not the same as goodwill.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol watches as you tend to your gardens, conversing merrily with the spirits as you move around your domain. The spirits are curious of him too, yet he bats them away with impatient huffs and vaguely imperious commands to leave him alone. They do, but he feels faintly guilty for the way they seem to wilt as they drift away.

He still cannot claim to be an oppressed prisoner. You reminded him that he is not—and arguably has never been—the latter, and correctly guessed that releasing him from the cage after swearing that he can get out himself would hurt his pride. He is also not the former, as your constant providing of bedding, water, and food has continued. Seungcheol’s practice of accepting everything but the food has also continued. True enough to your claim, the lack of sustenance in your realm seems to be correlated to his dwindling reserves, though it seems his blood had satisfied your domain enough to be much slower in draining him.

Still, nothing passes his mouth. After every meal, you wordlessly claim the untouched bowls of your cooking—whether stew, bread, meat, vegetables, or rice. Even the casket you had received from the God of Wine and deigned to share with him is refused, even as you remind him repeatedly that you cannot harm him.

At each refusal, your lips would purse tighter and tighter.

Finally, one night, you have had enough. Standing at the other side of his cage, you do not move to get his untouched dinner.

Instead, new vines wrap around his wrists and legs, pulling him forward to the edge of the cage. Seungcheol’s choked exclamation of surprise cuts itself short as you grab his robes from the other side. He has to slam his hands, bound as they are, against his cage to brace himself. Your face is a mask of barely-controlled fury.

“I remember telling you, Your Grace,” you snarl, “you are not my prisoner.” The air around him crackles with magic. The smell of grapefruit fills his nose—but incredibly bitter, as though the taste of its pith became a scent. Your face is twisted in anger, and dare he say hurt. “I swear a vow of no malice. I show you the potential of your power, and promise freedom is within your grasp. I offer you kindness. I allow you to send your correspondence in good faith, not knowing if you have actually been plotting your revenge against me. I give you food from my garden, and cook it in front of you!

“And you repay me with distrust,” you spit. “You refuse the fruits of Spring and her goddess’ labor. My Lord must know that only realms of the major theoi have enough latent magic to bind those who partake of its bounty. But if your strategy to free yourself is to anger me to oblivion, I will simply allow my realm to suck the magic out of you. The Lord of the Dead, my personal fertilizer. See if you like that.” Your voice cracks.

Any response boiling behind his throat dissipates at the sight of tears rimming your lashes. Weakly, he tries to rebut. “You cannot. You swore no ill will.”

“And yet you do not eat.” Suddenly, it seems the strings have been cut from your body, and you release his robes with nothing more than a half-hearted shove. Turning away, you pick up his untouched food. Despite your anger moments ago, you remain gentle with the bowl of cold stew.

Seungcheol watches, the weight in his chest growing, as you set it in front of your table and grab a spoon. With a wave of your hand, the stew is warm again, steam rising in gentle spirals from the bowl. The guilt he had felt spurning the innocently curious spirits is nothing compared to seeing the Goddess who had brought him to his knees fighting back her tears, spooning his dinner into her mouth.

“I did not know you could warm it again.” He speaks quietly, unable to raise his voice above a murmur.

“Why,” you reply dully. “Would you eat it if I did?”

Seungcheol does not reply, despite the apologies crawling up his throat. As you leave for your evening ablutions, he calls for you softly.

“Do not bother apologizing,” you reply, without stopping or turning back. “Just eat the food tomorrow.”

And so he does.

After another handful of days, a visitor arrives.

“Erm, Lord Seungcheol?” He looks up, trying to place the voice. Your head pokes up from a hedge, vaguely panicked. A figure alights by the gazebo, where he had first found you. He recognizes the messenger god by the dark red hair and winged sandals on his feet.

He is about to call out, but your hand closes into a fist quickly. The air clamp his lips shut, and silences the muffled shout that escapes his mouth. The god looks around, realizing Seungcheol is not there. Realizing this, the god slumps, calling a different name instead with a mix of exasperation and concern. Seungcheol tilts his head, wondering whose it is, until he sees your head snap to the god’s direction.

With a jolt, he realizes he only knew your title—Goddess of Spring—but not your name. The messenger god begins to rant.

“I only just managed to sneak past the Lord Father’s nose—said you were not to be disturbed while the Lord of the Dead tended to your illness, but I had to see you, if only to confirm which rumours are true—what on earth happened to your wards, by the way, I had to ask a sprite for help in removing the soot—”

The god parts the curtain by your bed, and promptly swears. “Shit!”

Seungcheol watches, mildly bemused, as the god flutters from one nook to the next, looking more and more distressed as you are nowhere in sight. Any amusement he feels vanishes the moment the young god finds him, tending to a patch of plants a few feet away from your bed. Seungkwan trips as he stumbles backward in shock.

“L-Lord Seungcheol,” he stammers, stumbling to his feet. “I—Your Grace—”

“Seungkwan,” Seungcheol inclines his head with all the dignity he can muster.

“Seungkwan,” you finally call. He whips around, a noise of both agitation and relief escaping him when he catches sight of you.

“You! What in hell’s name are you doing out of bed?! Er,” he glances sheepishly at Seungcheol before turning back to you with a wide-eyed glare, expression clearly demanding you to explain.

“Surprise!” You chuckle feebly. “Whatever happened to ‘I am glad you are well’?”

“Last everyone has heard, the Lord of the Dead was preparing for your passage to the Underworld—” Seungkwan begins, before his expression morphs, the pieces coming together in his head in real time. He looks as though he is one revelation away from pulling his hair out. “Tell me Lord Seungcheol is not your prisoner and this is all in my head.”

“Lord Seungcheol is not my prisoner and this is all in your head,” you parrot obediently.

“Is this why you were so sick? You were saving your magic for—for ransoming the God of the Underworld?”

“That is not why I—”

“You know everyone will realize he is missing, do you not? There are already whispers that the Underworld is without its King.” He waves his hands, emphasizing his words. Your voice remains genial.

“This is all harmless fun,” you wave a hand.

Seungkwan’s eyes narrow. “Is it? The Underworld—”

“I have allowed correspondence between him and his comrades—”

“Some already think your illness is too convenient,” he warns. “You will not be able to hold this charade for long.”

You snort. “The fact that gossip of both my faked illness and impending death coexist speaks to the stupidity of the divine rumour mill.”

Exasperated with your blasé responses, Seungkwan turns to Seungcheol. Biting his lip, his fingers fidget at his staff. You just watch, eyebrow raised at the sudden change in demeanor. “My Lord, do you, erm, need help—that is, if you are held against your will—”

“I shall be free soon enough,” he says shortly. “The Underworld will not be long without me.”

“You will hurt his pride, ‘Kwan,” you interject, smothering a laugh. “He needs to free himself for his ego’s sake.”

Seungcheol levels a glare at you, thoroughly unamused. You just raise an eyebrow, daring him to say otherwise. Seungkwan’s gaze flits between the two of you, cycling through numerous expressions of skepticism and concern.

Eventually, the god just sighs, running a hand again through his hair. The tension in Seungkwan’s shoulders returns; his sandals flutter restlessly, picking up on the unease of their master. “The Pantheon only knows that you have been wasting away from eating mortal food, and that there is something strange about the Underworld because of His Grace’s absence. The others may start putting the pieces together.”

Your gaze shifts from rage into something more calculating. “Let them, then. See if they can outsmart a goddess that outsmarted the Unseen One.”

Seungcheol does it again and again, slicing his hand and watching the growth from where his ichor drips on the earth. Since first time he tried it without you to interfere in any way, the same result were yielded. Yet there is no more understanding with this attempt than any other before it.

Frustrated, he looks at you. “My blood does not cause life, and nor does my magic. Millennia have proven this. Your garden must be an anomaly.”

From the other side of his cage, you huff, not looking up from your pruning. “You are not listening to me, Your Grace; I said Life follows after Death, not that Death causes Life. Perhaps, yes, your blood dripping onto mortal soil would yield different results. But this is my garden, the Heart of Spring. Life is constantly following after Death. An endless loop.”

“The ichor,” he tries. “The things Godly blood can do, even now, have never been fully known.”

“Your Grace, you say your magic is one of Death, yet not a single blade of grass has wilted in your footsteps,” you point out. “It is not just your blood that can bring Life, but your magic itself. I am the Spring that follows after Death. You carry the power of Death itself.”

“No, Death is Jeonghan,” Seungcheol murmurs absently.

Evidently, you had not been expecting that, as you pull up short and twist to face him, face contorted in surprise. “Jeonghan? Oh my. Do I have the wrong god?”

“No! No.” Seungcheol pauses, surprised at his own vehemence. Clearing his throat, he continues in a more subdued tone. “I am Lord of the Dead. Jeonghan is the God of Death, the Reaper.”

“Oh,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Spring does not come immediately after the reaping. My point stands. Spring is the Life that follows from Death. My realm has already been responding to you, gaining life from your power.”

Seungcheol has felt, since getting into this cage, the power draining from under his feet, as though the earth were a great straw drinking from his reserves. He had assumed it to be because of the runic circle at his feet. “Is this not you draining my power to keep me prisoner and feed your wards? It started since you trapped me in this cage.”

“That is not the whole truth. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” you roll your eyes at his expression. “I swore to mean you no malice, not to speak the truth. Not at that point yet, anyway. It is true that your power is feeding mine, but that is not just my doing. My domain has latent magic, though the runes augment it. It has been responding to yours, making more Life out of Death. Pushing your magic outward will only make it worse. And why do you think my magic flowed so easily into your reserves?” You give him a gaze that is both meaningful and exasperated.

A thought strikes him then, one so obvious now that Seungcheol wonders why it had not occurred to him earlier. He lays his hand back onto the vines in front of him. Instead of pushing, however, he pulls, bringing magic inward and back to himself.

The realm responds in kind.

His prison’s vines begin to weaken under his touch, the tangled cords thinning until the braids barely hold together. Above him, the great ceiling of his cage falls as a wilted mess. Instinctively, Seungcheol lifts his hand, and the wilted stems disintegrate, falling around him like ash. The air smells distinctly earth-like.

He stands before you, dead leaves in his hair, more invigorated than he has been in a long, long time.

“Well, it took you long enough,” you rest your hands on your hips, utterly pleased with yourself. “Aren’t I a splendid teacher? I imagine if you do the same thing with your feet, you will no longer be so drained in my domain.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol murmurs to himself. “Death claims Life, not the other way around. It has been so long since I left the Underworld that I have forgotten.”

Something in your expression softens. “Then remember with me. If it cannot be remembered, we shall find out more. You felt it, did you not? Our magics are drawn to each other.”

Seungcheol cannot deny that. Even now, with you a little more than an arm’s length away, he aches to have you closer, to feel again that rush of Life, as though he were perpetually being reborn.

“So, what will it be, Lord of the Dead? Will you find out with me?”

Seungcheol resists the yearning that claws at his chest, tamps down the yes that instinctively rises up his throat.

“What do you get out of this?”

“Hm?”

“It seems terribly altruistic for you,” he drawls. “My captor caging me purely for her amusement, and now that I have passed, I am offered to learn of magic I did not know I could wield.” He narrows his eyes at you. “What do you get out of this?”

You tilt your head at him, confused. “Do you think you are the only one benefiting from this arrangement? My realm has never been stronger. Our magics’ compatibility is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And your suitors?”

“Your presence would certainly deter the rabble, but I imagine the rumours of your capture alone will set me up for a good few millennia of quiet.”

“What of my duties? No matter how capable my brothers are, the Underworld falters without its king.”

“Return to the Underworld if you must, Your Grace, but contract with me the period of your stay. I will swear on the River that it shall be upheld.”

You snap your fingers, and a gentle breeze flutters over him, rustling his hair and clothes off the dead leaves and bits of stem. And though he is free, longing clings to his ribs, the offer not just of power, but companionship, of a kind that is different from the one he shares with his brothers belowground. It was only when Seungkwan had arrived that he remembered the usual demeanor leveled at him—the immediate fear and distrust, the whispers that had pushed him toward seclusion in the first place. Outside of his brothers in the Underworld, you had been the only other one to not treat him this way.

For so long, the thought of Life had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Seungcheol had never held it in his hands, never felt the rush of a beating heart nor a sapling’s head breaking from the soil. Yet he experienced all of that, numerous times, in this garden, without feeling like a harbinger of despair.

“Well? What say you, Your Grace?”

Much planning is needed. His comrades were more receptive to the idea than he expected; he could not help but feel a little betrayed at their willingness to shoo him off and insist on a so-called vacation, even if the pretense remained to be that he was tending to a goddess at her sickbed.

To Seungcheol’s chagrin, you insisted on tagging along to the Underworld, brushing aside his protests that nothing alive can enter his domain.

“Death claims Life; I am telling you now, the Underworld will take a much bigger toll on a minor goddess compared to the Lord of the Dead in your garden.”

“How unfair. We are partners, are we not? For all you know I could use some Death magic myself. We will not know until I am there.” You bat your eyes playfully. “The Lord of the Dead must have enough power to save a minor goddess, no? Especially in his own domain.”

He pinches his nose, a headache beginning to form. Surely there are much better ways of ensuring he upholds your arrangement.

“Fine. Fine, but if your magic is dwindling, you tell me immediately.”

You bounce on your toes, excited. Excited! Seungcheol does not bother to think about the teasing that he is sure to receive. Once his brothers see him descend with a girl on his arm, much less one very much alive, he is never hearing the end of it.

True enough, the first to see them is Jisoo, on the edge of the riverbank. The twinkle in his eye bodes nothing good. “Oh? This is no dead goddess. Have you abducted her? I must remind you that I only ferry the dead. Unless you plan on finally taking a Queen.”

You merely smile. “Hello, ferryman.”

Jisoo smiles, eyes crinkled into crescents, charm dialed up much more than necessary. Seungcheol tamps down the grumble that crawls up his throat.

“Hello, Goddess. Blink twice if you need help.”

Seungcheol cannot help his scoff. “Oh, please. I am not holding her hostage. If anything, it was the other way around.”

“It is true.” You nod solemnly. “I would like passage, as the Lord of the Dead’s abductor. We are here to sort his affairs before he begins his contract in my domain.”

Jisoo blinks, taken aback. “My lady,” he begins, “As I mentioned earlier, I only ferry the dead. You are very much alive.”

“Even if I were the guest of your Lord?” He nods. “Hm. I suppose I could dip in the river, then?”

“Do not even joke about that,” Seungcheol snaps. “You will die. Anyone who bathes in the River, immortal or mortal, will die.”

“That is entirely the point.”

“The Pantheon will have my magic. Your mother will have my head. Poor Chan will be worse off, since it is his river you have chosen to bathe in.”

“Chan? Is that the name of your river deity?” Your eyes are alight with interest. “How fascinating.”

Seungcheol rubs a palm against his forehead; the headache has taken over in earnest.

“Knowing the name of the river spirit will not help your case, my lady.” Jisoo gently pulls the conversation back. “I cannot let you cross.” You ponder the dilemma, crossing your arms and lifting a hand to your mouth in thought.

“I have claimed to be on the brink of death before,” you muse, “Spring is…no, that will not work. Well then.” You turn to Jisoo, tilting your head. “Do you accept bribery, ferryman?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Certainly, if it came from a goddess as pretty as you.”

Seungcheol chokes, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “Absolutely not—” In the blink of an eye, Jisoo’s smile shifts from charming to cheeky, and you respond with a bright grin of your own.

His protests are ignored. The familiar wildness of your magic tinges the air, and in your hands, three daisies emerge, their white and yellow colors a stark contrast to the blackish-brown mud of the riverbank. “For you, ferryman. Three is a magical number, after all.”

Jisoo’s expression is surprisingly soft as he accepts the flowers. “Oh. I have never received flowers before.”

“Never?” you frown. “That simply will not do.” With a deep inhale, your eyes scrunch shut. The scent of your magic grows stronger—the mix of florals and citrus already in the air is joined by the bite of wood, and something else, distinctly earth-like. Soil. A collection of flowers bloom where your hands are cupped: pink and purple roses, daisies, azaleas, and a whole slew of plants Seungcheol has seen before but cannot name. You tie the bouquet with a long piece of leaf, presenting it to him with a flourish.

“The daisies were my bribe, but this is a gift. What do you think, ferryman?”

Jisoo’s smile is the widest Seungcheol has seen in a while. “Come aboard, my lady.”

For the first time in a while, you are wrong; the Underworld is too much. You feel the magic rapidly draining from you, even as Seungcheol asks you to stay outside his bedchambers while he gathers his things. You bite your lips to force color back onto them.

As you wait, the presence of another makes itself known. Two others, you realize, turning to see a man—a god—and a dog-creature in his arms. The god tilts his head.

“You must be the goddess Seungcheol was supposed to collect, then.” You hedge a guess.

“Jeonghan?”

The god’s eyebrows raise. “Indeed, lady.”

The God of Death is intimidatingly beautiful. His magic pulses around him, eerily similar to the Lord of the Dead. Yet where you find solace in Seungcheol’s, even a sense of excitement, this man’s magic makes you vaguely uneasy, even as it has some synergy with your own.

Where Seungcheol reigns over the Dead already put to rest, Jeonghan’s domain is the reaping itself, the act of claiming. So close to Seungcheol’s, yet very far from yours.

He observes you, gaze knife-sharp. “If our Lord is to stay with you, I ask that you adjust your wards to let me in as well. He may need to communicate regularly with the Underworld.”

“Everyone is alright with this?” you ask, surprised. “I was prepared to fight for his temporary transfer.” The ferryman was one thing, especially since he could simply not grant you passage out, but his closest lieutenant agreeing so easily is unexpected.

“Our Seungcheollie needs a vacation,” Jeonghan waves a hand, deceptively dismissive, but his eyes burrow holes into your confidence. “And I trust his judgement, even if I have my own concerns.”

The dog in his arms barks, and Jeonghan’s tone shifts to a soothing coo. “Kkuma-ya, shh.”

Tentatively, you reach a hand out, ignoring Jeonghan’s disapproving stare. Kkuma sniffs at your hand, pauses, and begins to lick with great aplomb. Jeonghan’s eyes widen slightly.

“I think she recognizes His Grace’s magic,” you murmur, a little embarrassed. Yet with every pass of Kkuma’s tongue on your fingers, you feel some magic return to you.

“Perhaps, but she only does that if she really likes you.”

“Or she senses my magic weakening. May I?” You hold out your hands, and Kkuma is quick to paw at Jeonghan’s arms, impatient. You accept Kkuma, giggling as she licks your cheek, still transferring magic to you.

Jeonghan’s gaze remains sharp, but considerably less cold. “You are not dead. But you are dying.”

“Indeed, it seems I miscalculated my entrance into his domain.”

“The living cannot stay,” he agrees. “I will tell Seungcheol to hurry.” Jeonghan excuses himself with a short bow.

“Your Goddess is growing weaker.”

Seungcheol starts, whipping around to see Jeonghan striding into his chambers. “What?”

“We spoke briefly outside. The Underworld is rejecting her presence.”

Seungcheol purses his lips, quickly packing the last of his essentials before lifting his bag over his shoulder. “She would have been less tired had she not made that huge bouquet for Jisoo.”

“He is quite endeared, by the way. Planted them by the riverside almost immediately, at the edge of the Isles. Chan likes them too.”

“And you?”

“Hm?” Jeonghan’s tone is too innocent. Seungcheol groans.

“Do not tell me you scared her.”

The God of Death shrugs, a little pout on his face as he reproaches him. “How little you think of me. I like her, actually. Finally a woman with a spine, though it is funny to know that you were her prisoner. How did you solve her puzzle?”

Seungcheol explains the direction of flow as the deciding factor, how claiming life was the answer and not pushing magic outward. “Though of course, you probably already know that, being around Life magic as often as you are,” he concludes.

Jeonghan listens, interested. “I have been told that our magic is similar. Perhaps—”

“I asked that too,” he interjects quickly. “She said something about Spring not coming right after the reaping.”

“Oh? Clever girl.” Jeonghan’s eyes gleam.

Seungcheol points his finger at him, warning.

“Do not.”

“Goodness, how long have you known her? So protective already. I like her more and more.”

Absently, he runs a hand along the fine cloth of his pillowcase, already missing the luxury of his bedsheets. “I will not be away for long.”

“Of course.” Jeonghan inclines his head. As he leaves, his friend calls out from behind him, “Do try to have fun, though!”

It is decidedly not fun.

“Again.”

Seungcheol kneels down, brushing the tips of his fingers against the sapling. “Agh!” The little plant explodes with a wet pop, scattering little pieces of green on top of the dirt.

“Too much.”

Seungcheol looks up, meeting your eyes from where you stand, right across him. You tilt your head, holding his gaze before gesturing to the next sapling. He uses a single finger this time, focusing on letting out a steady stream of his power. The little plant blooms, briefly, until it too explodes.

“Too much, still.” Amusement colors your voice. “Trickle your magic in. Do not let it flow so strongly.”

“I am trickling it.” Frustrated, he curls his power inward, watching the little sapling wilt and then rot into the ground. Around him, the spirits titter, some small voices letting out soft squeaks of dismay. You tut.

“Your control over your magic is lacking, Your Grace. When was the last time you had to use your power like this?”

“I cannot look back on the day.” He grinds the answer through his teeth. You merely hum in response, remaining where you are, arms crossed and leaning against a nearby tree bark. Your patience too, is much longer than his.

“It could be either your control or the size of your reserves. It could also be both. Though I suppose kings do not have to work to hone their magic if they can overpower others through sheer force.” He grits his teeth, glaring holes into your impassive stare. “Again.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Hm?” You look back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are fixed on the knife on your hand. Right now, there is rice bubbling by the fire, and you are readying an array of vegetables and meat to be mixed in with the freshly-cooked rice. It had always been just you cooking while he applied himself to continuous attempts at controlling his power.

“It seems remiss to leave you to hostess’ work,” he clarifies. At your blank stare, he feels the foreign sensation of heat rushing to his cheeks, and the urge to raise his shoulders and hunch them inward.

Eventually, you offer him the bowl of sliced cucumbers in your hand. Your eyes are clear of any judgement; the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat. “Here. Drizzle some oil, then a spoonful of the garlic and a pinch of salt.”

Eager for an easier task than honing his paltry control over his magic, Seungcheol accepts the bowl. You continue like this, him following your instructions until two steaming bowls of rice with overlaid meat and vegetables are laid before you. The cucumbers are in a separate dish, seasoned by him and with your guidance. You reach for one, popping into your mouth with a thoughtful hum.

He mirrors your movement, but makes a face almost immediately. He put too much salt. Nonplussed, you eat your third cucumber, shrugging even as he picks at his work. He gives you a skeptical frown, which you only respond to with a smile.

“You will learn.” No shred of doubt can be found in your voice.

Seungcheol does not respond. Instead, he digs into his rice, allowing warmth to fill him.

“Perhaps,” you begin, “we have been looking at this wrong.” You cup his hands between yours.

His magic sparks at your touch, and the power under your skin responds in kind. Seungcheol’s knuckles brush against your wrist, and he startles a little at the strength of your pulse. Almost immediately, a bud grows, fed not by soil, but your joint magic. In seconds, a fully-bloomed daffodil rests on his hand. He stares at the yellow petals, mouth parted in wonder.

“Concentrate on your magic, Your Grace. How does it feel?” You prompt him gently. Reluctant, he shakes off the awe, pursing his lips as he feels the flow of the magic. Seungcheol marvels at the feeling of it, how alive it feels to have your magics intertwine. It feels—

“Like dancing,” he murmurs, gazing down at your joined hands. Another daffodil has already begun to bloom.

“I see.” you murmur, gazing down at your hands, a soft smile on your features. Your fingers trace the ridges of his palm almost affectionately. Despite himself, Seungcheol revels in the touch; he is sure that even without your magic meeting and intertwining, his skin would tingle at the novelty of any kind of contact with Life. The flowers remain on his hands, but he feels the loss of warmth on his skin as you release him and step back. Your bare foot twists in the soil, and a sapling pops up from the ground.

“Remember the feeling, Your Grace. Not pushing nor pulling, but dancing.” You gesture to the little stem popping from the ground. “Now try.”

He kneels down, resting his pinky on the little shoot. He exhales slowly, narrowing his world to the point where his finger touches Life. It grows a few inches, shedding its first, small leaves and allowing new, larger ones to grow. His success doesn’t last long, however, and the plant promptly pops into small pieces of greenery scattered around the dark soil. He twists his up head to you, eyes wide, lips pouted in dismay. You are already clapping delightedly.

“Yes!” You clasp his hands again, excited. Despite himself, he revels in the touch; “That is much better than all the other attempts thus far! That is the answer, then. Life and Death dance together.” Magic buzzes under his skin, already reaching out to yours on instinct. You must feel it too, as the smell of flowers and citrus spikes in the air. At your feet, a small patch of bouvardia bursts into bright bloom.

Grinning, you just grasp his hands tighter.

Seungcheol yanks a few carrots out, wiping the soil away with a spare rag before laying them beside the other vegetables. They join the peppers and lettuce already filling the basket.

“You are different from what they say.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. You nestle a head of newly-harvested cabbage. “Gloomy, perhaps. But there is nothing cruel about you.”

“How magnanimous of you to say,” he responds dryly. You gesture to his part of the harvest.

“I imagine this all must be very new.”

“It has been many millennia since I have been with Life this long,” he acknowledges. They are only distant memories, blurred and softened by the passage of time.

“What is the Underworld like?”

“Have you not seen my domain, goddess?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Oh, but that was just your River and the Palace; it must be much more vast than that.”

“Nothing grows in my realm, except the lands of the blessed, which houses those shades to be reincarnated.”

Your nose wrinkles as you try to imagine it. “No sunlight makes for a dreary place indeed. Truly nothing grows?”

“Well…” An idea occurs to him, and he places his hand on the soil, concentrating. Sure enough, the earth pushes up a fist-sized emerald onto his waiting palm. He presents it to you. Your eyes sparkle as you accept the gift, turning it this way and that, observing how the uncut jewel gleams as it reflects the sun. You turn back to him, inquisitive.

“Do these grow on your trees? Or do you just will them from the ground?”

“Oh! No, I merely—” Seungcheol clears his throat. He feels heat burn his ears red. “We have these, as well. It is not just an expanse of grey despair.”

You look at him curiously, likely catching the way he squirms under your gaze. Eventually, you just level him with a grin.

“I’d forgotten that the Lord of the Dead is also the God of Wealth. I would like to see this…jeweled garden of yours next time.” The emerald reflects a small, bright spot of green light on your cheek, like a little divine dimple. Somehow, he thinks he would not mind if you visit again.

Meals have quickly grown to be his favorite time. You are softer here, the less forgiving mask of researcher and instructor having been traded in favor of the genial goddess.

Today, he finally mastered his first dish—not merely balancing the seasoning ingredients like you had asked him with the cucumbers, but a full-blown, steaming bowl of stew. He did not expect to be filled with so much satisfaction at the smile that bloomed on your face at the first bite.

“This is perfect, Your Grace.”

He just nods, suddenly bashful, picking up his own spoon. As he eats, you watch him, particularly bright-eyed. There is something almost like wonder in your gaze—and he doesn’t know what to do with it. No one has ever looked at the Lord of the Dead with wonder, of all things.

Seungcheol is not quite sure what your duties are, only that you have not left your domain since your trip to the Underworld. Even while he was your captive, he had only seen you here. It is only when you flit around, uncharacteristically restless, that he even realizes you have obligations outside your realm.

“I received a message from Seungkwan yesterday,” you confess, catching his questioning look. “The mortals’ fields are suffering from my absence. Harvest is my mother’s domain, while Spring is mine; at this rate there will be little bounty.”

“You have been neglecting your duties.” His tone is more disapproval than a question.

“It would be strange for a sick goddess to be out and about, would it not?” Pointedly, you raise an eyebrow. “If I attend to them now, the gossip mill will grind anew. Not that the Pantheon is not already suspicious.”

Seungcheol glares at his feet. He hates those voices more than anything else. They were the reason he chose to sequester himself in his realm in the first place—the domain of the dead had always been regarded with fearful reverence, and Seungcheol had never bothered to contest those narratives. Even if it did mean the occasional offering from mortals who seem to think that more death will come if they do not worship, or worse, that he can have killed specific people if they bribe him with enough sheep.

“Will you be alright alone?”

He scoffs, shooing you away with a hand. “I am no blushing bride.” You look at him askance; something in your eyes tells him you are not persuaded by his act. Still, you sling your rucksack over your shoulder.

Your disbelieving gaze shifts into something more teasing, though it seems slightly strained, as though you yourself are reluctant to leave your realm. Foolishly, he hopes that it is you being reluctant to leave him.

“Do not miss me too much, Your Grace.”

Idly, you weave gerberas and little chrysanthemums into a crown, inserting some daffodil blooms as you go. Once you are satisfied, you gesture at Seungcheol, and he hunches down, allowing you to nestle the crown on his head. It has become your routine between your return from your duties and the start of supper preparations, and always under the cherry tree that is your pride and joy—the first and largest thing you had grown with your combined powers.

“Your turn.” Against his will, Seungcheol feels heat creep up his ears and cheeks.

“It is poorly done, goddess—” You tut, cutting him off.

“I will be the judge of that.” Expectantly, you lower your head.

His own creation is much clumsier, the ranunculus drooping from where he left the weave loose in fear of the soft stems breaking. You had suggested he pair it with roses, so that the structure could be reinforced, but the romantic implication had flustered him too much.

He arranges it carefully, maneuvering the blooms to something a bit more dignified. When there is nothing more he can do to salvage it, he steps back, breath catching a little when you look up at him from where you are seated under the tree. Hastily, he looks away, praying that the flowers hide the red creeping up his ears.

Perhaps you don’t, as you waste no time, standing up and tugging his sleeve until you reach the edge of the pond. Looking down, you admire his work, turning your head this way and that, a delighted smile on your face.

Your reflection’s gaze shifts to him.

“The gerberas match your robes, Your Grace.”

“Seungcheol,” he corrects. “Please.”

“Seungcheol,” you echo, even as your eyes briefly widen at his request. At the pointed raise of his eyebrow, you repeat yourself, amusement coloring your voice. “The gerberas match your robes, Seungcheol.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “So they do.”

The petals tickle his scalp, but he does not mind.

You tell him of your flowers—what each one means, and how to care for them, pointing out how sprites gravitate toward certain flowers depending on their tastes and even moods. He tells you of the rivers—it is not just the Styx, no matter how people like to just call it the River—and the fields, how each shade is assigned their place after they are tried before him and his Council. He tells you stories of Jeonghan and Jisoo, including how they came to be his comrades and closest friends in the Underworld. You are a better listener than he had expected.

It is a gentle existence.

Seungcheol should have known that it would not last forever.

A visitor arrives while you are away.

The thunder startles nearly all the sprites in the grove. For the first time in months, the patch of asters he had been trickling his power into explodes with a leafy pop, scattering bits of stem and purple petals into the air. Seungcheol scowls, recognizing the figure before him. King of the Pantheon he may be, but at the end of the day, his little brother remains to be a coward. And rude, to boot, swaggering in while the mistress of the realm is absent.

“Baby brother,” he acknowledges.

“It is true then,” he muses. “You are contracted to remain in her realm. She must be truly ill if even I cannot feel her presence.”

Seungcheol does not bother to correct the assumption. He only says, “she is well enough to begin attending to part of her duties, but not to the extent of her full power.”

“Did she trick you into staying here?”

“She did not,” he replies shortly.

“How…quaint. And clever, since the girl cannot be punished if it happens that you are here by your will.”

“My domain has remained functional in my absence, and I have attended to the concerns that have been brought to me by my comrades.”

“Indeed,” the thunder god muses. He begins to walk; Seungcheol notes the flowers trampled under his brother’s heavy footsteps, already planning how he will coax them back to life. “But what you did not anticipate was the frailty of the kingdom itself.”

“What?”

“Oh yes,” his brother seems pleased to have caught him off-guard. “It will take a while to set in, but your prolonged absence will crumble your kingdom, especially one so elaborate as yours. Your expansion projects will not hold for long, brother. The magic grows thin.”

Seungcheol grits his teeth, eyes flashing with warning. “We three have sworn an oath not to meddle in the realm affairs of another. I suggest you honor your part before the River forces that choice upon you. I will be conferring with my men on whether your observations are indeed true.”

The god before him just shrugs. “Do what you must. But do not think you can renew your contract here just because you could not heal her enough to bed her. Or even, heavens forbid, because you fell in love.”

Before he can reply, the god has left.

“Do you miss the Underworld?”

It has been just over three months since he had left. The Underworld is not just his domain; it is his home, the one he had ruled over for most of his existence. He chooses his words carefully. “I am needed there, just as the balance between the realms of Life and Death is needed for this world.”

“If you could,” your voice is quiet, “would you leave it?” There is the faintest tremble as the words leave you. You do not look up from the lake, eyes fixed on the still rippling surface. Your reflections remain distorted, even as he sets a gentle hand on your cheek, coaxing you to face him. He has gotten better at the flower crowns; the pink cherry blossoms resting above your brow, woven together with baby’s breath, is one of his favorite sights yet.

“My place is there, dear Goddess, just as yours is here,” he reminds you softly.

Even as your face is held to face him, your eyes dart away. The silence lasts entirely too long.

He bites back the urge to tell you of his conversation with his brother, and the one he had with Jeonghan right after—it is true that the Underworld, in a few months, will be in a precarious position. He cannot stay longer than what he had agreed to; he was just lucky that he did not have to breach your terms. The sunset paints the white flowers orange and your face golden. Perhaps it is for the best that there is no sun in the Underworld—the warmth will only make him remember you.

Eventually, you sag, leaning into his touch with a sigh.

“Very well.”

Not agreement, but acquiescence. He wonders which would have hurt more.

With every day that passes, your contract’s end creeps ever closer. You say as much, laying beside him under the cherry tree, watching the blossoms sway gently in the wind. The moon peeks from behind the flowers, pale and lovely.

“I would not mind if you visited every once in a while,” you admit. “It would be an honor to have some of the Lord of the Dead’s time, in between his busy functions as King.”

“Consider it done,” he finally says. After a beat, his lips quirk upward into a faint smile. “And if you send my way any poor suitor that dared touch you, they will suffer Punishment tenfold,” he promises. You laugh, the sound soft against the night.

“I can handle my honor myself. Life can be much crueler than Death, Seungcheol. I have no qualms making fertilizer of lesser men.” Your grin turns into something wicked. “It is the only use I would have of their seed, after all.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land, but when it does, Seungcheol chokes on a startled laugh. You know you are toeing the line of what is acceptable banter with one of the Three Kings, but here, he is just your Seungcheol. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. While no sunlight in the Underworld is a shame, you think that it is equally a loss that no moon shines its glow over his domain; where the sun turns him golden and godly, night renders him achingly beautiful.

In the moonlight, he is almost just a man.

“Well then,” he says, “if they are coming to my domain either way, you may find solace in the fact that there will be no love lost once they face judgement.”

You laugh again, though it sounds already wistful.

“When you leave, I shall keep that in mind.”

You try steal a glance, only to find that he is already looking at you.

“We could marry,” he offers suddenly, breaking the silence. “You need not worry about suitors any longer.”

You blink at him for a moment, wondering how to respond to that. Even he does not seem to have expected the words that left his mouth. He does not seem drunk, either. For a moment, you both just stare at each other, the air charged with something that is beyond any magic.

Eventually, you exhale with an almost obnoxiously loud laugh. “You would make a fine God of Spring, you know.”

Seungcheol just blinks, amused and lost in equal measures. “God of Spring? Not Queen of the Underworld?”

“I am no queen,” you brush the notion away, perhaps a little too quickly. “Me? On a throne? I would be more annoyance than ruler.” Seungcheol’s brow furrows. Instead of replying, responding to your bait, he regards you thoughtfully. You try not to fidget under the weight of his gaze.

Surely this is alright; a non-serious offer must merit a non-serious response. Surely even he must know that the offer is absurd, even as your heart had jumped traitorously at his words.

“For what it is worth,” he murmurs, entirely too sincere for a god whose domain is Death, “you would be a wonderful Queen.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you look away abruptly, fighting back a sniffle. He is being entirely unfair. Blue camellias have already begun to bloom around you, encircling the entire tree. Hope is the realm of mortals, not of the gods. Or perhaps hope is the realm of love, and you had just been too foolish to dig yourself too deep into the soil. Now there are roots.

“You must marry for love, Your Grace, not for misplaced selflessness. Besides, we each have our own roles, do we not?”

Seungcheol gazes at the flowers, and then at you, a knowing look in his eyes even as your words betray the part of your heart that your realm had laid bare.

“Very well, dear Goddess,” he eventually murmurs. Your heart clenches painfully at his voice, so quietly defeated.

Not agreement, but acquiescence. You wonder which would have hurt more.

He leaves past the bloom of the cherry tree, just in time for the first batch of its fruits. The sprites flutter around him, distressed even as he attempts to make his goodbye. As you approach, they finally release him from their tittering.

“My realm will always be open to you, Your Grace.” He accepts your proffered basket of cherries with a quiet thank you, even as his body and magic scream in protest at the notion of leaving. Seungcheol feels torn in two—a part of him ready to return to the familiarity of his domain, and the other insisting that there is too much of home here for him to turn his back to it.

There is a spot of dirt right by your cheek that he cannot seem to tear his gaze from. He thumbs it away, catching the hitch in your breath as his fingers ghost past your lips.

It really cannot be helped.

Seungcheol leans in, close, so close, feeling the magic thrum down to his bones. Still, he pauses, eyes flicking up from where they had been focused on your lips to ask this silent question. Instead of answering, you close the distance for him.

He had meant for it to be sweet; a goodbye kiss, just one sip at the forbidden fruit before he was to part ways. He had hoped that he could have the kind of love that worked better at a distance.

He was a fool for thinking that could ever happen with you.

You arch against him with a gasping moan, nipping at his lip with a vicious tenderness that prompts an answering groan. His hands grasp your hips, greedy, demanding, crushing you even harder against him. He had forgotten the wild goddess, the one who had first captured him by way of magic before even setting sights on his heart.

“Say my name,” he gasps.

“Seungcheol—Cheol—” He swallows your whimper into his mouth.

Later, he will wonder how much of it was him, and how much was the magic that had burst to life when he kissed you. Later still, he will be reminded that there is no relevant distinction between the two in that moment. The smell of grapefruit lingers, faint, but notes of bergamot and blackcurrant, undercut by wood and patchouli, dominate the air. His next words are only half-thought, but he feels the weight of them even as they are almost pulled out of him.

“Follow me if you dare, goddess,” he whispers it against your lips, breath ragged.

“That is—” You break away with a gasp, your next words muffled by the second kiss he steals from your lips, “mm—entirely unfair. How am I to let you go now? There will be no other God of Spring but you.”

“It is the same for me,” he confesses. You close your eyes, burrowing yourself against his chest. Your hands grip at his robes. For a long moment, you do not speak.

“How cruel of you to kiss me right as you are about to leave me behind.” He feels your shuddering inhale against his chest, the subtle hitch in your breath that could only come from a sob. It takes a few seconds before you release him, taking a step back.

This has made him weak; it is what he would have said, months ago, before he understood what the humans in front of him must have felt when they begged on their knees in the name of love. Already blooming at your feet are patches of forget-me-nots and heliotropes, cruel reminders of what he is leaving behind.

“My tending to your malaise has ended, goddess. I have fulfilled my terms under the contract.”

You straighten, schooling your features into a stoic expression, even as tears linger at your eyelashes, and your lips are still swollen. Your voice is steady, almost steel-backed, as you end your River-sworn oath.

“I release you, Lord Seungcheol, from your contract, and attest that all terms have been fulfilled. I and my realm thank you for your help, Your Grace.”

As his body phases into shadow, right past the edge of your realm, you call his name, then five words that make his heart leap in hope despite himself. “And I accept your challenge.”

Jeonghan, uncharacteristically, refrains from teasing him about you, even when he had returned that day with red-rimmed eyes and a still slightly swollen lip.

Since your first encounter, there was a niggling thought at the back of his mind; that you are oriented toward some pursuit. You understood Life magic, applied yourself to it, sought more, and did not let even his position in the Underworld deter you from testing your hypotheses. In contrast, his knowledge of Death’s magic indeed rivals yours, but he has not once tried to expand it past what he already knew from millennia ruling his domain.

But if there is anyone who can solve that riddle, it would be you.

He tells himself this even as he immerses himself back into the monotony of being King, judging souls and plotting expansion projects as the need for more space grows. Hope is the realm of mortals, or, indeed, for places the sun touches. Yet he cannot help but hold onto it, amid his familiar darkness, calling on the warmth to keep the old voices at bay.

Moons later.

Seungcheol wakes by way of being hoisted up from his bed and slammed into the ground. He blinks his eyes open, groaning. If Seungkwan had enough strength to harm him, he would likely be in real trouble. As it is, the messenger god looms before him, looking more terrifying than he has ever been in all the time he has known him. Behind him are Jeonghan, Jisoo, and Chan, who all watch with varying degrees of horror and concern.

“Where is she?”

“Seungkwan, she is not—” Jisoo is there, pulling back at his robes, but Seungkwan holds fast, ignoring the ferryman. The caduceus floats dangerously near; Seungcheol is not interested in finding out what he could do with it.

Amid all this mess, he still does not know what anyone is talking about. “What in the Fields is all this?”

Seungkwan’s lips pull back in a snarl. “Stop playing dumb, Your Grace,” he spits out the last word.

“It is not Seungcheol’s fault,” Jeonghan interrupts firmly. His face is uncharacteristically grim. “He did not know of this.”

Cold, biting ice freezes his veins. Dread begins to gnaw at him. There are precious few reasons why Seungkwan would be here, and even fewer things that would make him so angry. But it must be impossible—he parted ways with a challenge, but surely—

“She is dead?” He wrenches Seungkwan off him, breath coming out in harsh pants. “Impossible. I would have felt it.”

“Well she most definitely is not in her realm. No one has been able to reach her. There is only one other place she could be.”

Behind Seungkwan, Chan is shaking like a leaf. Seungcheol’s eyes move to him, and he shrinks under his gaze. He turns his head to look at Jeonghan and Jisoo. Jeonghan looks unsure, but defiant, while Jisoo averts his gaze, guilty.

“Where is she?” Fury and sorrow war over his heart.

“The throne room.” It is Jisoo who speaks. “She insisted that her first audience be with you.” Seungkwan turns his fury on him, already shouting something, but it is all mush in his ears. Seungcheol leaves them all, stumbling out of his bedchambers and breaking into a sprint.

“Took you long enough.”

It’s a voice he never thought he’d hear, never so soon. Shock lances through him like a bolt of lightning.

You are seated on his throne. Draped across it, more like, knees slung on one armrest and your back leaning against the other. The bowl of cherries he had been keeping beside his throne rests on your stomach. In place of your normal garments, you’re wearing a deep red robe, which shimmers like fine satin under the torchlight.

His magic sings in a way he never thought possible again. It is as though his dreams had decided to form his own version of temptation as punishment.

“What,” he croaks. “—are you doing?”

“Sitting, of course.”

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“No? You issued a challenge. I merely responded. You should know better than to underestimate me.” You tsk. “Jeonghan helped. Unlike your synergy with my domain, I needed to be reaped first. Death before spring, as it were. Then Chan and Joshua stepped in for the rebirth.”

You hold your hand up high, letting the sleeve of your robe drop, revealing your arm. Seungcheol inhales sharply.

Spidery cracks run across your skin, pulsing gold with godly blood, but lined with mud. Looking more closely, he notices more about your appearance. The color of your irises is more faded than usual, almost translucent. A lock of hair from behind your ear is now brilliant white.

“You survived the River?” Seungcheol should have known that you would surprise him.

“Well, dear Chan planted Joshua’s flowers on his riverbank. Did you know?” Yes, he did; he visited them every day, tended to them as much as he could with the new wielding of his magic that he learned from you. “There was enough of myself for the River to recognize me. Enough in the soil to help me push the fragments of my spirit together.”

Picking a cherry from the bowl, you hold it to the torchlight for inspection. A beat passes. You promptly pop the cherry into your mouth.

Seungcheol lunges forward. “Stop—!”

Your eyes narrow at the bowl of fruit as you chew thoughtfully. “Are these the cherries from my orchard? I could have sworn they were a much better batch than this.” You pop the seed out onto your fingers. Red stains your lips as you lick the juices that spill from your mouth, thumb catching the drop that spills to your chin before your tongue flicks out to get that as well.

He almost falls to his knees then and there.

Seungcheol watches, in panicked and confused desire, as you swing your legs from the armrest and stand, holding the bowl of cherries. There is a bulge on your cheek where the meat of the fruit remains.

“It is such a shame,” you begin, your robes swishing down the steps as you descend, “that the Goddess of Spring’s illness, even with the Lord of the Dead’s tending, never did abate.”

The fabric moves like water over your body, flowing and dipping into curves he has been aching to touch for months. Stopping in front of him, you tug Seungcheol in by his robes, slotting your lips against his. He gasps, and you push the meat of the cherry into his open mouth, urging him to accept it. As the fruit lands on his tongue, you pull away, smirking when he chases your lips unconsciously. You run your tongue along the seam of your mouth, savoring his taste as you speak again.

“In his wisdom and compassion, he proclaims that the only way to preserve as much of her life as possible would be to stay with her for six months, as death is where Spring begins.” You pop another cherry in your mouth, maneuvering the fruit until another seed pops from your lips.

Seungcheol begins to see where this is going, his smile growing until his cheeks ache with the force of it. Oh, you glorious, glorious goddess.

“So the goddess blesses her fruit, mimicking the latent magic of his realm—” His mouth is already open as you lean your weight into him, accepting the fruit with a teasing nip at your bottom lip. Seungcheol revels in the way you whimper against him, in the knowledge that in matters of desire, you are evenly matched. He grasps your hips, pulling you toward him while walking you backwards. Your mouths part with a soft smack.

Hoarsely, you continue, “—And he eats six cherries to bind himself to her and her realm for half a year, as the God of Spring.”

You startle as your knees hit the edge of his throne, but he makes sure to ease you down gently. The remaining four kisses are a blur of lips, teeth, and tongue, and he swallows each pitted cherry right alongside your gasps and moans.

As the sixth passes his throat, he picks up the bowl before looking at you with a wicked smirk.

“But the Lord of the Dead, who also was her lover, could not bear to be away from her. So,” he waves a hand at the fruit, releasing your spell and allowing the latent magic of his realm to bind it to him, “he asks her, in turn, to rule with him in the Underworld for the remaining six months, as Death cannot exist without Life.”

Out of all reactions you could give, Seungcheol does not expect you to be quiet. There is something terribly vulnerable about your gaze, made all the more devastating by the slightly translucent quality of your irises. “Really?” you ask, voice small. As though you had not expected him to do this.

Seungcheol melts. “I am wholly yours, darling,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. He grasps your waist with both his hands, thumb tracing reverent circles on your stomach. “If you want to, stay with me too. Be my Queen. Or just be with me, as my love.”

You kiss him deeply, twisting your fingers in his hair, the cherries in his hands forgotten. “My King,” you murmur against his lips. “My God of Spring. My Seungcheol. You are all the same to me, I love you as you are.” He surges against you, crowding you against his royal seat, too busy reveling in the fact that you are here, in all your cunning and wild beauty.

It takes much longer than before, each cherry-bearing kiss dragging out much more than strictly necessary, but eventually twelve pits are scattered around you, even as your hands remain in his hair and his fingers dig bruises into your ribs.

When you finally pull away, the cracks on your skin are fully gone. Your eyes have returned to normal. The only thing that remains different is the lock of hair by your ear, so white it almost glows in the low light of the throne room. He runs his fingers through it gently, and you lean into his touch with a blissful sigh.

Seungcheol cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “How I have missed you, my darling.”

“None of that,” you murmur, “Did I take too long?”

Later, you will face Seungkwan, hands clasped, and he will see the white streak in your hair and demand answers—later, you will talk of whether the story you had spun will be what is known, or if you will both come out with the whole truth—later, you will debate on what ritual he must fulfill for your realm to accept him—and later still, he and you will have to face the Pantheon, loath as you both are with their rules—

But that is later. Nothing could come before this—the magic the hums against his lips as he drags them across your skin, realizing he has time, so much of it, to learn, even as he has already loved you before he could keep you. And you have him, claimed him first, found a way for all the fragmented parts of him to fit, even if it meant reshaping your soul in the process.

There is only one response to that: Devotion. Completely. Utterly. You have always been entirely too lovely for him to know what to do with. But now, he has forever to try his damnedest.

Seungcheol leans his forehead against yours, finally content. “It does not matter. We are here now.”

“The way to see how beautiful life is, is from the vantage point of death.” — Ursula K. Le Guin

notes. quote is extremely out of context so if u read dispossessed dont come at me. with enough persuasion you may or may not have a) an nsfw epilogue throne sex, and/or b) a shorter but slightly more morally questionable version let the reason come (nsfw epilogue) is out!

#svthub #scoups x reader #seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol x reader #scoups fluff #scoups angst #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol angst #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen imagines #keopihausnet #.dive site #ok logging off nao i have an event tom HAHAHA

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fandomhopped · 11 months ago

Text

first love/late spring

pairing: fwb!logan howlett x fem!reader; 2nd person pov

summary: logan and reader have been sleeping together for a while with an unspoken rule to keep it casual, but that goes to hell when logan catches feelings. however, reader is an independent boss bitch and hates men<3

warnings: heavy swearing, hella mentions of sexual situations, substance abuse, brief sexual content(nothing serious fr), creepy guy in a bar, blood, bar fight, mentions of sex trafficking and resulting trauma, daddy issues, fluff, angst asf, lowkey scott slander (i dont mean it i love him)

word count: 9.1k

a/n: reader has light manipulation abilities but theyre not mentioned that often lol, also reader takes a lotta shots at jean just cuz she pisses me off. side note: idk the true meaning of the song i used as the title, there are many different interpretations. i found the song after i had alr written the story and the lyrics resonated pls don’t jump down my throat if it doesn’t align <3

there’s not a millimeter of space between you and logan as he holds you against his body. you’re sleeping soundly, and he watches you breathe all night, not bothering to even think about sleep for himself. the sun came up three hours ago, he felt it on his back.

when you drink, you always wake up early the next morning. you two drank a lot together last night. and like every time you drink with logan, you ended up in his bed.

he tries to block the sun from your face with his body so it won’t wake you up. he knows when you finally do, this little illusion that you're his will all be over. everything you said last night won’t matter. you’ll go back to your room. he’ll stay in bed. you’ll both go back to acting like it never happened.

you always leave him swiftly. you always go downstairs and drink coffee from the same mug and act like nothing happened. without a stutter, it’s a routine.

since he moved into the mansion, he wasn’t ignorant to the fact that the female teachers were attractive. and, of course, he was first drawn to jean. he won’t deny that he still harbored some feelings for her when you came to his room all those months ago, but she made it abundantly clear that she loves scott.

then one night, you slipped a bottle of whiskey into the mansion and invited him to join you in drinking it. you said some things that made him sit closer to you. that was just the beginning. he woke up the next morning to an empty bed but distinctly remembers you falling asleep next to him, so he assumed you woke up and left.

logan is a pro at acting like some things never happen, but he wasn’t expecting you to act the same. he dismissed it as a one-off, drunken night.

then it happened again… and again and again, and you continued to act like it never happened.

which, he was fine with. this wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a with-benefits situation, but there’s something different about you. you’re badass. you’re beautiful. he really respects you. you fit him perfectly.

and you’re mean. you don’t smile all that much, really only when you’re drinking is what logan soon found out. you’re not always outright mean to people, it’s usually deserved. you don’t take anybody’s shit. you’ll let people know when they’re in the wrong or they’re pissing you off. you’re sarcastic and rudely witty.

that was just another thing that attracted him to you. but, God, were you the meanest in the mornings, especially when you’re hungover.

unfortunately for logan, he has developed a small, tiny, itty bitty, barely-there crush on you. just catching a scent of your perfume has him rolling his eyes in the back of his head and white-knuckling whatever is directly in front of him.

the thoughts of you under him, on top of him, in front of him, on your knees for him plague his mind all. day. long. then last night, you had him rock solid from just a few drunken words.

“you’ve ruined all men for me,” you said as he kissed down your neck.

“hmm?” he hummed as his hands roamed your body under your shirt.

“nobody could ever fuck me like you do,” you told him, pulling at his hair roughly. he lets out a deep groan at the feeling.

he’s never picked up his pace of getting someone’s clothes off so quickly. he ripped your favorite pair of pj shorts in the process, mumbling that he’ll buy you a new pair.

with him deeply inside you, one hand wrapped around your throat and the other sending you over the edge with his mouth leaving marks all over your chest, you say breathily, “fuck, you’re perfect for me.”

the moment hasn’t left his mind since.

“i’m hot,” you mutter, pushing the sheets from your legs. “you’re hot.”

“oh, yeah?” he whispers in your ear, his lips turned up.

“i’m about to have a heat stroke,” you return, squirming around and shoving his arms from around you.

he lets go of you and gives you some space, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. a deep sigh leaves him.

“i’m gonna throw up,” you tell him, groaning and curling up into the fetal position.

“are you serious? don’t puke in my bed,” he says, leaning up to look at you.

you roll your eyes. “no, i’m not serious,” you snap at him.

“‘you wanna take a shower?” he asks, his lip curling up at the thought of you ruining his sheets (and not in the way he usually prefers).

“i feel like shit right now, logan. i don’t want to fuck you in the shower,” you tell him roughly, sitting up and glaring over at him.

he watches you stand up out of his bed and put yout shirt on. “‘s not what i meant,” he grumbles, looking away from her. he throws the sheets off his body and grabs his jeans from the night before.

he runs his hands down his face and then looks up only to see the door closing behind you as you leave him. again.

“whew, late night?” ororo asks you as soon as you walk into the kitchen, changed into some presentable clothes rather than the ripped shorts and oversized tshirt you walked back to your room in.

you ignore the woman as you open the cabinet to grab your mug. the same one you use every morning.

but it’s not there.

“where’s my mug?” you ask, glancing around the kitchen to see it’s not just ororo but also jean and scott there.

“is this yours?” scott asks, holding up the mug in his hand.

your gaze darkens. “yes,” she grits out, tightening her jaw.

“that’s my bad. i didn’t know this was yours,” he says, standing up and walking over to the sink. “i’ll wash it and you can use it.”

you feel your skin crawl as he turns on the hot water. “stop,” you say lowly, walking to him and turning off the water. “you can’t—.” you stop yourself as you breathe heavily. you rip the cup from his hands.

“hey, it’s just a mug,” ororo says to you, “what’s up?”

“it’s not—,” you cut yourself off again and take a deep breath, shaking your head. you turn on the cold water from the sink and carefully wash the mug.

“seriously, what’s going on with you?” jean asks as scott rejoins her side.

you roll your neck. “i’ve been here for years, and you don’t know which one is my mug?” you ask scott, not looking anywhere but your mug until you’re sure it’s clean.

“i never noticed before, ‘sorry,” he says then turns to jean with a shrug.

the light beaming in through the window shines a little brighter as you continue to shake your head, muttering things under your breath that the others can’t make out.

“it really is just a mug,” ororo says carefully, looking over your figure in concern.

“except it’s not,” you retort, attentively drying off the ceramic with a towel. you then pour some coffee into the mug and hold it close to your chest, turning back to the other mutants.

“what—,” jean begins but logan walks into the kitchen just as she starts and she stops herself.

her surveys everyone’s demeanor then looks at you. “what’s wrong with you?” he asks, walking to the cabinet and grabbing whichever cup is closest to his hand when he reaches in. he pours himself some coffee and turns back to them expectantly.

“scott was using my mug,” you tell him, leaning against the counter.

“why?” he asks scott, eyeing the man.

“to drink coffee. why does it matter?” he asks in return, scoffing.

“it’s hers,” logan returns, his stare hardens and he looks at scott like he’s an idiot.

ororo laughs humorlessly. “what does that mean? it’s just a mug,” she asks, looking between you.

you glare at her. “it was my father’s and now it’s mine.”

“the same father that sold you?” jean asks, her face contorting. you shift your weight uncomfortably. “why would you want that?”

“why don’t you just back the fuck off, bitch?” you snap at her, stepping toward her.

“woah, girl, calm down,” ororo intervenes, holding her hand toward you like you’re a wild animal. you scoff. “we get it. it’s special to you. that’s all you had to say.”

you roll your eyes at them. you leave the group and return to your room. logan watches you go then turns back to the others with his eyebrows raised. “did you say sold her?” he asks jean.

“when he found out she was a mutant—,” she begins.

“jean,” ororo interrupts her, shaking her head at the girl.

jean continues, “—her father sold her into a mutant sex trafficking ring,” she reveals, looking only at logan, “that’s where we found her and then brought her here.”

his face contorts, and he looks down into his coffee. “shit,” he comments.

“she doesn’t talk about it to anybody, and, out of respect, we don’t talk about it either,” ororo says pointedly at the telepath.

logan is seething all day over the new information. he hates to think you went through that for God knows how long.

after the incident, logan doesn’t see you for a while. he doesn’t know how. you’re a teacher and you live down the hall from him, yet he still doesn’t even catch a whiff of your perfume.

“logan, meet me in my office,” he hears charles’ voice in his head. he obeys and within a minute, he’s standing before the professor. “you should leave her alone for a bit.”

her brow furrows. “come again?”

charles says your name and logan clenches his jaw. “she’s destructive right now. you should let her be.”

“is she okay?” the wolverine asks, concern growing in his stomach, and it makes him feel sick.

“she’ll be just fine. this happens from time to time,” he tells him, pressing his lips into a thin line. “you know of her circumstances.”

“her circumstances?” logan growls, scowling down at the old man, “you knew what she went through and didn’t think to tell me? you know what’s going on between us and didn’t think maybe i needed to know that? what if she had a breakdown when we were together? i wouldn’t have known what was happening.”

charles’ lips turn down into a small frown. “that’s not my information to tell.”

logan storms off in a huff, muttering under his breath.

that friday, he’s smoking a cigar in his bed, looking out the window at the moon, which is shining rather bright tonight. he hears a few quiet knocks on his door. he opens the door, expecting it to be a student.

“hey,” you say, waving a bottle of jack in his face before pushing past him into the room. “'hope you don’t mind, i got started without you.”

“you always do,” he comments, closing the door, putting out the cigar, and following you to sit on his bed. “listen —.”

“i think i like that vodka more than this. this one makes my mouth taste weird,” you tell him, taking another sip out of the bottle before handing it to him.

he holds it and sighs. “look, we should—.”

“—take our clothes off?” you finish his sentence, smiling darkly at him. “i mean, it’s a little early, but i agree.”

“that’s not what i—.”

“—was going to say?” you guess his words, cutting him off again. “look at us finishing each other’s…” you trail off, looking at him expectantly. he sends you a deadpanned glance. “this is the part where you say ‘sentences.’ i think i’m better at this game than you are.”

he takes a long sip from the bottle before he looks at you. “can you be serious for a second?” he asks.

you scoff and take the bottle from his hands. “i don’t come to you like this to be serious, logan,” you say, putting the whiskey to your lips again.

“why do you come to me at all?” he asks quietly and gruffly.

you take another sip and place the bottle on the floor, scooting closer to him. “because you’re hot,” you say in a sultry voice, putting a hand on his thigh and slowly dragging it up, “and you call me ‘princess’ and ‘darling’,” you continue, reaching for his belt buckle. he doesn’t do anything to stop you, “and your hands.” you push the buckle out the way and unbutton his pants, dragging down the zipper slowly. “and your tongue.” you reach your hand into his pants. “and this.”

he breathes heavily, completely lost in the euphoria that is you.

he forces himself to snap out of him and shakes his head. he pushes your hand away and stands up, taking a few steps away.

“what’s wrong?” you ask him, grabbing the bottle and standing also. “do you need some more?” you ask, holding the drink out for him, confusion written all over your face.

he holds his hands out in front of him as if to deny the offer. “it’s…,” he trails off, pushing a deep breath through his nose.

your shoulders drop along your face. you tilt your head in disbelief. “oh, my fuck. they told you,” you conclude. you turn around and sit back down on the bed. he stays silent, just looking at you. “okay, so what now? you don’t want me anymore ‘cause i’m used up?” you ask, slurring your words a little.

“no,” he denies without hesitation.

your sober personality is back even though you’re still drinking the whiskey like you’ve been in the dry desert for weeks without water.

“then what is it, logan? you don’t wanna do this ‘cause my hair isn’t blood red?” you ask next, raising your brow and looking at him expectantly.

his face contorts. “what’re you talking about?” he asks gruffly.

you chuckle at him. “i’m not a fucking idiot, old man. i know you want jean so bad, but she doesn’t want you so i'm second choice” you say, then you shrug with one shoulder. “i’d’a gone with ororo, to be honest. have you seen her? i’d show her a good time,” you add.

“that’s not what this is,” he tells you, taking a step forward but not within arm's length of you.

“then what is it? just fucking tell me,” you say loudly, the room lights up as the moon shines brighter. “d’you want me to tell you ‘bout how i was a good, little daddy’s girl until i almost blinded my brother when i first got my powers? how about how my dad gave me away like he didn’t love me? d’you want me to cry in your arms about how i was passed around by mean men like a blunt when i was 14? why do you think i can only let you fuck me when i’m drunk?” you ask him sarcastically, but your voice breaks on your last words. you let out an unsteady breath. logan watches you cautiously, unsure of what to do. “is that what you want, logan?! you wanna be the big, strong man here?!” you ask him, crying now as you yell at the man in front of you.

your body slumps forward as you let the tears drop from your eyes, and you grip the bottle in your hands like a lifeline. you feel the bed dip beside you and the bottle pulled from your hands. you move your hands to your face, trying to pull yourself together.

you feel his big arms envelope you and pull you into his chest. that’s when the waterworks really break out.

logan’s never been to best with tears. he hasn’t had to deal with them too much, but his first instinct was to hold you as close as you would let him. he hates to see you like this. in all honesty, he wants to hunt down every man that ever put a finger on you and rip them to shreds. but, for now, he’ll hold you. as long as you would let him.

you wake up with araging headache. you’re hot, burning up, actually. you kick the blankets from your legs and turn over in the arms of the incredibly attractive man in bed next to you. you look at his sleeping face and sigh.

this is the part where you leave, but this time, you just snuggle into his chest and fall back asleep.

logan wakes up later than he usually does after nights like the last one. it’s normally the sound of the door closing wakes him up. but, this time, he sees your cute face smushed against his pec. he doesn’t fight the smile on his face.

you stir quickly after he wakes up. you rub your eyes and look around the room, then to logan. “i’m gonna puke,” you tell him, the remnants of the smile fall from his face. you pull away from him as your face blanches. “seriously,” you add and sit up quickly.

he reaches for the trash can beside his bed and holds it in front of you just in time. he holds your hair back with a look of absolute disgust while you clutch the bin close to your face and your body jerks with each gag.

once you're done, you wipe your mouth with the bottom of your shirt. you groan loudly and stand up from the bed. “i’m gonna take this with me,” you tell him, holding the can in your arms and moving toward the door.

“keep it,” he remarks, his lip curled up.

monday morning rolls around quicker than anybody wants. you walk into the kitchen and grab your mug, pouring coffee and looking around at others in the kitchen.

they’re talking amongst themselves, mentions of grading papers and some stupid answer a kid put as their answer on an assignment.

you just listen and sip your coffee peacefully. that is, until logan walks in. you move from in front of the coffee pot for him to get some. he nods in thanks as he joins your side.

“this coffee is awful,” you comment, pouring it out in the sink next to you. he chuckles at your comment but doesn’t say anything. “scott, did you make the coffee this morning?” you ask him. the three look over to you, almost as if they didn’t see you come in.

“yeah,” he answers.

“don’t do it again,” you tell him, filling the mug with water and leaving the kitchen.

as you watch a group of students take a test, you see logan walk back in his jacket he usually only wears when leaving campus.

“hey,” you call out. all the students look up at you. “keep taking your tests. i’m going to the hallway for a second,” you tell them and move into the hallway. “logan,” you call and he turns around, walking back toward you. “where are you going?”

“to pick up some more cigars,” he answers, gesturing over his shoulder.

“will you pick me up a pack of cigarettes?” you ask him, reaching into your pocket for some money.

his brow furrows. “you smoke?” he asks.

“sometimes, yeah,” you reply, handing him $20.

he shakes his head. “i’ll cover it,” he answers.

“thanks,” you reply, placing a hand on his forearm before returning to your classroom.

he looks down to his arm and blinks. that’s new.

“brad, i know you’re not talking during a test. are you begging for a failing grade?” he hears you say before he turns back toward the front door of the mansion.

logan returns a while later, after the school day is over and the students are training. he finds you in your classroom, grading papers.

“hey,” he greets. you look up at him.

“hey,” you return, eyes dancing all over his body.

“these are for you,” he says, holding out the page of cigarettes.

“right, thanks,” you say and reach for them, your fingers brushing his as you grab them.

“‘you need any help?” he asks, looking at the papers before you.

“do you know anything about math?” you ask him, pursing your lips.

“uh, no,” he answers, shaking his head. “don’t you have an answer key or something?”

“i have to check their work to make sure they didn’t just get the answer from the person beside them,” you reply, looking back down to the papers. “some of these kids are dumbasses.”

he chuckles. “no kid wants to do math,” he comments.

“how would you know? weren’t you born before there were schools?” you ask him without looking up. there’s a beat of silence before you eventually glance up at him. “was that insensitive?” you ask instead.

he just shrugs. “i’m not that old,” he says, sitting in the desk in front of yours.

“sure,” you respond and go back to grading.

the two of you sit in without a word as you grade, and he watches you in complete admiration. after a while, he stands up and walks toward the door.

“you’re leaving?” you question.

“‘didn’t think you wanted your room smelling like cigars,” he replies.

“i’ll join you,” you say, grabbing the pack he bought you and putting the tests in a drawer. he doesn’t object and you two walk outside, to a bench in the gardens, away from the students.

the two of you sit in silence as you inhale smoke and slowly release it from your lungs.

“i’ve never seen you smoke before,” he comments after a while.

“i only smoke when i give up drinking, i only drink when i give up smoking,” you answer, tossing the burnt cigarette onto the ground and stepping on it, then picking another one from the pack.

you pick up your lighter and flick it a few times but it won’t light. you put your head and lighter inside your shirt to block the wind, trying again and failing again.

“motherfucker,” you mutter as you try to cover the lighter.

“here,” he offers his lighter with the fire shining brightly above it. with the cigarette between your lips, lean toward the lighter, looking up into his eyes as you do. he meets your eyes and clears his throat, closing the flame into the top of the lighter and shifting his eyes to the cigar between his fingers. you let a small smile rest on your face afterward.

“so you’re not drinking anymore?” he asks you.

“figured i should go on a sobriety cleanse for a bit,” you reply, “‘t’s probably for the best.”

“probably,” he adds and silence takes over again.

he glances over at her for a second and he sees you bite at the skin of your bottom lip the way you always do when you’re thinking, contemplating. he’s tempted to ask what’s on your mind but before he can break the silence, you let out a hard sigh.

“i don’t apologize for things,” you begin and pause, biting at your lip again.

“okay…?”

“i don’t apologize for my actions or words because i stand by every decision i make,” you continue and pause again. he’s looking at you and you’re looking directly ahead of you. “i’m not good at apologizing,” you sigh again, “but i’m…sorry for some of the things i said the other night. there’s no excuse. i apologize. take that how you will.”

“you don’t have to apologize,” he replies.

you huff. “so i just said all that for nothing? you could at least accept the damn apology,” she snaps at him then rubs the crease between her eyebrows out.

“you called me an old man. i don’t know if i want to accept your apology,” he teases with a crooked smile. you send him a look that turns into a hint of a smile before turning your head away.

“i need to get back to grading those tests. i’ll see you later, logan.” you stomp out another cigarette and stand up from the bench.

“see ya, sweetheart,” he says lowly but you still hear it.

as you look over tests, ororo enters your classroom. “ooh, what’s got you all smiley?” she asks as she strolls in.

the previous smile you didn’t even realize you were wearing falls when you look up at the mutant. “huh?”

“don’t try to deny it. i saw that smile,” she says teasingly. you just roll your eyes lightheartedly. ororo’s brow furrows as she sniffs the air. “are you smoking again?”

“yeah, i quit drinking,” you answer, “what’s up?”

“i was coming in here to ask you if you wanted to go out with the rest of us friday night. we’re planning on going that bar we always go to,” she says, “but if you’re not drinking, i don’t wanna make you go.”

“yeah, no. that’s okay,” you decline the offer.

“alright, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us. sober or not,” she adds before leaving out.

the week drags on painfully slow. it’s a week of tests and starting new units in all your classes and you really just want to bang your head against a wall and tell the kids class is canceled.

by the end of it, you actually do want to join your colleagues in going out to that bar in town that they love so much. you offer to be the designated driver, not trusting anyone but yourself to drive you anywhere.

“are you going with us to the bar?” you ask logan as he rummages around the cabinets for something to eat.

“no,” he answers, opening the fridge, “are you?”

“yeah, i’m driving,” you tell him. there’s a beat of silence before you add, “you should come.”

he turns toward you at your words with a crooked smile. “oh yeah?” he questions, “why? ‘you want me there?”

you scoff with no heat behind it. “i was just trying to be nice,” you say.

“you? nice?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

“what? you don’t think i’m nice?” you ask him defensively, crossing your arms.

“no,” he replies, not skipping a beat.

“i’m very nice,” you counter.

“no, you’re not,” he denies again, also crossing his arms.

in his white beater, crossing his arms makes his arms flex and you can’t help but let your eyes wander to the veins of his biceps.

“you have nice hair. there, nice,” you compliment, then add right after, “you’re not balding or anything, which is quite common for men your age.”

“you’re not good at this,” he tells you, looking at your plate to see what you're eating.

“do you want some?” you ask him. you hold your plate across the counter for him to pick off of. he grabs one of your chips and eats it.

“thanks,” he mutters.

“look at me being nice,” you comment and he chuckles deeply.

“shut up,” he returns playfully.

the five of you go to the bar that night, logan joining at your request. he sits at the bar, ordering drink after drink and scanning the bar every so often to make sure you’re alright.

you spend most of your time at ororo’s side. before long, you’re accompanied by a couple of men. you and ororo share side-eyes as they continue to tell stupid jokes. ororo excuses the both of you to go to the bathroom only to move next to logan at the bar.

“having fun?” he asks sarcastically, looking at you then glancing to ororo.

“they could’ve at least been funny, but they weren’t. there terribly unfunny,” you tell him, sitting next to him on a barstool and ororo laughs.

“yeah, that was awful,” she comments and sips her drink. “oh, i see jean and scott. i’ll be back later.” she leaves the two of you. you order a club soda and turn to logan, who is hunched over his drink.

“you have really bad posture,” you tell him as the bartender hands you your drink. he just shrugs and refills his glass with the bottle the bartender left in front of him. you dig your finger into his spine and he straightens up, looking at you wildly.

“why?” is all he asks.

“it’ll help you look more presentable. you’re not looking for anybody tonight?” you ask and glance around the bar for women.

“no, i’m not,” he answers and slumps back down. you dig your finger into his back again and he looks down at you. “stop,” he says seriously.

“oh, what’re you gonna do? stab me?” she asks him challengingly. he looks back down to his drink and shakes his head dismissively. “oh, come on. you’re good-looking, you’re good in bed, you’ve got this hot, animalistic thing going on. why not look for somebody?”

“‘cause i don’t want anybody,” he answers. “did you say i’m good in bed?”

“well, yeah,” you confirm with a one-shouldered shrug.

he stares at you for a beat. this is the first time you’ve ever mentioned it before. you don’t talk about the things you two have done. ever.

“i would know,” you add after he stays quiet.

“you would know what?” ororo asks as she rejoins you, along with scott and jean. they all stand directly behind the man, looking at you expectantly. logan’s waiting for you to make up a lie.

“that logan’s good in bed,” you answer, gesturing to the man next to you. his eyebrows raise and he looks directly in front of him, a smirk playing on his lips as he drinks down all of what’s left in his glass and refills it again. you surprise him more and more every day.

“he’s what?” ororo questions, shock written all over her.

you roll your eyes. “you don’t have to do the clueless bit. jean reads minds and i know she’s told you two,” you state, pointing between ororo and scott.

“what? i haven’t—i didn’t—,” jean stutters over her words, laughing through them.

“liar,” you clock it in a high-pitched tone, sipping your drink. “i’ve heard you talk about it before. i’m just surprised you haven’t mentioned it yet.”

the three of them exchange glances. “okay, yeah, we knew. we thought you would deny it anyway so we didn’t bring it up,” ororo admits.

logan stays silent, drinking like he’s been thirsting for days. why are you doing this? “so…you two are…,” scott trails off. you shrug as your answer. “hmm.”

“hey, sweetheart, you never came back,” the guy from early comes up behind you and wraps an around your shoulders. you tense up at the feeling.

you remove his hand from you. “don’t touch me, and don’t call me sweetheart,” you tell him. he laughs and looks at your colleagues.

“why not? looks like everybody’s got a matchup here but you. let me help you fix that,” he says and runs the knuckles of his finger across your collarbone. he points at scott and jean, then logan and ororo. “i can make you feel good,” he whispers in your ear.

“seriously, don’t touch me,” you tell him firmly, pushing his hand off your shoulder and shifting your seat away from him.

logan doesn’t watch the encounter but he’s squeezing the glass in his hand so hard it’s about to shatter. he feels the red-hot rage crawl up his neck as he does every time he encounters some asshole in a bar.

“don’t be like that, sweetheart,” the man continues and reaches for the strap over your shoulder. chills cover your arms and legs and a shiver runs down your spine. you grab his hand roughly and shove it away from you.

“touch me again and i’m gonna break your fucking nose,” you tell him.

“ooh, i got a feisty one,” he comments to the rest of your group, laughing. “i like that.”

scott takes a step forward. “you need to lay off, man,” he tells him, trying to keep this civil and contained.

the man only laughs harder. “what are you gonna do, glasses?” he asks him and slings his arm over your shoulders. “come on, baby, let’s get out of here. i got a real nice spot for you in my bed.”

“she already told you not to touch her, bub,” logan chimes in, still looking straight ahead and not sparing the boy a glance. there’s a tightness in his shoulders as he uses all his self control to stay in his seat.

“woah, tell your bodyguards to stand down,” he says to you but your only response is to rear back and deck him directly in the nose.

he stumbles back, holding his nose as blood drips into his hand. “you dumb bitch—,” he lunges toward you but logan whips around and grabs him by the front of his shirt, shoving him up against a wall.

“what’d you say?” the mutant asks him lowly, a growl deep in his throat.

“hey, take it outside!” the bartender yells at the man.

“why don’t we do that? you wanna take it outside?” logan asks the scared man in his grasp, shoving him harder into the wall.

“logan, let’s go,” ororo tells him as she walks with you toward the door. he doesn’t move. “logan!”

he drops his hold on the man and turns his back to him. he doesn’t even take a step before the dumbass says, “yeah, listen to your bitch.”

logan turns back around and absolutely socks him in the jaw. the man falls to the ground. logan walks after his friends, rolling his shoulders.

when logan gets out to the car, he sees you in the driver's seat, holding your hand closely to his body. he sits in the passenger seat and looks at you.

“are you okay?” he asks you carefully.

“did you kill him?” you ask him flatly without meeting his gaze, and he shakes his head. “you should’ve,” you say coldly and start the engine, driving out of the parking lot and back to the mansion as quickly as possible.

when you arrive, logan accompanies you to the lab for jean to look at your hand. he wasn’t going to say anything but watching you cradle your hand makes him change his mind. “are you alright?” he asks you.

“fine,” you reply sharply, clenching your jaw tightly. he watches you bite at your lip.

“speak your mind,” he tells you, just outside the hidden elevator. you just shake your head at him. “if you don’t, you’ll take it out on jean.”

“why can’t i just do that?” you ask lowly.

“‘cause she doesn’t deserve it,” he reasons.

you take a deep, frustrated breath. “what happened tonight was stupid,” you say, “dumb fucking men thinking they can get whatever they want whenever they want. now my hand might be broken because i couldn’t—,” you cut yourself off and take another deep breath to steady yourself. “i’m done talking about this,” you say and open the door to the hidden elevator.

he blocks your path. “no, you’re not,” he says and waits for you to continue. that’s when the dam really breaks and you last out at him.

“it’s stupid. all of this is fucking stupid. i could’ve handled myself back there. i didn’t need you to step up and be my big, strong savior,” you tell him angrily, voice rising.

“i know,” he returns.

you’re shouting now, “then why couldn’t you just let me do it? i could’ve stopped him. i’m stronger now. i know how to fight now. i don’t need anybody to save me. i can save myself. i don’t need you. i don’t need any of you.” your voice cracks as the anger starts to shift into the feelings you hate to feel. “i’m not gonna let anyone take advantage of me ever again. and i’ll break every bone in my body before i let some drunk narcissistic man ever put his hands on me again,” you say your peace and breathe heavily and unsteadily.

there’s a long pause, the weight of your words hanging between you. logan doesn’t interrupt, giving you the floor to get it all out.

“i know,” he repeats himself deeply, “but you shouldn't have to.”

you feel that familiar ache in the back of your throat as tears threaten to spill out. you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, pushing all the emotions back down. “my hand really hurts,” you tell him quietly, not trusting your voice. he puts his hand gently on your back and leads you into the elevator then into the lab.

by the time you’re in front of jean, you’ve pulled yourself together and let her examine your hand. you did break your hand. she wraps it up for you and sends you to your room with some pain meds.

logan doesn’t leave your side until you’re at your bedroom door. “i don’t want you to come inside,” you tell him quietly. he stays silent. “it’s just that you’ve never seen my room before and this is mostly where i use my abilities and it’s messy right now and—.”

“‘t’s fine,” he interrupts your rambling. “i don’t have to come inside.”

“right,” you mumble, hand gripping the doorknob. “good night.”

“‘night.” he doesn’t make his way to his room until you slip into yours, locking the door behind you.

the next mid-morning, logan walks into the kitchen to see jean scolding you like a child. he’s surprised you’re just sitting there and taking it without a word.

“i’m serious,” jean says, finishing her tongue lashing.

“i know,” you mumble before jean offers logan a soft ‘good morning’ as she leaves.

“what was that about?” he asks you, moving over to the table where you sit with paper spread in front of you.

“i need to grade these papers but my hand is broken and dr grey told me it would only cause more damage,” you explain, sighing heavily and holding the pen in your healthy hand.

“let me help,” he says, snatching the pen from your fingers and the paper from in front of you. the numbers on the sheet are all greek to him. he doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at.

“you can’t,” you tell him, pulling the paper from his hands. “you don’t know how to do it.”

“then tell me,” he offers, moving his chair next to yours. “tell me what’s wrong and i’ll write it down.”

you shake your head a few times before giving in. “fine,” you cave and look over the student’s work. you place the page in front of the man and point a certain part of a problem. “okay, so he should’ve foil’d here but he didn’t so the rest of the work is wrong. put a line through it and write ‘foil’,” you instruct him and he follows your orders.

“like that?” he asks, showing you. you nod in approval.

“your handwriting actually isn’t that bad. i was expecting a lot worse,” you comment, leaning into him as you look over the next problem. “that one’s right, so put a check,” you tell him and he follows.

the process continues on. every time there’s a gap of silence as you examine the math that he would never even try to understand, he watches you in complete admiration. there are practically hearts in his eyes while the gears turn in your brain.

as the next few days progress, you and logan spend more time together than you ever have. whether he’s in your classroom during your free period or you watch whatever movie’s on tv together on the couch, if someone’s looking for logan, you’re right beside him and vice versa.

of course, the others have taken notice of it. it’s new and after you confirmed you had been sleeping together, they draw their own conclusions about the two of you.

“‘y’know what i would like to see?” you prompt logan as you watch a show with a lumberjack in it.

“what’s that, darlin’?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“you chop wood,” you tell him, looking up at him from your spot under his arm.

“chop wood?” he questions.

“yeah, like, axe, wood, outside, shirtless, sweaty, and muscly, chopping wood,” you tell him, “lumberjack style.”

“lumberj—.”

“with the cigar,” you add excitedly, cutting him off. “maybe add in a little dehydration too.”

“i think you’re drooling a little bit,” he tells you, pointing at your mouth as a lazy smile rests on his face.

“probably, that’s hot,” you tell him, looking back at the screen.

as the credits roll, logan looks down to see you sound asleep with your head resting on his chest. he carefully picks you up in his arms and carries you to your room.

he opens the door and pauses his movements, eyes dancing across your room. there are no personal touches on the walls or shelves. it looks exactly like his did when he first got to the mansion. well, except for one obvious difference.

your room looks completely dilapidated, like an abandoned home that the sun and time have destroyed. the dark color of the wooden floors and furniture has faded, every surface dry and brittle. in some parts, mostly near the window, the wood is completely bleached of its color.

he lays you in your bed and covers you up, taking in the room once more before he leaves.

“why don’t you have another name like everyone else?” he asks as you sit next to him on the bench where you now regularly take your smoke breaks on.

“like a last name? i do have one,” you answer, flicking the butt of your cigarette onto the pavement.

“scott has cyclops, marie’s got rogue,” he elaborates, glancing over at you. you’re sitting right beside him, his arm thrown over the back of the bench in a way that your head rests on it.

“i don’t know. i guess i never understood why i have to change my name just because i’m a mutant. i am who i am, human or mutant,” you answer, messing with a loose thread on your pants. “plus, seeing the way you made fun of the others when you first got here for their names—i’d never even try to think of one now,” you tell him, making him chuckle. you smile proudly at making him laugh. “you looked so cute when you first got here.”

“are you saying i’m not cute anymore?” he asks in mock offense, looking at you sideways.

“i mean, when i first saw you, you had that big jacket on and you were so clueless. a little less muscle too,” you recount, poking his toned stomach to which he curls to the side. your jaw drops. “are you ticklish?” you ask him, a smile growing on your face.

“no,” he replies sharply and gruffly, straightening his posture.

“oh, my fuck. you so are ticklish,” you accuse and dig your fingers into his ribs, attempting to tickle him.

a deep laugh leaves him, and he grabs your hand in his, his facial expression dropping quickly. “stop,” he tells you in warning. you just laugh in his face, reaching toward him with your other hand, cigarette still between your fingers. he grabs your other hand before you touch him, cigar between his fingers. “no,” he denies you.

you look toward the mansion and see the sun reflecting off a window. you bend the light so it’s shining directly in his eyes, almost burning them. he shuts his eyes tightly and brings one of his hands up to his face. as quickly as you can, you reach back into his side.

he quickly stands up and looks down at you. “enough,” he says and points a finger in your face.

you stand up also, but you’re shorter than him so he’s still looking down at you. you decide to stand on the bench, now a little taller than he is. you don’t say anything, just look down on him with a straight face.

logan can’t help the smile that breaks his scowl. “you’re an idiot,” he tells you, raising his eyebrows at you.

you mimic his gesture then flick the cigarette butt onto the ground. “you are cute, wolvie,” you say and ruffle his hair. “i get the whole towering over people know. this is a power trip for sure,” you comment.

“oh, really?” he questions and puts the cigar between his lips. he grabs you around your waist and throws you over his shoulder like you’re as light as a feather.

you let out a surprised squeal as he walks away from your bench with you in his hold. “put me down. bad boy, bad dog,” you chastise him hitting his lower back. he doesn’t listen so you just hang over his shoulder as he drags you into the mansion.

you grab his ass abruptly and he stops in his tracks. he places you on the floor and tilts his head as he looks into your eyes, taking the cigar from his mouth. “‘bad dog’?”

“yeah, wolverine,” you say, gesturing to him.

“a wolverine’s not a dog,” he tells you, smiling down at you.

your brow furrows. “yeah, it’s like a small wolf, right?” you wonder and feel like an idiot when he laughs at you.

“no,” he answers, shaking his head.

“liar,” you accuse.

he tells you, “go to the zoo. there’s some there.”

you look up at him in disbelief. “you’re fucking with me,” she states and he shakes his head in complete amusement. “if you’re lying to me, i’ll—.”

“what? try to blind me again?” he asks, cutting you off.

“maybe i will,” you challenge, crossing your arms.

he pauses for a moment, considering. “maybe i want you to,” he says and his tone drops, like, two octaves when he says it.

you’re suddenly aware of how close the two of you are, how his hands gripped your waist just a moment before, how effortlessly he carried you. the playful atmosphere shifts and you feel heat creep up your neck and across your cheeks. you don’t blush, especially not around him.

“logan,” is all you say softly. he notices the change in tone. he notices everything about you, every detail, every flaw, every perfection.

for a moment, neither of you speak. the air between you is charged. your eyes travel all over his face. he really is such an attractive guy. and when you peel back the tough guy layer, he’s a sweetheart.

“thanks for the ride,” you say lightly, trying to break the tension.

he nods, gaze still locked on you. “anytime,” he remarks, his voice rougher than it was a moment before.

you both stand there for a few more seconds, not really sure where to go from here. his eyes shift from yours to your lip as you chew on it. his jaw tightens and he looks away from you, taking a step back to give you some space.

your heart pounds against your chest unfamiliarly. everything about this feels so new to you.

“see you around, pup,” you say, your voice back to its teasing tone.

“yeah,” he adds, watching as you turn away and walk back toward the mansion.

more days pass and you spend more time with logan. he notices that you make fun of him more, teasing him for small stuff.

it’s only when he’s in the laundry room that ororo catches him alone. “hey, logan,” she greets. he mumbles something of the same. “so…you look pretty cozy with a certain mutant.”

“huh?”

“you know what i’m talking about,” she says, leaning against a washing machine.

“it’s nothing,” he tells her, starting the machine he threw his clothes into haphazardly.

“‘doesn’t look like nothing,” she returns.

“leave it alone,” he grumbles, turning to leave the room.

ororo steps in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. “please, don’t hurt her, logan,” she requests.

“she doesn’t want me the way you think,” he tells her.

“you can’t seriously believe that,” she says, looking back and forth between his eyes.

at that very moment, you turn the corner and your eyes widen. you ignore the sting in your chest as you let out a loud “woah.” ororo quickly turns around and takes a step away from logan. “i didn’t mean to interrupt,” you tell them with your hands up in surrender, but that was exactly your intention when you spoke up.

“you weren’t interrupting anything,” logan tells you, watching you move past him to grab a laundry basket.

“i’m not judging,” you reply, walking back to the door. you turn back last second and look at ororo. “hey, if he asks you to wear a red wig, say no,” you tell her with a wink before leaving.

“i never—,” logan cuts himself off, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. “i never did that,” he says to her.

“God, i hope not. what the hell,” she remarks, shoving his arm. “she was jealous. you need to go tell her nothing happened.” he sighs deeply and takes a step forward. “‘you really still think she doesn’t want you?”

he doesn’t reply and follows after you. you’re walking as quickly as you can up the stairs when he catches up to you. “hey,” he calls after you.

“don’t worry, buddy. secret’s safe with me,” you tell him, picking up your pace as you reach the top of the stairs but he keeps in step with you.

“there’s not a secret. we were just talking,” he says.

you place a hand on your bedroom doorknob. “really, you don’t have to defend yourself to me,” you say and open your door, slipping inside. before you can shut it, logan stops the door with his hand. you look at him through the crack in the door, pushing your lips into a thin line. “uhm…”

“there’s nothing going on between me and storm,” he tells you.

“i’m not gonna tell anybody,” you return, frustration rising in your tone. you push against the door but your strength is in no way comparable to his.

“i’m serious,” he tries again, almost pleading. “i don’t want her, i want—.”

“jean? look at that, finishing each other’s sentences again,” you cut him off with a false laugh.

“come on, darlin‘,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

you groan. “i just thought—,” you stop yourself, sighing. “it doesn’t matter what i thought.”

“it does matter,” he tells you, pushing the door a little wider. you move into the space between the doorway and the door, trying to block his view into the room. “tell me,” he encourages, getting closer to you.

“i thought you weren’t a whore,” you retort, giving him a hardened look.

“that’s not what you were gonna say,” he states lowly, looking deeply into your eyes. “what was it?” you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, biting into the skin. he reaches his hand to your jaw, his thumb pulling the lip from between your teeth. “don’t do that. you know it drives me crazy.”

“i thought maybe you wanted me for more than sex,” you admit, feeling embarrassed as the words slip out. you clench your jaw, preparing for the rejection. a smirk slide onto his face and you drop your head. “okay, bye.”

you move back and push against the door again, but this time he pushes the door all the way open. your eyes widen as he takes a long stride toward you and pulls you back to him by the back of your neck. he presses his lips against yours feverishly to which you obviously reciprocate.

he pulls away and rests his forehead against yourself, breathing heavily. “i want you in every way possible, sweetheart,” he says.

you swallow thickly, putting a hand on his chest and pushing him away. “you don’t want me,” you tell him. he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back into him, your chest pushing against his.

“i do,” he counters.

“you don’t,” you respond.

there’s a beat of silence. “i do,” he says again. you just look up into his eyes. “i want you. i’m not the best person for you, i know that. i’m older and unhappy and i probably can’t be there for you emotionally,” he lists then shakes his head at you, looking at you like you make the world go round. “but i want you, i want every part of you—the good, the bad, the hot and sexy, and the rude and snappy. everything.”

you’re quiet. you don’t know what to say, what is there to even say? in your head, he’s always wanted jean and you were just a place filler. you’ve been under the impression that you caught feelings and he didn’t reciprocate them at all. maybe you’re wrong just this once.

“i want you too,” you tell him in a whisper. he watches your brow furrow as you look away from his eyes. his face falls. “but—.”

“no ‘but.’ don’t say ‘but’,” he begs, loosening his grip on your waist.

“logan, i can live with you not being there for me emotionally, but i don’t know if you can live with me not being for you sexually,” you tell him. dread takes over your body. this beautiful, morally grey, perfect-for-you man is in the palm of your hand and you’re letting him slip through your fingers.

her visible confusion deepens. “you’ve been perfect for the past few months,” he tells you, misinterpreting your words as insecurity.

you shake your head. “i meant it when i said i can’t fuck you sober,” you tell him slowly, avoiding his gaze completely. you feel his hands move from his loosened grip to a hover over your hips. you can’t read his mind like you usually can. logan wears his thoughts on his face, perfectly readable when he’s mad or happy or just his normal grumpy. but now, it’s like trying to read a book in a language you didn’t know existed. “i’m sorry,” you add when his silence becomes too much.

“i don’t care,” he tells you as soon as you finish the last syllable.

“you know i don’t apologize for shit and you don’t care that i’m sorry?” you ask him. you go to push him off again but he pulls you back in, this time wrapping his around your neck, smothering your face in his burly chest.

“i don’t care about sex,” he tells you as he rests his head atop yours. you return the embrace and hold him around his ribs. “i don’t care if you never touch me again. i love you.” your eyes widen and he feels your body tense up. he chuckles, pulling away and smiling at you. “too soon?”

“a little,” you tell him, nodding. you then smile back at him.

———

a/n: i haven’t written in a long time . pls don’t rip me up if u hate this🙏

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mistymisfit · 4 months ago

Text

I'm your man

angst, mentions of past abuse, loosely based on the Mitski song by the same name, they're kinda toxic ngl. (2,1k)

You were no strangers to arguments, they tend to happen more often than not when two stubborn people decide to date. Normally, you could work it out. Sometimes, one or both of you needed some time to cool off and let the initial anger wear down so you could approach it without yelling and think more rationally.

Other times, the arguments could end up with laying in bed with your head on his chest, thinking you were glad to have such a hot headed boyfriend. Some nights, you'd sleep on either side of the bed, your backs to the other and facing your respective walls, only to wake up with your limbs tangled together and find out you both reached for the other in your sleep.

This time it had been different, you didn't know why he got so defensive when all you asked was that he was careful that night. And you were no better than him, so when he started to get mad, you got mad too. He doesn't know why he said such hurtful things to you, you don't know why you couldn't be the only one whose feelings got hurt that night.

"Sure, be careful" You said absentmindedly, you always told him to be careful at night, and you didn't think tonight was any different.

"Yeah, when am I not?" He sighed. You didn't like the tone he used, like he was tired of you, as if he didn't want to hear it from you.

"Why the attitude?" You questioned almost immediately, and that's how it started.

Then one thing led to another, and you both pressed the other too hard that night.

"You think I'm an idiot? Think I didn't see you last night with that guy?" He finally cracks after a solid fifteen minutes of yelling that for sure your neighbors were going to complain about.

"Is that what it is?" You're pretty sure he could see the disappointment painted all across your features, "You think I'm cheating?"

"No I-" He sighed "You know what? fuck this, forget it"

It ended with him storming out of the apartment, and you waiting up all night just so you could work it out when he returned home. Hopefully, he had blown off some steam by then. But that never happened, and now you hadn't seen or talked to your boyfriend in two weeks.

At least you hadn't heard from him, but you did read a news article about some drug dealer's warehouse being blown up the same night you got a call from Babs asking if you knew what he was up to, or if you knew he was okay, recognizing that's the type of reckless stunt he'd pull when he's going through something. It was not hard to put two and two together, even if your reply was intentionally vague to help him. You said something along the lines of: "Babs, you know he doesn't tell me that. He wouldn't tell me he is Red Hood if it was up to him." and "We're not broken up if that is what you're asking". You were not so sure of that last one.

You itched to call him or text him all the time. You even got your phone out and the text ready to send before deleting it, remembering he was the one who got offended when a friend walked you home once. Once. At night, after he was the one who asked you a million times to avoid walking home alone that late. If he didn't swallow his pride to talk to you, why should you? Yes, you were offended, but you were also worried. He had never disappeared like this before, he'd always stayed with you no matter how angry he was. You weighed your choices, waiting clueless until he returned or calling someone with the same hobby as his --vigilantism--. The second option would definitely end with Bruce knowing and suspecting Jason was up to no good again, and he'd hate that. You considered calling Roy but then remembered you didn't have his number. So you waited for two long anxiety-ridden weeks, you were sleeping poorly and eating even worse. Even your friends asked if you were okay.

Until one night, he finally enters your apartment through your window. You want to jump and hug him at the sight of him for the first time in what felt like forever, but you don't. Instead, you stay put in your place on the couch. It's late, but he's glad you're awake, so he makes quick work of uncovering his face and dropping his guns on the floor. And in no time, he's kneeling in front of you, looking up with tear-brimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry" He breaks the silence. You shake your head no, holding his face with both of your hands and swiping away his tears with your thumbs.

"No, I'm sorry" You speak faster than you think. All these days, you didn't feel the need to apologize, and now you do. "I swear he's just a friend, he just walked me home 'cause it was late, and I didn't tell you because I thought it didn't matter-"

"No, no, I know that" He sighs, his hands lay over yours in an attempt to feel more of you, or so that you wouldn't stop touching him. "I trust you, baby"

"Then what is it?" You insisted with tears in your eyes too "Just talk to me, Jason, I can't- I can't deal with you disappearing like this. I was worried sick"

You had to pause a second to sniff and wipe your own tears before continuing; "even Babs called me to ask about you and I had to lie"

I was scared, thinking how easy it'd be for you to leave me, how easy it'd be to lose you, he thinks, come on just say it. "I've been stressed, I'm sorry I took it out on you" I'm sorry, I was hurting, and I had to hurt you too, I don't know why I do this, he wants to add.

"Okay," you sniff, nodding and accepting his reasoning even if you don't fully believe it.

You don't have the strength to push him into telling you the truth. It was a hard learned lesson with him, pressuring Jason to open up would only get the opposite effect on him. Another hard learned lesson was that when he wants to reach out, he'll do it, but in the most dramatic way possible.

"Hit me" He begs

"What? No." You are taken aback with his request.

"Please," He insists. Why he needs violence to repent is beyond you, it's all he's ever known. He craves it as much as he does affection, sometimes even more, which is why you think he argues with you so often. He needs to hear you call him a jerk, an asshole, and every name in the book as much as he needs to hear you call him sweet pet names. "I deserve it"

"Jay-" Your voice is stuck on your throat. You can't believe what he wanted you to do, to harm him. Your tears start falling again on their own at the thought of how ingrained the association between forgiveness and being hurt is in his mind, how many times he must have suffered as a kid and an adult at the hands of those he loved the most to think like this. You were aware of the deep self-hatred your boyfriend had, but he had never asked you this. "I'd never raise a hand against you"

He looks up at you, stunned and unsure of how to act. That's what a life time of abuse caused him, years and years of being fed crumbs of love and affection that he does not know how to behave around someone like you. Someone who so freely gives him what he's always wanted, unconditional love, to be taken care of as much as he's taking care of the other person.

At first, it was his mostly absent parents, whether it was psychically like his dad, or mentally like his mom. Maybe it was a head pat once from his father, or Catherine telling him "you take care of me so well" or a few praise words every once in a while that made it all worth it. Never mind the neglect he went through, he would grab those crumbs of love and mistake them for grand gestures.

Then he got adopted, and Bruce gave him all he ever wanted. Completely casting aside the fact that he isolated him from kids his age, in favor of not repeating the "mistakes" he had while raising his predecessor. Or that when he felt he was no longer needed, or wanted, he left to look for his biological mother. Even now in his adult years, if he wronged Bruce, he felt a fight would settle it. And he was never above giving Jason what he wanted. Not that he'd ever recognize any of the parental figures on his life were abusive, but it is what he's learned. That if he lets people hurt him, then they won't be mad at him anymore.

Jason's always been hungry for love, but now that he has it, he's choking on it. You've spoon fed him his wildest dreams, and he can't stop trying to push you away. It's even worse because you stay, you may yell and get equally as angry as him, but you stay. You always wait for him, and he always comes back for you.

"Baby," You cut him off with a kiss before he can insist. His hands hold your face like he's going to lose you, and you'd think this was the last chance he had to kiss you with how intense he gets. "I'm sorry"

"I know you are," You nod, eyes still closed, lips still close to his. "and I've missed you"

"I've missed you too" He kisses your cheek, it feels almost shy, the way he presses his lips so lightly to your skin as if waiting for you to push him away.

"Why don't you spend the night here?"

Jason takes your offer without much complaint, nodding before his tears get too much to handle. He hides his face on your lap right as he starts sobbing. All you can do is pet his hair and tell him everything is okay until he calms down, or maybe tires himself out. Then you can finally lift his head and lean down to kiss his forehead. His eyes are puffy, and he's about to apologize again when you take his hand and guide him up to take him to your room. You gently and quietly help him rid of his armor and clothes. He does not say a word when you look up at him like he's worth something, as if he's not way past fixing. Your fingers trace the mark on his neck, and for once, he lets you. No complaints, no wincing. He lets you trace and kiss all the scars, marks, and bruises you want.

But he's afraid, afraid that your soft gaze will disappear once you figure him out, once you stop believing in him. He knows that if he lost your love, dying would be the only thing to bring him comfort, and that he'd deserve it. For tonight, he settles for following you to bed, basking in the warmth of your embrace. Limbs wrapping around each other to leave as little space separating you as possible. Jason can be selfish every once in a while, maybe he doesn't think he deserves your forgiveness, but he'll accept it anyways.

"I don't know why you keep putting up with me," He sighs into your hair.

"Because I love you," you explain, grabbing his arms so they wrap around you tighter. The hum you get in response is calm, but with your ear pressed against his chest, you can hear his quickened heartbeat. "just don't ever ask me to hit you again"

"Promise," You feel the barely there nod that accompanies his words,"I'll make it up to you, I'll be better"

Now it was your turn to hum and nuzzle your nose to his chest, even planting a little kiss for reassurance when you feel tears falling on your hair. You know this doesn't fix anything, that his promises are probably empty, and he'd still beat himself up over this in the morning. And he'd still feel unworthy until he's finally ready to make some deep changes in how he views himself, but until then, you could only be there for him.

#trying a new format #something something jason asking reader to hit him but gets kissed instead #w: jason #edit 24 hs later:#should've named it you're angel I'm a dog #smh #jason todd x reader #jason todd angst #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #kinda #red hood x reader

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perpetuallyburntout · 11 months ago

Text

S4!Five Hargreeves x Reader

Strawberry Blonde - Mitski

‼️SPOILER WARNING FOR SEASON FOUR OF UMBRELLA ACADEMY BELOW THE CUT‼️

Okay so I know I wasn’t the only person absolutely crushed by season four of Umbrella Academy, but in the middle of grieving over it, I had the best/worst idea. Technically a fanfic idea, but I don’t know if I have the commitment to write the whole thing, so if someone else would like to, by all means :)

The events of season four start six years after the end of season three. Six years of (mostly) peace. Let’s just say Five met someone in that time (for the sake of making sense, I’ll refer to them as Lover). Met someone he found himself falling for. And they fell for him, too. And it was perfect. And for the first time in a painfully long time, Five was happy. Content. He had his suspicions about how long this peace would last, but… for now, things were good. More than good, they were wonderful. He’d met the love of his life.

And then the events of season four begin to happen. And Lover is there with the group the whole time. At this point, they’re family, too. They want to help, and Five wants them to stay close to him.

Until he and Lila decide to go on their own on the subway, leaving Lover with the others. And in the seven years Five and Lila are stuck together, the same thing happens. And when they finally return, Lover knows something is off. And when the truth comes out, their whole world comes crashing down.

Diego grows angry. Lover just grows somber. It’s even worse, because when they look at Five again, his expression is different. The aching love that used to shine in his eyes whenever he looked at them… it’s dulled to something faint. Still there, deep down, but… unsure. As if he’s questioning himself. Questioning what he should do now. Who he’d pick if given the choice.

Of course, he’s not given the choice. Not even the choice to take Lover far away and talk to them and really explain and try to do something. No, no… the world’s ending. For the final time. And he knows how to make sure it never comes to an end ever again.

Lover’s there for the entire conversation. Every bit of grief and anger they’d felt towards Five suddenly melts away, replaced by desperation. They’d let the world end for the rest of eternity if… if it meant maybe things could be different. If it meant maybe he’d love them, and maybe he’d never love anyone else besides them.

They’re eventually forced to leave with Lila’s family and get on the subway. And while everyone else is confused and emotional, they’re curled on the ground, gasping and sobbing, knowing what this means.

And the Hargreeves stop the world from ending. And all the timelines reset. And everyone else in the world gets their happy ending.

And Lover thinks they’re happy. They do. But they never fall in love again. For some reason, every time they think they find someone, an aching pain in their chest makes them hesitate. An unfamiliar voice calling their name makes them pause. A flash of something, perhaps a memory, too fast to register but not fast enough to ignore the heart wrenching pain of, makes them withdraw. It’s almost as if…

They’re waiting for someone that never existed.

°。°。°。°。°。°。

So! When I had this idea, I was listening to Strawberry Blonde by Mitski, and here’s how the lyrics played out in my head:

I love everybody because I love you

When you stood up, walked away, barefoot

And the grass where you lay left a bed in your shape

I looked over it and I ached

(12:00 PM. August 8th, 2024. Lover’s enjoying their day in the park, sitting in the grass, eyes shut against the light breeze and warm sun. They turn to their side, almost as if to tell someone about how lovely the weather is. But no one’s there. A weird pain begins to ache in their heart.)

I love everybody because I love you

I don't need the city, and I don't need proof

All I need, darling, is a life in your shape

I picture it, soft and I ache

(Others—perhaps friends or family—come over and greet Lover, noticing their confused and distant expression, and ask what’s wrong. Nothing, they say, though they can’t escape the deep longing in their chest for… something that was never there.)

Look at you, strawberry blond

(Flashback timeeee- or… alternate timeline time? Flashback to a time in an alternate timeline, there we go.)

Reach out the car window tryna hold the wind

You tell me you love her, I give you a grin

Oh, all I ever wanted was a life in your shape

So I follow the white lines, follow the white lines

Keep my eyes on the road as I ache

(Shows Five and Lover together, in love, making memories together. Happy.)

Look at you, strawberry blond

Fields rolling on

I love it when you call my name

Can you hear the bumblebees swarm?

Watching your arm

I love it when you look my way

Look at you, strawberry blond

Fields rolling on

I love it when you call my name

Can you hear the bumblebees swarm?

Watching your arm

I love it when you look my way

(Events of season four began to play out, but ofc with Lover being part of the story.)

Look at you, strawberry blond

Fields rolling on

I love it when you call my name

Can you hear the bumblebees swarm?

Watching your arm

I love it when you look my way

(The climax of the story. Flashes of the last two episodes. Five and Lila returning, the explanation, the heartbreak, Five finding out how to save the world for good, Lover meeting his gaze one last time as the subway pulls away forever.)

Isaiah, Isaiah, Isaiah

(Lover repeating his name to themself, trying to remember for as long as possible, not able to let go.)

Isaiah, Isaiah, Isaiah

(Flashback ends, returns to Lover in the grass on that sunny day, murmuring the name to themself. They’re not quite sure why.)

°。°。°。°。°。°。

I hope you all enjoyed this little idea! I got a little rambly and wrote WAY MORE than I planned on, but it’s an idea I’ve fallen in love with this past hour and I wanted to be able to share it with all of you <3

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urautismdiagnosis-wistie · 2 months ago

Note

any and all octonauts headcannons, go

sorry for taking a while to respond 😭

🐧Peso had a nervous habit of plucking his feathers, its gotten alot better than it used to be but it still happens occasionally

🐕Dashi enjoys listening to alot of different kinds of music, but she especially likes indie rock like mitski and some kinds of alternative pop too. She also likes to listen to those "pov your boyfriend crashed the car" ASMR videos to go to sleep unironically

🐇Tweak really hates the US government.

Speaking of tweak, in my au Marsh's family actually actively helped alot of cuban refugees who made it to Florida. It left a very big impact on him through all his years and it carried on over to tweak.

Also continuing with ranger marsh in my au, he actually dodged the draft for the Vietnam War in the 70s because he literally (well he didn't have the nerve to do it so he asked his wife to) shot himself in the foot so he wouldn't be required to go 💀. He did consider like. Running off into the wilderness to dodge the draft for a while 💀🙏 he was a very young adult back then and was trying his best ok

🦦Shellington has licked non living and living things "for science". Peso does NOT approve.

🐻‍❄️the capn has a snack stash in his room that he keeps secret. They're literally traditional treats and foods from his mom and he's a major comfort midnight snacker

🥕Tunip and the vegimals are kids in my au, but as tunip specifically gets older he realizes how much all the adults in his lives are kinda internal disasters 💀🙏 he feels like he's the only one with a braincell sometimes 😭

🐻‍❄️The capn has essentially a cooling vest and cooling bands (for his upper arms and legs) he wears in the day. The help to regulate his temperature since (despite cutting and thinning his fur) he still overheats with his natural blubber. He has a few sets that he literally deep freezes every night and swaps out. One set can last for around a week and the vests do have an emergency electrical cooling system. Peso has the same thing but just the vest.

🐙professor inkling once met calico jack decades ago...

🐧peso is an auditorial stimmer. Stuff the the xylophone, clicking his beak, and different little noises he makes are thr main way he stims.

🦦shellington once tried to make "ultra coffee" by mixing coffee with energy drinks and them "added chemical compounds to reduce the risk of heart failure" to make the "best energizing drink without any of the drawbacks so he could finish his 4 different projects by the end of the week!!!" In college. Anyways you'll never guess who ended up in the ER

🐧Whenever peso gets really anxious he feels nauseous.

🐧(Trigger warning abusive parent mention and violence with shattered glass) peso has a nasty jagged scar on his back. He won't ever tell anyone where or when its from but... between us it came after a huge breaking point where he stood up to his dad... and then we he turned around to leave and walk away... let's just say pesos dad had surprisingly good aim.... his mom helped pick out the glass shards. Pesos dad wasnt.. usually physically violent like that so it shocked even him. Usually he was more.. screaming, and shaming, and yelling, and gaslighting, and demanding. Regardless, peso never forgot that night.

🥕The vegimals usually sleep in 2s or 3s in different locations. Sometimes they'll sleep in the "nest" (general area the vegimals hang out in in the library) , shellingtons bed, or even the garden to look out into the ocean <3 they find it all quite comfortable, its rare but occasionally other octonauts have ended up with a surprise vegimal in their bed or even themselves dragged by one to the garden to rest with them. The latter is usually a result of the vegimals noticing an octonaut is particularly stressed. They also bring said octonauts their favorite snack. Tweak is a favorite to drag into the garden when she overworks herself.

🐈Kwazii doesn't trust most people despite his friendly and open nature. Or rather, he specifically doesn't trust most landlubbers....

🐻‍❄️Barnacles feels conflicted about being sro ace although he doesn't yet realize that he's aro ace or know that it exists. I can elaborate if someone is interested.

🐕When dashi first joined the octonauts she felt like she was making ALOT of social mistakes! Especially with kwazii 😔 it wasn't that he wasn't friendly or anything, but she couldn't shake the feeling maybe he didn't like her? Not to mention the only other girl on the octopod was constantly holed away in the depths of the ship and she may have insulted the otter guy and his??? Extremly little and young fish children?? He seemed very stressed out, but he DID have like... 8 little kids.

Continuation:

Anyways dashi ended up getting really overwhelmed and ended up hiding in the library. Inkling found her and she offered to help him with his reorganization afyer making some excuse why she wasn't at the weekly group dinner.

and he agreed only to disappear a minute later. 10 minutes of silently and confused sorting later, he reappeared with a small stack of books and pamphlets in a bag and told her he "had some spare copies she should keep" and that he didn't need anymore help with organizing before he (politely) essentially kicked her out of the library.

The books were guides on different species behaviours and body language <3 inkling had already done this with at least 3 different octonauts already (peso barnacles and shellington) 😭😭😭🙏

19. 🐧Peso LOVES lemon flavored candies :>

20. 🐇Tweak eats raw mint as a habit she picked up from her college years.

21. Tweak randomly has the urge to bite and destroy the wires in her gups and machinery. She is very silently concerned about this but actually its just Rabbit Instinct saying "YO YOU CANT LEAVE BRAMBLES AND VINES AROUND, YOULL GET CAUGHT IN THEM U GOTTA CUT THEM!!!" Marsh isn't as strong though and may have bitten radio wires and gotten poisoned. Just another reason he doesn't understand modern doohickies cuz he listened to his instincts and look what that got him, a broken radio!

Hope yall enjoyed the headcanons and au lore!

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leonstoenailunderhisbed · 1 year ago

Text

My baby, my baby…

Summary: Leon is a man pushing 40 and you’re a girl in her early 20s. You confessed your feelings but things went south.

Warning: age gap. literally any older version of Leon. reader is young. female reader. haha guess what? it’s sad again.

a/n: I love mitski <3 still mad I didn’t go to her concert. Guys I love writing, I feel like I’m god waiting for shit to happen. TEEHEE.🤭 also, should I make a part two with smut?

(pt.1) (pt.2)

“You're my baby, say it to me” - Mitski, I Bet On Losing Dogs

You hated him. Well not really. You just hated the way he made you feel when you two were in the same room. Your heart beat faster and you felt your face grow hot. You had butterflies in your stomach every time he did something. And you felt stupid because he’s a man twice your age.

You did what you always think is best, avoid him. To which you failed miserably. You both worked on the same team on the DSO, of course you were bound to be next to him. It was as if the universe was mocking you. You couldn’t help but feel guilty. This man, poor innocent man, probably doesn’t know that he has someone so much younger after him. He must be worried about missions and not dying, while you were here crushing over him.

It didn’t help the way he would talk to you, distant but polite. He didn’t hate you, he just thought you were too young to experience such a miserable life the DSO puts on its agents. He wants you to live life. To be a normal girl in her early 20s. He wanted you to have the life he wished he had. He wished you would live your 21st year way differently than when he was 21.

But those thoughts remained unspoken. Neither of you actually spoke about anything besides work and missions. You tried to find excuses to talk to him but he would just stare at you in silence as you talked. He wasn’t mad, he just stood there. (Like this lol🧍‍♂️)

Professional and polite conversations turned into jokes. One time, during a meeting, you were sitting next to Leon and the poor man looked like he didn’t get an ounce of sleep. Chris was talking about some mission in Antarctica and Leon couldn’t help but grumble a stupid joke about all the penguin shit roaming around. It was such a stupid joke but you laughed. When Leon heard you laugh, he turned his head your direction and stared at you with a raised brow. He smirked to himself and laughed a little bit. It was funny to both of you.

From that moment, he became more warm towards you. When he saw you, he would nod at him. And you being you, a delusional lover, gushed about how much he is in love with you.

You managed to break the ice exterior he had because he would look at you with soft eyes every time you got near him.

But things changed when you confessed your feelings to him. The softness in his eyes disappeared and he looked at you with the same distant look he had. “I’m too old for you, y/n…” He spoke with a quiet but firm tone. The two of you were currently alone in some room inside the DSO building. You thought this was the perfect time to let your feelings out.

He took a step towards you and stood in front of you, “You should focus on someone your age, sweetheart,” He mumbled as he brought his hand to your face and brushed some strands of hair behind your ear. He then ran his hand down your cheek with a gentle touch. You couldn’t help but lean into it. His thumb gently grazes against your bottom lip as he ran his fingers around your side of your face.

You were upset, you wanted him despite the age gap. “Please… I only want you,” you whispered and leaned into the palm of his hand.

Leon stared at you and then sighed as he brought his hand down your chin to lift it up more. He wanted to see those beautiful eyes of yours, even if they began to show how sad you were. “It’s wrong for me to have you,” he whispered gently as he examines your face.

You felt your eyes become full of emotion, “It’s not fair…” your voice came out strained and barely audible, it was a miracle Leon still understood you.

"I know." Leon sighed, unable to keep himself from looking you with a soft look. You were his soft spot after all, "Trust me; nothing would please me more than to be with you..."

“Then let me have this one chance…please?” You begged with pleading eyes. "I shouldn't," he breathed, eyes traveling down to your lips before returning to scan your face, "It wouldn't be right for me to take advantage of you..."

“I want you to take advantage of me, to use me… I just want to be yours,” you whispered as your eyes shifted down to his lips and then back to his eyes.

"You're sure about this?" His breathing quickened as his eyelids drew heavy, his gaze locked onto the soft curve of your lips. You nodded, “I wouldn’t be asking you if I wasn’t sure,” you whispered as your hand intertwined with his.

He squeezed your hand, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he leaned down until your faces were just mere inches apart.

He breathed slowly, eyes scanning your gaze, "Promise me one thing..."

You stared at his eyes and nodded, “yeah?”

"Promise me..." He breathed out slowly, allowing himself to lean in closer to you until his breathing was near whisper. "...That you will not regret this.”

“I won’t,” you whispered as you closed your eyes and felt Leon's lips finally make contact with yours, kissing for the very first time. It was a gentle, tender caress that made your cheeks flush with color, his broad hands gently resting on your hips while the tips of his fingers grazed the skin of your waist. You brought your hands to his broad shoulders and rested them there. You felt your knees grow weak from the gentleness of the kiss. His lips felt so soft against yours, he tasted the flavor of your chapstick and he couldn’t help but love it even more.

He sighed against your lips as the gentleness of the kiss began to build into something more passionate. His lips pressed against yours firmly, a hand cupping your chin to keep your face closer. His lips parted slowly, urging your lips to part as well. When you felt his lips part and his tongue press on your bottom lip, you gasped and he dived his tongue right into your mouth. His tongue finally danced against your tongue, inviting a response back from you. Your grip on his shoulders increased ever so slightly as you moaned in the kiss, sending the vibrations to his tongue as both your tongues danced passionately.

He moaned softly in response, his hands sliding around to your back once more holding you as close to him as he could. His tongue continued to swirl around your mouth, gently sucking at your bottom lip. His hold on you was strong and firm, a silent command to stay pressed against him. His hold on you only grew stronger as he kept you pressed up against his body. A hand ran through your hair, keeping your head held in place. His tongue and lips continued the dance of teasing and pleasing, your own lips responding in kind. The passion built within his embrace, his breath growing labored and his heart beating rapidly against his chest. It felt so surreal.

You moved your hands down to his chest and gently pulled back to catch your breath. You panted as you tried to breathe and remain focused. Your brain felt mushy from how good the kiss was. You finally got the chance to taste his lips.

His lips parted from yours, and he breathed out slowly, his breathing rapid and throat parched. His hand slid to your lower back as he kept you pressed close to him. He brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face, then gently tucked it back behind your ear. "Are you ok?" He whispered, voice still strained, but his body relaxing slightly.

You nodded and breathed out a small “yes,”

Leon let his grip on you loosen slightly, allowing a small distance to form between the two of you. He brushed the side of your face, and his hand moved to grasp yours.

"Good," He whispered slowly, his gaze falling to your lips, "So very good..." he sighed and let his hand slid back down your back before letting go, "Forgive me if I got a little carried away..." He took in a deep breath, his voice now returning to a normal tone, "I've wanted to do that for a very long time..."

You eyes nestled bulged out of their sockets after he said that, “You did?” You asked softly in disbelief.

He nodded slowly, his gaze flicking between yours, “Yes. Ever since the moment we first met, I was attracted to you, even though I knew it was wrong. I wanted you, wanted to hold you close, kiss you, and make you mine…” his eyes growing distant, "I've wanted you..." He took a deep breath, then gently caressed your chin with a hand, his lips gently grazing your forehead.

You closed your eyes and felt the softness of his lips plant a kiss on your forehead. A gesture so gentle and soft it could bring anyone to their knees.

He breathed out slowly, closing his eyes for a second before opening them to peek at you through his lids. He raised a brow and sighed, adjusting the hold on your chin to gently tip your head up.

"But as I said, I'm too old for you," he brushed his fingers across your jawline, "And I fear that our relationship would be met with judgment and ridicule..." he looked at you with saddened eyes. He wished he could kiss you anytime, to be with you in public and not have to worry about the judgment. In his eyes, you were the most beautiful woman to ever step foot on earth. It was sad, really. How much love he had for you but he hid it for your sake. He loves you so much he didn’t want you to get hurt.

You furrowed your brows together and looked at him with those sad eyes of yours. But his heart ached the most with the strain of your voice, “I don’t care what anyone says…”

"But you should," he replied softly, "You're still young... You should find someone closer to your age,” he caressed your cheek once again as he looked into your eyes "What about your family?" He sighed, "What if your parents disagree with us? They'd say that I'm taking advantage of you and manipulating you because you're young..."

“Leon, please, I’m an adult. I can make my own choices…” you whispered with a sad tone, “I don’t care if you’re 20 years older than me. I want you… dare I say I love you…”

Leon fell silent as your words sank into him. He froze in place, for a few moments, he was speechless, his facial expressions shifting through multiple emotions.

"Love me?" He whispered, leaning down towards you, "Y/n… you don’t love me. You love the idea of me you have in your head.” He whispered softly as he caressed your cheek once again. His voice so soft and tender and full of sadness.

Your throat was caught up into a knot. Did you screw things over already? Or were they already screwed up before this began?

You bit your bottom lip to contain the threatening tears that were about to spill. He saw this and gently brought his thumb over to the corner of your eyes and wiped them for you.

“I love you…” you nodded and felt your eyes get glossy, “I love you, Leon…” you whispered, “This feeling I have… it’s controlling me. I can’t breathe when I’m not with you. I need you…”

“Don’t cry, angel,” he whispered as he kissed your forehead again and gave you a sad smile. “How do you know this is not just infatuation?”

You stared into his blue eyes deeply, “Because I’ve never felt this way towards anyone before..”

His eyes were locked onto yours, a million thoughts running through his head. As much as he wanted to be with you, this was never meant to happen. You’re way too young. You needed someone else, someone better than him. He sighed and looked out the window. What was once a sunny day became a rainy one. He looked back down at you.

"Go home, y/n…" he whispered.

He let go of your face and took a step back. You watched him go with sad eyes, you wanted to chase after him so badly but you felt frozen in place. It was bittersweet. You got the kiss you wanted but at the cost of him leaving you.

You sniffled and cried silently as you walked out of the building and to the bus stop. You put on your headphones and began to listen to some music while you watched the raindrops race down the window.

Leon watched you from the second floor window. He felt a pang of guilt in his heart. He knew you’d cry but he couldn’t let you get too attached to someone like him. He was broken, never meant to be fixed again. While you were everything. In another universe, maybe the two of you could’ve been together.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #id leon kennedy #leon kennedy angst #di leon #light angst #resident evil angst #resident evil fic #re4r leon #re4 leon #fanfic

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futureplayboibunnie · 2 years ago

Text

Aphrodesiacs Pt.10 (Finale)

Miguel O’Hara x fem! spidey! reader

You and Miguel were bitten by the same spider…what could possibly happen?

okay grand finale for y’all. I REALLY BUST MY ASS TO MAKE THIS A LONG JUICY ONE. i was listening to once more to see you by mitski writing this soooo.

NSFW AS ALWAYS 18+

You kicked Miguel out that night.

Yes, it was petty. Yes, it was bitchy. But you really couldn't be around him, not when you had to go to HQ tomorrow. You got a taste of his lifestyle and you found that it was enough.

You didn't want to be a secret side fling but you didn't want to be in a relationship either, you were confused, and being near Miguel never made you clear-headed anyway so you found it very easy to kick him out. He wasn't saying the right things to you and to be honest, you didn't care if it was petty. You wouldn't settle, even if it was Miguel. But then again, it was Miguel- the man that makes you bend to his will, the man that makes your pussy sore and your body ache, the man that can make you cum over and over again until you're biting into the bedsheets. Your mouth went slack at the mere thought. You had to put your foot down, although it felt so fucking good, you wouldn't reduce yourself as someone he fucks from time to time.

You really weren't looking forward to Monday.

Monday morning was hell.

But as it approached nightfall, everything became worse.

Miguel was pacing in his office, his trembling fingers rubbing the skin of his forehead. He couldn't work properly, not when you so casually said 'leave' and shut the door in his face. He couldn't lie, it definitely stung, almost like he was being rejected by the popular girl in high school, reducing him to an awkward, idiotic mess in front of a pretty girl. The thought made his eye twitch, embarrassment twinging at his chest. The issue that was heavier than the embarrassment was the frustration and regret, he couldn't help but feel sad about it- but he would much rather die than show it. After all these years of keeping himself hidden, keeping busy with his work, with his role as a leader...he really didn't know how to open up to anyone. The only person he had ever gotten properly close with was you, and that was just sex. He hadn't had an intimate conversation about his true feelings with a woman he wanted before. It was always just about the sex. But with you, it had always felt like it was something more, maybe it was the spider, maybe it wasn't- he just wanted to be...near you. Lyla had heard him humbling to himself, cursing in Spanish. She was looming over him trying to see what was up with him but he just waved her away.

What if you were already fucking someone else? Did you hate him? What if you never spoke to him again? His jealousy over hypothetical scenarios was messing with his head. He frowned. Miguel felt a surge of anxiety and insecurity flow through him.

Miguel won't cost his dignity to approach you first though, it was always a challenge between you two, this cruel dance of death, the constant miscommunication, the back and forth. You were both just as stubborn and as unrelenting as each other.

Maybe if he just gave an excuse to see you, maybe if he had you in front of him he could actually talk about it instead of being a cold, unfeeling monster everyone saw him as. Miguel's face dropped as soon as he thought that, his brows furrowed in misplaced anger. The truth is... he was afraid. Miguel hasn't been afraid since Gabriella disappeared in his arms. Now he was about to lose you too.

He didn't want to risk it, he needed to do something.

Miguel pressed a few buttons on his watch, scrolling down to your name and alerting your watch to come see him. He didn't want to make excuses anymore, he just felt lost and you were the only one to find him, you were the only one to save him from eternal damnation. You were his sin, his haven, it felt...it felt like you were his everything at this point. This weekend gave him a glimpse of heaven and now he was aching for it back, yearning for it like a clawing dog at a closed door.

When you saw the notification on your watch, your lips curled downwards and your face shifted into a grimace. You let out a deep sigh, your face softening a little. Okay, another chance. Another chance to see him. You hated that you wanted to see him, but you just had to. Although you stood by your decision, you still felt a fraction of guilt just kicking him out like that. All you wanted from him was to tell you how he felt, not just about this tension between you but his feelings, your chemistry. If there was a future outside of this, if his heart was ready for it, to be open to love. You were scared to admit it, you didn't want to but you had to....you were falling in love with him. That weekend taught you so much about yourself, but it barely told you anything about him. He was unreadable, unknowable. All he was able to show was anger or frustration. You wanted to know if you were important enough for him to let you in. You just wanted to know him. Not just as Spiderman 2099. Not just as the spider that happened to bite both of you. Just Miguel. The heart he loved from, the brain he thought from. You wanted to love him, but he was so hellbent on pushing you away and you didn't want to force him to want you.

You knew this was a necessity. One last time, one last chance before you decided what you wanted.

Anxiety coursed through your bloodstream but you didn't show it as you finally walked into his office and Miguel felt your presence immediately, like your scent was his sustenance. You walked in confident but it always felt like Miguel saw through you, but you didn't know that, again, he was unreadable.

His eyes pierced through yours, a sad and frustrated look carving into his face, he couldn't tear his eyes away from you, he never did. Miguel threw his head back, signaling for you to hop up on his platform. You huffed reluctantly and swung up swiftly. when you landed on your feet next to him, his presence already formed goosebumps on the back of your neck but you were still defensive so you crossed your arms with an intent look.

"You wanted to see me." You say flatly.

“We left things...abruptly.” His voice was low but unconfident, he didn't know how to start, he needed you to take the lead for him.

“Think that was best.” It felt like the words were getting lost in your mouth, you still weren't looking at him and it made Miguel frown. His hand raised to grab your chin softly for you to look up at him and when you did you were met with sad, insecure, guileless eyes.

“Please just...look at me.” His voice was just above a whisper, a plea for something he wasn't sure of. Your mouth opened to speak but your brows just tensed, a moment passing between you as he touched you softly, almost affectionately.

You grabbed his wrist and let his hand fall off of your skin. “What do you want from me, Miguel?” You breathed impatiently.

“Just talk to me cariño.” The softness of his voice contrasted against the frustration on his 1 face, harsh lines of uncertainty and anger played on the softest parts of him, your cold words twisting the knife even further- but he still won't give you the power to hurt him. Miguel wasn't sure if he was capable of letting anyone in, let alone you. The thought slashed through the forefront of his mind and it made his heart hit his gut. He was scrambling for something, his mouth went dry and his hands went numb.

If only he stopped being so self-righteous, so bent on sabotaging everything good in his life. You sighed.

“I don't wanna be some...casual fuck buddy that's of momentary use to you.” A grimace plastered your face as you said it, you didn't want to be reduced to a hole that he fucks from time to time, you wanted him but you're not stupid, you still had your dignity.

Maybe Miguel pried it out of you before, but now you were just irritated. Your hands went to cradle his face, desperate eyes meeting his, searching for an answer but he didn't say anything, his face wasn't giving anything away. “I need more, I want more...” You lean in, lips parting into sullen apprehension, pleading with him to see you. Your fingers rubbed his neck, but this time it was him that was prying your hands off of him.

“What you're asking of me is not something I know.” His utterances were gruff and stern but it was clear he wasn't actively seeking to hurt you, he just never liked articulating how he was feeling, but he wanted to change that- but people don't change overnight.

The sad look on your face just turned into one of surprise defeat.

“Am I not worth trying for?” You breathed and Miguel didn't like the way such a question caught him off guard, it was like his ears were ringing with it, with anxiety...with fear. It's not something he's prepared to deal with, he watched your eyes dim, and your brows raise in disbelief in front of him in real-time and it made him feel even more guilty.

“You're enough for me now.” Miguel lied through his perfect teeth and his answer was making you even more upset, slivers of sadness echoed through him. You let him lie though.

“Then why are you trying to change me?” Your voice faltered a little, and it sent shockwaves down Miguel's spine. He watched as your nose pinched pink like you were about to sniffle in sadness but you kept your guard up, you definitely wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

“I'm not.” He said matter of factly, his face softening for a moment when his fingers brushed a few strands of hair behind your piping hot ear. “Don’t you see? It's you who's changing me.” You felt the depths of his voice scream in sincerity, soft-spoken. His gaze will always be as haunting as it is captivating, the one that makes you feel that you can finally see through him, but it was a beautiful illusion of the bliss he could bring you but never actually could.

“What am I to you, Miguel?” Miguel felt that you were actually withholding your anger from that and even then it still stung, you were still venomous yet harbored a tragic sadness that he couldn't help but feel guilty for. He was making you this miserable and you weren't even in a relationship. The passing thought struck him like lightning. “I know I'm not being fair or rational right now but I want more... need more from you.”

Miguel breathed out in frustration, placing his hands on your shoulders as if to shake some sense into you. “I want to. I want to give you more. I just-“ He forced the words out of him, manning up for the first time other than putting his fists in other people's faces.

He wanted to be good. He wanted to do good for you. But like he told you, he was never a good man to begin with. His lip quivered for a second but he didn't want to be weak in front of you...but you were breaking down his walls, at his door yelling to come in no matter the consequence. It would get you killed. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Why? I'm not this fragile, breakable object that needs to be kept behind glass at all times. You recruited me, you know I can take care of myself, so why is all that changing now?” You were tired and angry and you just wanted him to want you, to fight for you.

"I'm the one that needs to protect you, no one else can do that but me.” He gritted out, his teeth clenching together.

'”What about me? What if I want to protect you? What if I want to take care of you for once?” That was all you were trying to get across, that you wanted to love him, that you wanted to care for him.

“No.” He said simply.

“So, you can want me but I can't want you? That's such backward logic, Miguel. I just..I want you to know that I care for you, I want you. Not just Spiderman or the aphrodisiacs we've become - you. I want to know you, I just want you to let me in. Why won't you let me do that for you?”

“Because you're mine now!”Miguel's grip on your shoulders tightened. He was practically yelling at this point, he couldn't do this.

As much as he wanted to tell you, the words just died in his mouth. Miguel wanted to cry, he hadn't let a tear shed in so long, and now he was this pent-up ball of emotion that he couldn't even fathom let alone differentiate. He hung his head in between you, his head now facing the floor as his breaths started to turn into heavy pants. “Because you're mine now...I’m the only one that can protect you. But what is that worth when I’m so capable of hurting you. I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.” He repeated gently, almost solemnly and all you could do was stare at him wide-eyed, stilling at his unexpected outburst. A tear dripped from his eye, he couldn't face you looking this weak. “I'm supposed to hold it all together, to protect everyone, to keep everyone safe, To keep you safe. I can't be weak, I can't be weak- I have to hold everything together.” He choked out, spluttering and then it all just clenched at his heart:he started quietly sobbing, his head still downcast but his hands softening on your shoulders. Your lips parted in pure unbridled shock, gaping down at him as he fell apart. You really couldn't fathom this, it was all happening so fast.

“I've failed.” Miguel stifled. “I've failed as a leader, a father, a lover. And it's all my fault...I can't hurt anyone else.” Miguel couldn't stop the tears streaming down his face, and then he felt it- your warm touch softly trailing the outside of his face, lifting it up seeing he connected with your sad, eager eyes. That look could make a man fall to his knees, and Miguel honestly felt like it, his knees went limp. Your hand gripped his face as you leaned into his body, he blinked his tears away as his gaze fell on you. Your beautiful face was ashen with sadness and he hated that he was the reason for it. But you were holding him like he was water in your hands. Your soft fingers smoothed away his tears and it was like he was at the altar begging for your forgiveness.

Miguel looked so beautiful. His heart was opening and breaking at the same time and you felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

Miguel O'Hara was crying out in front of you, red eyes now a subdued hazel that you could fall in forever and never look back. All you wanted was to take care of him like he has for everyone else, to show him that he's worthy of love.

“Look at me...” You tipped his chin up and his lip quivered. “You are not a monster. You are not just Spiderman. You are not what you think you are, I've seen you up close and observed you from afar and this weekend has taught me so much about myself and what I want. All I want is to take care of you, to want you.” You had never been this honest about anything. The sincerity coursing through your body oozed out of every pore, radiating your need to want him. Miguel felt his heart stutter and his face freeze, he clenched his jaw to stop tears from pricking at his eyes as your words hit him like a brick. “Don't be the mask, let it out.” You added quietly. You gripped the back of his neck and placed it on your shoulder, your arms wrapping around him as if you would die if you ever let go.

Miguel stilled and then he melted into your embrace, feeling your warmth, he felt like Icarus being dragged into the relentless flames. Your acceptance of him was almost enthralling. You grasped his head into your hands, your eyes flitting from feature to feature as you felt him quite literally freeze in place-your fingertips were the salve to all wounds, the medicine to all sickness and Miguel was as damaged as can be. The walls he manufactured were nothing but dust between his fingertips, your unshakable will to not let him go, to love him as he is, guilt ridden and desperate, made him feel limp. Miguel's underbite clamped in an attempt to stop crying in front of you like this, to be so vulnerable in front of a woman was as foreign to him as being happy. He hasn't been happy in a long time and now you were here wanting to make him all better.

"You have no idea how much you mean to me.” Your grip on his face tightened as if to show him how serious you were. Miguel sniffled and melted into your warm hands, turning his head slightly to kiss your palm. Silence whipped through the air, the crackling of nothing but each other's breaths keeping you both steady as you tried to find the words to say, and this time you were hellbent on being clear. “The moral ambiguity of your actions doesn't scare me, I feel like you don't understand that. The mistakes you made in your past don't define you. Bad people don't care if they're bad...and I know you're good. In your heart, I know you're good...It's why I love you.”

Miguel's eyes widened a fraction and glazed over twice. He felt his mind turn to white noise but he heard you clear as day, the words falling like scripture. Like you were meant to say it. The words felt so sweet and liberating in your mouth but your heart was plunging further and further down, afraid of his reaction. You loved him. The silence that settled between you was palpable, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from yours.

Miguel didn't say anything, he just grabbed you by the waist with his right arm, pulled you close, and smashed his lips against yours. The tears smeared his face and then dried into his skin. Your kisses were always passionate, but this was like wildfire spreading onto the ocean. A fire in December. Warmth in the darkness. Miguel's tongue seeked to find yours, a soft tangle of lust and tenderness- something that he thought he would never be able to have. He sucked the sadness out of your lips and it felt beautiful.

“Let me take care of you..” You whispered sensually in between kisses and Miguel groaned, his fingers pinching gently into your skin. “Let me love you.” Your soft tender sighs were the glue that seemed to hold him together, he paused, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Are you sure?” He was hesitant, unsure if you were willing to see past all of his mistakes, to love him as he is, to be intimate.

Instead of answering, you pressed your fingers against your watch to form a portal to Miguel's place, to show him that you don't care about anything other than him at this moment, that you were willing to accept him as he is. You weren't afraid of proving it, if you had to you would, and right now you were desperate to prove just how much you wanted him, Miguel's eyes widened when he felt the portal beam right beside you, giving you a soft hazy look as you extended your hand, offering him to take it

“Let me prove it to you.” You whispered and that was enough to do Miguel in.

You were his calling, a siren guiding him through muddy waters. He intertwined his fingers through yours and you felt like your soul was being bound to his with every second your soft touch traced against his. Whenever Miguel's hands were on you, they were calloused and rough, his talons protruding from his fingertips aggressively but this time...it was tender, it felt meaningful- his touch was gentle, the way he was holding your hand and letting you guide him to a fate he wasn't even sure of felt surreal. He just can't leave you alone.

You lead him into the portal as your grasp on him is firm, a warning for him to show that you weren't letting go, not this time. As you both stepped out of the portal into his living room, it sealed behind him and left you both blinking at each other compressed by the thick tension. Thank God for this watch, honestly, it could take anyone anywhere.

“Wait...” He muttered hesitantly as he stopped you in your tracks. Turning around, your gleaming eyes were lasered on him and you shivered into his touch as he put his hands on your waist as a means to stop you from going to the bedroom. His free hand went to cradle your face as his thumb caught on your lip. “Did I hurt you at all? When we fucked did I hurt you?” He murmured sensually and it sent a permanent smattering of goosebumps to dimple all over your heated skin. Miguel's eyes were dim with curiosity and most importantly seriousness.

“No. Never. You never hurt me.” You confirmed and it settled the pace of his beating heart a fraction, but it was always racing when he had his hands on you. “We've fucked but...You’ve never made love to me.” Your voice was honeyed and low, the words slipping from your tongue as you suggested it.

Make love?

Oh, baby, you don’t know what you’re talking about. He doesn’t make love.

All he knew was to fuck. Hard and animalistic. But that wanton scorching look in your eyes, so desperate for him to be gentle, to make you feel wanted. And fuck, he wanted you to feel cherished by him.

He hadn't been so intimate with another woman like this, even with the mother of his own child.

Your eyes were wide, lips wet and eager but not eager in the way that he always knew you to be, you were desperate to show him something new, you were taking control and he was following along. It was refreshing.

His thumb was brushing over those perfect lips, plush and pink with heat and blush. You were so damn beautiful it was haunting.

Your eyes fluttered closed and your sweet mouth pressed against his softly, pecking kisses at his lips as you slung your hands around his neck and rubbed his scalp tenderly. “Let me make love to you…” You breathed low and thick and Miguel felt his cock harden already, he whimpered into your mouth and your brain committed the once-in-a-lifetime sound to memory. You made Miguel O'Hara whimper, you felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Miguel melted into you, his atoms jumping within his body to the point where he leaned into you so eagerly. You opened your mouth to deepen the passionate kiss, he was going so fast but you placed your hands on his chest. “Go slow baby...Need you to go slow.”

Your low voice shot straight down to the tip of his cock and it pulsated within his suit. Miguel listened to you and his mouth moved slowly, his tongue massaged against yours gently, tasting the mouth he adored. You tasted even sweeter like this- this slow waltz of passion allowed him to savor every second of it. The fact that you were on your tiptoes wanton for his lips made him realize how sincere of a moment this was.

"You're so beautiful it hurts.” He pulled away and breathed raggedly. His words were making you so malleable, so bendy under his will and you wanted nothing more than to please him. It was at this moment that you grabbed his hands laced it between your fingers once again and led him to the bedroom. “On the right.” He said huskily.

You opened the door and Miguel trailed behind you like a lost puppy, eager to follow your every move like he was in a trance. He closed the door behind him and that's when you realized it was going to be a long night. Your hands slipped from his and you took a few steps forward so you were near the foot of his bed: You reached out and quickly turned on his bedside light. You wanted to see his face. Miguel just leaned against the door, watching intently to every microdose, to every fraction of a move you made- waiting for your next move. At this point, you wanted to test him. You let out a soft breath with the part of your lips and felt the zipper of your suit. Miguel tore through your clothes like a knife through hot butter just with the sharpness of his talons, this time you wanted to make this slow and less immediate. Miguel's eyes were fixed on you, eyebrows tensing with a strive he hadn't felt before. The tips of your fingers toyed with your zipper and you pulled it down hesitantly. You hear Miguel let out a short breath when you slide out of your suit, slivers of skin piercing his peripheral with your shimmering glow. The fabric pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it, only left in your pretty underwear and bra set. Even subconsciously you were dressing up for Miguel.

He sighed and his eyes fluttered closed when he saw how you looked under the golden glow of his bedside lamp, he saw you perfectly. Your frame was even more beautiful than the last time he gawked at you. His jaw clenched and his teeth gritted when his eyes wandered to your lips. You were biting it and small marks indenting the soft flesh. “Come here..”

Miguel stalked up to you slowly, playing along with you, feeling the gorgeous reality set over him.

You wanted to make love to him, and he wanted to make love to you. To feel you intimately, slowly, passionately. He wanted to take the time to memorize the way you react as he makes you feel good. When he fucked you, he only got flashes, now he wants the whole thing. He was hungry for it.

He was in front of you now, your breath mingling with his, and your eyes flitted from gorgeous feature to feature. Miguel's hand traced up your thigh in barely there touches and you hung your head to watch his ministrations and it felt like you were spellbound by his mysticism. His finger hooked onto the side of your underwear and twirled it gently. “Hmm.” He hummed in a clipped tone and his eyes met yours in a powerful connection. He watched the black of your eyes burst widely, you clearly liked what he was doing.

He was being so gentle with you, so slow. It felt so damn sexy. This waiting. This tension. It felt like the beginning of all of this but…better.

“Tell me, Cariño...What do you want me to do for you?” Miguel whispered as his fingers hooked under your chin to tilt your head back up, he noticed that your lips were already swollen by a few kisses. You were so gorgeous like this, it was inhumane.

“Undress me..” You murmured sweetly but the force of your words seemed more like a diverted beg. Miguel was savoring every second of this torturous process, watching the little twitches of that perfect body of yours under a magnifying glass.

“Hmmm. That what you want?”

"Mhmmm.”

With that, Miguel placed his palms on your back, feeling the straps of your bra as he traced his fingertips over the hooks, teasing you, watching the way your face and body reacted to his barely-there touches. You reveled in it, the uncertainty of the touches he put on you. He finally unhooked your bra, the snaps liberating you as the tension is being relieved bit by bit. You stifled a moan and that sound was so much hotter than a usual moan, you were suppressing it making it clear that you were already getting aroused.

And fucking hell, it was arousing. He wasn't even in you yet. See, before when you and Miguel were yearning for each other, neither of you was thinking straight. All you both needed was to fill each other, Now after that, there was something missing.

This feeling of emotional need was what was missing. This emotional connection and chemistry.

Miguel watched with creased intent eyes as he tugged the pretty bra off you, your breasts bouncing out of its confines. His eyes flicked to yours, one soft palm caressing your chest, that telltale squirm told him everything he needed to know.

“Such a beautiful body, such a pretty face. Like you were made for me Carino.”

“Miguel...” You whimper out slightly.

“What is it, baby?” His voice was gruff and smooth all at once, a velvety mixture of husky and sensuality. It was like he was cooing down at you. “Hmm?” You darted your head down as an indication to strip you of your underwear.

Miguel's lips parted as he understood immediately, his eyes didn't rip away from yours as he slowly bent down to his knees. He hooked his arms around the back of your legs and kept eye contact with you, a surge of arousal washing between you. He planted a few trailing kisses up your thighs and you squirmed into him lime clockwork. His fingers shimmied down your underwear delicately and you stepped out of the flimsy fabric.

“Kiss me.” You say under your breath in such a sweet voice. How could he ever say no to that? The last time he couldn't really remember it, he was so taken over by his primitive instincts that it was all over in flashes-relish every last bit of you.

Miguel let out a sharp breath as his fingers kneaded the soft flesh of the back of your thighs before he cupped the globes of your ass, he was taking his time to feel you, to memorize it all and commit it to memory. Every time he touched your skin, it felt like he was touching God or angel matter. As his mouth placed teasing kisses on your lower stomach his aind was beginning to reel. You were arching into him, your fingers sinking deeper into his hair. He gave you one last look as a confirmation and all he got back was a pretty blushing face with a slack jaw and parted lips. “Need you…” You muttered and that's when his mouth started to suckle on your pussy, his lithe tongue moving up and down and in and out, he was keeping you guessing and it made you all the more frustrated and wet. His nose nudged your swollen clit and it made your body jolt from the aftershock.

“You always taste like heaven incarnate...” he mumbled between licks and all you could do was moan. You were caught off guard when he started to suckle on your clit, his pace was torturous, so slow and you were becoming more and more needy.

“Miguel...Please I-“ You tried to protest but you weren't even sure what you were protesting for and before you could even get off he rose from his knees and wrapped his arms around you, his mouth shutting you up.

Miguel's hands were placed firmly on your ass, squeezing tightly whenever you moaned into his desperate mouth. Your lips were melting into each other and blurring into a slow, wickedly passionate make-out. “It was like my name was supposed to come out of your mouth.” He felt like a teenager about to lose his virginity he was that excited. Your arms hung around his neck and your tongue was so sweet in his mouth, exploring unhurriedly but he knew you were at your threshold- even though he got a taste, you were still reeling from the fact he wouldn't let you finish.

Your mouth unsheathed from his and you both took a beat to gawk at each other. A dark look fell onto Miguel's eyes as he saw your cheeks pink and red with arousal. His hands cradled your pretty face and you looked like a doll in his palms.

“Want me to make love to you, yeah? Make you feel just how deeply I need you?” His voice was strained and low, seduction scraping at his vocal chords and it sent waves of neediness course through your body. The connection your gazes held was a simmering fire that was beating with passion. It was impossible to look away

“Yes." You breathed out sensually, an angelic hazy daze clouding your brain as the word just fell from your lips.

“You're so beautiful, querida.”He kissed your forehead tenderly and your breaths became even more rapid when you felt your legs go limp. He was holding your face like you were a jewel, you leaned your head forward to kiss him on the lips and Miguel just held you back with just the might of his palms. “Easy ángel...” He murmured. “Be patient f’me. You wanted me to make love to you, let me take my time with you then mi amor. Let me feel you.” His easy words just made soft moans roll from your tongue, he was doing a damn good job at making you feel not just wanted but cherished.

Miguel planted a kiss on your temple, you were squirming in his touch, rolling your body onto his. “You know, I haven't been doing well without you...Even after a day, you make me lose my wind with just how badly I need you.” he planted a kiss on your cheek and whispered hotly in your ear. “I got you baby, stay still f’me." He then kissed the corner of your mouth and then fully engulfed your lips with his. You were red hot with anticipation, your senses skyrocketing with every second but the reality was slow and agonizing- it was perfect. You decided to take the lead now, you got Miguel on the bed and he leaned up on the headboard, your head was in between his clothed thighs and you pouted. Miguel quickly rid of the holographic suit and his rock-hard cock sprung free in front of your face. The look on your face was priceless, a mixture of eagerness and seduction- it was a brain fuck.

“Let me taste you too.” Your tone was doused in pure lust and before Miguel's eyes could widen, your tongue stuck out and licked the head of his leaking cock. It wasn't like the first time you gave him head though, this was solely focused on him, no challenges, no teasing, no games. Just making him feel good. You gave kitten licks to his sensitive slit, those barely-there touches already driving him to the sharp edge. Your warm, wet mouth finally covered his tip, suckling gently and swirling him with your tongue, the salty taste of him you craved was already filling up your senses, he tasted so good.

“Mmm..fuck.. you're too good to me, so good f'me.” He let out a strained groan as his head tipped back slightly. You lapped him tenderly, sliding him down your throat, little by little. It felt...loving.

Miguel felt himself still in place when your warm mouth left him hanging, it was you who was prepping him this time. You crawled onto his lap with this innocent glimmer in your eyes, a look that was of mere longing and yearning, a face so eager to please. You settled between his thighs and Miguel's face was steely and serious, he really wanted to show you exactly the kind of love he harbored for you but you had other ideas and Miguel was uncharacteristically allowing you to do whatever you pleased.

“Wanna ride you...” You say softly as your hands massaged at his shoulders and Miguel is already letting out small groans at the slightest bit of contact. You placed your hands on his and guided them to your face, the pads of his fingers traced over your skin and you tilted your head to kiss his palm, then you caught one of his fingers in your mouth, suckling and twirling your tongue around the tip of it softly. Miguel sighed deeply at the pretty sight before you let it go with a pop. “Can I do that for you?” You breathed out.

This all felt so...personal.

Like you were reaching to the darkest depths of who he was and loving him anyway.

It made him burn for you. Miguel's cock was slapping against your stomach, your eyes darted from his face to his length and it made you wet your lips. “Mhmm.” He rasped, his big palms landed on the dip of your waist, helping you guide yourself on him. Before he could though, you leaned in and chastely kissed the tip of his nose, the bridge of his nose, and his forehead. Jesus Christ, it was like you knew exactly how to make him putty in your hands. You gave him a lazy smile as you rose up and eased yourself down on his cock, your pretty pussy swallowed him up entirely like always- even after he's fucked you so many times, he still never got used to how wet and tight your pussy was. Your eyes never broke from his as your tits pressed into his chest, you whined in his ear and his hands burrowed in your soft sweet hair, the strands falling down like a waterfall. "Ah...Mig-“

"Always taking me so well. Do you have any idea just how good you feel, mm?” He grunted out, his big arms wrapping around you entirely, trapping you in him. He was always balls deep inside you, there was no space left between you and that was just how you liked it. “My pretty girl. My beautiful girl. I need you.” He cooed.

You moaned when your hips started subconsciously moving, grinding down on him and making discernable shapes on his cock. Miguel watched you with awe equated to being starstruck, you were bouncing on him and rutting your greedy cunt on him trying to get yourself off on him. “You always- Fuck. Fill me up so good.” You moaned out, your mind all hazy from his brute strength alone, he was forcing you to stay put on his thighs, spending whatever time you needed to please him. Miguel slowed you down as he caught your supple lips with his, it was a desperate kiss that was bursting with flames and then your pace got slower, savoring the kiss. You broke away with a moan and sunk your teeth into his shoulder blades, Miguel's mouth was on the crook of your neck peppering you with the sweet kisses you were aching for, and you felt him inhale the scent of you deeply. His hands apathetically palmed your tits, he rolled the nipples between his nimble fingers, pulling and nipping on them with his teeth and smoothing them with a suckle.

Hm.

He's not known for being kind.

But feeling you like this made him thaw.

Lord, he just wanted to please you, make you feel good and you were just as inclined to do the same thing-bursting each other up with the flames of passion.

“Mmm. Slow yeah? Slow for me. Take your time for me, baby.” He mumbled out through strained pants, you were jerking on him steadily and his eyes tore away from yours to stare at the bulge of your stomach- he was so fucking deep in you it bulged out of your tummy. Miguel's ego skyrocketed at the sight. Fuck, that perfect body of yours would be the death of him. "Look how fuckin deep I am- He pressed the bulge on your stomach and it made your body twitch wildly, you quite literally felt him pulsate inside of you and it made you clench even harder around him. He felt an orgasm approach him, teetering off that blissful edge that tipped between sweet heaven and damning hell.

God, he felt too good, stretching you and bottoming out into you.

When you pressed your forehead against his and whispered “I love you” to him, that was it.

Miguel moaned and rolled you over so that he was on top of you, his legs trapped you in place and his cock was still aching inside you, craving your friction. He weaved his fingers with yours as he pushed in and out of you, Miguel's knuckles turned white as your palm flatted from bliss into the mattress.

He had never done this during sex before, the simple intimacy of hand-holding turned into something so much more consuming. Miguel's figure loomed over you, his eyes piercing and moody, a whirlwind of passion and emotion making his eyes crystal clear than before.

You stared at Miguel.

Miguel stared at you.

Watching each fraction of your body intently, the way your face moved with every thrust, the plush of your cheeks pillowing whenever you whined, the crease of your eyebrows when he hit that spongy spot so deep inside you. The eye contact was driving both of you insane.

“This what you wanted? Me to look after you? Me to take care of you?” He questioned lowly, the strained words coming out in a deep husk. He was deadly serious, it was easy to see when he was glaring at you. That steely resolve melted slightly when you rolled your body against his, your bodies slid together so closely that not even a sheet of paper could fit through.

“Yes, fuck, yes.” You whispered against his lips, your soft breaths were being knocked out of you with a very torturous slow thrust. It made your collision all the more beautiful. Miguel had fucked you so many times during that weekend but this, was otherworldly, this was the true connection, this was lovemaking. He was cherishing you, treating you like pearls and gold in his hands and it made you feel lucky to be alive, The electricity was hot, the gaze you both shared was simmering heat encased with something other than just chemistry.

“I'm not hurting you am I?” He asked inquisitively, his voice cool and suave.

“No, no, no, no, no....No, fuck, you're perfect.” You responded in pleading tandem, your eyes widening with a worrythat he would stop

“I love you, you know that? God, I love you.” He babbled and that's when you felt his thrusts falter and your nerve endings singe, it was like he was taking your beating heart and meddling with it to go faster, to give in.

“I love y-“ Miguel cut off your words with a scorching kiss, his fangs nipped at your lower lip and his teeth bit the supple flesh and pulled back, it snapped back into place and a shaky moan fell from your swollen lips and hs grip on your hands tightened.

You were so close.

This sizzling passion was eating you up alive.

Miguel watched your body react to him and it was a sight created in heaven.

“Miggy...Mig...I'm g'na cum...Just wanna cum for you.” You moaned drunkenly. Miguel's lips captured around your nipple, suckling it and grazing it with his teeth before his eyes latched onto yours again.

“Cum for me baby. Wanna watch you cum for me.” He breathed out raggedly, his gaze dimming and hair in disarray.

Your pussy was so drenched for him as always, but this time you were leaking, the slow pace offering a new and rare kind of satisfaction. When his cock nudged and ground on your clit, you knew you couldn't hold it in anymore. Hot euphoria washed over you in waves, and a new kind of electricity coursed down your thighs anf you soaked his dick in your wetness. “Thaaat's it...I'm right here, I got you.” Miguel fucked you through your mind-altering orgasm.

It was so different. So surreal. When that list final whine fell from your pretty lips, he was already cumming before he could even stop himself. He spread your insides a thick stringy white, spurting out how much you meant to him. His strained pants were soaking your glowing skin, and a thin layer of sweat coated your body in the dim room.

“Shit...”He muttered before your lips collided with his. Your tongue delved into his mouth, taking what he would give you like you were a cat chasing after a mouse. Miguel rolled off of you to your side but his arms were still wrapped around you, your lips still connected in that heady unforgettable kiss. Your hands nestled in his hair, your gentle fingers raking through the strands as you broke away from his mouth and when you looked back into his eyes Miguel's gaze was just as piercing as before.

Miguel stared at you.

You stared back at him.

Your cheeks stained pink as you gave him a lazy fucked out smile. Miguel had the urge to fuck you like that again now. He loved what he had just experienced though. Missionary was so much better like this. It was so much better when he looked into the eyes of the woman he loved. When you kissed him on the forehead and told him you loved him, he knew that this was different.

A sudden wash of defensiveness tightened at his chest. You should've walked away from him. He should've walked away from you...but you didn't and that was a risk in itself, no one knew how it would unfold.

Miguel had his temper.

You were stubborn.

What if- What it-?

Miguel watched you like a lovesick fool, your pretty face warming his cheeks and dimming his eyes. He contemplated you for a moment, your presence, your smile, your warmth.

Was it worth it?

Yes.

He wanted to wake up to you every day, he wanted to take you out to dinner, make you feel special, make you his.

You both just gawked at each other blankly, sweet words filling the sweet atmosphere. All this yearning, all this pining lead up to this.

You were flustered. He was flustered.

You felt so fulfilled, so wanted, so needed by him- it had never been like this with anyone.

Miguel was facing his fears head-on with you by his side. His anxieties were quelled with every moment he spent here with you, he found that your soft breathing and guileless eyes were what was keeping him afloat.

Y’ALL I HOPE U LIKED THIS SERIES!!! the amount of support is unbelieveable ilysm! i will be writing an extra bonus chapter for u ;)) iknow i def need to do a masterlist and i will get on it soon i promise (tumblr deleted my old one smh)

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#spiderman 2099 #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara angst #miguel o’hara smut #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara

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