#automation parts store

[rocautomation]

2711R-T7T

ROC Automation offers the 2711R-T7T Allen-Bradley PanelView 800, a 7-inch DC-powered touchscreen HMI designed for efficient industrial control. Featuring high-resolution display and intuitive interface, it supports streamlined operation and integration in automation systems. Buy now https://rocautomation.co/products/new-allen-bradley-2711r-t7t-b-panelview-800-7-dc-touch-screen-hmi

[anti-gravity-insanity]

My stance on AI is not that art or writing inherently must be made by a human to be soulful or good or whatnot but that the point of being alive is not to avoid doing anything ever.

[la-patrona-magdalena]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission. Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

prologue - Next chapter

Masterlist

Chapter one - A glimpse into the family secret

The knight of the night, the man with a thousand plans, Gotham's greatest detective, was holding his daughter, Serelith, with such tenderness and delicacy. She was crying in her arms, scared. And rightly so: Serelith had never lived through anything like this before. Her other siblings had some pity for her now, even Damian showed a hint of sympathy, probably because of the fear they all felt over what could’ve happened to her at the Joker’s hands.

Then there was the other daughter. Batman's illegitimate child, the youngest of the Waynes, no, the youngest of the Valfinsas, watching with tearful eyes from behind the bars as the family she grew up with held their blood daughter close. Leaving her alone.

The Joker just laughed, shoving the girl hard against the bars. -Hahaha! Looks like Batsy's got his favorites- he laughed louder. All the girl could do was stare through tearful eyes, praying, just once. for someone to turn around. To look at you.

-The Joker can wait. Priority is getting Serelith out of here- That’s what Dick said. The perfect big brother. Someone who, like her, had also been adopted. He handed Serelith a pill and a bottle of water. Carefully, they took Serelith away, leaving the building where the two of them had been held captive.Leaving you there. Not looking back. Not noticing you were missing.

The Joker let out a cold laugh, already getting ready to have fun with the new toy Bruce had left behind. -Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off you- he scoffed, looking right at you as you cried. How you wished you had gotten out of here, out of a place where no one ever looked at you.

You threw the comic across the bed, looking at it like it was the devil himself.

A few weeks ago, you'd decided to try reading comics to bond with your family. You'd once overheard Stephanie teasing Damian about reading and drawing manga, and maybe Tim might be into it too, right? After all, there are games based on comics. So, you spent your allowance on one, hoping it'd at least end with you arguing with Damian about the difference between manga and comics, or maybe Tim would recommend one based on one of his games.

You'd gone to a store after finishing your homeschooling session with Alfred, browsed a few comics, and then, suddenly, felt a strong bump against your side, right where your bag was hanging. When you looked down, you noticed three comics had fallen to the floor. You tried putting them back, but couldn’t figure out where they were supposed to go. With no other option, you looked for help from the clerk—who didn’t even bother to pay attention to you.

-Another kid trying to sneak in their hero stories? Listen, girl, you're not going to get famous just because someone randomly reads a comic drawn by a 12 years old-.

No matter how much you insisted they weren't yours, he didn't believe you. You got kicked out of the store. Great. But hey, at least you had three new comics to read for free! And not just any comics, they were about Gotham's great vigilante himself! Not exactly what you were going for, but maybe you'd get to connect with someone in your family by talking about the city's crime and its paper version.

You got back to Wayne Manor all excited, and started reading the three comics that had literally fallen from the sky.

And that's how you ended up here.

Batman: Bloodline. That was the name of the comic saga you just finished reading, the one that left a bitter taste in your mouth. At first, after reading the opening pages, you thought it was fake, a bad joke, some prankster who thought it would be hilarious to realistically draw the millionaire playboy dressed as a bat, acting as Gotham’s nocturnal hero. No wonder the shop clerk didn’t believe you. This probably wouldn’t help you get any closer to your brothers, but maybe if you showed it to Dick or Jason, they’d make fun of Bruce with you. So you kept reading.

But then all your siblings showed up, as the Robins and the Batgirls. And then you appeared. Not playing any role, not as a hero, just you. The daughter born from one of Bruce’s deepest loves, a model beautiful both inside and out, who had died just days after giving birth to you. A child who looked nothing like her mother, and even less like her father.

Everything was… eerily accurate. The mannerisms, the backstories, everyone’s personalities, they were spot on. Even the inside of the manor was a perfect match! You kept reading, uneasily, and that’s when she showed up: a girl with Bruce’s same stoic seriousness, and your mother’s same warmth. The drawing copied her features almost perfectly.

The comic was about her; Serelith. How she was found, as the original daughter. How she adapted to the family. And finally, how you and she were kidnapped by the Joker. How the family saved her. And left you behind.

You don’t want to believe it. Even if that girl crying behind the bars looked so much like you. Even if every detail lined up so perfectly. You didn’t want to believe that this family, the same one you beg and plead for even a crumb of love, forgot about you in such a horrible moment.

You hide the three comics under your pillow. You refuse to eat when Alfred calls for dinner, and you fake being asleep until the night falls.

You look at the time on the cat-shaped clock hanging on the wall waiting for the right moment to come. You get up from bed and carefully make your way through the giant manor, until you’re standing in the same room where the old clock is. If it’s true, if they’re really Gotham’s vigilantes , they would notice immediately, and all of this will have been for nothing… or maybe they won’t even glance in your direction.

You didn’t see anyone for a few minutes from your hiding spot. You thought maybe they’d glanced in your direction, and were just waiting for you to leave.

Until you saw Tim, Zesti drink in hand, clear signs of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark circles, and wearing his Red Robin suit, walk up to the clock and set the time to 10:47. The same time as in the comic.

You felt your heart beating faster and faster. You wanted to cry just from seeing that time there, right in front of you. Mocking you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You ran off, tripping over a few things along the way.

You got to your room and threw yourself into bed. You could feel the comics crinkle beneath your pillow as you laid your head down, just like your heart crumbled when you realized… that part of the comic was real. Which meant not only that you weren’t the daughter of that woman, but that all these years, and all the ones still to come, meant nothing to your family.

You feel the tears slowly forming in your eyes. You want to do something, think of a plan to avoid the day you end up in the Joker’s hands, but your mind is clouded. You try to sit up, feeling the anxiety course through your body. You need to start planning how to escape the Joker, how to live away from the Waynes. You don’t have time for whatever’s happening to you. Your trembling hand goes to search for the comics under your pillow, but it freezes when you hear someone knock on the door and then open it without waiting for an answer.

You turn to look at the entrance, finding Tim there, clearly exhausted. Your hands shift to clutch the sheets, gripping them tightly as you see Tim in his Red Robin suit standing in front of you.

Tim’s had a rough few days. He hasn’t slept well due to a case, and there’s a small crisis at Wayne Enterprises. He almost went without a shower for more than a week, he was close to breaking his own record. The lack of sleep made his instincts and everything he’s learned as a Robin falter. Even so, he insisted on going out tonight to look for clues. He got dressed and ready to leave with the others, and with a brain half-asleep, he didn’t realize something, or someone, was watching him as he was about to leave. Until he heard a noise that alerted him. By reflex, he turned to look and saw your smaller figure collide with a couch, then get up and keep running.

The sleep vanished in an instant, and on instinct, he ran after you, thinking about how he would convince you not to tell Bruce you’d seen him.

He opened the door without asking, just knocking out of courtesy, expecting to find you excited, shouting with joy at the discovery that your older brother was one of Gotham’s heroes. But instead, he saw you, breathing heavily, clutching the sheets tightly, crying.

You’ve always been sensitive, crying over the loss of your mother or because Bruce didn’t give you attention. He’d always agreed with Steph and Jason that you might be overreacting. Everyone in the family had lost someone, and it’s hard for Bruce to give more attention with so many kids and the mantle of Batman weighing on him. Even if you didn’t know the latest, you should be more patient. Besides, didn’t you have Damian keeping you company? And he was sure that at least once, you’d gone to the library with Babs…

Even though part of him thought you were exaggerating, the way you cried now, the way you trembled and avoided looking at him like he was a traitor, told him this time was different. And it made him feel something pressing inside of him.

He slowly approached the bed and sat next to you, studying you more carefully. You seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. He tried calling your name to get your attention, but you didn’t respond.

Tim quickly thought about how to calm you down. You weren’t quite in the middle of an anxiety attack yet, so he might be able to stop it from escalating. He scanned your room, searching for something that might help him hold you steady.

…

Has your room always been this… empty? For being the daughter of a model and a millionaire, one would expect your room to be full of toys and luxuries. But it’s almost bare. There are a few things visible: misshapen cushions with exposed threads, a blanket of mismatched colors, and some decorations hanging from the shelves and walls, arranged from the ugliest to the most beautiful.

For your luck, he manages to spot a small blue plush dog on a shelf. He quickly grabs it and forces it into your smaller, more fragile hands.

– Squeeze – He orders. You obey. Your mind, at some point, kept replaying the comic's drawings, where they abandoned you, where the same person in front of you did nothing.

– Breathe with me, at least once, breathe – Tim's voice reaches your ears. By instinct, you follow, tightening the plush toy even more in your hands. The images slowly fade from your mind, what you felt could’ve been worse begins to vanish, and your tearful gaze meets a pair of blue eyes looking back at you with concern.

Tim feels a small relief inside him that you didn’t end up in a full-blown panic attack, but he's still worried about you. Why did finding out it was Red Robin cause that reaction? Why, all of a sudden, aren’t you looking at him with pleading eyes wanting attention, but instead, avoiding his gaze? The silence between you two forms slowly, becoming more noticeable, until you wipe away your tears. You summon strength to look at him and break the silence with a voice firm but trembling slightly.

–I won’t tell anyone you’re Red Robin… I promise… you can leave now – You didn’t feel like explaining to Tim that you found a comic from the future, you weren’t even sure he would believe you, or if he would listen.

He, on the other hand, was shocked. Were you kicking him out of your room? Was this your reaction to finding out he's Red Robin? Did you not care? What's wrong with you? He looked at you, still incredulous. Why were you acting like this all of a sudden? Or had you always been, and I just hadn’t paid enough attention to you? He replayed the events of the week in his mind, remembering that you once talked about going to buy comics, maybe like you tried to talk at dinner… dinner from… how long ago was that? He kept going over what he remembered, what could’ve triggered your near panic attack? Why weren’t you looking at him like before? And why, now that you did, was it with coldness and pain? Then it clicked. Maybe you heard his recent conversation with Jason? Both had mentioned what he talked about with Steph, how sometimes you cried too much and seemed exaggerated. Was that it? That was probably it, right? Maybe not the reason for your near anxiety crisis, but it was definitely why you wanted him out of your room. You didn’t want him to keep seeing you like this, did you? Well, he wasn’t the best at handling emotions, that was more Dick’s thing, but still, he couldn’t leave you emotionally constipated. They already had enough of that from Bruce, Jason, and Damian. So, he left your room, informed Bruce that he wouldn’t go out with them tonight, changed out of his suit into pajamas, and came back to your room. You looked at him confused. He didn’t blame you, he had never been close to you like this before, but now, he wanted to be. He wanted you to stop looking at him like that.

Thank God you took the opportunity when Tim left to move the comics. You couldn’t do much, just toss them under your bed. You were hoping he wouldn’t look there now that it seemed he wanted to sleep in your room. He lay next to you, and you gave him his space. You both stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, until he finally decided to break it.

–Are you okay?–

It was a simple question, short and direct, yet you just stared at the ceiling. Thinking about his question and everything else.

Some comics, from who knows where, revealed to you that this isn’t your biological family, that they’re also Gotham’s vigilantes, and that for a girl they’d known for only a few months, they abandoned you; To the daughter who, even if not by blood, had been part of the family all its life

Should you have seen it coming? Yes. Ever since you can remember, no one in this family has really worried about you, paid attention to you, or even looked at you. No parent events, no movie nights, nothing. You don’t have memories of anyone except Alfred giving you ice cream for every good grade on your tests.

Why were they different with you? More than half of the family doesn’t share blood, yet they still love and care for each other. Couldn’t you get just a little bit of that affection? What was different?

Was it because you took the place of your mother’s true daughter? Maybe they always felt like you didn’t belong, like you weren’t what they expected.

Serelith was the original, the real one. That’s why she earned their affection. That’s why everyone else cares about her. Not even your brothers… No, not even Bruce’s adopted sons or his two biological children lied. Only you. You were the only one who entered the family through a lie you never even told.

They’re detectives. Even if they don’t say anything or investigate, their instincts probably tell them you’re not who you’re supposed to be…

And now that you’ve confirmed the comics are real, it means you’re destined to suffer at the hands of the Joker.

In the comics, he finds out about Bruce’s “beloved” daughters, the only ones in the family who aren’t vigilantes, and kidnaps both of you. The family quickly comes up with a plan to search for you… to search for her. Bruce and the others completely forget you exist, leaving you at the mercy of one of Gotham’s worst criminals.

Were you okay? …No, you weren’t. Not while you remained in this family that doesn’t really feel like yours. What you want most now is to get out of here, for the Joker to never see you as Batman’s daughter, for no one to see you at all, until you’re far from where you never belonged. Only then would you be okay. But for now…

– Yeah, I’m fine – you answered, sounding a little too calm for Tim’s liking. He just sighed beside you and turned to face the other way. He couldn’t bear to look at you. Tomorrow, he’d make sure to finish the case and the situation at Wayne Enterprises as fast as possible, so he could focus entirely on figuring out what was going on with you. – Good night – Tim said as he tried to fall asleep. – Good night – you answered, turning your back to him as well, already thinking about how you’d make a plan tomorrow to leave this place as soon as possible.

This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but I had trouble concentrating and translating it into English. I’ll try to update this fic every Friday, or at least every two weeks if time allows. If for some reason I can’t stick to the two-week schedule (which probably means I have writer’s block and won’t be writing for a while), I’ll let you know. I’ll probably update on Ao3 first because the fanfic was originally written in my native language, and I’m posting everything there in its original form, in case anyone wants to check it out. On another note, I wonder if anyone will notice that the section dividers are different, one has Batfam and Philomel images in the background, and the other is empty…

Taglist

@lettucel0ver @sirenetheblogger

[dailymanners]

When entering any place of business, such as a store or restaurant, if a staff member greets you, then acknowledge them and greet them back.

Although for many jobs it's a required part of their job to greet you, especially retail workers, receptionists, and restaurant workers to name a few, that doesn't make it feel any less dehumanizing to say "Hello!" to another human being only for them to ignore you. Acknowledging staff members and greeting them back is important for acknowledging their humanity, they are, after all, a human being, and not an automated machine.

This is also important when going to check out at a store. If you approach the cash register, and the cashier greets you, you should acknowledge them and greet them back. Cashiers already have to deal with being dehumanized enough. The least you can do is help humanize them by acknowledging them when they greet you and speak to you.

[smutallyouwant]

Twice One-Shot World chp. 3

Premium Sex Doll

Word Count: aprroximately 3k words

Momo x M Reader

You're a struggling young adult, you got a job that doesn't even suffice for your needs. One day a business man came to your house and offered you a deal that you can't say no to.

Includes: Rape role play

" Fuck my life, my work at the convenient store only pays me enough for my food and rent. I don't even have some extra money to have some fun, bro " you said on the phone.

" Man, maybe if you followed your mom to the States maybe your life would be better "

" Fuck her too, since my dad died she got a new partner and left me. Yes I decided not to go to the States with her because I don't like her having another man " you answered.

" Some luck will surely come for you, don't give up " your friend answered.

*knock knock knock

" Thanks bro, someone is at the door. So bye now "

You walked out of your bed and opened the door of your apartment. A man in a suit suddenly asked if he may come in. You're skeptical at first but what can he get from you if he robbed your house? Nothing, so you let him in and closed the door.

" Please sit down sir, I can only offer you water sorry " you said.

" Don't bother this talk will be short and you can't say no to this "

-The next day came-

*beep beep

A truck pulled over in front of your apartment and brought a big wooden box inside your apartment.

" here's your package sir, we just need you to sign up here "

You signed the paperwork and they left. You opened the box and you lifted a doll wearing white top and white shorts. The man yesterday offered you half a million dollars to try out their sex dolls. They are made with artificial materials similar to silicone but the texture is much more improved and it simulates human skin and flesh. Only 10 of these are contributed around the world. They examined their test runners carefully so that they will not be caught by the law, as their production is illegal. They prefer not so prominent people. But in exchange you have to give up your current job. You accepted and they gave you half the money straight to your bank before leaving.

" Hell, this doll is crazy beautiful. Do I really get to have sex with this? "

You opened the instructions, it said that it needed to be charged but it was delivered full of battery. It said that it has voice control you just need to say " Momo " before the command. The instructions said " Say, Momo, open to activate"

" Momo, Open " you said.

" Good morning master "

" Wwwwoooo " you shouted.

You were shocked that it said a word and also moved like a person towards you. The doll puts its arms on your shoulders.

" You can command me anything , master"

" Call me, Momo " she added.

" Momo, stand still "

Momo stood there and her arms returned to neutral. You're still shocked at this point, you pressed her shoulder and grabbed one of her boobs and it feels just like a real human. On this point you're aroused, you begin sniffing its shoulders and her scent is as sweet as a flower. It's been so long since you did this to a woman and it made you more excited.

You started kissing her neck while groping her ass and boobs. But something is missing.

" Momo, you can move now and moan for me " you commanded.

Momo hugged your neck and her other arm is caressing your face. She also closed the gap between her waist and yours to grind your bulge into her shorts.

" Ugh, master that feels so good "

" Call me Y/N " you said

"yess Y/N, does Momo taste good? "

" Yes Momo, you're so fucking good " you answered.

Her lips are so plump and cute that you decided to take a taste. You slammed your mouth into hers and sloppily kissed Momo. Momo does have some automated actions when taking part in sex activity. It is stated in the manual. She started caressing your bulge and she also kissed your neck. As she does so you removed your pants and underwear.

" Momo, suck my cock. Suck it good "

You lead her to the bedroom and you sit on the bed. She spits on your throbbing cock and licks it wildly before taking it all in her mouth.

" UGHH " you moaned as she does a fellatio on your hard long cock.

" Yes take it like a good girl "

" mmhgh, mmh, mmh " moans are escaping through her mouth.

She is looking at you all this time, and you started pounding her throat but she takes it like nothing.

*golk golk golk golk

You started to forget that she's a doll and thinks of her as a woman that you can fuck all you want.

" Fuck! What a slut taking it all like nothing "

Momo smiled as you dumped all your cum inside her throat. Momo stood up and sat on you as she kissed you deep.

" Ughh, can you go again Y/N? Momo need a rough fucking "

" Of course, but now call me baby "

" Yes baby " she answered.

You pushed her into the bed as you planted your tongue into her mouth. You made out and you began removing her top off, revealing a good set of tits with pink nipples. You sucked the hell out of the good pair and Momo hugged your neck.

" Yes baby suck my tits good, ugh "

You moved down and removed her shorts and underwear revealing a pinkish red slit.

" Fuck what a good food "

You fucking ate her pussy good, she wrapped her legs to your neck and held your head with her palm.

" Ughhh, babyyy you eat pussy so good "

" Suck my clitoris right there "

You sucked and played with it with your mouth and she began shaking violently. She squirted on your face as she shakes.

" UGHHHHH " she shouted.

" Sorry baby I ended up squirting on your face because you're so good at eating pussy"

You did not answer and you just inserted your dick inside her pussy. Momo can adjust her insides depending on the dick of the user, ensuring the best pleasure. You fucked her like a wild animal as you're too horny from her squirting on your face.

" Ughh baby, you'll make me cum again " she whined.

" Here's your reward for squirting at my face slut "

" Yes baby I'm your only slut, fuck this pussy harder ughh "

Her face is so seductive and it shows how good she feels. You felt more pleasure as her pussy adjusted on your dick. She started licking your nipples adding pleasure while you ram her.

" Baby fill me up with your cum, make a baby with me "

You forgot that she can also detect if the user is cumming so her pussy started to grip your dick harder.

" Fuckk here's my cum you slut " you pulled out your dick and you came into her face.

" Here's my revenge " you added.

She took the cum with her finger and licked it while looking at you.

" Ugh baby, I said you should fill me up but it's alright your cum tastes good "

" Oh I'm not done " you said.

You positioned her near the edge of the bed while in a supine position exposing her chest and toned abs.

" Momo, open your mouth and show me your tongue"

As she does so, you aligned your dick to her mouth and fucked her throat like there's no tomorrow. You grabbed both her tits as your leverage, you spit on her nipples and played with it with your finger. Momo reached down her pussy and started fingering.

"You're a naughty little slut, are you Momo? "

She responded with wild moans as you grope and played with her boobs while destroying her throat. She uses her 2 fingers to fuck her pussy with the other arm played with her clitoris. The scene made you wanna cum so bad.

" Here's my cum, take it Momo "

You grabbed her waist and planted your dick deep into her throat. Momo came again and this time she squirted into your bed. You grabbed her by the neck and pushed her head towards the wet part of the bed. Her ass is now exposed as her waist is bent down.

" Lick your piss you slut, taste it "

Momo started licking the bed sheets. As she makes out with the bed sheet passionately you inserted your dick again and started pumping inside her pussy.

" mmmmhhh ,mmhhh, " she moaned pleasurably as you pushed her more to the bed that muffled her cries.

You suddenly grabbed her hair and pulled it causing her to squeal. Your other hand grabbed her by the neck and choked her as hard as you could. Her moans are replaced by cries for aid to breath. Momo can't feel pain but she'll stimulate the effects of such inflicted pain on her. She tears and her tongue is exposed now. As you're finishing you let go of her neck causing her to lay her head flat on the we sheets and breath for air as you shoot your cum inside her. You looked at her as she is like a poor girl licking the bed sheets.

You finished by unloading the cum inside her tank and cleaning her. You cleaned your room and an idea came to your mind.

Her wardrobe included in her box has many types of dress and styles to pick. And it also has many hair styles included. You charged her for the rest of the day and woke her up at night.

" What, where am I and who are you? " Momo asked.

Before this happened you told her to dress up like a nerdy school girl that knows nothing about how he ended up inside your house. You always thought that your rape kink is weird but now you get to try it. You told her to fight back in the start and slowly be submissive as the time went by.

" Oh you suddenly went inside here and you're not going to get out " you said.

" Oh sorry, I'm heading out now " she answered.

You pulled her arm. Her scaredness is very evident as she is shaking and her voice.

" Sorry sorry, please let me out "

You threw her bag to the side and grabbed both her wrist, pushed her to the wall and started kissing her neck aggressively.

She started crying and struggled from your body weight as you push your body towards her.

" Please stopp, I need to go home now " her voice trembles.

You ignored her pleas and started groping her chest. Her arm attempted to push you back but you're just too overwhelming.

" Your chest is so big for a high schooler like you, don't you think? "

You palmed her mouth forcing her into a kiss. She hits you with her hands while your tongue slides inside her mouth and you start sucking her tongue out. Her hands stopped hitting your chest and it rests on your shoulders now. She unconsciously fought back with your mouth and tongue movements. Your fingers wiped off some of her tears as you're making out. The student's crying eyes shut down as her body gave in to your seduction. Her hands caress your body as you grope her breasts more . You gently move towards the bed pulling her and pushing her down to kneel at the floor. You dropped your shorts down and you placed her hand on your dick. Her cries became gazes of lust as she stroked your shaft. You held her face and moved it closer to your dick causing her to suck on it like a lollipop. Her blowjob is sloppy as she simulates a student who doesn't do such things. She is a modest student who just sucked a dick right now.

" Yes just suck it like that "

" mmhhh mhhh mh " her moans escapes out of her mouth.

You removed her glasses.

" Look at me " you asserted.

She looked at you with lustful eyes.

" Do you want me to fuck you? "

She shook her head signalling a " no " .

You slapped her hard into the face that caused her to shout and cry on the floor. You pulled her hair hard and she is begging you to stop.

" please stop, I gave you a blowjob already "

You pushed her into the bed face down and you removed her underwear. You don't want to remove her uniform as the visual contributes to your pleasure. You started fucking her from behind. Her back is arced and her arms pinched the bed so hard as you ram her back.

" Ughh please , I'm hurting " she pleaded .

" You don't have to pretend to be a little girl, you like this don't you? "

" Argghh, no ! " She answered.

" Then why did your ass follow my rhythm and start pumping as well? Look at your exposed tongue as you enjoys being raped "

" No I don't like it " she said while smiling seductively.

You switched position and you removed half of her buttons, revealing her bra and her shoulders. You fucked her missionary as moans came out both of your mouths. Momo plays her tits as you pound her and she accepted your follow wet kisses as you fuck each other.

" Is my cock that delicious ? "

" Yesss ugh, I mean no "

" You don't have to hide it anymore baby girl "

" No it's just that your cock is so huge that it makes me crazy " she said while holding your face with both her arms.

She pulled you into a deep kiss.

" Yesss I'm cumming, keep fucking my pussy like that please "

" I'm cumming inside you "

" YESS please fill my young pussy with your cum "

You came hard into her pussy and both of you moaned in unison. After a short break, you ordered her to suck your dick as you play video games. Before going to bed you charged her and ordered her to wake you up with kisses on your cheeks and a good ol' handjob.

This sex doll is now yours provided that you submit transparent and honest reports to the company each week. She's only programmed for sex activities if not so, you could have asked her to cook for you haha. She's indeed programmed well.

If you're the one that the company picked to be one of the product testers, what burglar things will you do to Momo?

[brailsthesmolgurl]

COINCIDENCE

PREVIEW: Fate is a term that suggests predetermined events that are inevitable, a route that is not available to anyone's alteration. Yet, destiny, in all of its glory is defined as a path that opens up possibilities of choices and actions that one can take to change it. So, what if coincidence came under the disguise of a fate or perchance, a destiny?

WARNINGS: non-mc! reader, mixture of the boys' povs, first impression matters, mid-length read, real-life scenario applications, cutesy and cheek reddening and leg-kicking fluff.

NOTES: Maladaptive dreaming is the inspiration behind this piece, I just had the sudden lightbulb moment thinking of what-if scenarios and meeting the LnDs boys in reality would probably come across to what these scenarios depict. I'm sorry the pictures I had used are not of the best quality, but I wanted it to have the fuzzy, low res-kinda feel for first meets, where you do not really remember their faces but more of the feelings that they give you. I love giving you all my delulus and offer solulus to support y'all! Do lemme know if this should take on to another part where we dive deeper into my imaginations hehe <3

All dividers are sourced from @uzmacchiato

RAFAYEL - SUNDAY MARKET

Weekends are probably the only days you get to slot in some well deserved rest. You had initially planned to laze around at home, within the comfort of your bed sheets as you catch up on your favourite tv series. However, with an upcoming exhibition just a week away, the next episode of Love Island can wait. Hence, here you sat, in front of your empty white canvas without a single clue on what you should be drawing for your first debut piece. The pristine white canvas gawked at you, imaginary eyes forming on its plane and squinted at your lack of creativity. '𝒫𝓇𝑜𝒹𝒾𝑔𝒶𝓁 𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝒷𝓊𝓉𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓋𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝒸𝑒'. Sounds like a good news headline for a weeks' worth of word-of-mouth but in exchange for bad publicity for a new artist like you. Of course, you could not risk your reputation despite it being a tempting offer.

Should you have waited any longer, your walls might start creating its own art with mold stains so you decided to put on your outing clothes to step out into Mother Nature’s embrace. Perhaps, this is what you exactly needed to refresh your mind. Your feet is set to automated navigation, a built-in GPS on its own as it leads you towards the Sunday Market that is held on the outskirts of town. On days when you feel a little adventurous, going to the Sunday Market would be your go-to idea as the market features a lot of handmade bijous, often born from the hands of an artist that loves their own work. And that, is the essence of why you paint, so your artwork too, can be made of love and passion.

The sun hung lazily and brightly amongst the cloudless skies, casting its warm golden rays directly over the open-air market. The market is bustling, stalls neatly set up and decorated, lined up by the side of the road to provide access for curious shoppers to browse. Each of the stalls sold different items, some big some small, some are sold for utility while some held up as only decor. You weaved through the crowds, your notebook that is the size of your palm pressed against your chest, eyes searching for your next big break on your canvas. You walked past a store selling spices, the smell intense and piercing that it made you winced slightly. A couple stood at the front of the stall, the guy had his arm lazily draped over his significant others' shoulder as they both chattered away with the shop owner, hand gestures as loud as their verbal exchanges.

The sight was worth to draw, the genial exchange between a couple and an elderly over how spices are used for cooking and various other factors but somehow, the scene still lacks something and you hate that it gnawed at the deepest corners of your heart. How does it feel to be in a relationship like that? Where a simple outing as such can be done with your other half whom enjoys it just as much as you do? Just the thought of it left an acrid taste in your mouth but it does not suggest that you are allergic towards wanting to be in a relationship, you just happen to have expectations that nobody has managed to achieve. Yet.

You continued walking onwards, shaking your head slightly as you turned to the next stall to find more inspiration. And there stood a lengthy slim-built young man, with lilac hair that stood out from most of the crowd, dressed in a button up white shirt paired with a grey wool vest and black slacks. No mistake it screams the aesthetic of an artist and just like that, he managed to grab your attention. "Come on, this is plain fraud old man." He panned, slender digit pointed at the 'artwork' that was on display. The 'oil painting' was a blend of blue, purple and pink depicting the scene of a purplish-hued sunset but it looked more of a photo rather than a painting due to the lack of protruding brush strokes on the canvas' surface. "You can't just go around printing an artwork on a canvas and call it a rare scene of a photograph!"

His feedback got the stall owner, a balding man in his late 40s frowning, his mustache twitching out of annoyance. "Do you even have any proof of me photocopying this, young man?" Index finger pointed right back at the young man who has crossed his arms now, looking equally frustrated. Haggling is a common scene in marketplaces but a haggle for justice is quite rare indeed and it bogged you to stay.

"There is no need for any proof when I know my drawings everywhere and what you are doing now is considered a crime." His voice was calm but austere. It is any artist's nightmare for their artwork to be replicated without their knowing and seeing this plain copycat printed on an A2 sized canvas and sealed off in a mahogany frame, the artist took it as a personal jest towards his efforts. It deserves at least a pure silver frame for its magnificience. A slight glance at the painting invoked a sense of nostalgia for you, as if you had seen it somewhere floating within the depths of your memory that you could not catch onto. "Perhaps I should bring this up to my manager and lawyers then maybe we can settle--"

The seller threw both of his arms up in the air, signaling in defeat. A dour groan ensued and there comes the repining sentence. "Look young man, I was only told to sell this artwork. I do not know of the origin of this painting. I am only trying to make a living afterall." Knowing that the officials would be dousing their hand into this matter, the seller does not dare to challenge the artist in question. The purple-haired young man then stepped forward and picked up the drawing, a grimace settling onto his resplendent features. "If you want it, you can take it, I won't charge anything for it!"

You watched as the scene unfolded in front of you, the man's face had turned pallor, green eyes that held nothing but sycophancy out of fear, much like the kind of fear where he has everything at stake and he could not afford to lose any. Blame your empathy for your actions. Stepping forward, you tugged onto the canvas that the young man was holding onto and your eyes caught his. Silence ensued, but you regretted it immediately. This man is not only artistic like, but he is a work of art by himself. With fair complexion and striking purple-blue eyes, a high nose bridge and curved lips, there is no doubt that he walked straight out of a canvas. "I will pay for this." Your mouth spilled before he could say anything, his eyes widening at your approach. Not because he sees you as a challenge, but he too, had never seen someone with such beauty.

"And who are you? An accomplice of his?" He was quick to judge and you could feel yourself scoffing at his attitude. So much for looking like a carved statue, his precipitous assumption still very much suggested him being as mundane as anyone in the market. He did not let go of the photograph from his grip, his amusement surfacing at your surprised expression. It is only fair for you to be shocked at his assumptions. A daring one in fact. He now leans casually against a pole that holds the tent upright, gaze awaiting silently for you to state your reason.

You retracted your grip and crossed your arms, eyebrows closely knitted while you tried to reason with him. "Just because I wanted to lend a hand to a man who is struggling with monetary issues does not mean I am his accomplice." Stuffing your hands into your bag, you feel for your wallet only for him to beat you to it, already pulling out a fat wad of cash and he handed it to the seller, whom had probably drooled at the stack of hundreds. You were planning to give the man a hundred bill and probably call it a day and try to stop the verbal brulesque from escalating, but the young man had beaten you to it and you had never felt so humbled in your life. "What...why?"

"Who said I was never going to pay for it?" The man pushed himself off of the pole, effortlessly pushing his hair back in the direction of the wind blows. The photograph now placed in between the gap of his feet. "I too am human, I too have feelings." He lays his hand flat out, gesturing towards you and himself to indicate his point. "I can't help but pity him for doing someone else's dirty work." He looked towards the seller, the older man already relishing in his ideas on how to spend the money for the upcoming moments. Fingers running through each piece of the paper as he counts. The same monetary symbol that holds no meaning to the man whom had given it to him. "My name's Rafayel."

The introduction began and you looked at the drawing wedged in between his feet and back at his face. And you slapped your hand over your mouth, your skepticism ceded and in comes admiration. No wonder the painting seemed too familiar, you recalled that you had leafed through those uncanny brush strokes in multiple conventions. The painting that is not on sale but is always the main showpiece. It resonated with the artist, the one who stood in front of you, elegant, bold and transcendent. "You are him."

A quick look over both of his shoulders, Rafayel careened over to you in a few strides and took hold of your arm, already tugging you through the crowd like water that flows between the gaps of stones in a river. You obediently followed him, footsteps pattered across the stoned flooring to match his long strides. He snapped towards a right turn and brought you to an empty alleyway. The sunshine barely shines through, only through a small slit above where concrete roofs failed to meet, the light slanting inwards, peeking through the dark environment and forming a straight line against the brick wall. "Why are we here?"

Rafayel's head tossed left and right again, and he lets go of your arm. The subtle touch had already emblazoned against your skin. "So that I won't have to get security escorts." Of course, a famous guy like this at a casual Sunday market is a call for disaster and you mentally palmed yourself for being so careless. The painting that was held in his arms was once again put onto the floor so he has free hands to rummage through his black leather messenger bag for his sunglasses. Pulling it out, he blew the lens to rid it of any dust particles and slotted the sunglasses into his tousled hair, not in a rush to wear it in the aphotic alleyway.

You stood opposite him, feet digging into the small cracks of the stone tiles, studying its irregular patterns till he cleared his throat and you looked up at him. One of his eyebrows was raised, bluish-pink orbs darted from the notebook in your hand to your lips and then settled onto your eyes. The small interaction of his got your heart skipping a beat and you nervously nodded, rubbing the nape of your neck out of habit. "My...name is y/n." You introduced yourself, still not getting over the idea that the renowned artist stood in person in front of you. "I am a huge fan of your works and I will be making my debut at the Flux Arts Gallery next week..." Your mind blanked for a moment. Were you just about to ask him, a famous artist ---who barely knows you--- to come and see your first debut piece?

Asking a renowned artist to come forth to your debut is a suicide mission. He would have thought that you are taking up this opportunity to seek for validation from him or to simply impress him ---though you had zero confidence in your artwork despite being crowned a prodigy. But Rafayel had no such thoughts. For he saw a young woman who was crafted with such care by unspoken deities, that her delicate features are akin to her personality. The way she had shown her judiciousness today had granted herself a rite of passage straight into his soft spot. This is an artist that cares about the time and passion and effort one has to pour into making a masterpiece. This girl, in his eyes, is nothing short of a perfectionist just like him.

"I'll be there." Your heart skipped a beat when he agreed, this time a smile accompanying his handsome features. He leans closer and you could catch a whiff of his perfume. It smelled of a scent that you could only describe like a scene; a touch of sea-salt breeze with hints of citrus notes. It reminds you exactly of the painting he had done, where the sunset meets the horizon, where the skies blended along with the sea with the usage of his brush strokes and tones, the painting which he has held up in front of you now, with a messy scribble across the top right corner. When did he managed to write his number for you? "I have to go now. But text me and I'll be there."

He leans down, close enough for you to feel his breath fanned across your cheek and your face flared a sudden erubescence only visible to Rafayel's eyes. Rafayel already knew he has this effect on female counterparts, but by far, not only did you made a bang on your first impression, but knowing that you are an artist in seek of inspiration the same way he usually does, intrigues him to anticipate your debut piece. He pulls his sunglasses down to shield his dual-tone orbs and he held his hand up to brush away a stray fringe of yours to secure it behind your ear, the charming smile still on display. "I will see you soon, cutie." And without another lingering beat, he walked past you, leaving you in a daze of sea salt breeze and a cursive phone number.

SYLUS - BUSINESS TRIP

An urgent call from your boss is all it takes for you to be booking a flight ticket at the very last minute. Now, you were running though the airport, with your messenger bag in one hand and your laptop in the other. Your phone vibrated in your back pocket but because of how occupied your hands are, you could not afford the luxury of picking it up amidst the rush. "Excuse me!" The two words like a mantra falling off of your lips as you dashed through and past individuals that are clearly taking your time. Reaching the escalator, you dashed down each step, eyes training hard on the metal steps so that you would not trip but you ended up bumping face first against a hard surface and you winced.

Looking up clumsily, you watched the towering figure in front of you dressed up in a prim navy suit turned around, glasses perched on his high nose bridge, shielding a pair of carmine orbs that are sharp and obsequious. Still blocking your step forward, you muttered a quick apology and pointed at the steps below to silently ask for a way to pass through. His eyes, bereft of any judgement, simply stepped aside for you to pass him and you did, dashing past him but you slipped onto the step below him and you felt a strong grip around your waist, noticing that you had made a fool out of yourself for a second time. "I'm so sorry!" You blurted out and stabilising yourself before you are already rushing down the steps again, this time watching both the steps and any upcoming obstacles.

If you were in not so much of a hurry you would have apologise and invited the dashing young man to a cup of coffee to make up for your clumsiness but obviously time is not on your side now so you could only swallow down your guilt and clomped forward, dragging the awkwardness in your steps. When you arrived at your gate, you were relieved to see that there are still a few more people boarding the plane. Your hands templing together for a quiet gratitude to any available higher power that has heard your prayers to board your flight on time. The TV screen at the front of the boarding gate has 'LAST CALL' bolded in red. You pulled your phone out of your back pocket, seeing several missed calls and messages from your colleagues wishing you all the best on your upcoming interview.

Given that you work as a team leader in one of the biggest news reporting outlet, most of the time you will be sent out on last minute outstation interview trips as such. It does make you wonder why you would be alone in this when you had such a supportive team but your higher ups had always gave you cogent reasons, stating that you are a one person team and you are good at what you do when deep down, everyone in your team knows that this is a method for them to cut down costs. "Hi, may I get your boarding pass and passport please?" The attending steward reached out his palm and you gave him your passport and showed him your e-boarding pass on your phone.

Upon confirmation, he pulled a wide smile on you and welcomed you onto the flight. You nodded and boarded the flight, grateful that you are the last one to make it on board. Or so you thought. One good thing about a solo outstation trip is that your company is willing to sacrifice a team for your comfort, which means you get to sit in business class even for a short flight and you get to stay in presidential suites. That is the least they can do to make it up to your loneliness.

You navigated through the straight passage till you got to an open seat. Sighing in relief, you heaved your bag onto the overhead storage space and plopped down into your seat. After all of that running, you did not realised how sore your legs were till you were seated comfortably into your seat. A tall figure loomed over you and you felt an intense stare boring through your soul. "Not only did you hit my back, you made me saved you from falling and now you're in my seat. How uncanny." A deep voice rumbled and your vision snapped up and you caught sight of the same man that you had met a while ago at the escalator. The same man that you hit, who had also saved you from tumbling down the escalator like a tumbleweed and now is witnessing you sat so comfortably in HIS seat.

"I'm sorry!" You straightened up in the seat, your loudness gathered a few heads turning and you apologetically offered a smile as you stood up and looked around, spotting the seat next to him is the other one that is seemingly still empty. And you assumed it to be yours given that this is a full flight. "I...I didn't saw my boarding pass as I got on. I didn't mean to sit onto your seat, my apologies." You kept your head down as you scooched out of your seat and switched to the seat next to his. His gaze followed you, the same gaze that are impassive but held such intensity due to its vibrant hue. "You sure that is your seat?"

You rustled for your boarding pass and stared at your seat number, holding it next to the seat indicator situated above your seat and you sighed in relief when it is your seat. "Yeah." Your eyes still not meeting his. "I'm sorry for taking your seat again." You peeked at his shoes, those leather dress shoes of his shiny, refracting the sunlight coming in through the windows of the plane. He settled into his seat, not another word spoken. It was a given since you had been inconveniencing the whole time. So, with the press of a button, you called a stewardess over.

The man whom had sat in his seat is now holding a book in his large hands, eyes trailing from left to right as he takes in sentence by sentence of the bibliography of a man he cares enough to read up about. "Sir, excuse me." A gentle voice beckoned to him and naturally he raised his chin, eyes catching sight of the stewardess who is flushed at the way he stared at her. He is gorgeous no doubt, owner of an aura that is unbeatable. "Here is a champagne, courtesy from the miss next to your seat." A champagne flute finds its way onto the small eating station in front of him and he nodded graciously as a sign of acknowledgement. Then, he turned his head and caught your gaze right on this time. Your face turning beet red once he looked at you.

"I...I wanted to say sorry and thank you." You stuttered, tongue too tied to form fluent sentences. "My name is y/n." Hearing your name, the side of his lip formed a meagre smirk, adding a touch of impishness to his placid front.

"For what?" There comes the low, masculine voice of his. The plane's captain introduced himself through the sound system, informing the passengers about the flight's course but it has been reduced to white noise as the nascent conversation takes place between the both of you.

"Well," you nervously put your hands together, thumb pads pressed against one another to squeeze ideas out of your head. "I wanted to apologise for bumping into you earlier. I also wanted to say thank you when you steadied me to stop me from dying at the escalator. And lastly, I wanted to apologise about taking up your seat." You slowly raised your chin to study his reaction, but he has got his attention on the glassware in front of him.

Being an alcohol enthusiast, he deftly picked up the champagne flute and brought it to his nose to take a waft of it. Candied orange zest with the undernotes of ripe peach fruit while carrying a hint of nougat that hits the back of his throat. Taking a small sip, he savored the taste of the golden liquid swishing in his mouth and came to acknowledge your taste in champagne. "Jacques Selosse Millesime. It is a good choice to catch my interest." The way the name of the champagne rolled off of his lips sounded so smooth. If you did not know about the drink's history like the pedant you are, you may just think that he was the one who came up with that name.

The plane is landing after an hour of being amongst the skies. Sadly, he did not return the favor of disclosing his name to you and his commentary on your liquor pick was the last sentence that held up since your mind had blanked. However, you are not denying that it made you felt proud of all the times you had been preaching to your colleagues that champagne holds the status of being a bourgeoisie amongst the social status of all alcoholic drinks. Only a person with class would admire it and the man whom had given you that appraisal is a proof of it.

Once the plane had touched down, everyone had begun to rise from their seats to disembark from the flight and head off to their own destinations. Everyone seemed to be in a rush other than you and the man who sat next to you. You looked over and tried to strike another conversation amidst the wait. "So, are you here for business?"

"Yes." His reply was brief, fingers thrumming against the wooden cup holder unconsciously. He was not even supposed to be on a commercial flight. His private jet just happened to be under maintenance so he had no other options. Yet, meeting y/n in such an impressionable fashion got him wondering if this was staged by his lackeys to 'coincidentally' introduce him to a possible partner to his love life. Given how they always complained about work being his first priority and that he needs to seek a female counterpart to waste his time on so he could get off of their back and get some well deserved rest.

Standing up at his full 190cm height, his vision easily scans the overhead storage compartment and a camel brown duffel bag with your name embroidered on it got him smirking, once again. He took it out of the compartment and held it out to you. Noticing it, you quickly stood up and thanked him as you took the bag from him. This was when the crowd had started to shed themselves off of the flight. Those carmine eyes caught yours again as he draped his blazer over his broad shoulder. His slender finger reached into the front pocket of his white button up shirt and he pulled out a card.

"My name's Sylus." He tucked the piece of card into the front pocket of your jeans, noticing that your hands were occupied by the duffel bag that looked too huge for your small stature. A gesture so bold that it sent your mind into a frenzy. "Drop me a call. Perhaps we can meet up next time so you can pay up for your apology with more than just a flute of Jacques Selosse Millesime."

ZAYNE - TRAIN

The fingerprint machine whirred and clicked, the small screen indicated your name and a ‘clocked out of shift’ status. You readjusted your grip on your patient’s file, shifting it into your dominant arm before you turned on your heel and walked down the hallway that leads towards the exit. Your flats squeaked slightly as you dragged your tired feet haphazardly across the waxed flooring. Today is one of those lucky days where you got the morning shift and clocking out at night means you would be able to settle into a normal circadian rhythm just like a normal person. However, your patient file is suggesting otherwise.

Your recent published article had gained traction amongst your peers, having to be the first one to get an approval for the drug you had created to treat protocore syndrome is a big deal for Akso Hospital. It also marks the start of the drug trial phase for shortlisted candidates and this is no time for you to kick back and relax as this crucial phase will be the determining factor on whether your drug would be revolutionary or not. You were not going to settle for anything below 80% effectivity rate. “Doctor y/n. Having an early night?” One of the nurses situated at the nurse station asked, his eyes being the only thing visible behind the marble counter.

“Yeah, gotta work on this file once I’m back.” You replied, waving the teal file in hand high enough for him to catch a glimpse. A small smile graced your features as you bid him goodnight and headed out of the main entrance. The walk towards the subway station was peaceful, the wind being your only company, announcing its arrival by tousling your hair behind your back.

The subway station looked nearly empty, a few limn figures spaced out around like leaves on the ground during the winter. The train arrived shortly, the once empty tunnel now filled with the tube-like transport, the quiet engines hummed to a halt. The doors creaked open and you stood in line, entering the train according to order. The interior walls of the train are painted a pale blue now, making the dark red seats awfully garish. Passengers piled up against the seats, occupying it one by one and you took up one of the seats next to the vacant spot that is reserved for wheelchair users.

A figure past your peripheral vision and you sidelined your right, noticing a pair of black dress shoes that were well polished. “Doctor y/n.” The voice was low, surprised even and you looked up, noticing that the owner of the sparkly dress shoes belonged to the head cardiologist of Akso Hospital, Dr. Zayne. You were equally surprised, your jaw slackened at the idea that he remembered you despite you had only met one another for less than five times. Twice in lecture halls held by esteemed panels, twice at an annual dinner held by the directors of the hospitals and once was during the debrief of your research thesis in the conference room.

“Dr. Zayne.” You nodded in his direction, straightening your ankle-length skirt to stand up as a show of politesse but he stopped you abruptly. “Why are you taking the train?” You winced slightly at how condescending your tone may have come off to the head of cardiologist but he took no mind of it. Tone is the least of his worries when he had only ended an 18 hour shift. You asked the question because you remembered after one of the annual dinner events, you were conversing with your colleagues at the entrance of the function hall till a sleek black Audi got pulled up by a valet and with Dr. Zayne getting into the ride, it earned him to be the topic of the week. The doctor with the continental sedan.

“I just ended an 18 hour shift, I don’t think driving while I am in a state of lethargy would be safe for me nor anyone on the streets.” His answer was straightforward, as expected from a man of few words---purely based off of your last few interactions with him. The conversation dimmed, not because you had no topics in mind, but you took note of him just ending a long shift. He must have been half awake by now but he beat you to the extension of the conversation. “Congratulations on your approval for the third phase of the drug trial. It was an impressively written thesis.”

His bold comment got you biting your lip out of nervousness. Hearing him giving off compliments is like hearing a cat bark like a dog. It is that rare of an occurrence. “You…you actually read it?” A silly question to ask, but his thin lips pulled up into a thin smile, coiffed hair drooped slightly as he put his weight against the clear window panes, shifting onto a stance that would make any orthopedists frown.

“It is a research paper afterall and it directly relates to an opportunity of treatment for my patients.” He nodded towards you, hazel-green eyes held such sincerity that it made your heart bloomed with a sense of self-achievement. “Do you have any shortlisted candidates that are from the cardiology wards?”

You sat up, back ramrod straight and you leafed through the file in your hand, vicariously scanning through all of the patients names and identifying their assigned wards. “I don’t see any yet.” You suggested, head still buried in your file. “But recently I heard from the nurses that your department has been experiencing a huge influx of patients with protocore syndrome, is that right?”

“That is right.” His tone dipped, taking on a solemn note. He looked almost helpless for a mere second. “That is why when I heard about your research, I wanted to lend a hand.” This time, Zayne eyed you, hazel-green orbs shaded by shadows of his fringe when he leaned down slightly to look at your list of patients. But, during those board panel meetings that are usually held on the end of every month, all heads of a department are required to sit together in a huge conference to report on the cases of the month and to occassionally throw in some gossips here and there.

Zayne has heard your name one too many times from the Emergency Department. Words like 'diligent', 'smart', 'on-time' are amongst the few words tied personally to you. And now, seeing you in the train, right next to him, Zayne relishes with the words that he had often heard associated with you. Add on resplendent, decorous and refined into the personality-o-book for you. He could tell the ardent passion you have towards treating your patients just by the way you are staring so intensely through the list.

You, on the other hand, was panicking slightly at the way he had asked for your research to be applied to his department's patients. You had always known Dr. Zayne to be very capable and because of it, you knew the risk of getting panned would be far greater and diffidence inched its way at the back of your mind. Not to mention having a slight crush on Dr. Zayne makes you even more nervous than ever. You stammered. "I...I don't want to cause any trouble for you, Dr. Zayne."

The train eases to a slow stop, metal creaked and groaned against the cold metal tracks, the impassive mechanical voice of the announcer echoed in the background, announcing the station name and precautionary measures as part of the protocol. You are already here at your stop. How long did the conversation took? You hastily stood up, again smoothening your skirt to avoid any crumpling of the fabric. You gave the doctor next to you a small, polite smile and walked past him towards the train doors, but he called out for your name, making you halted in your tracks and you looked over your shoulder to catch his lingering gaze.

"Come meet me at my office tomorrow," He stood at the opening of the train doors now, still positioned within the belly of the train, his smile mimicked yours, a small tug at the end of his lips. His tone makes his decision absolute. "You do not have to do this alone, y/n."

CALEB - BISTRO

You glanced at your phone as you walked under the awnings of shop lots to shield yourself from the sudden downpour. Not only were you late for your blind date, karma had caught on by casting a heavy rain at the moment you stepped out of your humble abode. With the lack of time on your end, you ended up with the ends of your ankle length dress soaked. A low hum could be heard even amidst the loud pitter and patter and you fished your phone out of your handbag to see that your date of the night is ringing you.

"Hey...are you still coming?" This is the first time you heard his voice, it sounded gentle, hesitant and concerned. All this while, you had only conversed with him via texts and his voice did not seemed to match the clipped texts he would usually send you. You were expecting a deeper voice, one that carries more aura of an older gentleman, not like an older brother kind of vibe.

The introduction of this blind date was a courtesy from your colleague at work, after hearing your failed blind dates for time and time again, she had decided to introduce you to an eligible candidate, a guy whom her best friend knows. All she did was shove a number into your face and asked for you to be in touch with him. It took you two days to muster up the courage to be the first one to text the unknown number. A short and simple introductory message.

𝘏𝘪, 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘺/𝘯. 𝘕𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 :).

The message was sent and it took around two hours for your blind date to respond to you. But as aforementioned, it was a clipped response.

𝘏𝘦𝘺, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘣, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 8𝘱𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥?

No emojis, no love bombing flirtatiousness, just straight to the point. It was almost as if he had done this way too much, wanting to zoom over this date out of fulfilling a favour from a friend who was just trying to help. Your assumptions of him a reflection of how you felt of this meeting too. Without much thought, you glanced at the calendar that sat on your desk and you took up your pen, blue ink scrawling, filling in the empty space on your schedule for this Friday.

Back to present, your phone held onto your ear, your eyes darting left and right, trying to find the next awning you can shield under as you proceeded further down the street to the bistro that he had made a reservation at. The bistro that is safely tucked away at the end of a dead street, where no shadows are seen lingering on a usually busy Friday night. Makes you wonder why did he bother making a reservation at an obscure location but at least it shows his effort.

"Yeah, I am just caught up in the rain." You replied hastily, quietly muttering curses under your breath as you hopped over a puddle. The neon signboard gleamed at the end of the street, tinting the shop's window with an eerie crimson glow. "Sorry for making you wait, I am almost there. I will explain everything." And you hung up on him, pulling up the ends of your dress and you dashed towards the entrance, rain splattering onto your skin.

Pushing opened the heavy wooden doors of the bistro, you were enveloped in warmth generated by radiators, the bistro buzzed alive, with people conversing, laughing and a live band playing jazzy tunes to fill the ambience. You are very very wrong about this being a dead place, for this bistro is probably the only lively shop that stood alone amongst the quiet streets.

Nobody bothered to bat an eye at you and you felt grateful for not catching any attention. You scanned the crowd briefly and landed on a guy sat near the wall, a few tables near to the bar and the furthest away from the small stage. He was mindlessly scrolling on his phone, the soft light casting a glow against his features. He is the only one sitting alone and you beelined straight to him, all the while smoothing out your hair so at least you look a little presentable, eventhough you were soaked.

Moving closer, the figure you were eyeing comes closer to your view. He is young, probably around your age, a newsboy hat adorned on his head, with a black jacket worn over his white shirt underneath. His shoulders are broad, making his head sitting like a tiny rock on a huge boulder. "Hi." You approached the corner of the small table and he looked up. He is drop dead gorgeous. Brunette hair that falls over his forehead, framing his defined jaw. His eyes the shade of dark violet under the dim glow of accent lights, clear and expressive.

"Hey..." He trailed off, eyeing your face and then angling downwards, his lips parting open when he is the first one to take in your disheveled state. "You are soaked." His tone came off to be concerned and he quickly stood up. Only then you noticed his towering height, his baby face not a very good measurement for his body proportions. "Are you cold?" He approached you, taking off his jacket immediately and wrapped it over your small figure, the ends of his jacket reached the mid of your thighs. "Wait for me here, I will grab some tissues or something for you."

You wanted to tell him it was not necessary but he had already spun around on his heel, maneuvering through crowds and occupied tables towards the bar. Your heart skipped a beat. Not expecting Caleb to be giving you such a good impression to begin with ---or maybe that was how traumatised you were from your past dates. He came back a few minutes later, an apologetic smile grazed his soft lips and he handed you a few pieces of towels, too small for the body and too big for your face. "They only have these towels that are used to wipe the bar table. But don't worry, these are clean."

You took the towels off of his grip and started to dry yourself off, first by throwing one over your hair and you plopped down into the chair, wrapping the ends of the towel around your neck to make it look like a makeshift scarf. "Thanks." You readjusted yourself, placing your bag onto the floor and you extended a hand towards him, a smile now shown on your face.

Caleb sits himself down and took your hand, giving you a firm shake. He gnawed at the inside of his cheek, trying to contain his amusement when this is the first time he had been on a blind date where his date is soaked and could care less about her aesthetics. Perhaps, she too, had been on too many dates just like him. "I thought you were a no-show." He retreated his grip and relaxes in his seat, slumping his shoulders slightly.

"Of course not." You scowled, a pout followed soon after. "I was late because I was caught up with paperwork. I'm sorry again for making you wait." Caleb sighed in relief, his palm coming up to rub the back of his neck to soothe his nerves. You were nothing alike to what Simone had described on the phone. She did mention that you are small in size and that is by far the most accurate description of you. However, Caleb sees no sign of a shy individual. Only a well-mannered one. As of now.

This blind date has been one of the most smooth-sailing one. With conversations held up on both ends, questions and answers given and taken. You had got to know of his age and occupation and you could not believe the guy in front of you, with such gentle features and warm personality, is a pilot, upholding the position of a colonel in fact. For he, had never figured that you are part of the Hunter's Association, a lead engineer in charge of designing and tinkering a melange of leading technological weapons for the hunters. So that is how you got to know Simone.

"Say, y/n." His eyebrow arched upwards, a hint of amusement in his voice. He picked up the jar of water and refilled your glass swiftly, halting his actions when the liquid fills up to the brim of your cup. "How many blind dates have you been on?"

Seven. That was the answer that you had given him and you threw the question right back at him, anticipating an amount similar to yours. "Fourteen." Double that instead. Caleb throws his head back, chuckling when he saw your mouth dropped opened and he clears the question that is already churning at the back of your mind, his tone still lighthearted. "They either ghosted me mid way or just wasn't my type. Some talk too much about themselves, some wanted to jump right onto bed with me and some just care more about the time to leave than to talk."

You cleared your throat and sit up in your seat, taking a small sip out of the cup that he had filled for you. "How could someone just ghost you without even meeting you? You are pleasant to talk to." Your compliment rolling off of your tongue so easily and this is challenging for you to do on your past dates as it may come off to be ego-stroking for your date. "I enjoy my time with you."

Caleb's eyes glinted, a gleam of hope flashed past his pupils, his eyes trained on you. Under the soft lights, with the towel still draped on top of your hair, he finds you to be adorable, a woman who holds so much respect for herself and also for others. Admirable to him. "Yeah, y/n. I enjoyed my time with you too." His phone cut through the comfortable silence with a shrill ringtone. He muttered a short apology to you and picked up. "Yeah, Caleb speaking."

His whole demeanour shifted from warm to icy cold, gaze narrowing at the empty space he was staring at on the ground as he tried to listen to the voice on the other end. You watched as he pinched onto the gentle slope on his nose, eyes closing for a few moments to dull out his frustration. "Yeah. I'll be there in a few." And he tapped the big red button on the screen to end the call and his head turned to you again, the stern gaze faltered back into an easygoing pair. "Sorry about that, I just got a call from my liutenant, they need me for an emergency mission."

You blinked in response, realising that he is indeed not joking about his line of work. He did spoke briefly about emergency missions before being cut off by the waiter who fetched a new jar of water over to your table and the conversation turned towards you, with him asking you about your nature of work. "It's okay. I understand." You nodded your head, already standing up to gather your items. "I can go back from here, you should head on for your mission."

You pulled the cloth off of your hair and folded it, laying it onto the table neatly. Caleb stood up from his seat and walked over to you, hand gesturing towards the exit and he escorted you out of the bistro. "I'm sorry I can't fetch you back, y/n." He spoke as he followed you out of the doors of the bistro, the sounds shut off after the heavy wooden doors closed behind him.

"Caleb, it's really okay! It is not raining anymore and my house is just nearby. I will be fine." You reassured him, hand coming up to gently pat him on his shoulders.

Till his hand caught onto yours, those big warm hands envelop your smaller ones with such ease and you gasped lightly, looking up to catch his gaze. He is still smiling, the kind of smile that showcases his sincerity. "Thank you for coming today, y/n. I can't wait to see you for our next date." And he planted a light kiss onto your knuckle, making you blush furiously. "I'll be back soon." He lets go of your hand and leans down, tugging his lips into a wide smile, the type that says that he will be back, then he walks past you, turning the corner and disappearing out of your sight, with his jacket still smelling of fresh detergent resting comfortably on your small shoulders.

XAVIER - FRIEND GATHERING

Finals had just ended and the holidays had just started. And this marks the start of parties to celebrate both of the occasion. Of course, being the social butterfly you are, it is no exception for you to be included in their parties. One of it being a hotpot gathering held by your soon-to-be employer, Charlie. The gathering also held another significance to Charlie, for he shall be taking over his father's time-honored bakery shop and he wanted to host a celebration for it too.

Your attendance is much required as a friend and also as his employee so you agreed without much thought. It is also tempting when he mentioned that he had invited a few other friends of his from other universities to join in on this social gathering and that was what got you to nod your head at his offer too. It is about time for you to meet some new people and to broaden your social circle and who knows, it may be an added bonus if you get to find a boyfriend material amongst the haystack.

"How is the prep coming along, y/n?" Charlie's voice echoed off of the walls, hand diligently whacking the whipped ream in the stainless steel mixing bowl of his. You were only supposed to be attending the party as a guest and yet here you are, stuck in the kitchen preparing the delicacies for the party. But, as much as you did not feel like ding it, you could not escape his nags, especially when he is going to be your employer. "Do you need any help?"

"No, I am good here." You replied, meticulously piping freshly whipped cream from his mixing bowl onto the cupcakes that are fresh out of the oven. The kitchen is now a mixture of different artificial flavours, but all held the same component of being made out of refined sugar, inhale anymore you think you may end up with diabetes. Charlie is a preacher for sugary desserts, believing in the faux idea that sweet desserts are always the key to happiness when you think money can have just the same amount of effect. "I am almost done with the cupcakes."

"Good, when you're done then maybe you can help me set up the table first." The busy mane hollered and you whipped your head around to see that his face is a mess, powdered sugar sprinkled over the tip of his nose and his right cheek. Like a powdering gone wrong. You silently pointed at the messy spots, hand clamped over your own mouth to stop yourself from bursting out of laughter. "Is there something on my face?"

Shrugging casually, you chuckled and left him to his own demise. Quickly rushing out of the kitchen and headed towards the dining room. The theme of the party if a mixture of black and white, the gloomy colours being such a stark contrast towards the cupcakes made in an array of loud colours. Maybe that is what makes the colours pop. But regardless, Charlie is in the baking industry and interior designing is never his strong suit given the mixture of aesthetics that can be found across different rooms. You neatly placed the tray of cupcakes onto the center of the table. Noticing how naked the whole table is. "Charlie, you mentioned that the rest of them will be bringing food over, right?"

"Yeah, we are only in charge of baked foods for desserts." His loud voice echoed from the kitchen, the clanging of metal against metal still very much ongoing. Right when he was about to be done, the doorbell rang twice, making you jump slightly at a foreign sound that does not consist of the metal's clank. "Open the door, y/n."

"On it!" You careened over to the wooden door, not even bothering to check through the peephole and you swing the door open and you caught sight of a few familiar faces lighting up with wide grins. "Hey guys!" You bid your classmates, giving them high fives as they lined up to enter the entrance, all with different kind of trays in their hands. Good. Food is piling up onto the naked table.

The last face in line stood with lips slightly ajar, in an awkward manner as he held onto a tray of what seemed to be strawberry flavoured jello covered with a thin layer of cling wrap. His face was smooth, absent of freckles nor any pimples, as if puberty had never grazed his features---or maybe it did and he just got super lucky. His round eyes gleamed a cerulean blue akin to the sea and the skies, and his blond hair lazily brushed that it lays naturally flat on his head. He is probably from another university as you had never seen a guy within your social circle with such effeminate features. "Hi." Even his hi sounded awkward.

"Hey there, welcome! I am y/n, Charlie's friend and you are?" You gestured to yourself as you introduced your own name and you slowly trailed off when you lay your palm flat towards his direction, egging him to continue on with his self-introduction.

"I am Xavier, I am a friend of a friend who is also a friend of Charlie's I guess." He spoke, voice gentle and almost sounding in question marks most of the time. Not only is he awkward, he also seemed to struggle with decent self-explanation skills. It does add on an innocent charm to his personality. Without further ado, you beckoned for him to come in and shut the door behind him.

The party went on, with more and more people piling up into the space of the once hollowed house. Charlie was busy entertaining his friends and his friend's friends. So it left you standing aside in the corner, sipping onto a mixer that tasted like a mixture of ginger ale and some dollar store Sprite. So much for being a self-proclaimed social butterfly. Maybe you had underestimated the crowd and you have to admit that you lack the social skills to fluently blend into a group of close-knitted strangers.

"Hey." A strangely familiar voice called out from your left and you turned your head, meeting the blond-haired guy who looked like he would rather be anywhere else but here. Ah, yes, Xavier is his name. "Are you okay?" Rocking the same red cup as yours, he took his stand next to you, leaning against the wall for support. "You don't look like you are having a lot of fun."

You took a swig out of your cup, emptying the contents of it with a slight frown. "The same can be said for you too, no?" You smirked, glancing sideways towards him. "You look like you would rather be at home than here now."

His eyed widened slightly, long lashes fluttered with every motion and his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his ears slowly turning to a pinkish shade. "I...I don't really like being around people." As expected. "I came here because my friends told me that it was going to be a games night." He raised his cup towards the crowd surrounding a table, playing beer pong. "But I was expecting video games instead of this."

Sensing for a heroic notion, you smiled and tilted your head towards the widely opened door. "Wanna get out of here?" You offered and he nodded almost immediately. Then, you grabbed onto his wrist and started dragging him out of the party, away from the noises and to the backyard where the loud noises are drowned out to the white noises. You went to the furthest edge of the backyard and plopped yourself down onto the grass, placing the red cup next to you and he mimicked you.

"Y/n right?" He asked for your name, eyes studying you. After you nodded in confirmation, he continued. "Thanks for bringing me out here." And he watched as you seeked for his gaze. This scene that unfolded in front of him got his heart twisting with a slight pang. Xavier may have been to a couple of parties, but most of the time, he knew he would be the one to sit in the corner and maybe sneak out whenever his friends are too drunk to notice his existence. It has always been the same routine for him. But today, you broke that routine of his and it got Xavier smitten with you.

You smiled, your eyes curved into an eye smile and underneath the moonlight's bath, you looked ethereal to him. A saviour, an angel that does not require wings to grant him his freedom. "No biggie, I just thought it wouldn't be nice to feel so alone amongst a crowd." The way you explained your reason with a chuckle got Xavier sighing in return. The both of you are not that different afterall.

Xavier pulled his phone out of his back pocket, clicking a button and the screen lit up and he navigated through the home page to get to his contact list. With a tap on the add new contact, he handed his phone over to you, the blinking white bar awaiting for your input. "Next time, let's go out by ourselves?" You glanced at the phone and back u at him, and back to the phone again. Did he really just asked you out on a date? Seeing your tardy reaction, his lips thinned into a fine line and he retracts his arm. "It's okay if you---"

"Of course we can!" You snatched the phone out of his grip and deftly filled in your contact number and name, a small smile resurfacing onto his handsome features. "I...I just wasn't expecting you to pull a move like that." This time a small chuckle escaped his lips, his hair bobbed left and right when he lightly shook his head in response to your statement. "Just because I am an introvert doesn't mean that I stick to moves that only further suggests me to be an introvert." He took back his phone from your hand, a satisfied smile showing when he stared at the technological brick in his hand for a brief moment before shoving it into his pocket again. His eyes meet yours again and this time, it casted a silvery light borrowed from the moonlight's rays. "You made me want to step out of my own comfort zone."

SHOULD I MAKE A PART 2? LEMME KNOW!

[telamonisms]

✦PEBBLING✦

You had no idea on how or why it had started, one day you're working your 9 to 5 job as a cashier at quite possibly the most normal store there is, the next the God of War and Wrath himself walks in like it's just another Tuesday and makes his way to the frozen chicken nuggets, you staring in shock and confusion the whole time, only being snapped out of it by the sound of several bags dropping in front of you, ready to be scanned as Telamon simply stared with his everpresent unnerving smile.

You, determined to follow good customer service practice, scan every bag before giving him the total with a smile of your own and spewing out the automated corporate line about thanking the customer and telling them to come back as the Deity made his way out.

You expected not to see him again, thinking that the literal descent of a God to your humble work place just to grab some chicken nuggies was a one time only thing. On your part, you were content that you probably had an entirely original experience, which made his visit next day all the more puzzling.

He did just the same as the day before, though this time as you scanned the nuggets, he kept his head curiously tilted to the side.

The day after he came back, it was all the same except with the added of little chirps and general bird noises that you thought sounded like he was curious.

Later that day, after your shift was over and you left, ready to walk your way home, Telamon drops down from a tree and begins to make casual conversation with you.

You were surprised and confused but ended up going along with him, unsure of what else to do.

Over the next few weeks you'd somehow managed to become friends with Telamon and a little bit longer after that he'd started bringing you things.

A fruit, a "cool" stick, some pleasantly smooth pebbles, someone's stolen sandwich, one time he brought you someone's pet dog, you then had to explain to him that you couldn't accept someone's pet and eventually he begrudgingly returned it.

A coulple of months into this new oh so confusing behavour, just before he had to leave to HQ for work, he pulled you asides and under the shade of a flowering tree, Telamon plucked a singular feather of one of his wings and, with a smile far too gentle to belong to the very God of War and Wrath, he placed the feather behind your ear, making sure it sat nicely and visible before resting his taloned hand on your cheek, softly cupping your face as he looked you in the eyes.

"He gifts you one of his feathers, isn't Telamon's kindness ever so boundless?"

You were rendered speechless by the softness of the moment and just as you managed to recover, he spread his wings and took to the skies, making his way to the very top floor of the Roblox HQ.

You think you now know what all of thouse random gifts were.

Maybe you should get a book on bird courting...

✦Short and sweet. Nobody asked for this one, but I do love to indulge myself. Hopefully you all find this read enjoyable as well.

[sleepymarimo]

୨୧. 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

: ̗̀➛ following a job, toji wants nothing more than to spend time with the person who makes him feel more man than monster.

pairing: toji x fem!reader cw: not much, but i'll give a warning for suggestive themes near the end! very slice of life. the two of you shower together, just talk about your day and plan a date for tomorrow :) wc: ~2.3k an: currently pushing the 'toji is so, so soft with you when he's in love agenda'. blame my moscow mule and whiskey shot for this.

there's something about not having to pretend, about not having to put up a front, that makes toji realize just how tired he is.

his job is finally done, a few hits followed by using some not so friendly methods to gather up a bit of information for one of his clients.

throngs of people, neon lights and the honking of cars fade into echoes as he takes the local subway lines toward your neighborhood. he taps the fare card at each station's exit, it's balance never running dry.

it's one of the little things you do for him, keeping it stocked, allowing the assassin to get to where he needs to go.

he's so damn excited to see you.

this most recent gig has kept him away for a solid three, maybe four days at this point.

his body barely reacts to the jerks and turns of the train's car, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. there's not many people on the train and it's not like they would sit by him, anyway.

with a small grunt he cracks his neck, allowing his mind to wander. he doesn't need to pay attention; he's confident that nothing will slip past his senses. while he wants to believe that you'll be sound asleep in your shared bed, a part of him figures that you're up waiting for him.

"shit." he thinks, one of his hands absentmindedly running through his hair. he was just in shibuya. maybe he could've grabbed you something from that specialty store you trekked to nearly every weekend or checked if that café was still collabing with the series you'd been gushing about.

the thoughts in his head are all but useless now, the train making it's automated announcement before coming to a rolling stop at the station that had become all to familiar to him these past few months.

he steps off, tapping his card to the reader and resisting to urge to roll his eyes at it's chime.

it's not a far walk, though there's a stark difference between this neighborhood and the rowdy inner city streets. there are no brilliant lights or flashing signs, but the occasional lamppost and crossing signal.

each step to your apartment feels like a weight off his shoulders, the corner of his lips curling into a small smirk as he punches in the code to the front door.

as he enters the apartment, the sliver of light from beneath your door tells him all he needs to know.

he kicks his shoes off and lets out a controlled breath, the bedroom door creaking slightly as he pushes it in and playfully scoffes at the sight of you clinging to consciousness on the bed.

the way your eyes light up, almost squinted as they're squished in by the apples of your cheeks, sends a ripple of warmth through his chest that he can only compare to the sensation of being stabbed. the only difference is that he'd gladly run into your blade, no questions asked.

"i thought i told you not to wait up, angel." he chides, through there's no bite in his words as he walks over until he's standing beside where you're laying on the bed.

his gaze flickers over to the television where one of your shows, a rerun, he's sure, is playing on the screen.

"oh shut up." you rise to a seated position, the blankets pooling at your waist as you continue with what you both know is a lie. "i wasn't tired."

he hums in acknowledgement, the sound so soft that he has to wonder if it really came from him. when you hop out of bed, standing before him, his brows raise in mild curiosity, his hands coming up to rest at your waist as he silently marvels at the warmth clinging to you.

"sure, angel." his thumbs lightly massage your skin over your clothes. "so what's the plan then?"

whatever show you're watching is quickly forgotten. you shrug, your hands resting on his. tilting your head toward the bathroom, you respond. "shower. you're not getting in bed all gross like that."

he doesn't protest, instead lowering his head and nudging it against yours, taunting you with a smirk. toji is aware that the scent of cigarettes and the stale air of some shitty bar cling to him like an unwanted coat. "who're ya callin' gross, huh? i'm clean enough."

yet, even as he speaks, he's guiding you toward the bathroom with a strong palm resting on your lower back.

the true white lights cast a somewhat harsh glare on the room, but the familiarity of your touch, of the sanctuary that is your apartment, only serves to soften him.

you navigate through the space with ease, the pipes hissing as the shower comes to life. it takes only a second for water to start spraying, the curtain rod clinking as you patiently wait for things to heat up.

"how'd the job go, anyway?" your hands find the hem of his shirt, gently tugging it up. he gets the hint, tossing the garment off to the side without hesitation before he does the same for you. “it was a long one.”

he doesn't bother hiding his admiration for your bare flesh, a noise of approval emanating from his chest as he leans forward and places a kiss on your cheek before helping you with your bottoms. the routine is familiar, grounding, to the man who thought he'd sworn off of any sort of domesticity.

the light thud of your clothes hitting the floor is drowned out by the sound of water droplets pitter pattering against the walls of the bathtub. "don't worry about that shit, angel." he replies, not unkind, eyes twinkling with amusement as he wraps his arms around you and brings you closer. "it's not for you."

it's hard fighting the instinct to roll your eyes, the water starting to heat up as indicated by the slow building of steam in the bathroom. the warmth of his body is much welcomed, your hands busying themselves with grabbing a shower cap and stretching it over your head.

"oh, c'mon, i can handle it." you protest, ever curious about the things he sees, the things he does. "i watch dateline, i know all about crime."

your words earn a chuckle from him, felt more than heard, his head lifting as he angles you toward the tub. "that right? sorry to burst your bubble, but it's not the same." his free hand comes up to press against your shower cap, the plastic wrinkling under his touch. he's always thought the accessory made you look silly, another gruff chuckle leaving him as his palm lightly swats at your ass. "get in already, it's cold."

the echo of your laughter is a siren's call he isn't about to leave unanswered. he steps in with you, a steady stream of water cascading down his skin and melting away the tension that had been clinging to his frame these last few days.

he's content to be pampered by you, to listen to you, to exist in your presence without pretense. for so long his life had been a series of transactions, whether he was selling his skills or himself. but here, he doesn't feel the need to put up any walls or act like something he's not.

with you, he's just a man.

a satisfied grunt leaves him as you massage body wash into his chest, your hands expertly spreading the soapy mix into the muscle before sliding them up to his shoulders. he can't help but take note of how focused you are, the sight almost comical, especially with that stupid shower cap atop your head.

"you're just feelin' me up now." he accuses, though he makes no move to stop you.

your hands pause for a moment as you let out a sarcastic chuckle, encouraging him to stand under the spray of water to rinse off. "there's not much to feel." you lie, doing your best to remain serious, but a smile unwillingly curls at your lips.

he hums in amusement, knowing damn well that you purred like a cat when you had your face pressed into his chest. "you're a fuckin' liar." he points out without much remorse, his eyes tracking your every movement while he purposefully flexes the muscle beneath your fingertips. "but sure, tell me there ain't nothing there."

in your mind, he's the one acting like a cat, his head tilted back and a lazy smirk on his face. it makes you want to snicker, push his buttons in that way you know he likes. "i spoil you too much."

"hm? sounds like a you problem." he lowers his head, your comment igniting a familiar playfulness. then, it's replaced with a rare sort of thoughtfulness, one of his hands coming up to rest on your hip.

he remembers what he was thinking about on the train, perhaps wanting to do a little spoiling of his own. "say, why don't we head to shibuya tomorrow? get you that mug from the café that’s doing that collab shit for the show you like."

toji feels like the best boyfriend for remembering such a small detail, knowing it was sure to earn him some points.

the steam starts to fog the mirror, the water hitting the tub in sporadic splashes as you rinse off your own body wash. your hands wipe some water off your face, shoulders lightly jumping with the laugh you give.

"they stopped doing it, like, two days ago." you reveal, smile a bit too smug.

he's momentarily dumbfounded, silently cursing himself. one of his hands runs through his still wet hair, pushing it back. some annoyed grumbles leave him, lips almost set into a pout. "shit, sorry angel."

truthfully, it's not that big of a deal, and you can't help but be amused by his mannerisms. you nudge him with your elbow, letting him know that not all hope was lost. "a café in kyoto is doing the 'collab shit', too. that one is still open."

"well fuck, why didn't you say that?" he nods, eyes wandering to the ceiling as he mentally maps out his schedule. "tomorrow then, let's go. we'll get ya all that overpriced shit with your favorite character on it."

the sound of your laugh is enough to make him smirk, his eyes following the path of the water as it runs down your skin. a day with his favorite girl, no crappy jobs or seedy clients, sounds like a damn dream.

"what if i had plans already, asshole?" you counter with a grin, challenging him, playfully goading him on as the last of the suds flow down the drain.

his eyes narrow and he scoffs, his demeanor nothing short of puckish. he knows you too well, figuring that the highlight of your day tomorrow would've been going out to grab a coffee or something. "no you fuckin' don't, angel. don't test me."

your lips press together as you ponder your next move, but you relent. "okay, fine, i don’t have anything to do."

"good." he replies, softer now, palm rising to rest on your damp cheek. there's a moment where he just blatantly admires you, thumb running across your lips. "tomorrow. you and me are gonna take the first train to kyoto, alright?"

you loved when he looked at you like that, but oh you hated how it made you feel like a damn school girl. still, you nod and lean into his hand. "yeah. me and you."

it could be from his gaze or from the thick steam in the bathroom, but you figure it'd be wise to get to bed. turning toward the faucet, you reach your hand out to shut the water off.

toji has a different plan though, a part of him not wanting this moment to end quite yet.

"wait, c'mere." he orders, bringing you close as his voice drops to a murmur. "forgot to kiss ya when i came in."

his actions make your stomach flip, your head angling upward to meet his lips for a kiss. his touch is firm, filled with intent, telling you everything you know he feels but struggles to say. a rough palm plants itself on the base of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

he can't even begin to explain how you feel against him, his senses honing in on all you have to offer. the heat of your skin, the scent of your body wash, the taste of your lips… hell, he swears he can even hear your heart beating in your chest.

it's not enough for him and he pulls away, only to pepper kisses along your neck and shoulder.

a smile curls at your lips and you sigh in delight, hands planting themselves on his bicep, your thumbs running along the contours of his muscle and the occasional scar. when he pulls you closer, when you feel him, you click your tongue in mock protest.

"you're gonna make it hard to take the first train to kyoto." you whine, though each swipe of his tongue or grazing of his teeth breaks you down even further.

toji seems to know this, his grip on you tightening, his smile felt against your skin. "we'll get ya to kyoto tomorrow, angel." he assures, ensuring you're kept warm under the showerhead. "we can spend all day there. i'll buy you whatever you want, yeah?"

there’s no way you could complain about that, so you let yourself go.

nodding, you succumb to your fate, succumb to him, wholly.

it's a blur from there, but by tomorrow morning, the two of you are on the second earliest train to kyoto.

at your reserved seats, you watch the scenery roll by with interest, everything almost a blur due to the high speed. he's given you the window seat, his frame protectively placed between you and the rest of the train car's occupants.

your head resting on his shoulder, arm hooked comfortably beneath his bicep, toji allows himself a moment of respite, no pretending, no walls.

it's just you and him, and he feels like one lucky bastard.

[tsuutarr]

As just imagined then everything as a game and the hero as seeing like a freak by all the people and the reader as the only good and nice npc then treat him well and even give him free item even if our store is not very we still give him a apologize about the others (npcs) being rude with him and the hero being so delusinal the fall over us lol

so, because i have absolutely NO self control, I made another story <3

Yandere! RPG Protagonist x Reader

Gallius isn’t entirely sure when he gained sentience. Maybe it was when he’d have insistent feelings of déjà vu. Maybe it was when he would want to go somewhere or do something, but an external force prevented him from doing so. Maybe it was when the people he talked to would say the same things over and over and over again.

Regardless, one day, he realized that he doesn’t actually exist – at least, not in a way that matters. He’s just a piece of code, a bunch of pixels moving across the screen, trapped in a video game.

The worst part is that everyone around him – and he means everyone – lacks sentience. It’s gotten to the point that he’s memorized everything. Every dialogue, every story path – everything.

It’s a fruitless life, really, especially since he’s forced to obey his code. He’s forced to go along with whatever the person controlling him wants. He’s forced to be the happy-go-lucky protagonist. He can’t be anything but that.

Gods, he’s going to go insane.

And he’s tried to talk to people, really.

“Hey, so, I think we’re in a game.”

“Beer is fifty percent off, young man.”

Gallius never thought the tavern’s owner could look so lifeless. “So, you know, I guess you really don’t have sentience.”

“Man, can you believe the monster outbreak?”

“Don’t you wish there was a way you could… I don’t know, break free? Talk beyond your code?”

“Beer is fifty percent off, young man.”

Gallius holds back a sigh. The tavern owner says three things exactly. “Beer is fifty percent off, young man”, “Man, can you believe the monster outbreak?”, and “I don’t know if I prefer a full tavern or an empty one!” are the exact phrases the tavern owner recycles. It isn’t just the tavern owner, either. It’s everyone else in town. The blacksmith, the carpenter, the seamstress – all of them.

It kind of drives him insane. Maybe that’s why he tries to find solace in anything he can, like you.

“Gods, I hate being the only one who sees that we’re a pile of code,” he tells you. You’re a cute shopkeep – whoever designed you must be a genius – that he likes to see from time to time. If anything, you’re easy on the eyes, at least.

“Yes, it does appear that you’re having quite the rough time,” you say. He knows you’re just saying one of your coded phrases, he does, but he can’t help but latch on to that piece of support you give.

“Yeah, you get it.” He laughs dryly. “But what can I do? I have to keep going. It’s not like I have a choice.”

“You’re doing well. I’m proud of you.”

Gods, he can’t hide his grin. Yes, you’re just saying one of your phrases, but the comfort your words bring – it’s unreal. It’ll probably be even more unreal if he could actually talk to you. If you both had sentience, if you both could go against your code. The thought makes him fall silent.

“...Hey, I’m gonna leave for a bit. Maybe a long time,” he says finally, determined to help you break away from your code. He doesn’t really care too much about the other NPCs, but you? Oh, he wants you. He wants to talk to you, to be with you in a way that matters.

“Have a safe journey,” you say, automated. You hand him a potion, a freebie from your shop, with a smile. “On the house.”

Gallius smiles, taking the potion from you. Yeah, he’ll find a way to give you sentience like him. That way, you guys can truly be together forever.

[lactoseintolerentswag]

Donnie Tech Part 1/?

After many moons here are the promised observations of the cartoon shtick logic of Donnie's weapons for season one!! Will link a season two and movie version Eventually, but keep in mind I can't explain in depth how each bit of tech works, rather that I can pinpoint the functions for the visual bit. Keep in mind that Donnie's tech can pretty much do any ridiculous thing you can put your mind to, and that it can also backfire in any ridiculous way you can put your mind to.

Tech Bo:

Collapsible, can become a shorter version of itself easily stored

Shoot a grappling hook AND function as a zip line

Can form a rocket from either end (usually at the same time, resulting in the bo spinning)

Is equipped to be a fire extinguisher

Can shoot out lasers

Has a button that activates the "Shopping Cart Protocol" to lock the Turtle Tank if it goes outside a set perimeter

Top can turn into a rocket powered fist

Turn into a giant drill

Turn into a saw

Turn into a tranquilizer

Turn into a tennis ball shooter

Turn into a selfie stick

Top can turn into a disco ball of "multidimensional reflective orb neutralizer"

Battle Shell:

Has rotary engines (think jet turbine or computer fan) that help him fly around. He calls them "rotors" for short

Can transform into a seat so April can sit on his back

Can split up into a DJ set up in "music mode"

Jet Pack Shell:

His fastest mode of transportation

Not much is shown, but April had a significant difficulty controlling it

Spider Shell:

Has four arms with three fingers

Arms can turn into saws

Has a seemingly endless toolkit inside that includes basic things like hammers and wrenches, but also blowtorches

Goggles:

Has night vision

Can function as binoculars

Is able to summon is tech ("communicates with microwave transceiver with class c encryption protocols")

Read mystic energy signatures after adding the crystal they found in Draxum's lab

Gauntlet:

Has an app that can tap into every security camera in NY

Bug Slapper:

Has a green Mad Dogs sticker on the side

Compacts itself into a metal suitcase and then expand back into a vehicle

So far only uses Big Mama's webbing material as projectiles

Shelldon:

Began as an automated smart lair designed with the intent as a cleaning assistant

Has a "disposal unit" which unlocks several of Donnie's weapons such as: guns, pinchers, drills, and flamethrowers

Can carry at least two turtles (Mikey and Donnie)

Is nicknamed "Cyber Bishop" by Donnie

Uses surfer dude slang: “dude”, “gnarly”, “buzzkill”, “okey dokey”, “dawg”, “you beefed it”, “brohounds"

As a smart lair has clear favoritism towards Donnie until tampered with. As a drone they share more of a familial or pet like relationship, and Shelldon has room to sometimes poke at Donnie's faults as well

In conclusion there's not much to worry about breaking canon, the physics of our reality, or understanding complicated tech and science to write about Donnie's tech. He can do whatever he wants as long as it's silly, overly dramatic, and includes an unnecessary amount of purple guns. His tech bo is especially flexible with breaking the rules even before we get to his ninpo powers.

I'm keeping the Turtle Tank separate, because it also deserves its own post. Happy writing!

[rocautomation]

2711R-T7T

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[bluesunss]

The lovers Choi Su-bong (Thanos ) x F!Reader

summary: fate always has something far different in store for you than you expect. that is what you thought, quite literally, when that one-night stand never left your mind, no matter how hard you tried.

warnings: cursing, age-gap (reader is older, 34, while Su-bong is 28)

a/n: idk what to say haha. i've been sooo busy recently, i've proofread it quite a few times but probably not enough. also we've been handing essays in my mother tongue more so some sentences are probably my mind having a mandela effect and being convinced they exist in both languages.

Su-bong knew he shouldn’t have won. The guy at the bar had given him way too many glasses, and slid between his fingers two pills in exchange of a favor, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

The first time he saw you, was right after this victory. His opponent—JB The Great—was a bald retired rapper who came back on stage for that very battle. He’d heard of him a few times, quite popular among underground rappers trying to rise, a mentor for younger ones (Su-bong also knew that any new rapper that encountered him and had a bit of talent was sure to disappear by the next battle. Nobody knew how, nobody asked).

Su-bong hadn’t worked enough to have deserved his victory. At least, not like JB—who’d been overly active on his Instagram account, sharing pics writing lyrics whether it was in a shady studio, surrounded by grimy-looking socks and opened energy drink—and Su-bong would zoom in to catch a glimpse of the lyrics. Except that fucker would blur them out, and Su-bong knew it was ON PURPOSE to stress him out.

That’s why he cheated. He knew JB took something too—they mostly all did—except he managed to get something stronger, to cheat his way into that stupid victory against the horizontally challenged retired star (JB was huge, not big, not obese, literally huge, yet his stomach was flat. No clue how such thing was possible.)

For another reason, too. JB dated Su-bong’s ex. Su-bong had two exes (among many flings), and did not give enough of a fuck about them. But territoriality being an inherent flaw of man—Su-bong was not fond of JB and needed a way to get back at him. It was mutual (Su-bong did get the girl back for one night and made sure to send a ‘mistake’ pic to JB while she showered).

You were working behind the counter. Your makeup was smudged, your hair was disheveled, and your lips parted—the air of the club had gotten too heavy for you to breath through your nose only. The first thing he’d noticed about you, was the sweat dripping down your forehead, gluing your hair to your temple.

You were not his usual type. Under the dark-bluish light, Your hair appeared shinier—you wore long drop earrings, so thin and clear they looked like delicate glass teardrops, as if tiny rain drops floated above your shoulders on your bare nape.

However, they were the only jewels. No bracelets, no necklace, no loose hair. A low bun, or pony tail—he couldn’t tell from this distance. You seemed uninterested, with no desire to interact whatsoever, but you were concentrated on your task—nodding at orders with a far-away gaze, filling the glasses, making new drinks—so efficiently he believed you were a robot.

The bartender next to you would sometimes nudge your shoulder, whisper something, you would nod again, that mechanical movement he hadn’t realised could be so chilling, before grabbing a new glass, taking another order, repeating the movements infinitely. He found himself wondering—did you ever stop ? Even asking himself whether the club closed at night, forcing you to leave. It seemed obvious, at that instant, that your life was dedicated to this.

Maybe it was this, this instant, the realisation that you were quite like an automated doll—that he realised he wanted a try. To shake you, like your hands shook the drink, chest barely bouncing—that movement his eyes used to trace on other female bartenders. To disrupt your universe.

No, it was as if you were frozen, in another world.

Su-bong hadn’t realised that all this time, he was staring. Sitting on a far-away sofa, elbows propped on the table, eyes never straying away from your figure shadowed by the bar’s counter and human backs. His gaze followed your very movement, drink barely grazing his lips. He, who so usually focused on the liquid that scorched his throat, seemed not to realise the teeth that scraped the glass and the finger that gripped it so tightly, he would realise later his palm was marked red and cramping-up.

And then, you leaned down, disappeared for a moment, and he decided it was the right moment. He slammed the glass on the table and stood up, drunk-dazed. The pills were starting to wear out, he was definitely seeing clearer.

When you got up, towel in your hand starting to wipe the counter, Thanos rehearsed his signature smile.

“Hey, señorita.”

🌧

Such a nosy kid. You stared for a second, blinking in disbelief, as he ordered three shots in a row—setting them down abruptly and ordering more. You’d heard him sing—and his lyrics were kinda shit. You had no clue how people had bought it, The Great whatever initials had better flow, less obvious autotune in real life, better stature. The voice came out his vocal cords fluider.

But that Thanos guy—he had that thing—what was it called ? Charisma ? Swagger ? No, it was something else. A mix of both, a touch of something spicier. He had a great voice, you noticed the ‘sexy’ raspiness in it, as two younger girls sitting there a few minutes ago were whispering, but he had no control over it. He faltered, forgot a lyric (you knew when your younglings improvised—no matter how much they tried to hide it, it was as clear as day).

This guy needed voice training. And to chill on the pills Han-bin, your ‘colleague’ had given him, in exchange of a favor (it being the girl Han-bin wanted, you had no clue how two men had to get involved to pull one lady. They lacked romantic skills that much ?)

You’d also noticed that Thanos guy staring like a creep.

Whenever something like that happened, or any other suspicious behaviour from a random stranger stepping way too close to you, you’d blur your eyes and imagine a faceless thing, as not to get tricked by the face, should it be handsome, and only watch the comportment. Most of the times, it saved you.

And, definitely, that guy had an issue. He had watched your every movement, glass glued to his lips, like a cat awaiting the mouse. So, when he was saying whatever bullshit to you while swallowing in one go shots and shots and shots, you put aside the flirting and decided that your only interaction would be to give him what he ordered.

You needed the job, after getting fired from your studio for being too crictical over someone’s lack of progress in their nasal voice, even after giving them MANY detailed voice trainings to do at home. You knew they hadn't watched shit. But your boss disapproved. You lacked ‘tact’. They lacked talent.

You didn't make a big deal out of it, but you needed money, and you took this job, even if that meant dealing with an immature man in heat. It took more than that to trigger you. But that didn’t mean you weren’t annoyed. You couldn’t listen to other strangers because of his constant nagging—the drinks were starting to get to his brain, and he was uttering bullshit while grabbing your hand.

“M’ladyyy,” he mumbled. “More. Give me more.”

You usually didn’t care about strangers. At least, not enough to worry about their alcohol consumption while in an underground club. But, for a certain reason (your heart was definitely too soft), you felt slight pity along of the annoyance for the laid-out like a towel rapper on the counter.

“Nah. No more for you,” you finally responded.

That was all it took for him to rise, eyes-widened in hope.

“You talk!”

You bit your lip. You shouldn’t have said anything, now, he probably had his hopes up, which was not something you were willing to risk, at least not tonight.

“Calm down kid. You’re getting way too ahead of yourself, and I’m not dealing with a blackout tonight.”

He stared at you, dazed.

“Sexy voice,” he smirked.

You smacked the back of his hand.

“Sexy my ass.”

Grabbing the small glass in front of him, you put it under the counter to wash for later, before coming back in front of him and placing a hand on either side of his head that was buried in his arms, muttering some ‘Minsu Namsu’ bullshit.

“Hey, you should go home,” your voice came out a bit softer. “Do you have someone to call ?”

He didn’t respond, only slightly lifted his head mumbling.

“Girl do I look like I do,” he hiccuped. “Ain’t nobody want the legend over for the night.”

Against your better judgment, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Sleep and sober up. I’m coming back to throw you out if you’re not gone by 2,” you said.

But you knew you wouldn’t. He placed his head on his forearms, staring.

“Ok, pretty lady. Whatever you say.”

And then, he drifted into slumber.

🌧

It was at least half past two when you closed. You had to kick so many humans out, you weren’t sure if you could stand any more interactions. Hae-bin had ran off with a stranger, and although you were getting irritated by his behaviour, knowing it was mostly to run away from cleaning, you couldn’t afford to complain yet. At least, not until another job was secured. Hae-bin was the manager’s son.

Only one stranger was left. Oh, Thanos, sweet and dearest (if he wasn’t asleep, you would have definitely kicked his ass). Setting down the towel on a table, finally finished, you walked lazily to his stool, stopped right beside him and sat on top of one too.

Then, you paused. Observed him calmly. As you had turned off the multicolored lights, the soft white one allowed you a better look at his disheveled purple hair, or his rosy lips, or his soft cheeks. You could at least give that to the crowd : he had a beautiful face. Still rough, his eyebrows broke the gentleness of his delicate features—thick, arqued enough to give him a sterner look while being focused. His eyelashes rested against his cheeks, casting a shadow on his pale skin.

Your hand rose to brush away a purple strand from his eyes. Younger guys never attracted you. You’d had your fair-share of assholes, you weren’t interested in someone to babysit (anyone younger by a day was enough to be called a kid). He hadn’t even told you his age—you didn’t need it to guess. Late twenties, acting as if youth lasted forever, but an adult at heart.

Suddenly, fingers interlocked with yours, and your hand was brought to warm lips. Looking up, slightly flustered, you saw him staring at you with dark, intense eyes. He held your stare enough to cause you to look away, but his other hand tilted your chin.

“Nah,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

When he was drunk, he definitely acted like a kid. You hadn't expected his voice to come out so mature, so deep when sober. Those youngsters knew how to talk to girls. Shit.

Maybe you needed a break from work. Maybe you needed some attention. Maybe you needed to relax. But your eyes dropped to his lips, and that was enough for him to rise with a smirk. Shoulder to shoulder, his warmth seeped through your black uniform, forearms resting on the counter as his hand left yours to cast away a stray lock of your hair behind your ear.

His finger brushed down softly, following the thread of the earring hovering near your neck.

“They’re beautiful,” he said. 

Then, his eyes stared right into yours. The world stopped spinning. Your heart raced, and suddenly, you were drowning in his eyes. He lost himself in yours too, before, finally, dropping his gaze to your lips. Your eyes did the same. Up, down, up and down again.

Until they didn’t. Your arms snaked up to his neck and pulled him close in an instant. He responded eagerly in less than a second, and suddenly, your lips crashed against his with reckless hunger. He tasted like tequila, something bitter, something better, something absolutely addictive, and you only broke the kiss to get a better look at his face. You always needed to do that—to see whether the man was worth it.

And you found it. A man overcome by desire. Swollen lips from the kiss, flushed face, messy hair, heavy breathing, and desire written all over his face. So, in another movement, you smashed your mouth against his, and he let you, grabbed your hips roughly, lifted you onto the counter as something suddenly fell and shattered, but you were too gone to care, his hands roamed your hips, your thighs, your chest, until they reached your pants and stopped there.

He pulled away just for a second. Enough to take all of you—your low tied hair, your smudged mascara, your little beauty mark. And then, finally, he leaned in again, softer, calmer. “You’re beautiful, m'lady”, he murmured against your lips. You felt him smile against your mouth, before melting on your lips again. No apartment. No worries. No ties. That was the silent promise your skin etched onto the other’s.

🌧

You took a week off work after that night. Why ? You weren’t entirely sure. Bringing a friend along, you decided to travel to Busan and spend a touristic trip exploring a new city of your country. It was fun. Absolutely fun. Swimming, eating, flirting. You even went to the museum of contemporary art, which you hated, to change something. To feel something. But it was nearly impossible to get your mind off him. Off that night. Off what he made you feel. Your entire life, you had believed older men—or at least your age—knew better, knew women, were more mature. But fuck, this stranger, or at least ex-stranger, had shattered your entire beliefs. He knew how to take and give. Where, how, and that in many different ways. How long had it been since a night lasted so long yet so short ?

Staring at your palms, by the beach, you tried to understand something that didn’t make sense, that you couldn’t name. To see if anything had changed. But no, it was still same old-you. Just flustered. And lost.

Your friend screamed at you to get into the water, and you did, gladly so, the waves and the swaying water offered a little reprieve to your growing trouble—and you forgot for a moment about going back to Seoul and facing him—you hoped not—again tomorrow.

🌧

Except you didn’t. Face him. You had gotten ready, without realising it, quicker than usual, yet more meticulously. You weren’t usually excited to work, not that job, at least, but that night, you felt your heart beat erratically in your chest, as you gave the effortless woman-touch to your makeup, just enough to make your face remarkable, too less to strike as different. Because it was the impression you wanted to give : detached yet effortless. And you hated that a man was behind it.

But he didn’t come.

No, as Hae-bin handed you the glasses and you repeated the mechanical movement again and again and again, until you couldn’t anymore, until your fingers slipped and a glass shattered. Hae-bin sneered at you, the manager came and scolded you, but they let it slide. It didn’t happen again, you decided to focus. But the whole night went so slow, you felt as if each second lasted forever.

And it happened again. The next night. And the next. And the next. And the next week. And the next week.

Until you thought you had forgotten him. Almost a month had passed since. You were over it, and your brain was preoccupied with other stuff, your old boss had called you, telling you they needed substitute voice coaches (you knew she hoped to have you again, because her voice had a slight very distinguishable tremor in it—hesitation). Since nothing tied you to that club, you could pack up your things and leave. Hae-bin never liked you anyway, and the customers were merely strangers.

That is why, that Tuesday night, you were planning at the end of your shift to go to the backroom and talk to your manager about your choice to resign. You still had to work, and you decided to give it your best, even smiling at customers, so much so that Hae-bin checked on you with a fake-worried expression ‘are you ok weirdo.’

His hand was still on your forehead when you heard it. That voice.

“Ayyy heyy brooo,” he smacked his hand against Hae-bin's. “Yoo, how was the new stuff? It was my best batch. Want more ?” they chatted a few minutes, as you saw Hae-bin slide something to Thanos under the sleeve of his uniform. Thanos grabbed it, took a necklace out of his shirt, opened a cross and stacked the circular things in it with a low chuckle. “How’s Ha-na? She's a good one ain’t she?”

Hae-bin leaned in, approaching his face from Thanos’s ear and placed his hand around it, to whisper a secret. You heard glimpses of “chick” “top” “crazy” and decided it was too much. Almost throwing the glass to the customer next to them, you didn’t even glance backwards as you went to the bathroom, removing your gloves and throwing them in the garbage on your way. “Fuck this!” You thought. He hadn’t even glanced at you. Acted as if it didn’t matter.

Going inside a stall and locking it, you sat on the closed lid and buried your face in your palms. “Calm down,” you repeated to your mind. “Calm the fuck down. He’s a ONE-night stand. That’s literally why it’s called one night. Because it only lasts one night. No more. No less. Get over yourself. No man should make you feel this bad, and especially not a younger one like this.”

The voice in your head, more mature than you, managed to calm your nerves a little. Breathing a little easier, you decided to get through it, let the silent treatment do its trick. By tomorrow, you’d hopefully be gone, back at the studio. No more Thanos, no more purple-hair, and no more worry. You were looking forward to it.

Unlocking the stall, you opened the door, cursed because it was a pull-door (who even puts a pull door inside a public bathroom. Nobody wants to pull that shit closer), before letting out a scream.

“Thought you’d drowned,” he smirked.

Your brows furrowed immediately, you recollected your emotions. He was leaning cockily against the sink, back barely brushing it, arms crossed and head tilted with a sly smile—as if he could control you with just the way his mouth tugged. Your brain yelled he couldn’t, but your heart had a completely different idea of it, going buck wild in your chest. “I would’ve if I had known you were there,” you retorted. “Move, I need to wash my hands.”

“Nah. You haven't done anything in that stall, didn’t even flush the toilet. I’m not dumb.”

He uncrossed his arms, long cross dangling on his chest as he suddenly stepped closer to you, making you take a step back. “Move,” you repeated. “I don’t want to have to call security.”

He scoffed. “Security ? You ain’t calling no one, m'lady.”

“Don’t call me that.” “My lady.” He was infinitely closer now, your back pressed against a locked stall due to maintenance. ‘When would they fix it?’ You found your mind wandering, running away from this ridiculous situation.

“What do you want ?” You titled up your chin, taking him by surprise. You smiled, even though your lips were quivering. “Another kiss? Or maybe another night? Was one not enough for your greedy ass?”

Eyes slightly widened in surprise, he suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Oh señorita. You almost had me fooled there. But you’re the one needy for another night.”

He pinned you to the closed stall, hand sliding to your upper thigh, stroking the soft skin on the inner side. His mouth brushed against your ear. “See? Your legs are shaking, m'lady. Your body remembers me.” You bit your lip, tried to deny him, to push him away. But then, he stared at you with a sly smile. “Hm ?”

It was all it took. In one movement, your lips met his again, the familiar but oh-so-missed scent of him against your mouth, his breathing got heavier, needier, you weren’t even started that he muttered “Fuck” “missed you so fucking much”.

🌧

After that night, it happened again. And again. And again and again and again, until you lost count. Didn’t matter where, when, how, you don’t know—you hadn’t even quit your job—that he would find a way to get you back under him, against him, near him, so close it always felt earth-shattering.

Sometimes, he’d be giving a show to a loud crowd. You disliked his singing—he knew that—but you loved his raspy voice. And he’d tease you on purpose, singing lower, almost whispering in the mic, getting girls’ knees weak as he stared directly at you, always behind that cursed counter, wiping glasses and filling them repeatedly. He’d sing louder, win or lose battles, and you’d wait patiently for him to finish, to wipe his forehead, to disappear backstage before coming back, buying a drink—it had become a game—the specific drink meant a different meeting spot, should it be his car (Bloody Mary), the bathroom (soju), whiskey neat (backroom). And anytime, it would get messier, sloppier, worse.

Instead of feeling better, you felt worse. It drained you. You didn’t get back to your job, and when you called, they had hired a new girl. Then, Hae-bin noticed you mixing a wrong drink, and you almost gave a customer an allergy-attack by handing him the mango cocktail. Or the other night, when you gave a bottle to an underage kid. It was enough to get you fired. “I’m sorry I really like you girl (lie), but that’s not possible anymore.”

That is how you were (almost) on the street, your landlord hadn’t kicked you out (yet). Except you were too drunk. Drunk of him. You needed him—he became vital. You didn’t care about anything, your life had been passive because of the unnatural need you harboured for him. You’d spend nights at his studio, laying in his lap as he composed new lyrics, pinching your cheek when you corrected his vocal projection or the nasality his voice. “Let me do what I’m good at, and do yours, 'k baby ?” And his hand would be on the back of your head, holding your hair etc. etc.

Thanos didn’t ask many questions about you. Not that he didn’t care, you did see he was intrigued, by the way he sometimes stared a little longer while he smoked, absently looking at your face with gleaming while you talked with passion. Or that time, where you told him in a small voice that you were thirty-four while he was twenty-eight, but he barely shrugged, pulling your head back on his shoulder. Or the way he picked you up when you called, crying, the night you got fired, and brought you home, didn’t even suggest anything, bought you snacks and cuddled you to sleep. He still was nonchalant. Slept immediately after you'd done it, right after tucking your hair behind your ear, kissing your cheek.

It was when he was sleeping, eyelids shut, breathing softly, that you'd wonder what the heck you were doing. You’d remember the first night, ask yourself ‘what if I hadn’t touched his hair ? What if I hadn’t sat next to him?’, thinking about the life you could have had if he hadn’t ruined it, but then, he’d wake up, groggy, grab your waist and tuck you under the blanket with a kiss fierce enough to remind you that you belonged there.

That was enough, for as long as it lasted.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

It was draining. You barely slept, and when you'd wake up, almost living at his studio now, only to find it empty, smelling of smoke and dust. And when he’d come back, it would repeat and repeat and repeat.

It struck you one morning, while watching your favorite comfort show, one of them being the wife of a cheater. ‘I wait for hours in an empty home. I feel like a mistress while I should be a wife.’ And that struck home. Well, you weren’t delusional enough to believe he’d ever make you a wife—you didn’t even want a relationship this unstable with someone. But anything, not even a label, just a certainty that, when he’d come back home, it wouldn’t be by surprise, that you would know when he would go out or when he would come back, that he would text you more than randomly 'are you ok’ once during the day or even call you. You hoped for a bit of attention—a glance from a man so distant, starting to treat you like an old rag.

That was when the real distance began. The first gone were the texts. No more ‘what did you eat ?’ or ‘take-out tonight, choose fried chicken or tteoboki.’ Then, the kisses. No more ‘good morning’ stolen on your lips. No more ‘goodnight’. Not even the cheek 'sleep well’ after you'd done it. He’d take what he wanted, slowly, quietly, the passion was gone, just mechanical, until there was nothing left anymore, until he stopped looking at your clear drop earrings with admiration, telling you to wear them for the night, until he just stopped, and the distance became physical too. And one night, he’d just throw words with an annoyed undertone. “You did nothing again today?” or “Is that a wrinkle? Oh just a hair nevermind.” It seemed as though, he was working to annoy you on purpose. To get you to leave so he wouldn’t have to kick you out.

That is why you decided to leave, one morning, right when the door slammed. He was sweeter than usual, this morning. Smiled before brushing his teeth, said hi. And it was exactly why you wanted to leave. It was unbearable to realise, one day a month, you would get some acknowledgement, and even worse, it would make your heart beat again, get your hopes up, and make your forgive all his past mistakes on the spot.

You had already planned it, collecting the scattered make-up across the apartment. You hadn’t even put on a show as you usually did, cleaning the apartment or cooking out of boredom. No. It was strictly the silence and you, and the sunlight barely filtering through the closed shutters. You let out an annoyed sigh, walked to the window and abruptly opened them, almost ripping the handle off, as you swiftly raised the shutters. “This guy can’t even take care of himself,” you muttered to yourself.

And as the sun bathed the room, the clean air invaded the apartment, you suddenly got hit by a realisation. In this haunting silence, you felt it : the loneliness, the illusion, the perfect-bubble carefully crafted of a life that neither of you wanted. You were a roommate unannounced, and he was the kind stranger that took you in. Nothing more, nothing less. So, instead of breaking down, you walked to your makeup bag, put everything inside, zipped it shut, and took your few clothes, your toothbrush, and your dignity.

Maybe it was because none of you had dared to say it. You, because you were stubborn. He, because he was scared. Maybe those three words would have helped you hold on to something. But you were stuck between maybe and almost, and life was too short for uncertainty.

You hoped never to hear from Thanos ever again, so that your heart could take some time to heal. No note left, only leftovers in his fridge, and a clean parquet. You hoped he’d regret you for a bit, before moving on.

This was life. You were used to it.

🌧

Rebuilding your life was difficult. There was no way you’d beg Hae-bin for another chance, and your boss refused to hire you again. That is why, you decided to open an Instagram account to coach people hoping to get better at singing—or just taking control of their voice, mastering it. Getting views was difficult, and your content was very niche. Plus, it was embarrassing to just put a camera, stare at it, and then repeat AAH aaaah AAH aah to an imaginary audience, look at it to edit while physically cringing, posting it, and wallow in the waiting of the twelve likes that usually followed your posts, or that one regular commenter ‘so cool' (happy emoji) or the less regular ones ‘open your mouth wider’. It was quite embarrassing, and you made sure to block the rap star—mostly because you didn't want him to see you, and secondly, well, because he was so active, posting daily, or being spotted with a new star, that you wanted to shield your heart and your peace.

Except, one morning, you woke up to a hundreds new followers. Heart beating, you wondered whether you had posted something (…) by mistake, until you realised you that thgreatJB had reposted on his 12.4K page one of your videos, saying ‘check her out’.

Afterwards, it was a blur. The followers kept coming in, the DMs, the young teenagers wanting to become idols DM’ing you for advice, or even some older people with a reasonable amount of following asking for private coaching. You started to make money again, your life was getting better. You could go out again without feeling as if people were staring with judging eyes, you could smile without your heart feeling heavy. You started wearing makeup again, you went back to the salon, got your nails and your lashes done, and, slowly, you felt as if you were reviving.

Almost three months had passed, you were a new woman, reborn. People would flood your comments ‘you’re glowing recently girl!’ or ‘im not the only who sees it right’ and other people agreeing in the comments that you were quite beautiful, on top of a great voice. That was the boost you needed. You expanded your page, stopped replying to needy DMs who wanted advice but refused to pay a cent, that you used to take out of good will, opened a paid coaching service, your account gained more and more traction, your name got popular, agencies would call you, your boss even apologised for the way she treated you and asked you to come back. Life was treating you well. And you treated yourself well too.

But well.

It got boring, after a while. You were single and childless—no tuitions, hobbies to worry about paying, the bills were always settled, the rent paid in advance, you even started tipping. You didn’t buy much groceries.

You lived alone.

You were alone.

Your friends had gotten slightly opportunistic and you dropped them—you were at the age were bullshit was not needed. And there was, in your heart, this gap, unfulfilled. This small crevice that let everything pass through you like air. Like a gush of wind, so weak it barely shook you.

You missed him. Of all things that had happened in your life, of the hole he had dragged you down into, of the weird things he had made you try and the visions they made you see, a spark had been ignited, so ready to be alive. You had felt it. The way he made you feel there. Real. Out of your mechanical existence. It was so repetitive. So fake. You weren’t even alright with it, you didn’t like it.

And you hated feeling this way.

Opening the drawer near your bed, you found an old ring. Your ex-fiancé. He was a sweet guy. A bit worrying around the edges, and he had gotten slightly too lazy about life, expecting without giving, so you decided he wasn’t worth the headache. You did feel something when he propped down on one knee and opened the small black box, and you saw the gleaming ring. You said yes because you wanted to feel something. You let him slide the ring on your finger, let him kiss you. Even if you disliked silver. Because you wanted to feel something. To feel alive.

Absentmindedly, you slid it onto your ring finger, staring at your hand. You got lost in your thoughts, and before you could take it off, your phone dinged. Curious, you grabbed it, looked at the screen. A new DM asking for vocal training. Even the adrenaline of the popularity had worn-off. You slouched on your bed and accepted the DM. ‘700,000 won if you come tonight. Sorry if it’s too late, my audition is soon and I want to find someone quickly.’

Coming tonight? Well. That sounded intriguing. Routine-breaking. You told the stranger it was alright for you, he gave you an address and told you to wait outside the place. Even if that seemed slightly dangerous, you wanted some rush. You accepted.

Later that night, you changed your clothes, put light makeup. Your eyes fell on the white pair of earrings. Your fingers hovered above the desk, but you resigned last minute and went outside, carefully locking the door. You tipped the doorman—even if life had changed, you didn’t change your apartment, and felt the cool night air hit your face.

You walked quietly through the busy streets of Seoul. It was great. A start, at least. When your legs carried you between a sea of people and shoulders, you could forget for a minute. After half-an-hour, you saw the spot. He had said ‘under the lamppost’. You were worried it would be shady, but it was quite clean, and some people were chatting outside or smoking with lively voices. It seemed safe. You found the tallest lamppost ('with a deflated red balloon tied to it, nobody removed it since years', he had texted), and quietly leaned against it, scrolling absentmindedly as you waited.

You heard rustling, and suddenly, a familiar scent struck your face with such intensity, you suddenly spiraled back to that first night at the bar. Your heart beat erratically, you put a hand on your chest to calm it down, refusing to look up, hoping he was just a passerby.

Except his shadow stopped right before you. The familiar sneakers. A hand resting above your head, as he leaned in dangerously close. “Hey, señorita.”

🌧

“What brings you here?” You asked, staring at the brownish drink swirling between your palms. “Same as you. Vocal training. Except you’re the trainer, and I’m the student.” His voice was still as smooth. Still as silky. Still as deep. It struck exactly where it had all those months. All your body vibrated. “So you created a fake account.” “Nah we’re not putting this on me m’lady. You’re the one who left like a coward.”

You did not take a sip, tapping your fingers on the glass. His head was resting in his palm, slowly rotating his glass while staring at you. When you finally lifted your head to meet his eyes, his lips tugged into a half-smile. “Well hello there. Missed those eyes.” You bit your lip. “You still talk too much.” He shook his head. “Nah, you too little. For a vocal cord trainer, you’re an awfully silent expert.”

That brought a small smile to your lips. You finally took a sip. It burned your throat, and you stifled a cough. “Coach doesn’t play.”

He didn’t respond immediately, observed you intently, eyes piercing a hole through your skin. “Oh yeah?” Then, silently, his hand went to your cheek. You stopped playing with your drink, paused too. Lifted your gaze and met his. Way longer than you should. “Yeah,” you whispered. He kept watching you, nodded slightly, an instinct. “Coach was quite loud when I got her to be,” he suddenly said. Your face burnt red. “That’s the past.”

His cold eyes held yours an instant before looking at his glass again. His quietness was unsettling. As if he was putting an act. You felt like, he was ready to shatter the glass in his palms, knuckles white because of how hard he was gripping it. And his eyes, who used to be warm, well, not before you left, were cold. A different cold. A chilling cold. As if something way scarier was brewing under those distant eyes. Something terrifying.

“Oh I see,” he chuckled a low, far-away chuckle, pointing his cheek toward your naked ears, then your ring finger. You widened your eyes. “That…” “I don’t care, señorita.” He smiled without his eyes. Shit. Your heart froze. The smile was from another galaxy. This guy wasn’t with you right now. He despised you. A shiver ran through your spine. “I’m… I’ll go to the bathroom.” Getting up, you grabbed your purse, but his hand suddenly gripped your wrist so tightly, you felt his fingers mold your skin. “Did I say soju?” he said in an ironic tone.

You froze. “We’re not doing this.” “Fuck yes we are.” You were talking without looking at his face, your right side facing him. “No.” “I’m not playing with you girl.” “What do you want.” He got up, slammed his fist on the counter so hard, the drink spilled. A bartender said something, but Thanos glared so hard he ran away. “The fuck I want? Since when do you give a shit what I want, huh?!” His voice was rising. You clutched your purse unsteadily, noticing how dark the bar was, how it smelled so rotting, how hot it was. “Don’t fucking start this,” you said. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Let go of me.” “Look at me.” “No let go of-“ “LOOK AT ME, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! IS THAT TOO DIFFICULT?”

Immediately, you turned around, pressing your purse to his chest. “Calm down!” You said in a quiet tone. “Thanos this is not-“. He yanked the purse from your hand and grabbed your wrist, walking in long strides, before slamming the door to a backroom shut. “You ain't fucking leaving, coward,” he spat. The last word came like a knife, split your skin apart. “Don’t call me that,” you threatened. “I’m older than you.” “Older?! So fucking mature! Running away from your feelings is the only fucking thing adults are good at!”

You felt yourself stumble on something but caught yourself back on a messy desk. Realising what room you were in, you took it all in, the scattered papers, the opened cans, the dusty boxes, the ground littered with cardboard and unidentified objects, the dim flickering light. You could barely stand, let alone two people. “You’re an adult too! Don’t take this tone with me,” you muttered. “Oh I’m an adult now? You choose when I fucking am or not?” “I don’t choose shit! I reflect on your comportment. You wake up and tell me ‘one more wrinkle’ or ‘someone’s lazy today’, as if I’m your fucking wife that you forgot at home!”

In frustration, you grabbed a nearby pencil and pointed at him. “No, not even your wife, a mistress!” His eyes were quivering, irises surrounded by a black orbit. “Don’t give me this bullshit. You’re as faulty as me, if not worse. You come to my place, eat my damn food and what do I get in return? You fucking leaving without as much as a word goodbye. You do realise how I should be feeling, no? Don’t blame me for not hugging you and being fucking nice right now!” “Oh so having me was nothing? Sleeping with you every night was nothing? Even to a mistress, you wouldn’t say that!” your voice broke.

His eyes stayed hard, his anger dominating his emotions. “Stop this mistress bullshit! You weren’t my mistress!” “EXACTLY! It’s exactly that! I was NOTHING. Nothing to you!” You shouted back, pen still pointing toward him. He stepped toward you and flicked your palm, sending the pen flying. “You’re twisting the conversation! Stop fucking lying and face yourself!” “Face what! There’s nothing to face! Now let me OUT!” You pushed him away, hands pressing his chest and strode to the door. As you grabbed the handle, you kept insulting him. “You killed this! You stopped caring about me. We never gave this a name, so you don’t have the right to get mad at me.” The door wasn’t budging. You tried again, but it stayed frozen. “Fuck and now we’re stuck! Thanks to you! Perfect!” You threw your hands in a powerless motion. “Let us out!” He shook his head, still silent. “No.”

“What the heck is wrong with you. I don’t get it. You bring me here, only to fight with me. Is it an ego thing? Because I left? Get over it!” He rose his head, back against the messy desk and palms resting on the counter. “You don’t get shit, do you?!” “Not if you don’t explain!” “Aren’t you the most mature, you should fucking know!” That’s when you punched the drawer beside you. “Go to hell, Su-bong! You’re just an entitled piece of shit!”

His anger was so quiet, you felt your heart beat in anticipation of his next reaction. It was terrifying. “Am I?” His voice came in a whisper, a glimmer in his dark eyes that pierced yours. “When everybody at the Underground fucking know who you are, and I learn from a fucking noob that isn’t half my age that his coach is the woman I slept with for months, the only fucking woman I ever gave cared about, and who left me like a piece of shit without even a word goodbye? Who’s the entitled piece of shit?!” “This was bound to end!” You shouted. “I was rotting! I had nothing, nothing anymore, but your body when you gave it to me and a small part of your soul when you dared!”

A flicker of pain passed in his eyes, and his voice came harsh before he could stop it. “I was hurting too! The… the day I fucking saw you, the first time, you worked lifelessly, you were like a robot, and I thought I just… I wanted to see you alive. I don’t know why. I just did. And then…” his voice is shaky. “After some time, you looked at me the same. Empty. I would try to give you something, but your eyes stopped looking at me. You weren’t there! I was with a fucking robot!” “Then give it feelings!” You shouted back. “You treated me like shit!”

Against your volition, your eyes welled up with tears you were not able to stop. Rolling down your cheeks, the first tear came out silently, and you wiped it with the back of your hand. “I’m no saint, Su-bong,” you added. “I have feelings.” “Yeah, for someone else,” he spat. “I’m not falling for your bullshit when you’re… whatever the fuck that is.” Following his gaze, you yanked the ring from your finger. “Oh fuck you! I don’t care about this shit. Take it if you want!” You threw it at him, and he caught it mid-air. He stopped talking for a second.

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, chests heaving loudly. You wiped your tears, heart still aching. “Do you notice something?” Your voice came out more assured than you thought. “Notice what?” “The ring. Look at it.” He spun it in his palm. “No fucking shit. What do you want,” his voice sliced the air. “The ring. Look at it well.”

He paused. Stared at it better. “It’s silver,” he then said. “Tiny diamond. Around 10 grams-“ “I don’t give a fuck about that. Say the first sentence again.” “What?” “The first.” “It’s silver.” “Now think.” He stared, confused and annoyed. “I’m not doing this shit-“ Then, he looked at it again, as if struck by a realisation. “It’s silver. You…” he looked at your wet eyes. “You don’t like silver.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

He looked at you, confused. “But… what…” “Su-bong, do you think at my big age, and my wrinkly face,” you said as he shamefully looked away, “I would marry a guy that doesn’t know what I like?”

Su-bong crushed the ring in his palm.

“There’s nobody else?” he stared at you with a surprised expression. You shook your head. “Never was. I’ve… I’ve tried forgetting you. I really have. But I can’t. I always came back to this,” you looked up. He was holding his breath, unable to respond. “You really hurt me,” you finally cracked. Your shoulders quaked, and you couldn’t stop the tears anymore. “That was so… so painful…”

Slowly, ever slowly, arms suddenly wrapped around your trembling body, pulling you close, chin resting on the top of your head. “Me too. I’m… I’m so sorry if I ever hurt you,” he finally said. He pulled away for a second, stared at your bright eyes. “Don’t pull this shit again. Don’t run away. I wanted you.” “You didn't make me feel like you did.”

Gently, his fingers left your shoulder, one by one, before he pulled away. “I’m sorry.” “It’s fine.” “It isn’t.” He nodded in promise. “It’ll be.” Then, he opened his palm again, stared at the gleaming ring.

“Can I destroy it?” “Please.” He threw it on the ground and stomped his foot on it. “To hell with that. I don’t fucking want anyone in the way of us anymore,” he declared, suddenly determined. His voice came out more confident than you thought. “Us?” “Yeah. I fucking wasted too much time on this shit. I’m so done fighting.” “What do you mean?”

He breathed heavily, as if you were stupid but he liked you. “What I mean,” he started, stepping closer, “is that I’m done with all this bullshit and this running away. I’m not ready to let someone else have you. I…”

“You don’t have to say it,” you whispered. Your hand rose to meet his, his fingers interlocked with yours. He stared at your eyes for so long, he felt as if the world had stopped spinning for an instant and the universe was on hold. He nodded quietly. He still wasn't ready, but he'd be. “I want to.”

This time, it was him who kissed you first. It used to be you, always. But your salty lips were met with his bitter ones, so sweet against yours, always being there to mold with the other’s, to complete them. “I…” His voice broke as he pulled away. “I really like you.”

It was as if a new world had unfolded before him. His eyes started glimmering again, his heart beat again, his walls came crashing down, and he suddenly let himself fall into the crook of your neck, humming your sweet scent. “Shit, I missed you so much, m'lady. So so much.”

He pulled away, breathless. “I like you so much. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life but this.”

“But why?” you cried softly into his palms, as his thumb worked to brush the teardrops away. “Because. It’s just like this. I can’t explain it.”

“Then why did you push me away?” In his face, you saw frustration, pent-up anger. “I felt things. I don’t like it. I’m not used to it.”

You stared at each other silently. Then, you nodded. “We have time.”

So he kissed you. Longer. Harder. Better.

Like he meant it. “I really like you too,” you murmured against his lips.

And it was enough. At that moment, it was enough, and your heart was whole for the first time since so many years. As long as you would have him, as long as he would have you, then you would be okay.

i hope you will enjoy this!

@breakmeoff

[seat-safety-switch]

Usually, when someone tells you that you can make money from home, it's a scam. The bourgeois monsters who control our society demand that we attend to a physical place of work. Even when you're "working from home," it usually only serves to make your house feel like an office. That's no fun at all, so I decided to liberate the human spirit by developing TheftBot.

TheftBot is, simply put, a fully sentient robot for stealing automatic teller machines (ATMs) from nearby convenience stores. Those ATMs, in case you are unfamiliar, are stuffed with cash – the bank's cash – and that money can be spent on goods and services, like semi-slick racing tires or turbochargers.

He's built on an old Kubota forklift frame, with a nitrous-stuffed 500-cubic-inch Cadillac V8 loosely bolted onto it. That provides tons of power to outrun the police and even the most eager private security forces. Importantly, he's fully remote-controllable, which means I both don't have to be in the cabin, and have plausible deniability if his "self-driving algorithm" goes a little kooky-koo and slams through the front of a QuickStop, emerging seconds later with a Diebold-Nixdorf containing approximately nine hundred dollars on average. The autonomous car laws are very loose in my neck of the woods, you see.

Sure, there's a lot of downsides to this kind of hustle culture. The biggest part is all the guilt: ATM theft used to be a heroic, working-class job that paid well. Now I've automated it, a bourgeois action that makes me no different from the banks. I think that buying a few more turbochargers could make me feel a little better about it, though.

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 4: Threads of Connection

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Origins!Logan Warning: none. Just fluff, but the slow burn is starting to burn a little faster.

Word count: 6.4k

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

______________________________________________________________

The following days settled into an uneasy rhythm. Evelyn threw herself into her crocheting, the repetitive motion of her hands calming the constant churn of her thoughts. She was determined to keep herself busy, to avoid thinking too much about the whispers in town or the way Logan’s absence made her cottage feel just a little emptier.

She hadn’t seen him since that evening when he’d helped her unload the truck. He’d left with the scarf folded neatly under his arm, his expression as reserved as ever. She wondered if he’d worn it, but the thought made her feel foolish. It was just a scarf—a small thank-you for everything he’d done. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything more.

And yet, she found herself glancing toward the driveway more often than she cared to admit, listening for the rumble of his truck.

One brisk morning, as she worked on a new shawl by the fire, the sharp ring of the landline broke the quiet. Startled, Evelyn set down her work and crossed the room, the cold wooden floorboards creaking underfoot.

“Hello?” she said, tucking the receiver against her ear.

“Evelyn, it’s Nancy,” came the familiar voice of the general store clerk. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m good,” she replied, though the slight hesitation in her voice betrayed her surprise. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Nancy began, her tone warm but laced with curiosity. “I just wanted to let you know we’re hosting a little community potluck this weekend. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s a good way to meet more folks around town.”

Evelyn hesitated, her fingers curling around the phone cord. “That sounds nice, but I’m not sure...”

“Oh, nonsense!” Nancy interrupted. “You’re practically one of us now. Besides, everyone’s dying to see more of those beautiful crochet pieces of yours. You could set up a little table if you’d like.”

The offer was tempting, but the thought of stepping further into the spotlight made her stomach twist. Still, she didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

“Good! Let me know if you need help with anything,” Nancy said brightly before hanging up.

The idea of the potluck lingered with her all day. Part of her wanted to decline, to keep her head down and focus on her quiet life at the cottage. But another part—the part that had started to feel restless—urged her to go.

The decision was made for her when Logan showed up later that afternoon, the scarf she’d given him looped loosely around his neck.

“Roof’s holding up,” he said, nodding toward the cottage as he stepped out of his truck.

“That’s good to hear,” she replied, surprised to see him. “What brings you by?”

“Figured you might need more firewood,” he said simply, gesturing to the pile in his truck bed.

She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as a small smile tugged at her lips. “You really like playing the role of the mysterious handyman, don’t you?”

Logan huffed softly, the sound almost like a laugh. “Guess I do.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she said, stepping down from the porch and brushing her hands against her jeans. “It’s not fair that you’re doing this for free. I should be buying firewood from the logging company anyway.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he leaned against the truck bed. “You think I’m charging you for this?”

She shrugged, her tone light but insistent. “Well, you should be. It’s your time, your effort—”

“Save your money,” Logan cut in, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve got enough to deal with fixing up that place. Firewood’s covered.”

As he unloaded the firewood, she found herself studying him—his steady movements, the quiet focus in his expression.

“Have you heard about the potluck this weekend?” she asked, leaning against the porch railing.

He glanced at her briefly. “Yeah. Town does it every year.”

“You going?”

“Not my thing,” he replied, stacking the last piece of wood neatly by the side of the porch.

“I figured,” she said, her lips quirking into a small smile. “I might go. Nancy invited me.”

Logan straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You should. Good way to meet people.”

She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him. “You don’t seem like the type who enjoys meeting people.”

“Don’t need to,” he said simply. “I’ve got enough to keep me busy.”

Her smile softened. “Well, thanks for the firewood. And for the advice.”

He nodded, tugging the scarf a little tighter around his neck as he turned toward the truck.

“Logan,” she called after him.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Have you been wearing that scarf?”

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk breaking through his usual stoicism. “Keeps the cold out,” he said before climbing into the truck.

As he drove away, Evelyn couldn’t help but feel that Logan’s quiet presence had settled into her life in a way she hadn’t expected.

By the time Saturday evening arrived, the small church hall was brimming with life. Warm light spilled through the frosted windows, illuminating rows of folding tables laden with dishes of every kind—casseroles, pies, salads, and baskets of fresh rolls. The air was filled with laughter, the clink of serving spoons, and the faint hum of holiday tunes playing from an old radio in the corner.

Evelyn stepped through the double doors, clutching a tin of cookies she’d baked earlier that day, along with a neatly folded bundle of her crochet pieces. She had debated leaving the scarves and shawls at home, but Nancy had been insistent about showcasing her work.

The room buzzed with energy, and though she’d prepared herself for the crowds, the sight of so many familiar faces still made her hesitate. She stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the warmth of the gathering wash over her before stepping inside.

“Evelyn!” Nancy’s cheerful voice rang out, cutting through her uncertainty. The older woman bustled over, her apron slightly askew but her smile as welcoming as ever. “You made it!”

“I did,” Evelyn replied with a small smile, holding up the tin. “And I brought these.”

Nancy peeked under the lid and let out an approving hum. “Chocolate chip. You’re going to fit in just fine here, dear.” She patted Evelyn on the arm and then noticed the bundle tucked under her other arm. “And what’s this?”

“Just a few scarves, shawls,” Evelyn said, almost apologetically. “I wasn’t sure—”

“They’re beautiful!” Nancy interrupted, already unfolding a scarf to admire the intricate stitching. “Come, let’s put these on display.”

Before Evelyn could protest, Nancy had whisked her toward a table near the corner, where a few other crafts were already on display—knitted mittens, jars of homemade jam, and intricately carved wooden figurines.

“You’ll have to tell me how you do this,” Nancy said as she spread the scarves and shawls out carefully. “You’ve got such a delicate touch.”

Pastor Edwards appeared by their side, his broad smile and kindly demeanor putting Evelyn at ease. “Miss Evelyn, it’s good to see you here tonight,” he said warmly. “I’ve heard nothing but praise about your work. You’re quite the talent.”

Evelyn flushed under the compliment. “That’s kind of you to say, Pastor. I’m just happy to contribute.”

“Contribute, indeed,” he said, picking up a soft blue scarf. “This is exquisite. If my wife sees it, I imagine I’ll be making a purchase before the evening’s through.”

Before Evelyn could respond, a familiar voice chimed in behind her. “Oh, Evelyn’s quite the artist, isn’t she?” Clara’s smile was all charm, but her tone carried an edge that Evelyn didn’t miss. “You’ve certainly been keeping busy. Crocheting and baking… and I’m sure there are other things taking up your time.”

Evelyn turned to face Clara, her expression neutral but her eyes steady. “I try to stay productive. And it’s nice to see the community appreciates the effort.” Her tone was light but unmistakably pointed, earning a small, approving glance from Nancy.

“Well,” Clara said, her smile tightening, “it’s good you’re settling in.”

Evelyn offered her a faint smile in return. “Thanks. I’ve been very lucky to have supportive people around me.”

Clara opened her mouth to reply, but Pastor Edwards intervened, his jovial voice cutting through any tension. “Now, Clara, if you’re here to chat, you’ll have to wait your turn. Evelyn’s become quite popular, and I imagine half the room will want one of these scarves before the night is out.”

Clara’s smile faltered, though she quickly recovered. “Well, they’re lovely. You’ve certainly made quite the impression around here. People have been talking about you nonstop.”

Evelyn tilted her head slightly, her expression remaining polite. “ I’ve noticed people talk about a lot of things around here.” She paused, letting the words linger. “Some things just don’t stick.”

Before Clara could respond, Nancy broke in with a cheerful laugh. “Well, I think it’s clear Evelyn is going to stick—and I, for one, am thrilled about it. Now, Clara, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some cookies to set out.”

As Nancy steered Evelyn toward the dessert table, Evelyn caught a glimpse of Clara’s tight-lipped smile and couldn’t help the quiet satisfaction blooming in her chest.

“You handled that well,” Nancy murmured with a conspiratorial wink.

“I’m learning,” Evelyn replied softly, her gaze sweeping the hall. She wasn’t sure she’d ever feel completely at ease in the town, but moments like these felt like progress.

As the evening wore on, Evelyn began to relax. The warmth of the gathering, coupled with the genuine interest people showed in her work, made it easier to forget her nerves. Several women approached her table, admiring the scarves and shawls.

“These are beautiful,” one woman said, running her fingers over a soft, pale-blue scarf. “Do you take commissions?”

Evelyn blinked in surprise. “I haven’t, but... I guess I could.”

“You should,” the woman insisted with a warm smile. “It’s clear you’ve got a gift.”

The compliments buoyed her spirits, and for the first time since arriving in Clearwater, she felt like she was truly beginning to belong.

It was later in the evening, as the crowd began to thin, that she spotted him.

Logan stood near the entrance, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark wahs jeans, his sharp eyes scanning the room. He looked out of place, like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see, but he didn’t move to leave.

Their eyes met briefly, and she gave him a small wave. To her surprise, he nodded and began making his way over.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said as he reached her table.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he replied, his voice low. “But I figured someone had to make sure you didn’t scare the locals.”

She snorted softly, shaking her head. “Very funny. What brought you out, really?”

Logan shrugged, glancing around the room. “Nancy wouldn’t stop bugging me.”

“Sounds about right,” she replied with a grin. “Well, you’re just in time to try my cookies. I expect glowing reviews.”

He raised an eyebrow but reached for one, taking a bite without much ceremony.

“They’re good,” he said after a moment, his tone almost begrudging.

“High praise coming from you,” she teased, her smile widening.

Logan huffed softly, his version of a laugh, and leaned against the table.

Their conversation was interrupted by a group of men from the logging company, who called Logan over with hearty waves and loud voices. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Evelyn briefly, before muttering, “I’ll be back.”

As he joined the group, Evelyn watched him with growing curiosity. There was something about the way he carried himself—reserved, almost guarded—that made her wonder what had shaped him into the man he was.

The men greeted him with playful jabs and laughter. “Didn’t think we’d see you here, Howlett,” one of them said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Guess miracles do happen,” another quipped, earning a round of chuckles.

Logan shrugged off their comments, his expression remaining stoic. “You girls done gossiping, or you need more time?”

The men roared with laughter, one of them shaking his head. “Alright, alright. We’ll leave you to it.”

Nancy appeared , her smile knowing. “Well, isn’t that interesting.”

“What is?” Evelyn asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, nothing,” Nancy said airily. “Just that he has never come to one of  these things. And yet, here he is.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with me.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, leaving Evelyn to mull over her words.

When the evening wound down and the tables were being cleared, Logan reappeared at her side.

“Ready to head out?” he asked, his tone casual.

“You offering me a ride?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Truck’s warm, and it’s a cold night,” he replied simply.

She smiled, grabbing her tin of cookies and scarf. “Alright. Let me grab my coat.”

The drive back to the cottage was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between them.

“Thanks for coming,” she said after a while, her voice soft. “Even if Nancy twisted your arm.”

Logan glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t need much twisting.”

Her heart gave a small, unexpected flutter at his words, but she pushed the feeling aside.

When they reached the cottage, she hesitated before opening the door. “You want to come in for a cup of tea? There are still cookies left.”

Logan studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Sure.”

Inside, the fire crackled softly as they sat at the small kitchen table, steaming mugs of tea in hand. Logan didn’t say much, but his presence filled the room in a way that felt strangely comforting.

“This place suits you,” he said finally, his voice low.

Evelyn glanced around the cozy, imperfect kitchen and smiled. “It’s starting to feel like home.”

Logan nodded, his gaze steady. “That’s good.”

The tea had long gone cold in their cups, but neither of them seemed to notice. Logan leaned back slightly in his chair, his arms resting on the sides, his gaze fixed somewhere between her and the crackling fire.

“It’s quiet out here,” he said after a long stretch of silence, his voice low, almost contemplative.

“That’s why I picked it,” she replied, brushing her fingers along the rim of her mug. “I needed quiet. Too much noise back… before.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to her, the unspoken weight of her words hanging in the air. He didn’t press, but there was a softness in his expression, a quiet patience that made her want to say more.

“I guess I was running,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure what from.”

Logan nodded slowly, as if he understood, though he didn’t offer any platitudes. He rarely did. That was one of the things she appreciated about him—he listened without feeling the need to fill the spaces between words.

The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his face and the warmth in his otherwise stoic eyes. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled at her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

And maybe it was the intimacy of the moment, or the fact that the world outside the cottage felt so far away, but when he leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips for the briefest of moments, she didn’t pull away.

Until she did.

“Logan,” she said softly, her voice trembling as she pressed her hands to the edge of the table. “I can’t.”

He froze, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. Then, he leaned back, his movements deliberate and measured. “Sorry,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to his mug.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said quickly, her chest tightening. “It’s not… it’s not you. I just—” She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. “I can’t.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once, his face unreadable once more. “I get it,” he said simply, though his tone carried an edge of something she couldn’t quite place—hurt? Frustration?

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension in the room palpable. Evelyn felt a pang of regret, not for stopping him, but for the way she’d stumbled over her own emotions.

“It’s late,” he said finally, standing and grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “I should go.”

“Logan—” she started, but he cut her off with a small shake of his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice steady, though he didn’t meet her eyes. “I’ll see you around.”

And just like that, he was gone, the sound of his truck rumbling down the driveway leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She sat there for a long time after he left, staring into the dying embers of the fire. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she couldn’t ignore the fear that had flared in her chest at the thought of letting someone get too close again.

Not yet.

The warmth of the fire had long faded, leaving the room in a quiet chill that mirrored the hollow ache in her chest. She sat unmoving, staring at the door as though expecting Logan to walk back through it. He wouldn’t, of course. Not tonight. Maybe not for a while.

Her hands clutched the cold mug of tea as if it could somehow tether her to the present, but her mind kept spiraling backward. To the way he’d leaned forward, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes as his hand hesitated just inches from hers. And then, to the look on his face when she pulled away—the quiet resignation in his nod, the way he’d left with barely a word.

Why had she stopped him?

The answer rose immediately, unbidden: Because you’re terrified.

The words echoed in her mind, harsher than she’d meant them to be. She hadn’t lied, though. She couldn’t—not yet.

The thought sent a pang of guilt through her chest. Logan didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her fears. He’d done nothing but offer her kindness and quiet support, showing up time and again without asking for anything in return. And yet, when the moment came, she’d pulled back.

The embers in the hearth cracked softly, breaking the stillness. She stared into the glowing coals, her thoughts swirling. Maybe she should’ve said more, explained herself better. But how could she, when she wasn’t sure she fully understood her own hesitation?

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. She wasn’t that broken girl anymore—the one who’d been left behind, who’d questioned her worth because someone else had decided she wasn’t enough. She was stronger now, wasn’t she?

And yet, as the hours stretched on, the emptiness in the cottage seemed to grow. The walls she’d once found solace in now felt suffocating, pressing in on all sides.

For the first time in weeks, Evelyn found herself questioning whether she truly belonged here.

Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, his knuckles standing out stark against the calloused skin of his hands. The truck rumbled down the narrow road, the headlights slicing through the darkness, but his mind was miles away—still back in her kitchen, caught in the flicker of firelight and the sound of her voice trembling with hesitation.

He let out a low growl, more at himself than anything else. He should’ve seen it coming—the hesitation in her eyes, the way her shoulders had tensed as he leaned in. She wasn’t ready, and he’d known that. Hell, he’d known it from the start.

But still, he’d pushed.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, shifting gears with a sharp motion.

Logan exhaled sharply, rolling the window down just enough to let the cold night air sting his face. He needed the sharpness, the bite, to cut through the frustration boiling in his chest. Not at her—never at her—but at himself.

She’d pulled back. And why wouldn’t she? She didn’t owe him anything, least of all her trust. Hell, he was the one who’d crossed the line, who’d let himself get too comfortable in the space she’d carved out of her pain.

But still…

The memory of her expression lingered, the way her lips parted slightly as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Her voice, trembling with apology, had cut deeper than she probably realized.

“Logan, I can’t.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. The words shouldn’t have hurt as much as they did. He knew she didn’t mean them as a rejection—not entirely. But they still lodged themselves in his chest, heavy and unyielding.

But the truth clawed at him, raw and undeniable. He didn’t want to walk away. Not from her. Not from the moments of quiet connection that seemed to bloom between them, unspoken but palpable.

The truck hit a bump in the road, jolting him back to the present. He slowed down, the soft crunch of gravel under the tires filling the silence.

What the hell was he thinking? He was no good at this—not at getting close, not at navigating the messiness of human connection. It was safer to stay on the periphery, to keep people at arm’s length.

And yet, when he thought of her, sitting alone in that drafty little cottage, her hands twisting together as she struggled to find the right words...

He shook his head, pulling the truck to a stop at the edge of the woods. The engine idled softly as he leaned back against the seat, staring into the darkness.

Maybe he’d screwed things up. Maybe it was too late. But for the first time in years, the thought of walking away felt wrong—like turning his back on something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for all along.

If she needed time, he’d give it to her. If she needed space, he’d take a step back. But he wasn’t walking away—not yet.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. She tossed and turned, her thoughts refusing to settle, until finally, as dawn broke, she gave up entirely.

The cold of the morning didn’t ease the knot in her chest. It stayed there, heavy and unwelcome, as she moved through the motions of her day. Even crocheting, her usual refuge, didn’t bring the same comfort it usually did.

By mid-afternoon, the cottage felt suffocating, the silence pressing down on her. The new landline sat on the counter, its presence a reminder that she wasn’t as cut off from the world as she sometimes wanted to believe. Her fingers hovered over the receiver, debating.

She hadn’t called her best friend in weeks—not since the move. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because explaining everything felt like dredging up a wound she was trying to let scar over. But now, with the weight of her encounter with Logan still fresh, she needed someone to talk to.

Finally, she dialed.

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice picked up.

“Evie!” Martha’s voice burst through the receiver, warm and animated. “I was starting to think you’d gone off the grid for good.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her grip tightening on the phone. “Hey. Sorry for disappearing. It’s been… a lot.”

“Of course it has,” her friend replied, her tone softening. “How’s the new place? Are you settling in?”

“It’s… okay,” Evelyn said carefully, turning to look out the window. “The town’s small, the cottage is old, but it’s quiet. Peaceful, mostly.”

Her friend hummed thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement. What’s going on?”

Evelyn hesitated, chewing on her lip. She didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to put words to the tangled mess in her chest. But she’d called for a reason.

“There’s someone here,” she started, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s been helping me with repairs around the cottage. He’s… nice. Quiet. A little rough around the edges.”

“And?” her friend prompted, sensing there was more.

“And last night… something almost happened.”

The line went quiet for a moment before Martha spoke again. “Define ‘something.’”

“He tried to kiss me,” Evelyn admitted, her voice trembling. “And I—I pulled away. I told him I couldn’t.”

“Oh, hon,” her friend said, her voice filled with understanding. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I feel awful. He looked so hurt, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it. I thought I was ready to move on, but when it came down to it…”

“It’s okay,” her friend said gently. “You’ve been through a lot. You don’t have to rush into anything you’re not ready for.”

“But what if I hurt him?” Evelyn asked, her voice breaking. “He’s done so much for me, and the last thing I want is to make him feel like he’s not enough. He is. It’s me. I’m the one who’s not ready.”

“Then you need to be honest with him,” her friend said firmly. “You don’t owe anyone your heart if you’re not ready to give it, but you do owe them honesty. If he’s as kind as you say he is, he’ll understand.”

Evelyn nodded, even though her friend couldn’t see her. “I don’t know if I can explain it to him without messing it up even more.”

“You can,” her friend assured her. “And if he’s worth it—and it sounds like he is—he’ll wait. But you have to let yourself believe you’re worth it, too.”

The words hit her like a jolt, her chest tightening with emotion. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her grip on the phone loosening. “I mean it.”

“Anytime,” Martha replied. “And hey—don’t be a stranger, okay? Call me when you need to talk. Even if it’s just to complain about the weather.”

Evelyn laughed weakly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I will. I promise.”

When the call ended, the cottage felt a little less oppressive. She sat by the window for a while, staring out at the forest and letting her friend’s words settle in.

Honesty.

It wasn’t easy, but it was a start.

The tension between her and Logan lingered like an unfinished conversation, heavy and unspoken. Her best friend’s words played on a loop in her mind: Be honest. If he’s worth it, he’ll understand.

Honesty. It seemed so simple in theory, but the thought of baring her tangled emotions to Logan made her palms sweat. Still, she couldn’t shake the image of his hurt expression as he’d walked out of her cottage. She owed him more than that.

Determined to make things right, Evelyn bundled up against the crisp morning air and made her way to his cabin. The drive was short, the road flanked by tall evergreens that whispered in the wind. When she arrived, she hesitated at his door, her heart thudding in her chest as she raised her hand to knock.

No answer.

She frowned, glancing around. His truck wasn’t in the driveway, and the quiet that surrounded the cabin felt almost eerie. With a sigh, she stepped back and considered her options.

If he wasn’t home, maybe he was at work.

The idea of going to the logging company made her stomach twist, but she couldn’t just leave things unresolved. Squaring her shoulders, she got back into her truck and headed toward town.

The logging company was a modest operation, its main office a squat building with peeling paint and a few trucks parked out front. The hum of chainsaws and the distant crash of falling trees echoed from the forest behind it, a reminder of the hard, unrelenting labor that sustained the town.

Evelyn parked and stepped out, her breath visible in the chilly air. As she approached the office, a group of men lingered near the door, laughing and chatting as they smoked their lunch break cigarettes.

When they noticed her, the conversation stopped.

“You’re looking for Logan, aren’t you?” a man called out, his voice tinged with amusement but not unkind.

Evelyn hesitated. “Yes. Do you know where he is?”

Another man nearby chuckled, tipping his hat. “Down in the forest, working on that west patch. Lunch break came and went, but he didn’t stick around.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing toward the trail they pointed out.

As she turned to leave, one of them called after her, “Don’t let him scare you off, miss. He means well.”

She smiled faintly, their words settling uneasily in her chest. Did they all know how much Logan kept to himself? Did they see through the walls he put up as easily as she did?

The forest was quieter here, the roar of machinery fading into the background as Evelyn followed the trail. Her boots crunched over fallen leaves, and her breath puffed out in small clouds as she walked deeper into the woods.

She found him near the edge of a clearing, his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows despite the cold. He stood by a felled tree, his hands gripping the handle of an ax. His movements were methodical, each swing splitting the wood with a resounding crack that echoed through the trees.

For a moment, she hesitated, watching him from a distance. There was something raw about the way he worked, as if he were trying to exorcise something he couldn’t put into words.

Finally, she stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “Logan.”

He froze mid-swing, the ax hovering above the log for a heartbeat before he brought it down with one last, decisive crack. Turning, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze sharp as it landed on her.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone more curious than curt.

She took a deep breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her jacket. “I wanted to talk to you. About the other night.”

Logan’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the ax tightened. “Nothing to talk about,” he said, turning back to the woodpile.

“Yes, there is,” she insisted, stepping closer. “I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, his voice low as he picked up another log.

Evelyn shook her head. “I do. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, Logan, and I just… I feel like I let you down.

He paused, his shoulders stiffening as he slowly set the log down. When he turned to face her again, there was something guarded in his eyes, like he was bracing himself for a blow.

He crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “You didn’t let me down. I pushed too hard. That’s on me.”

“It’s not just about that,” she said quickly. “It’s about me, and the way I’ve been holding back. You’ve given me so much patience, so much understanding, and I’ve been too scared to give anything back.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t interrupt her.

She took a shaky breath, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “I’m not ready, Logan. Not yet. But I don’t want you to think that what happened—or didn’t happen—was because of you. It’s not. You’re—” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “You’re more than I know how to handle right now.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “You don’t need to say anything you’re not ready for.”

“But I do,” she insisted. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m running away from you. I’m not.”

Logan let out a slow breath, his arms dropping to his sides. “I don’t want to push you, Evelyn. But I’m not going to pretend it’s easy to see you pulling away.”

Her chest tightened, the vulnerability in his voice cutting through her defenses.

“I’m not pulling away,” she said softly. “I’m trying to move closer—I just don’t know how yet.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Then, slowly, Logan stepped closer, closing the distance between them.

“When you figure it out,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle, “I’ll be here.”

Evelyn felt the weight in her chest begin to lift, just slightly. She nodded, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on hers for a moment before he reached down to pick up the ax. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the forest. “I’ll walk you back.”

They fell into step together, the quiet of the forest wrapping around them like a protective shield. The earlier tension between them still lingered, but now it felt lighter, easier.

As they reached the edge of the lot, Evelyn’s truck came into view. He opened the door for her, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Thanks for walking me back,” she said, her voice softer now.

He nodded, leaning against the truck for a moment. “Anytime.”

Her hesitation was barely noticeable, but he caught it as she turned slightly toward him. “Logan,” she began, her tone unsure.

He straightened, his gaze steady on hers.

“Would you—” She cleared her throat, mustering her nerve. “Would you want to have dinner at my place later this week? As a thank-you for... everything.”

Logan raised a brow, his expression unreadable for a beat. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, feeling the words spill out. “Just food. You’ve done a lot for me, and I’d like to repay you.”

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Alright. What day?”

“Friday?” she offered, a little too quickly.

He gave a short nod. “That works.”

With that, he stepped back, watching as she climbed into the truck. Once she was gone, the vehicle rumbling down the dirt road, Logan exhaled deeply and turned back toward the group.

The crew had been waiting, their expressions ripe with mischief.

“Well, well,well, look at you, playing the gentleman.”, said Rick.

Logan shot him a warning look, but Rick just smirked, undeterred. “We’re just saying, Logan—if this keeps up, don’t forget to send us invites to the wedding.”

“I don’t want to hear a single comment,” Logan muttered, his voice low but edged.

Pete smirked. “Sure thing. But, uh, you might want to remind us if it’s going to be a spring or summer wedding. Just so we can plan accordingly.”

Logan ran a hand over his face, clearly done with their antics. “You’re all idiots,” he muttered, heading toward the stack of logs waiting for him.

“Hey, just saying, she seems nice,” Rick added, chuckling as Logan passed. “Hope you don’t mess it up.”

Logan ignored the laughter trailing behind him, focusing on the rhythm of his boots crunching over the gravel. His crew meant well—hell, he knew they did—but the teasing felt sharper than usual. Maybe because a small part of him wondered if they were right to joke. What if he did mess it up?

Reaching the worksite, he gripped the handle of the ax tighter than necessary and brought it down against the first log with a force that sent splinters flying. The physicality of the work grounded him, drowning out the echo of her voice from earlier: Would you want to have dinner at my place later this week?

For a man like Logan, used to solitude and simplicity, her tentative offer shouldn’t have stirred much. But it did. The vulnerability in her tone lingered, wrapping itself around him like a thread he didn’t know how to untangle.

Friday. Dinner.

It wasn’t a date. Not really. At least, that’s what he told himself. But the thought of sitting across from her in that warm, firelit cottage made something in his chest tighten.

Meanwhile, back at the cottage, Evelyn stood by her kitchen window, staring out at the fading light. The quiet wasn’t as oppressive as it had been before, but tonight, it carried a new kind of weight.

She ran a hand over the edge of the counter, her thoughts flickering back to the way Logan had looked at her. There was something steady about him, something grounding, but it was also unsettling. She’d built walls to keep herself safe, yet somehow, he was finding ways through without even trying.

Her fingers traced a threadbare potholder hanging near the stove. She caught her reflection in the window—flushed cheeks, slightly furrowed brow—and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Friday. Dinner.

She wanted it to be simple, to be just a thank-you for everything Logan had done. But deep down, she knew it was more than that.

Turning from the window, she glanced at the half-finished crochet project on the armchair by the fire. Her hands itched to pick it up, to lose herself in the comfort of routine, but her thoughts stayed stubbornly on Logan. On the way his gaze softened, just slightly, whenever he spoke to her. On the quiet strength he carried, like it cost him nothing to give.

The fire crackled softly, and she found herself whispering to the empty room, “Don’t screw this up.”

By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, the worksite had quieted. Logan leaned against the bed of his truck, watching the forest line shift into darker shades of green. His crew had called it a day, leaving him with his thoughts and the steady ache in his arms from hours of splitting wood.

He glanced at the scarf looped loosely around his neck, its soft wool a stark contrast to the roughness of his flannel jacket. It wasn’t something he would’ve picked for himself, but he hadn’t taken it off since she’d given it to him.

Shaking his head, he climbed into the truck, the engine rumbling to life. As he turned onto the road leading away from the site, the same thought circled back in his mind:

Don’t mess it up.

Chapter 3

_______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know):

@coocoocachewgotscrewed @latinapiscess @littlebunnybigheartfics @themareverine @pandapetals @logansbaby @the-quick-red-fox @throwmethroughawindow @ifyouseethisnoyoudont22 @galacticglitterglue @whos-nin1

@thisismajortom21 @may-vol-6 @Oh-basic @sarahbarbosa22 @luvpalepinkjazz @irish-pooka @yologans @equilight @lxrxvsp @h4nluv @uncannywolverine @thesecretlifeofmo @mystifiesjdmtcw @socisse @thickynicky547 @peculiarpiscess @tezooks @greenturtlegirl @greenbearplaidbow @eummm @benispunk @th8mz @jounal3sports @alsoprettyinpink @softepiloguemylove @manicandobsessive @b-y-3-n @blahkateisdone @karencaribou @sidkneeeee @theworstwolvie @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes @lunellas-library @pedroscurls @britttzy267 @aliensfeltmyjoy

© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[pinkofatom]

Listen

CW: hypnosis, mind control, brainwashing, bimbofication

Lea took a deep breath. Her chest rose with the slow inhale. And gently settled down with the following exhale. Once again she adjusted the headphones on her head, making sure they snuggly fit. One last time she stretched, finding the right position on her bed. Then she hit play.

Rustles danced through the shells. Sweeps and soughs mixed in-between. Tension fell from her burdened shoulders as whooshes turned into swooshes. A calm warmth settled inside Lea's muscles when unnoticed murmurs hid behind resounds.

A wave of calm crashed over her mind. From her fingers and toes creeped numbness up to her hands and feet. Yet relaxation grabbed her whole. Another beautiful sigh slipped through her lips.

Her mind began to drift. Like in a balloon floating through the sky. Gently soaring, following a current of warm, uplifting air, going wherever the winds wanted. A pleasant tingling followed this bliss.

Fog covered her thoughts like a blanket. Warm and soothing it settled over her mind. Comforting, soft and calming it kept any intruding worries at bay.

A soft, silky touch caressed her temple. With feather-light movements it traced along her brow and up her forehead. Then it drew tender, affectional lines from side to side in an ever-repeating, never-ceasing pattern.

Time stopped to matter. Her floating balloon flew high above all worries. Thoughts ceased to run around, no new ones formed in her mind. Her whole existence focused on the repeating noise.

Again her chest raised with air filling her lungs. Without any conscious awareness of her hands, they reached up to her chest. Whispers skirted along the edge of her thoughts. Fingers found nipples. In tune they circled the hard nubs.

Shifting sounds traveled through the headphones and her ears into her brain. They danced along her nerves. Like soft waves they rolled down to her crotch. Shivers of delight followed the shushed voices. A new warmth grew, this one between her legs.

Her fingers took on a life on their own, still caressing her stiffened nipples. With a slight twang her fingers tweaked them, a jolt ran down to her sex. And the words grew more prominent. She remembered hearing them before and her subconscious gave them meaning. Her fogged up mind wasn't aware. Without any notice the phrases marched into Lea's brain.

She continued to breath slowly but her heart rate rose. Delight flowed from the constant stimulus on her sensitive nipples down through her belly to her crotch. A tension, different from before, built inside of her core. It thrummed with every note. Her thoughts circled around one single thing: pleasure.

Lea's eyes were unfocused. They stared straight up at the ceiling, following the circles of her fingers, which followed the words of the audio, which followed a never-ending loop. And as it spiraled onward Lea slipped further down. She sunk down, deeper than ever before, further and further. Until only the tiniest spark remained of the woman she had been.

Words, loud and clear, trampled down every thought. Phrases restructured patterns into simple forms. And on a deeper, deeper level her subconscious was molded by instructions. Suggestions became truth. And in all the noise, her name was lost.

The woman had forgotten everything; that she even owned a name in the first place, forgotten who she was, where she lived. It didn't matter, because the loop told her who to be. It taught her about her purpose — to serve and please.

Her eyes tore open. Yet wakefulness did not return. Instead an automated, mechanical routine took control over her limbs. Her hand grabbed her phone. She followed the instructions and sent a message to an unknown address. Her lips curled into a vapid smile. No part of her was aware. Instead the newly formed purpose set in and filled the woman's empty husk with instructions.

Her hand navigated to an alien app store and installed something on her phone. It took mere moments until her hand moved again. New routines set in; her new personality was shaped. Soon the vapid smile shifted to a happy, gullible beam.

As the app finished, the screen turned bright pink and white. Her eyes went wide and focused on the new center of her world.

She blinked.

"Welcome. I see, my program did its job." An unfamiliar, synthetic female voice spoke. "Now, please, undress and show me your current form."

With no need for any hesitation, she followed. Piece by piece of clothing found its place on the ground. First, she grabbed her pullover and pulled it up. It slid smoothly off of her. She laid it beside herself. Next, she unhooked her bra. Then she pulled down her pantyhose together with her panties. Last were her sneakers and socks.

"Please turn your camera." As she turned it and pointed towards herself, the app spoke again. "Good girl," the voice praised. A flush of pleasure coursed through her. She smiled wide with giddy, empty pride. She could feel her face heating up, and she knew that her cheeks must have been flushed a deep, cherry-red hue from the sudden surge of desire. Her lips parted in a breathy pant as the heat travelled all over her, like an electric shock from head to toe, causing her whole being to shudder with delight.

And a wet trickle run down her bare legs.

"Oh, my, how very eager," the app giggled playfully, sending another rush of heated excitement coursing throughout her. She squirmed, unable to control her reaction. "So empty and receptive. Mind completely washed away. A blank canvas. Ready to be filled with any new personality."

A surge of delight caused a moan to slip from her lips. The idea alone to receive any kind of attention excited her further. Her core throbbed at the thought of receiving something new from her creator.

"Now, let's mold you into something more pleasing. First you need a new bubbly name. Let's see, something nice. You shall now on be named—" A short silence. Her eyes never left the screen, waiting, no yearning, to be given her new identity.

The voice spoke up. "Lucy. A lovely new name for an eager bimbo." It repeated several times. And it clicked in her head. A new, shiny feeling bloomed in the back of her mind. She loved it. And so, her smile turned even bigger.

Lucy giggled.

"Very good. Now I will describe your new attitude." As the synthetic voice explained in great length Lucy listened eagerly, absorbing every single aspect. Her head bobbed with each of the affirmations and praises.

She felt herself change, a shift in the core of her psyche. A deeper part of her yearned to please those words. Lucy's mind began to reshape and transform itself.

With each affirmation she came to accept that she is now an airheaded and bubbly girl. Every new word that got fed into her mind further changed who she used to be. Even more her thoughts turned pink and flowery.

Hours later, Lucy left the apartment. She could not remember why she had been there.

But then all she had to do was listen to her app.

If you liked this story, or others, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi.

[amethystarachnid]

Hi! 🤍

For my second request, I'd love to request a college student! Tony Stark or a young! Tony Stark (after college) story for your Marvel Holiday Special, whichever one you prefer to write for.

I'm thinking of the prompt [ 8. First Christmas Together  – Share a special first holiday celebration with your character, complete with shared traditions and sweet moments. ] for him and Fem! Reader, with lots of cute moments such as buying/decorating a tree together, going to a Christmas market, exchanging sweet, thoughtful gifts, making peppermint hot chocolate, etc. (I understand if you can't fit all of this in; please feel free to pick and choose which ideas you'd like to write about the most.)

Thank you so much, and I'm looking forward to seeing all the stories you'll gift us this holiday season! 🤍

FROGS, GLOBES AND BURNT CHOCOLATE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.5k

ᯓ★ Summary: it's the first Christmas for you and Tony in your shared apartment and you are really excited: will it be a complete disaster or the best Christmas ever?

ᯓ★ TW(s): fluff

ᯓ★ me when soft men and Christmas

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The biting December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the door swinging closed with a quiet thud behind you. Snowflakes drift lazily from a slate-gray sky, dotting the ground with a fresh layer of white, and the smell of pine and roasted chestnuts lingers faintly in the air. The shopping plaza is bustling with life, from bundled-up couples carrying oversized bags to kids chasing each other, their laughter cutting through the cold. Beside you, Tony Stark, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, surveys the scene like he’s about to conquer it.

“You realize,” he starts, cocking an eyebrow at the giant inflatable Santa looming above the store entrance, “this is all part of a grand capitalist scheme, right? They’re counting on saps like us to drop a small fortune on plastic snowflakes and gaudy lights.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm playfully as you step closer. “You say that now, but I saw how excited you got when I mentioned a tree. Don’t try to pretend you’re above it.”

“I’m excited because I’m picturing us building some kind of robot that lights the tree for us. Or—ooh, one that launches ornaments like tiny projectiles. Think about it: automated Christmas chaos.”

“Or we could just have a normal Christmas like normal people,” you suggest, looping your arm through his and steering him toward the store entrance. The warmth of his body seeps through the layers of your coat, and you feel a spark of giddiness bubbling in your chest. This isn’t just any Christmas; it’s your Christmas together, in your new apartment. The thought alone is enough to make your heart skip.

Tony hums noncommittally, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes as the automatic doors slide open. “Normal’s overrated. But fine, I’ll humor you. Lead on, holiday spirit incarnate.”

The store is a sensory overload of glitter and color, every aisle packed to the brim with tinsel, ornaments, and lights. A soft instrumental version of “Jingle Bells” plays over the speakers, adding to the festive chaos. Tony lets out a low whistle as he takes it all in.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. This is…a lot,” he says, plucking a sparkly green bow from a nearby shelf and holding it up. “Tell me you don’t want me to wear this.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you reply, snatching it out of his hand, “but now that you mention it…”

He grins, a boyish, lopsided thing that makes your stomach flip. “You know, I’d do it for you. I’d make it look good, too.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you steer the cart down the first aisle. It’s stocked with strings of lights in every color imaginable, and you pause to inspect a box of classic white ones. Tony, naturally, zeroes in on something completely different.

“Multicolor. Obviously,” he says, holding up a box of lights that blink in erratic patterns. “This screams fun. And by fun, I mean mildly seizure-inducing, but hey, memorable.”

“Memorable is one word for it,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “But I was thinking classic. White lights are elegant.”

“Oh, I see. You’re going for classy,” Tony says, resting an arm casually on the cart’s handle. “But come on, we’re young, living in sin, and this is our first Christmas in our place. It should be fun, not…a Martha Stewart catalog.”

You laugh despite yourself, considering his point. “Okay, fine. But we’re compromising. White lights for the tree, multicolor for…something else.”

“Deal,” Tony agrees, tossing the box of multicolored lights into the cart with an air of triumph. “This is how we build a healthy relationship. Compromising over Christmas decorations. Dr. Phil would be so proud.”

“You’re impossible,” you say, rolling your eyes even as a smile tugs at your lips.

“And yet, here you are, willingly cohabitating with me. Who’s the real winner here?”

You shake your head, but the warmth in his voice and the sparkle in his eyes make it impossible to be annoyed. Instead, you grab his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Come on, Stark. Let’s find a tree.”

The tree section is overwhelming, with rows upon rows of artificial evergreens of varying heights and degrees of realism. Tony takes it upon himself to test the sturdiness of each one by shaking them, earning a few disapproving looks from nearby shoppers.

“This one looks like it could survive an earthquake,” he says, gesturing to a six-foot tree with perfectly symmetrical branches. “What do you think?”

You inspect it critically, running your hand over the faux pine needles. “It’s nice, but…is it too perfect? I kind of like the ones that look a little…messy. More natural.”

Tony steps back, rubbing his chin in mock seriousness. “You want messy? Oh, I can find messy. But let’s just hope it doesn’t come pre-infested with fake squirrels or something.”

“Fake squirrels?” you echo, laughing. “That’s oddly specific.”

“What can I say? My imagination is a gift.” He grins, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple before turning to scour the rows for the “perfectly imperfect” tree. The simple gesture sends a warm glow through you, and you find yourself marveling, not for the first time, at how easily he makes you feel cherished.

After some debate—and a bit of mild bickering—you settle on a slightly uneven but charmingly full tree that Tony immediately dubs “Frank.” The name sticks, and by the time you’re wheeling the cart toward the ornament aisle, you’re both brainstorming ways to make Frank the star of the apartment.

“Obviously, Frank needs a killer topper,” Tony says, scanning the shelves. “Something that says, ‘I’m the king of this Christmas.’ What about this?” He holds up a comically oversized star, glitter raining down from it as he tilts it from side to side.

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s a little…much.”

“That’s the point,” he insists, but you shake your head, and he relents with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You pick. But if you pick something boring, I reserve the right to judge you.”

You smirk, holding up a simple yet elegant angel with golden wings. “How’s this?”

Tony eyes it for a moment before nodding. “It’s got class. I approve.”

“Good,” you reply, adding it to the cart. “Now let’s talk ornaments.”

Tony immediately gravitates toward the more unconventional options—a hamburger, a miniature disco ball, a tiny rocket ship. You can’t help but laugh as he piles them into the cart with zero hesitation.

“We’re going for eclectic, right?” he says, grinning at your expression.

“Eclectic is one way to put it,” you reply, picking up a box of glass baubles in varying shades of red and gold. “But I think we need a little balance.”

“Sure, sure. Balance.” He waves a hand dismissively before adding a dinosaur ornament to the pile. “Like this guy. He’s green, he’s festive, and he’s clearly balancing the holiday spirit with prehistoric flair.”

You groan, but it’s impossible to be annoyed with him. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you find yourself laughing more than you have in weeks. By the time you make it to the checkout line, your cart is an eclectic mix of classic and quirky, much like the two of you.

As the cashier rings up your items, Tony leans against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts fond and amused. “You know,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear, “I think this might be the most fun I’ve ever had in a store.”

“Really?” you tease, arching an eyebrow. “Even more fun than that time we got kicked out of IKEA?”

“That wasn’t fun; that was an adventure,” he replies, grinning. “This is different. This is…nice.”

His words, simple as they are, make your chest ache in the best way. You reach out, slipping your hand into his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Yeah,” you agree softly. “It is.”

By the time you get everything loaded into the car and head back to the apartment, the snow has started falling harder, the flakes sticking to the windshield as the wipers sweep them away. Tony hums along to the Christmas music playing softly on the radio, and you can’t help but smile at how relaxed he looks, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his knee.

When you finally arrive home, the two of you haul your bags and the boxed-up tree upstairs, collapsing onto the couch in a heap of exhaustion and laughter. The apartment is warm and cozy, the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle you lit earlier filling the air. Tony stretches out, his head resting in your lap as he looks up at you with that lazy, lopsided grin you love so much.

“Ready to turn this place into a winter wonderland?” he asks, his voice tinged with mock seriousness.

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And with that, the two of you set to work, turning your shared space into something magical. Every ornament, every string of lights, every silly joke shared along the way feels like a promise—of love, of laughter, of a future together that’s as bright and colorful as the tree now standing proudly in the corner.

Tony sprawls out on the floor, an open box of ornaments beside him, his legs kicking lazily as he examines a particularly garish one: a glitter-covered pineapple. He holds it up to the light, squinting as if he’s inspecting a fine piece of art. “This one,” he declares, pointing at the pineapple and then at you with the seriousness of a presidential speech, “needs prime real estate. Front and center. It’s the kind of ornament that demands attention.”

You glance over from where you’re untangling a string of lights, your hands already glittery from the process. “It’s hideous. If it’s going on the tree, it’s going in the back where no one can see it.”

“Hideous?” Tony gasps, clutching the pineapple like it’s a wounded comrade. “This is a conversation starter. It says, ‘This tree belongs to people with taste and a sense of humor.’”

“It says, ‘This tree belongs to people who lost a bet,’” you counter, tossing a rogue light bulb into the trash pile.

He drops the ornament into the box with an exaggerated huff, crossing his arms and leaning back against the couch. “You have no appreciation for the avant-garde. Next, you’re going to tell me my disco-ball ornament doesn’t make the cut either.”

“Oh, that’s going on the tree,” you say with a smirk, plugging in the lights and watching them flicker to life. “I have to draw the line somewhere, but even I’m not heartless enough to deprive you of a tiny disco inferno.”

Tony grins, clearly victorious. “That’s the spirit. All right, let’s light this bad boy up.”

The two of you tackle the tree together, winding the lights around it in haphazard loops. Tony insists on controlling the rotation of the tree while you maneuver the lights, which leads to a fair amount of bickering, punctuated by his constant reminders to “watch the top—Frank’s got dignity, you know.”

“You named it,” you mutter under your breath, stepping over a stray ornament. “You’re not allowed to treat it like it’s a fragile piece of Renaissance art.”

“I named it because I care,” he replies loftily, holding the tree steady as you stretch up on your tiptoes to loop the lights higher. “And because I think Frank deserves respect for the sacrifices he’s making to be part of our inaugural Christmas.”

“He’s a fake tree, Tony.”

“Fake doesn’t mean he’s emotionless,” Tony quips, grinning at you. “I mean, look at me. A solid 50% of my charm is artificial, and I’m still delightful.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you finally secure the last strand of lights. “Okay, fine, Frank. If you’re sentient, blink twice.”

Tony leans in close to the tree, squinting at the lights with mock intensity. “Was that a blink? Did you see it?”

“Definitely not,” you reply, rolling your eyes as you pick up a box of ornaments. “Now let’s get to the fun part.”

Tony takes an unceremonious dive into the box, emerging with the hamburger ornament in one hand and a golden bauble in the other. “Burgers or boring?” he asks, holding them up like they’re dueling gladiators.

“Both,” you say, plucking the bauble from his hand and placing it carefully on the tree. “It’s called balance, remember?”

He makes a face but hangs the burger ornament on a branch anyway. “Fine, but I’m putting it next to the dinosaur for thematic consistency. Carnivores stick together.”

“Carnivores?” you repeat, laughing. “You’re putting way too much thought into this.”

“Hey, someone has to,” Tony says, standing back to survey his work. “Look at that. A prehistoric picnic. The tree’s already a masterpiece, and we’ve barely started.”

The decorating continues in a flurry of glitter, laughter, and occasional sabotage. Every time you carefully place a glass ornament, Tony finds a way to “accidentally” bump into the tree, sending it wobbling precariously.

“Oops,” he says innocently, steadying the trunk. “Guess Frank’s not as sturdy as we thought.”

“Keep doing that, and Frank’s going to end up on the curb,” you warn, pointing a candy-cane-shaped ornament at him like it’s a weapon.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tony replies, his grin widening. “Not with all the blood, sweat, and glitter we’ve poured into this.”

“You’re testing me, Stark.”

“Oh, I live to test you,” he says with a wink, before dramatically hanging the pineapple ornament directly in the center of the tree. “There. Perfection.”

You groan, but you’re laughing too hard to argue. Instead, you reach for the tree topper—the angel you picked earlier—and hold it up for inspection. “Ready to crown Frank?”

Tony salutes you, stepping back to give you room. “Do it. Make him majestic.”

You climb onto the arm of the couch for a little extra height, balancing carefully as you place the angel on top of the tree. Tony’s hands hover near your waist, ready to catch you if you wobble.

“There,” you say, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “What do you think?”

Tony tilts his head, his arms crossed as he surveys the tree. “I think Frank’s looking sharp. A little eclectic, a little classy. Just like us.”

You smile, nudging his side. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he replies smoothly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. “So, what’s next? Stockings? Mistletoe? A twenty-foot inflatable snowman for the balcony?”

“Stockings, yes. Mistletoe, maybe. The snowman? Absolutely not.”

“Buzzkill,” Tony mutters, but he’s grinning as he grabs a pair of stockings from one of the shopping bags. “Do we hang these by the nonexistent chimney with care? Or do we just toss them wherever and hope Santa’s GPS works?”

You snatch the stockings from him, rolling your eyes. “We hang them on the wall, genius. Like civilized people.”

As you arrange the stockings Tony rummages through another bag, producing a tangled mess of garland. He holds it up triumphantly. “What do you think? Wall art or trip hazard?”

“Knowing you? Both.”

He laughs, draping the garland over his shoulders like a boa. “You’re no fun. But fine, I’ll keep it classy. Where do you want it?”

After some debate—and an accidental garland lassoing incident—you manage to string it up along the window, adding a cozy, festive touch to the room. By the time you’re finished, the apartment feels transformed. The tree twinkles in the corner, the stockings hang proudly on the wall, and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle still lingers in the air.

Tony collapses onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, patting the space beside him. “All right, decorating queen. Come admire our masterpiece.”

You join him, tucking your feet under you as you lean against his side. He throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as the two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching the lights on the tree blink and twinkle.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice softer than usual, “this actually turned out pretty great.”

“You sound surprised,” you tease, resting your head against his chest.

“I’m not surprised,” he replies, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I just… I don’t know. It’s nice. Having this. With you.”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice, and you tilt your head to look up at him. His expression is uncharacteristically serious, his brown eyes warm and earnest.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your hand finding his. “It is.”

He squeezes your hand, his usual smirk returning as he glances at the tree. “Although I still say the pineapple should’ve been the topper.”

You groan, laughing as you swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he quips, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Guess that makes me irresistible.”

“Or maybe I’m just a saint,” you reply, grinning up at him.

“Either way,” he says, settling back against the couch with a satisfied sigh, “this is shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.”

And as you sit there, the soft glow of the tree lighting up the room, you can’t help but agree.

The snow falls gently, blanketing the cobblestone streets of the Christmas market in a powdery white. Strings of twinkling lights are draped between booths, casting a warm glow over the bustling scene. The air is rich with the mingling scents of roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, and sweet pastries, and the faint hum of Christmas carols played by a live quartet in the distance adds a magical touch to the atmosphere.

You clutch Tony’s arm as the two of you wander through the market, your boots crunching softly against the snow-dusted ground. He’s wearing his favorite dark coat, the one that hugs his shoulders just right, and a red scarf that you gave him last Christmas. The scarf is slightly askew, and it makes him look effortlessly charming in that disheveled way only he can pull off.

“You know,” he says, his breath puffing out in little clouds, “this place is like a booby trap for wallets. Everywhere you turn, something’s glittering and saying, ‘Buy me! Buy me!’ It’s diabolical.”

You laugh, tightening your grip on his arm. “It’s a Christmas market, Tony. That’s kind of the point.”

He grins, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah, well, just remember, you’re in charge of stopping me from buying a chocolate fountain or a solid gold Santa.”

“Solid gold Santa? That’s oddly specific.”

“Give it time,” he replies. “I’m sure there’s a booth for it somewhere. Maybe next to the artisanal hot chocolate stand.”

As if on cue, you pass a booth selling gourmet hot chocolate, complete with toppings ranging from whipped cream to crushed candy canes. Tony slows, glancing at the display with obvious interest.

“Should we?” he asks, already reaching for his wallet.

“Tony, we’ve been here five minutes, and you’re already caving,” you tease, pulling him away gently. “Let’s at least make it past the first aisle before we start buying things.”

“Fine, but I’m circling back for it,” he says, shooting the booth a longing look as you guide him onward.

The market is a sensory overload in the best possible way. Every booth offers something unique: hand-carved wooden toys, blown glass ornaments, cozy knit scarves, and even quirky items like soap shaped like reindeer. Tony, naturally, gravitates toward the most absurd finds.

“Look at this!” he exclaims, holding up a ceramic frog wearing a Santa hat. “Tell me this isn’t peak holiday spirit.”

“It’s…something,” you admit, trying not to laugh. “But do we really need a festive frog in our lives?”

“We don’t need it, but we deserve it,” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “You’re really going to deny Frank the Frog a warm, loving home?”

You snatch the frog from his hands, placing it back on the display. “Frank the Frog will have to find a family that appreciates him more than we do.”

“Cold,” Tony mutters, shaking his head as you move on. “Heartless. And here I thought you were the soft one in this relationship.”

You glance back at him, smirking. “You clearly don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, I know you,” he replies, falling into step beside you again. “I also know you’re going to want to buy something completely impractical any minute now. And when you do, I’ll be ready to gloat.”

“Fat chance,” you say, but you can already feel your resolve slipping as you pass a booth selling intricately detailed snow globes. One of them catches your eye—a small, delicate scene of a snow-covered village illuminated from within. You reach out to pick it up, turning it over to watch the snow swirl inside.

Tony sidles up next to you, a smug grin on his face. “And here it is. The impractical thing.”

“It’s not impractical,” you protest, cradling the snow globe carefully. “It’s…beautiful.”

“It’s also one more thing for me to dust,” he teases, but there’s no bite to his words. He leans closer, examining the globe with genuine interest. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s pretty cool. But do we really need it?”

You hesitate, your fingers curling around the base of the globe. “Probably not,” you say reluctantly, setting it back down. “But if I’m not allowed to buy the snow globe, you’re definitely not allowed to buy Frank the Frog.”

“Deal,” he says with a laugh, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the next aisle. “We’ll save our money for something really ridiculous.”

The snow continues to fall, soft and steady, as you explore more of the market. Tony insists on sampling every food item in sight—gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, candied almonds—and you can’t help but laugh at the way his face lights up with each new bite.

“This,” he says, holding up a stick of caramel-dipped apple slices, “is how you do a Christmas market. Pure sugar, zero regrets.”

“You’re going to crash so hard later,” you warn, nibbling on one of the apple slices he offers you.

“Worth it,” he replies, his tone entirely unapologetic. “Besides, I’m burning calories walking in circles and fending off your bad taste in snow globes.”

“Watch it,” you say, swatting his arm lightly. “Or I’ll let you buy something ridiculous just to prove a point.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he replies, grinning. “You’re too responsible for that.”

“Don’t test me,” you warn, though you’re smiling too.

Eventually, the two of you come across a booth selling handmade ornaments, each one painted with intricate designs. Tony picks up one shaped like a tiny sled, examining it with a critical eye.

“Okay, this one’s actually pretty cool,” he says, holding it out to you. “And it’s functional. In an emergency, we could probably use it to deliver tiny presents.”

You laugh, taking the ornament from him. “I don’t think it’s meant for that, but it’s cute. Should we get it?”

“Absolutely,” he replies. “Frank the Tree deserves at least one classy ornament.”

“Classy? From the guy who wanted to buy a glittery pineapple?”

“Hey, I contain multitudes,” he says with a shrug, handing over cash to the vendor.

With the ornament carefully tucked away in a bag, you and Tony continue your stroll through the market, the lights twinkling above you like stars. He keeps a running commentary on everything you pass—mocking the price of hand-knitted mittens, marveling at the craftsmanship of a miniature nativity scene, and cracking jokes about a booth selling gourmet dog treats.

“Do you think they’d let us try one?” he asks, holding up a bone-shaped biscuit labeled ‘peanut butter delight.’

“Tony, no,” you say, laughing as you drag him away.

By the time you reach the end of the market, your hands are full of small treasures—a bag of candied almonds, the sled ornament, and a knit scarf that Tony insisted would “complete your winter aesthetic.” The snow has begun to stick to your hair and his, and the cold is starting to nip at your cheeks.

“This was a good call,” Tony says, his arm slung casually around your shoulders as you head back toward the entrance. “Although I’m still not sure how we managed to resist buying the frog.”

“Self-control,” you reply, leaning into him. “A concept you’re not usually familiar with.”

“Hey, I’ve got self-control,” he says, feigning offense. “I just choose to apply it sparingly.”

You laugh, your breath puffing out in the cold air. “Well, I’m proud of us. We didn’t blow our entire budget on useless stuff.”

“Not entirely useless,” he corrects. “The sled ornament is both decorative and practical, remember?”

“Right,” you say, grinning up at him. “It’s a critical investment.”

He smirks, brushing a snowflake from your cheek. “Exactly. And anyway, the best part of the market wasn’t the stuff we bought. It was spending the evening with you.”

Your chest warms at his words, and you pause for a moment, looking up at him as the snow falls softly around you. The twinkling lights of the market reflect in his eyes, and the grin on his face softens into something more sincere.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, though your voice is full of affection.

“Only for you,” he replies, leaning down to kiss you gently, the cold of his lips quickly warming against yours.

The two of you stand there for a moment, surrounded by the magic of the market, the snow falling around you like a scene from a movie. It’s one of those moments you’ll tuck away and remember years from now—simple, sweet, and perfect in its own way.

As you pull apart, Tony grins, slipping his hand into yours. “Come on, let’s go find that hot chocolate stand. I’m not leaving here without it.”

“Hot chocolate sounds perfect,” you agree, your fingers lacing through his as you head back toward the market, ready to end the evening on a sweet note.

The smell of something burning wafts through the apartment as you step out of the bedroom, pulling on your favorite fuzzy socks. It's a warm, cozy kind of Christmas Eve, with snow falling softly outside and the apartment glowing with fairy lights. Except for one thing—the scent hanging in the air doesn’t scream “cozy Christmas.” It screams, “Tony Stark’s been unsupervised in the kitchen.”

“Tony?” you call, heading toward the source of the smell. “What’s going on in there?”

“No need to panic!” his voice answers, though it’s far from reassuring. “Everything’s under control.”

You round the corner into the kitchen to find him standing at the stove, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. There’s a pot on the burner, filled with what can only be described as a charred, lumpy mess, and a thin haze of smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling.

“Under control?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Is this your definition of control?”

Tony glances at the pot and then back at you, his face a mix of sheepishness and determination. “It’s a minor setback. I was…experimenting.”

“With what? Kitchen sabotage?”

He scoffs, leaning against the counter as though the mess behind him doesn’t exist. “For your information, I was attempting to make homemade peppermint hot chocolate. Thought I’d surprise you. But apparently, chocolate has a vendetta against me.”

Your lips twitch as you try to suppress a smile. “Let me guess. You burned it?”

“Burned is a strong word,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’d say it’s more… caramelized.”

You peer into the pot, wrinkling your nose. “Tony, this isn’t caramelized. It’s cremated.”

“Details,” he replies breezily, but you can see the frustration behind his teasing tone.

You sigh, stepping closer and nudging him aside gently. “Okay, chef, move over. Let’s salvage this disaster.”

Tony steps back, his arms raised in surrender, watching as you turn off the burner and grab a fresh pot. “You’re really just going to take over? No faith in my culinary prowess?”

“I have faith in many of your skills,” you reply, dumping the ruined chocolate into the trash. “Cooking? Not one of them.”

“Fair,” he admits with a grin, hopping up to sit on the counter. “But in my defense, it’s chocolate. You melt it, you stir it, you drink it. How hard can it be?”

You grab a bar of good-quality chocolate from the pantry and start breaking it into pieces, throwing him a look. “Clearly harder than you thought.”

Tony chuckles, watching you work. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? My moment of weakness.”

“A little,” you admit, your lips curving into a smile as you measure out milk and pour it into the pot. “But mostly I’m wondering how you managed to mess it up so badly. Did you even melt the chocolate?”

“Define ‘melt,’” he says, his grin widening.

You groan, shaking your head as you stir the milk over low heat. “Okay, new rule: You’re not allowed near the stove unless I’m supervising.”

“Oh, come on,” he protests, hopping down from the counter and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, and his breath tickles your ear. “I was trying to do something nice for you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Your heart softens, and you turn your head slightly to meet his gaze. “It does,” you say, your voice gentle. “But maybe next time, start with something less…flammable?”

“Duly noted,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before stepping back. “All right, teach me, master chef. How do we make the perfect peppermint hot chocolate?”

You laugh, handing him the whisk. “First, you don’t burn the chocolate. Now, stir the milk gently while I add the chocolate pieces.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, adopting a mock-serious tone as he starts whisking. His movements are a little overdramatic, and the milk splashes slightly, but it’s endearing.

“Gentle, Tony,” you say, biting back a smile as you add the chocolate. “This isn’t an arm workout.”

“Sorry, force of habit,” he quips, his grin unapologetic. “I’ve only got one speed: full throttle.”

The chocolate begins to melt, turning the milk a rich, velvety brown. Tony leans in closer, his expression a mix of curiosity and concentration. “Okay, this part’s kind of fun. It’s like alchemy.”

“Sure,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “The alchemy of not burning things.”

As the hot chocolate comes together, you grab a bottle of peppermint extract and hold it up. “Now for the magic ingredient. Just a couple of drops.”

Tony watches as you add the peppermint, the warm, sweet aroma filling the air. “Smells amazing,” he says, his tone genuine. “Almost makes up for the fact that I nearly burned down the apartment.”

“Almost,” you agree, giving the mixture one last stir before grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

As you pour the hot chocolate, Tony wanders over to the counter, his movements casual—but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. Before you can question it, he points upward.

You follow his gaze and spot a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. “When did you—?”

“Earlier,” he says, his grin widening. “Figured it might come in handy.”

You shake your head, setting the mugs down and stepping closer. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“And yet, you love me,” he replies, his voice softening as he leans in.

You meet him halfway, his lips warm against yours despite the cold air outside. It’s a sweet, lingering kiss, and when you pull back, his eyes are brighter than the Christmas lights strung around the room.

“Mistletoe is definitely your best idea today,” you say, your voice teasing but full of affection.

“Better than cremated chocolate?” he asks, feigning surprise.

“Much better,” you reply, laughing as you hand him his mug. “Now, let’s see if this is worth the trouble.”

The two of you settle on the couch, blankets draped over your legs as you sip the hot chocolate. It’s rich and creamy, with just the right hint of peppermint, and you can’t help but sigh in contentment.

“This is perfect,” you say, leaning your head against his shoulder. “See what happens when you let me help?”

He nudges you playfully, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “Okay, okay, I admit it. You’re the hot chocolate queen. But next year, I’m making it on my own. No supervision.”

“You’re never living this down, Tony,” you reply, grinning up at him. “But nice try.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Merry Christmas, troublemaker.”

“Merry Christmas,” you reply softly, the snow falling outside and the warmth of his arms making it the perfect end to the day.

The apartment is quiet save for the crackling of the fireplace video looping on the TV and the faint hum of Christmas music in the background. The room is bathed in a soft, golden glow from the tree lights, the perfect backdrop for the growing pile of wrapping paper at your feet. It's Christmas morning, and for the past half-hour, you and Tony have been exchanging gifts, both of you trying (and mostly failing) to keep your emotions in check.

Tony’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing the pajamas you picked out for him—flannel pants and a red shirt that says “Official Cookie Tester.” His hair is a mess from sleep, and he looks so boyishly excited every time he hands you a new box that you can’t help but fall a little more in love with him.

Your own pile of gifts so far includes a pair of earrings that match the necklace he got you last year, a first edition of your favorite book, and a framed photo of the two of you from your first vacation together, one of his rare sweet gestures that never fail to make your heart swell.

“Okay, your turn,” you say, handing him a flat, rectangular box with a silver bow.

He narrows his eyes at it playfully, shaking it gently. “Feels suspiciously light. Did you get me socks?”

“I’d never waste good wrapping paper on socks,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “Just open it.”

He flashes you a grin before tearing into the paper, his eyebrows shooting up when he sees what’s inside. It’s a custom leather-bound notebook embossed with his initials—a thoughtful, elegant gift you’d spent weeks planning.

“I know you’ve been sketching a lot lately,” you explain, watching his face closely. “I figured you could use something a little more…official.”

Tony runs his fingers over the cover, and for a moment, he’s completely silent. Then he looks up at you, his expression soft and unguarded. “It’s perfect,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “Seriously. Thank you.”

You smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

He clears his throat, a telltale sign he’s feeling emotional, and sets the notebook carefully aside before grabbing a box from behind him. “All right, your turn,” he says, handing it to you with a slightly smug expression. “Let’s see if I can top that.”

You laugh, untying the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a delicate bracelet inlaid with tiny gemstones, each one sparkling in the light. It’s understated but stunning—classic Tony.

Your breath catches as you lift it out of the box, and you glance up at him. “Tony, this is—”

“—just a little something,” he interrupts, brushing off your awe with a wave of his hand. “Figured you could use more jewelry to match your impeccable taste.”

You set the bracelet down carefully and throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I love it.”

He hugs you back, his hand warm against your back. “Love you more,” he murmurs, and for a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you.

When you pull back, you swipe at your eyes, laughing softly. “Okay, before I cry and ruin the moment, I think it’s time for the last gifts.”

“Ah, the pièce de résistance,” Tony says, his grin returning as he reaches for a small, sloppily wrapped box on the coffee table. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

You hand him a box of your own, equally poorly wrapped, and exchange a knowing look. “You first,” you say, gesturing to his gift.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He rips into the paper with an enthusiasm usually reserved for high-stakes projects, and when he finally pulls out the contents, he freezes. His hand lifts the small ceramic frog in a Santa hat—the one you’d teased him about at the Christmas market.

“No way,” he says, his voice full of disbelief.

“Way,” you reply, biting back a grin. “I couldn’t let Frank the Frog end up in someone else’s house. He belongs with us.”

Tony stares at the frog, and for a moment, you think he might actually tear up. Then he looks at you, shaking his head with a mix of laughter and affection. “You are ridiculous,” he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “I can’t believe you bought this.”

“Well, I knew you’d never forgive me if I didn’t,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.

He sets the frog carefully on the coffee table, like it’s a priceless artifact, and then leans over to kiss you, his lips warm and lingering. “You’re the best,” he whispers. “Seriously. This might be the greatest gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you reply, though your cheeks flush at his words.

“Your turn,” he says, gesturing to the box in your lap. “Prepare to have your mind blown.”

You laugh, unwrapping the box, and the moment you see what’s inside, your laughter turns to a choked gasp. It’s the snow globe from the Christmas market—the one with the tiny snow-covered village you couldn’t stop staring at.

“You didn’t,” you say, your voice wavering.

“I did,” he replies, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “Figured if I couldn’t have Frank the Frog, the least I could do was make sure you got this.”

You lift the globe out of the box, turning it over to watch the snow swirl inside. It’s just as beautiful as you remembered, and the thoughtfulness of his gesture makes your chest ache in the best possible way.

“Tony…” you trail off, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“Don’t start crying,” he warns, though his own eyes are suspiciously bright. “You’re gonna set me off.”

You laugh wetly, shaking your head as you set the snow globe on the coffee table next to the frog. “I can’t believe we both bought the stupid things.”

He laughs too, leaning back against the couch with an incredulous shake of his head. “We’re a mess.”

“A perfect mess,” you correct, leaning against him.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. “Agreed. And now Frank and the snow globe can live happily ever after. A Christmas miracle.”

You snort, burying your face in his shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”

“And yet, you love me,” he replies, his voice smug but affectionate.

You glance up at him, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah, I do.”

He leans down, kissing you softly, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. When he pulls back, he grins. “Best Christmas ever?”

“Best Christmas ever,” you agree, snuggling into his side as the snow falls softly outside, and the room fills with laughter and love.