#i think i watched like half or more of the race but there rly was no point so i skipped to the post-race

[skitskatdacat63]

2005 United States Grand Prix - aka Tiago Montiero having the best day of his life and everybody else having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

[d1stalker]

The Feeling's Mutual | Part One

[Logan Howlett x Mutant!Reader]

Summary: If somebody told you a week ago that you were a mutant, being stalked, and would be teaming up with an annoying, grumbly bastard, you probably would have laughed in their face. Too bad that was last week, because here you are, in that very situation, wondering how in the world things escalated so quickly.

PART TWO PART THREE FINAL PART

Warnings: fem!reader, canon-level violence, reluctant alliance, bickering, not exactly enemies-to-lovers but they don't rly get along, it's gonna be a slow burn y'all WC: 5.7k - MASTERLIST - A/N: If you saw me post this earlier, no you didn't 🤫 i added more hehe

You’ve never been so confused in your entire life.

It all started last week—when you were walking to the grocery store. Just an ordinary day, nothing special about it. You had a list in your hand, some cash in your pocket, and thoughts of what to cook for dinner running through your mind. The route you took had you winding down the usual streets of your neighbourhood, and that’s when you noticed him.

Something about him was different, but you couldn’t quite place your finger on what it was that made you think that. Perhaps it was the way his eyes followed you, stalking you, like a predator its prey.

At first, you thought it might be a coincidence. Maybe he was just another person going about his day, heading in the same direction as you. People share paths all the time; there was no reason to suspect anything sinister, right? But as you continued walking, a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach told you something was off. You decided to test it, making a sudden turn down a side street, one you usually never take.

The street was quieter, less foot traffic, and the late afternoon shadows were starting to stretch across the pavement. You glanced over your shoulder, and there he was, still a few steps behind, his gaze remaining locked onto you with a focus that sent a shiver down your spine. Quickening your pace, you felt an almost paralyzing fear.

This wasn’t just a shared route. 

The more you turned, the more you weaved through unfamiliar streets, the more persistent he became. He never faltered, never hesitated, always keeping just close enough to let you know he was there.

Finally, you reached the store, breathing in short, panicked gasps, your eyes flitting around. You ducked inside, hiding the fluorescent lights and bustling aisles. You tried to calm yourself, telling yourself it was nothing, that you were being paranoid. After all, what were the odds? Maybe he’d walk past, maybe he wasn’t even following you. You spent longer than usual picking up items you didn’t need, giving him time to disappear. 

But when you walked back outside, bags in hand, you saw him again. He wasn’t right at the door, but still, close enough—across the street, half-hidden in the shadow of another building, watching. His eyes locked with yours once more, and you froze, the plastic handles of the grocery bags digging into your palms as your grip tightened in fear. He didn’t move, didn’t smile or sneer, just stood there, silent.

You rushed home, not even bothering to see if he was tracking you down, too scared to find out the answer. Your mind was racing with a million thoughts. Who was he? What did he want? You didn’t sleep much that night, jumping at every creak and groan the apartment made, the image of that man’s cold stare burned into your mind.

The next day, you told yourself it was nothing, a one-time thing, just some creep who had too much time on his hands. A pervert, possibly. 

But happened again. A different man this time, but with the same unnerving intensity. He followed you the same way, mute and relentless, through the streets, to the store, and back home.

Then the day after that, and that, and that. They didn’t approach you directly, just followed, watched, waited. It was like a game, one that you didn’t know the rules to, and the stakes felt like they were getting higher and higher and more time passed. Whenever you stepped outside, you felt their eyes on you, felt their presence lurking just out of sight. It was terrifying.

The fear gnawed at you, growing with each passing day, until it became impossible to ignore. You started taking different routes, avoiding your usual stores, changing your routine as much as you could. Still, no matter what you did, they always found you.

Soon it changed—no longer just silent stalking. One night, as you were walking home, one of the men stepped out from the shadows and blocked your path. His presence was oppressive, the way he stood there, so still, so certain of his power over you. You had no idea what he wanted, but you knew it whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“Why are you following me?” you demanded, trying to muster up all the courage you could, voice shaking slightly despite your attempt to sound strong.

“Because we were told to,” the man said, his voice cold and emotionless. There was no malice, no pleasure in his words, just a chilling matter-of-factness. “You’re coming with us.”

Panic surged through you, a primal instinct to run, to fight, to do anything but comply. You refused to show it, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you spat back, hoping your defiance would be enough to make him reconsider.

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in them, and before you could react, he lunged at you, his fist swinging with brutal intent. Time seemed to slow as you saw the blow coming, your mind racing, but your body moving almost on instinct. You raised your arms to defend yourself, bracing for the crushing impact that would follow.

You couldn’t explain what happened next. When his fist connected with your arm, the force that should have sent you to the ground, left you unscathed. Instead, it was the man who staggered back, a look of shock and pain twisting his features. He clutched his hand, wincing as if he had struck something far harder than just flesh and bone.

You stared at him, bewildered, before glancing down at your own arm in disbelief. There was no pain, no bruise, nothing to indicate that you’d just been hit. It was as if his attack had bounced off of you, like you were made of steel.

Had you really just blocked that hit? And why did it feel like… nothing?

Before you could process what had happened, before the realization could fully take root, another man appeared out of nowhere, moving with a speed that blurred the edges of his form. Mutant. He was faster than the first, more determined, and this time, you felt your heart stop as he came at you from behind, his hands outstretched to grab you.

But something in you reacted faster than your fear. You twisted out of his grip with lightning speed, with movements so fluid and precise, it was as if your body knew exactly what to do, even if your brain was struggling to keep up. You sidestepped his attack, narrowly avoiding his grasp, and found yourself behind him, safe for the moment.

“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath, your heart pounding in your chest. How did you move like that? How had you known where to go, how to dodge?

There was no time to dwell on it. The fight intensified in an instant, the two men coming at you one after another, relentless in their assault. They weren’t holding back, and suddenly neither were you. You moved like a force of nature, dodging their attacks, striking back when you could. Each punch you threw landed with a power that surprised even you. You watched in stunned disbelief as one of the men crumpled to the ground after a single blow, his eyes rolling back as if he’d been hit by a truck.

You are not a gym regular. In fact, you hadn’t worked out in weeks. You weren’t strong, not like this. So how was it possible that your punches were so devastating, that each one seemed to carry a weight far beyond what you’d ever imagined?

Then, with a flick of his wrist, the first mutant, conjured a ball of fire in his hand, the flames crackling and roaring, craving something to burn. He hurled it at you, the fireball spinning through the air with only one target in mind. 

You barely had time to scream as the flames engulfed your arm, the searing heat burning through your skin. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot agony that made you gasp and stumble back. You expected to see your skin blackened, blistered, ruined.

And it was.

For a minute. 

To your shock—or horror—you looked down, breath catching in your throat as you watched the burn heal right before your eyes. The charred skin knitted back together in seconds, smooth and unblemished, as if nothing had happened at all.

What the fuck? 

It was in that moment that the truth hit you, like a thunderclap in your mind. You weren’t just an ordinary person caught in a nightmare. You were a mutant, with powers that had only now revealed themselves, right when you needed them most.

The men kept coming, but now you fought with a new understanding. Each punch, each dodge, each rapid movement felt more controlled, more intentional, your gym class self-defence courses coming in clutch. You were strong, faster than you’d ever been, and you could heal—regenerate from injuries that would have left others incapacitated.

Finally, the two men laid groaning on the ground, defeated. You stood there, panting, your mind spinning as you tried to make sense of it all. Super strength, super speed, regeneration… these powers, they were yours. And they had just saved your life.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, confusion set in. What did these men want with you? Why had they gone to such lengths to provoke you? To make you discover what you were capable of? 

All you knew was that one thing was clear: this was far from over. Whoever had sent these men wouldn’t stop here. They knew what you were now, and that meant they’d come after you again. You weren’t just an ordinary person anymore. You were something else, something powerful. And that put a target on your back. 

Whatever was coming next, you needed to be ready.

----

That’s how you found yourself here, one week later, crouched on the apartment rooftop, the cold wind nipping at your exposed skin. The dark streets below are eerily silent, save for the distant hum of traffic. You sense them before you see them—another group of male mutants, closing in on your position. You grip the hilt of your knife tighter, feeling the now-familiar twinge of anger and frustration settle in your chest. This is the fifth group tonight. They’ve been hunting you in groups for days now, their numbers increasing as each one goes by, and you’re tired of it. 

You’ve started to get used to your new powers—testing your limits, pushing yourself harder with each confrontation. What started as simple self-defence, a punch here, a dodge there, has escalated into something far more lethal.

You didn’t want to kill, didn’t want to by use your sharpest kitchen knife (your only kitchen knife) as a weapon, but as the attacks became more violent, you found yourself with little to no choice. 

These mutants weren’t holding back, and neither could you.

Within a week, you went from the most average person in the world to what some people might call a vigilante—except you're really only trying to save your own skin.

Leaping off the roof, you land silently behind them. The speed at which you move is almost dizzying, your body a blur as you close the distance in the blink of an eye. 

“Looking for someone?” you call out sarcastically.

They turn, eyes widening in surprise, but you’re already moving. Your blade sings through the air, striking true, as you move like a shadow, taking them down one by one. It’s not easy—these guys are tough—but you’ve become tougher. With each strike, you can feel your strength surging, far beyond what should be possible. One of the mutants tries to block you, creating a forcefield, but you grab the edges before it can fully form, and break through it, the temporary pain vanishing as quick as it came. A solid kick to his face, and he crumples to the ground, unconscious before he even realizes it.

“Is this what you wanted?!” you shout, your voice echoing through the empty street as the last attacker falls to the ground, groaning in pain. “Is this what you came for?!”

The answer doesn’t come from them. Rather, it comes from a low growl behind you. 

You whirl around, heart racing, and there he is—Logan Howlett—the Wolverine himself. The man you’ve read about in every article, every piece of mutant-related news you could get your hands on since discovering your own abilities. He’s infamous, pretty much a legend, and the stories about him are as terrifying as they are fascinating.

Standing there with that scowl on his face, he looks every bit the dangerous figure you’ve imagined. His eyes are blank, calculating, and you can feel the weight of his gaze as it sizes you up. There’s a tension in the air, thick and suffocating, as he takes a step closer.

“So, you’re the one causing all this trouble,” Logan states gruffly, irritation coating his tongue. He unsheathes his claws, the adamantium glimmering under the streetlights. The sound is unmistakable, and it sends shivers down your spine. “Heard you’ve been killin’ off mutants left and right.”

You narrow your eyes, instinctively stepping back into a defensive stance. Your heart is pounding, but you can't show any weakness. 

“Funny, I thought the same about you, Wolverine. What’s the matter? Run out of bad guys to play hero with?”

Without warning, he charges at you, claws outstretched, but you’re ready. You dart to the side, your speed giving you an edge as his claws slice through the air where you’d been standing, making a woosh sound. You counter with a swift kick to his ribs, putting your enhanced strength into the blow. He grunts, stumbling slightly, but quickly regains his balance. The momentary advantage you gained is gone as he storms toward you once more.

You meet his attacks head-on, your blade clashing with his claws in a shower of sparks. The force of each impact reverberates through your arms, but you hold your ground, refusing to back down. His attacks are ferocious, a whirlwind of claws and fury. He's fast, but you’re faster, dodging and weaving with a precision that keeps you just out of reach.

“Look, sweetheart,” he growls between strikes, his frustration evident. “You can make this easy or hard. I don’t care which, but I’m not lettin’ you hurt anyone else.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you deflect another swipe of his claws. “Oh, please. You think I’m the bad guy here? These jerks have been coming after me for days. I’m just defending myself.”

Logan doesn’t look convinced, and that pisses you off more than anything. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe you, why? You’re leavin’ a trail of bodies behind you.”

You narrow your eyes, feeling the anger boil over. “Because I’m not the one who started this! They did! But of course, you wouldn’t know that, would you? You just show up, swinging your claws around like you’re the big savior.”

“You got a mouth on you, don’t ya?” He retorts, snarling as he charges at you again, faster this time. You barely have time to block his attack, the force of his blow sending you skidding back several feet. But you dig your heels in, refusing to give an inch as he continues plows forward. Your speed kicks in, allowing you to duck under his next swing and land a punch to his jaw.

He staggers, but quickly recovers, swiping at you with renewed fury. You're a bit sloppy compared to him, not as much of a seasoned fighter. His claws swipe at your arm, cutting deep and drawing blood, but the wound heals almost instantly, the skin closing up as if it had never been cut. You see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it doesn’t slow him down. He lunges again, becoming a blur of motion as he ups the ante.

You parry with your knife, but this time, you’re on the offensive. You launch a rapid series of attacks, your speed and strength managing to drive him back. In the rush of movement, you're able to see an opening, grasping his shoulder and shoving him hard, sending him crashing into a nearby wall. The impact is enough to crack the brick, but Logan just shakes it off, pushing himself back to his feet.

“Gotta say,” you huff, panting slightly from the exertion, “I’m a little disappointed. I expected more from the you, after all I’ve heard.”

Logan grunts, clearly fed up with the banter. “I'm done talking.”

He lunges at you again, and this time, it’s a battle of wills as much as it is of skill. You don't back down, your knife clashing with his claws in a series of rapid, brutal strikes. The alleyway becomes a blur of movement, metal against metal, strength against strength. Each time his claws find their mark, your regenerative abilities kick in, healing the wounds almost as quickly as they’re made. 

And for a moment, you wonder if you’ll have to kill him too, just to survive. But then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way your attacks grow weaker, less lethal. Or maybe it’s the way Logan’s eyes narrow in realization when he notices your hesitance.

“Wait a damn minute,” Logan says, stepping back just out of your reach, wiping his mouth, then spitting on the ground. He’s breathing hard, just like you. “You’re holdin’ back.”

He pauses, his eyes narrowing as they flick down to the knife you’ve been holding, and then back up to you. His expression shifts, a mix of disbelief and exasperation crossing his face. “And is that a kitchen knife?”

You glance down at the knife in your hand, realizing how absurd it must look in the middle of this intense fight. It’s not exactly standard combat gear, but it’s all you had when this started. You can’t help the smirk that pulls at your lips as you meet his gaze again.

“It gets the job done,” you quip, shrugging slightly.

He shakes his head, clearly not impressed. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“I'm choosing to take that as a compliment,” The sarcasm is practically oozing off of you.

He eyes you warily, his posture still tense. “You’re not makin’ this easy, you know. You got me here thinkin’ you’re some crazed mutant killer, but you’re just a girl wavin’ around a kitchen knife like you’re in a bad horror movie.”

You cross your arms. “Well, I didn’t exactly have time to hit up a weapons store. Besides, I didn’t ask for any of this. These guys came after me first.”

Logan studies you. “So you say. But you’re killing dozens of mutants. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘innocent.’”

“Trust me, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be doing this–fighting… killing–at all. Hell, I didn’t even know I was a mutant until some guy swung his fist at me a week ago.” You meet his gaze, challenging him. “And what about you? You’re not exactly known for playing nice.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, most of my casualties are from the missions I go on, so I'd say it's justified.”

Your eyes narrow, catching the implication in his words. “Oh, am I your mission now? How long have you been tracking me?”

Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a slight shift in his posture, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve hit on something. “Long enough to know you’re not just some innocent bystander caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So, what? You’ve been watching me, waiting for me to screw up so you could take me down?” you demand, the frustration clear in your voice.

“Something like that,” he replies gruffly, “But from what I’ve seen, you’re more reactive than proactive," he looks you up and down. "I can’t seem figure out if you’re the real threat here, or just someone caught in the middle of a bigger mess.”

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm the fiery anger rising within you. “I told you, I didn’t start this. They did. I’m just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, teeth grinding as he considers your words. You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to piece together whether you’re telling the truth or just playing him. He takes a step closer, his claws still out but not as threatening as before.

Finally, he asks, “You got a name?”

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “No shit I have a name.”

Logan huffs, unimpressed by your attitude. “Well, if you’re not gonna tell me, I’m just gonna have to call you somethin’… How 'bout Knifey?”

You stare at him, half-expecting him to crack a smile, but he’s dead serious. “Knifey? Really?”

Logan shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he eyes your weapon of choice again. “Fits, don’t you think?”

“Fine. I’ll tell you my name, alright? Anything but Knifey.” You say, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“... Gotta say, Knifey sounds a little better”

“Shut the fuck up, Wolverine”

“It’s Logan, actually.”

You release a deep sigh. “I know, and I don’t care. I’m telling you I am not the one you need to be going after.”

Logan scoffs, crossing his arms. “I’ve been around a long time. Seen my fair share of people who think they’re doin’ the right thing and end up doin’ a hell of a lot of damage. So, forgive me if I’m a little skeptical.”

“You would know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?” The words come out of your mouth before you had time to think about them, and you regret it immediately. You can see the mutant in front of you’s face darken to a degree bordering murderous, and you think you’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from. Whatever playful banter existed before this is gone.

“Careful,” He growls menacingly, “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You swallow hard. The Wolverine is infamous for a reason, and you just poked at the beast beneath the surface. You briefly consider backing down, but your pride refuses to let you.

“Maybe I don’t,” you admit, “But I do know what it’s like to be hunted, to have no choice but to fight back. So yeah, maybe we’re more alike than you think.”

Logan’s glare softens just a fraction, and he lets out a long, frustrated breath. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do ya?”

“Not when I’m trying to make a point,” you retort.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just stares at you, as if he’s trying to decide whether to continue this conversation or end it with his claws. Ultimately, he shakes his head, the anger in his eyes dimming, replaced by something more akin to weary resignation.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Maybe you’re not the one I should be takin’ down. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna start trustin’ you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” you reply, feeling a bit of relief that the situation isn’t about to escalate into another fight. “But I swear, there’s someone else out there pulling the strings. And I’m not sticking around to be their puppet.”

He nods slowly, crossing his arms again. “We’ll find out who’s behind this, but I’m callin’ the shots. You step outta line, and we’re gonna have a problem.”

You smirk, a little of your bravado returning. “I’ll try not to disappoint you, Logan.”

You can tell he doesn't appreciate your attitude, but he lets it slide. “Let’s get one thing straight. This ain’t a partnership. I’m doin’ this to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on, not because I like you.”

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” you shoot back, though there’s no real heat behind your words.

Logan turns abruptly, not even bothering to beckon you with him.

It makes you roll your eyes but you fall in step beside him anyway, knowing that despite the rocky start, this uneasy alliance might be the only thing keeping you alive. 

“…So… where exactly are we going?”

He sends you a sidelong glance. "Who said I’m takin’ you anywhere?"

You throw your hands up, exasperated. "Well, if you don’t, these mutants are going to keep hunting me, and I’m going to keep killing them…” you shoot him a look, batting your eyelashes innocently. “You wouldn't want that, would you?"

“Fuck off”

"Well, too late for that now."

He grumbles something under his breath that you don’t quite catch, but it sounds a lot like cursing his bad luck.

"We’re headin’ to my place. It’s the safest spot right now."

----

Turn’s out, it’s not really his place. Or at least, it’s what you’d thought it’d be. It’s more of an abandoned warehouse that he just decided to seek refuge in one day, doing the bare minimum to make it feel at the very least, home-y. The heavy metal doors creak open, revealing a chaotic interior cluttered with garbage, old newspapers, and a few scattered items. In the corner, a single bed and a sagging couch that look like they’ve definitely seen better days.

Your nose wrinkles in disgust as you take in the mess. "Seriously?" you mutter, your voice tinged with disbelief. "This is where you've been hiding out? It looks like a tornado hit a thrift store."

Logan, who had been trailing behind you, lets out a low grunt as he shuffles past, not bothering to respond to your jab. His heavy footsteps echo in the otherwise silent space, the sound bouncing off the bare, cold walls. He heads straight for a small, battered table that looks like it's one sharp nudge away from collapsing. On it lies a worn notebook, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges, evidence of extensive use. Without a word, he picks it up and starts flipping through the pages, his expression unreadable.

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you step closer, peering over his shoulder. "What's this?" you ask, reaching out to take the notebook from him. He hesitates for a brief moment before relinquishing it into your hands. As you flip through the pages, your eyes widen in shock. The notes are detailed, almost obsessively so, listing the names of various mutants, their abilities, and the exact locations where their bodies were found. 

"Oh, great," you say with a sarcastic, half-hearted laugh. "You've been keeping tabs on me. What kind of creepy stalker are you?”

He rolls his eyes and snatches the notebook back, his voice dripping with irritation. "I wasn’t exactly tracking you. I was trying to track whoever’s been killing all those damn mutants."

Logan’s jaw tightens as you just continue to stare, and he lets out an exasperated sigh. "And don’t act all innocent. I needed to know who was causing all the chaos."

Scoffing, you continue to look through the notebook, stopping when you come across a particularly detailed entry. "Wow... 26 kills? Not too shabby for an amateur mutant, huh?"

“Is your mouth unable to stay shut?” he questions, though you know better than to answer that. 

The notebook flops back onto the table with a casual flick of your wrist. "Hey, don’t be mad just because I’m doing a better job than you expected."

He crosses his arms over his chest, his muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. "I’m not mad," he snaps. "I’m annoyed that you’re making light of this. It’s not exactly a high score to brag about."

"Oh, come on. You’re the one who turned this place into a shrine to my success” you smirk.

"It’s not a shrine," Logan growls, his patience wearing thin. "It’s a record. If you’d been paying more attention to what’s going on, you’d know that."

The playfulness fades from your face as his words hit home. He’s right, but you’re not about to admit it. Instead, you deflect. "Yeah, and if you’d bothered to talk to me instead of playing detective, maybe we’d have figured this out sooner."

"You think you’re the only one who’s had a rough time? This whole situation is a mess, and we’re both caught in it." His eyes narrow.

You cross your arms, mirroring his defensive posture. "You didn’t have to get involved, you know. Unless...what if you’re the bad guy here?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. "Using all these mutants to lure me into your dungeon under the pretense of trying to ‘stop’ me?"

His response is immediate. "I’m way too lazy to think of doing all that."

You can’t help but believe him, especially given the state of the warehouse. He clearly lacks the energy—or the interest—to tidy up his living space, let alone mastermind a complex plot. You let out a sigh and walk over to the sagging couch in the corner. The fabric is threadbare, and the springs groan in protest as you flop down onto it.

"Fine, fine... I trust you," you concede, though your tone is far from serious. "Did you notice anything specific amongst these mutants?"

"Yeah, I’ve noticed somethin’,” Logan says, dragging a hand down his face, now looking more tired than ever. “They’re all pretty low-key. Not exactly top-tier in the mutant rankings. Never caused any trouble before, yadda yadda. If anything, they’re usually on the weaker side."

You furrow your brows, intrigued. "So they’re not a serious threat."

"Exactly," Logan confirms with a nod. "It’s weird. These mutants aren’t the type to just go around being fuckin’ annoying like they have been. Someone—or something—must be pushing them into this."

"You think they’re all being controlled somehow?" you muse, the pieces slowly falling into place. "And that’s why they’re suddenly acting out of character?"

"Seems like it," He replies, rubbing his temples. "Must be powerful if they’re all falling in line like this. We’re going to have to dig deeper to find the source of it.

He moves to sit next to you on the couch, the worn fabric sinking even further under his weight. "Tell me everything you know," Logan says quietly, his voice a tinge softer now, almost coaxing. "Everything that’s happened to you."

You sigh and lean back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as you start to recount your experience. "It all began about a week ago. Just a normal day, I was walking to the grocery store, then I noticed this guy following me. At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But no matter where I went, he was always a few steps behind."

His attention sharpens, his gaze locking onto yours. "And?"

"It started as just stalking," you continue, your voice growing quieter as the memories flood back. "Nothing violent. But then, it started happening with different people. Each time, they were more persistent, more intimidating. It became clear that something was off."

You can feel Logan’s gaze burning into you, his concern evident in the way he leans closer, listening intently. "Eventually, they started getting aggressive," you say. "One night, one of them blocked my path and tried to grab me. I managed to fight him off, but when he hit me, it didn’t hurt. I mean, it should have, he looked pretty strong, but my arm felt fine. That’s when I realized I had powers—some form of super strength, super speed, and healing abilities."

"And you figured that out just from fighting them off?" he questions, somewhat impressed.

You nod, rubbing your arms as if to ward off a lingering chill. "Yeah. I didn’t really have a choice. They kept coming, and I had to use whatever I had to protect myself—including my damn kitchen knife. The more I fought, the more I understood what I could do.”

Logan pauses, his expression unreadable as he processes everything you’ve said. The dim light from the single bulb casts long shadows across the room, emphasizing the lines of fatigue etched into his face. Finally, he stands up, his movements slow and deliberate. "So, here’s the plan," he starts, his voice rough and tired. "We need to figure out exactly where these mutants are coming from. There’s gotta be a main location where they’re getting their orders or some central hub for this control."

You hum in agreement, though a part of you is reluctant to jump back into action so soon. "Alright, so how do we start tracking that down?"

His lips press into a thin line as he thinks it over. "We’ll stake out the rooftops. From up there, we can get a clear view of their movements and see if they’re converging somewhere specific. Maybe spot a pattern."

You stretch, stifling a yawn as you glance around the shabby room. "Okay, but are we doing that tonight? I’m pretty beat."

“Seriously? You want to put this off?" he accuses, face twisting in irritation.

"I’m up for it, but I’d be more effective if I’m not running on fumes. Plus, you look pretty tired yourself," you shrug. 

He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. We’ll do it tomorrow."

A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you sense his reluctance to agree. "So you agree with me," you state, not really feeling any real pride, but just wanting to push his buttons.

Logan grumbles under his breath as he starts to clear a space on the threadbare couch, which creaks loudly under even the slightest pressure. "Do you ever shut up? I’m letting you crash in my bed, aren’t I?"

You chuckle softly, watching him arrange a tattered blanket on the couch with exaggerated care. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Goodnight, old man."

"Watch it, Knifey," he mutters, settling onto the couch with a groan as the springs protest under his weight.

You roll your eyes at his choice of nickname, and with a sigh, you make your way over to the bed, which is small and far from luxurious, but it’s better than nothing. The mattress dips slightly as you climb in, and the covers are thin, barely providing any warmth. Still, exhaustion pulls at you, and you barely have time to think about what the covers smell like before sleep overtakes you.

----

pls comment or message me if you'd like to be added to the series taglist!

[leclerced]

Also☝️ I discovered icebergs(?). I mean I think it’s generally called like that. Yk when you have layers and like it goes deeper and deeper into the topic. And I’m watching such a good one on the most controversial F1 races. Now I want more

i tried posting this twice alr and it wouldnt let me.. but i love iceberg videos i watch sm of them. partially got into f1 bc i found a 3 pt iceberg series and just kept watching and being like.. woah wtf? this is crazy i have to get into this. idk if u want recs for them but i got em. this is like a special interest of mine.

i love video games so i find myself watching lore ice bergs for a lot of games i like - the elder scrolls and fallout series are rly good for this. so are the witcher and hitman.

history and science ones are also rly fun! this is a good one on weird experiments. cool one on paradoxes. space!!! didnt finish this one on ww1 but i liked the first half, and heres a ww2 one that i also haven’t finished.

usually when im watching i listen for cool stuff and then google it and go down rabbit holes ab them.

[paeonie-s]

 csm first half op + eds ranking hehe

op 1: KICK BACK tbh wasnt a massive fan of the song when i came out but its grown on me w the full context & lyrics it slayed idc NOW THE VISUALS ... filled me w euphoria when i first saw it have (re)watched half the fucking movies referenced ONLY BC MIDTERMS WAS BEATING MY ASS .. so creative and fun and dynamic and hectic as fuck the timing and directing on this is like incomprehensibly good. its funny asf and has such beautiful lively enviornments and lighting and such a cohesive feel despite how batshit everything is NO ONE HAS TALKED ABT THE SHOT W THE MOUNTAINS AND SKY AND THE BULLETS. AM I THE ONLY OEN WHOSE INSANE ABT THAT ONE. so so beautiful literally a look into the minds of fujimoto and the ani staff and a gift upon this earth. 10/10

ed 1: SUCH A GOOD SONG !!!!!!! fit super well w the end of the first ep & is just genuinely such a banger. credits roll was smart for the airing of the actual ep, helped me take in the whole ep and appreciate the best parts of it. the mv released on mappas channel is rly solid considering it just recycled scenes from the actual ep !! love first half of the vid + the zoom in on pochitas tail the most ofc !! 6/10 bc the song is a banger but its just no as obsessable bc of the lack of og visuals :(

ed 2: GORGEOUSSS VISUALS tho it doesn’t feel v well aligned w the tone of csm BUT STILL !!!! song aligns super well w the visuals atleast & i love love the look of the animation, the environments especially are so beautiful 😭 i think the denji falling into the sky scene were especially well timed w the music and made me v emo about his character. esp love the hayakawa fam focus and how power is literally the one who PULLS HIM BACK DOWN .. beloveds 7.5/10 ok i like it picasso

ed 3: FAVE SONG its so good. so much to say abt this one rapid change of scene linework shading color sfx is fucking insane each unique aes makes me physically ill its so good. so gripping the TRANSITION from makima goddess to hayakawa fam W THE DOOR. AND THE TRAUMA. fave part is the hayakawa family shots towards the end that combined w the lyrics perfectly encapsulates what csm is thematically to me. goretastic insanity used as a means of making the intensely human obviously doomed connections at the heart of the story that much more impactful. fully embraces the best parts of csm and rips my heart out all in the course of 90 seconds 10/10 idc idc

ed 4: POWAAA !!!! song is such a fucking banger i mean it this shit has had me dancing for weeks BUT THE VISUALS .... so dynamic and insane love how they played dress up w her and also made sure the audience knew she was a lil freak. theres so much to love and appreciate about the visuals and how fucking sick the movements are and the colors but truly this ones just vibes. 9/10

ed 5: fs my FAVE of all the ones currently out (i think this is the most popular opinion lmao) but the combination of the frantic, very dense visuals and a rly cool fast paced song scratched smth in my brain. so much inspiration to dig through and BEAUTIFUL use of colors, lighting, and effects animation omg. Those shots of himeno are stapled on the inside of my eyelids i love them. so many art references w/ a great selection to specifically represent the chaos of the eternity devil love the use of optical illusions (ONCE AGAIN W THE LIGHTING !!!) and use of timing to create a jarring effect (horses running in slo mo (same w some shots of the chs) immediately being contrasted w rapid movement/blinking of eyes, fireworks, shots of the sky w the clouds racing across) as well as the rapid changing of one shot to another is so insane. another detail i love is that it has a almost collage like look bc each background/piece of ch or effects animation has dif linework, uses dif brushes, as well very unique lighting and shading. also so so much to dissect w how it foreshadows later events (if u start looking there are like. 4 dif instances of guns in this bitch holy fuck) and the themes of the work as a whole but i have classes a life etc that will have to wait til winter break. so genuinely obsessed w this one it was literally the one that convinced me (most obnoxious csm fan) that mappa knows exactly what theyre doing and are likely making the actual anime the way they are as a deliberate commitment to make it even more insane later down the line. i am a drastic rapid tonal shifts enjoyer i love this ed 10/10 its my gf

ed 6: not a massive fan of the visuals or the song for this one :( the instrumental of the song felt kinda jarring after the sequence of denji jumping into the eternity devils mouth, i was def expecting a dif kind of vibe. the visuals were cool, but i don't feel like the static characters were used particularly well. some of the transitions and “camera” movements also rly didn't feel very well suited to the cuts they were in. my fave part was the settings and backgrounds, especially the textures and the way the movement “through” the bgs were done, tho the 5th ed had a very similar concept and i think executed it better. kind of disappointing with how much i enjoyed the prev eds, but it was still enjoyable to watch and analyze how they constructed the visuals. 4/10 bc i respect what they were trying to do i just dont think they had the time to develop a unique vision

[ca-suffit]

I feel bad for the people who thought the fandom would be different because half the cast is black and brown,asian...I don't even really blame the writers of the show but rather the fandom, if your fandom is predominantly white there will inevitably be this kind of problems.

My advice to people who are fed up,is to be careful who you follow,it would be tempting to follow the big accounts but trust me you will get disappointed at some point and ruin your expect with the show.

what's weird is that....there aren't even popular white ppl here rn anyways (except some artists)? like the og fandom *was* mostly white women all around, so it made sense why some ppl would luv to be the token black or brown friend. but there's nobody in the show fandom like that? so idk who all this is for. we didn't have to be here at all. idgi. it's a bunch of ppl who ig wish they were white who like to fuck with mostly black fans and then pretend they're not doing that, all because they need to feel smart and popular while mostly being middle aged lol. the ppl who refuse to talk about race on the show that centers race and say it's everyone else who is the problem. literally most ppl in the tags. u see them instantly bcuz they can't answer a question without being condescending. like who tf are u even talking to? there's always some mysterious "they." idk their lives must be rly fucking depressing to need this kind of empty validation tbh.

I also think it's funny how most of the shit I got was meant to make me feel bad bcuz I'm "not" popular, yet there's def been ppl showing up more in the tags just bcuz of me lol. white fandom has to protect its own so when they feel certain ppl are getting heat, they start pretending that person is *also* popular. or the person starts posting more in general. I like watching them do predictable shit bcuz my asks are real and it scares them lol. they have nothing to attack me with, despite all the threats that they tried, so they're trying to increase their numbers. it's so fkng pathetic lol. it's so bland too, like u can see why they feel threatened bcuz their topic range is shit for a show that's got so many layers.

[hertwood]

dts s2 e4-6

e4: -sorry seb's "says who?" at the start of episode (in response to ferrari telling him what to do) GAGGED sets the tone for the episode PERFECTLY -mattia talks about monza the way indy drivers talk abt the 500 lmao -the whole "there is no #1 driver" bit makes me think hey r there parallels to be drawn between sebchal here and alonso/hamilton in 2007? just thinkin about it -before i get to far i want to share some thoughts: when i first watched this episode with NO prior knowledge it was rly hard to follow. after i heard about the specifics of the ferrari engine controversy (cheating), for the second watch i remember this episode suddenly clicking for me! this episode would've benefitted so much from a will buxton monologue explaining the juicy details for a newish viewer. i understand that there might have been pressure from ferrari to not include those details but it is such a shame, to have such a core piece of information missing and viewers have to try to piece together the narrative without it :/ -HI LAURA WINTER -very much get the impression that seb is like the family member who notices the generational trauma and going hey maybe we should change things to stop that and gets exiled from the family instead :) those sure are the vibes -HI CHARLOTTE -im sorry the back to back "seb has a lack of confidence with the car. and charles' car is not performing" like theyre the same car but you're gonna frame it like its seb's fault but not charles's? mattia choke -at the part where they're explaining the engine controversy--i still stand by wishing they explained it better and EARLIER because i think its much needed context for the first half of the episode too -at the end of the day all i need to know is that seb clearly thought that what ferrari did was wrong, and thats all i need to know if he says so then i believe it!! -the way netflix is trying to tease like ~oh imagine all the different teams he could go to! who wouldnt want him~ is so cheeky but also i NEED to know what this was like live when yall didnt know where he was going i'm JEALOUS i wish i got to be there for it all to unfold -double ferrari dnf at monza must've been crazy to watch live too lmao -seb zigzagging through all the photographers on his bicycle. love him -seb announcing his new seat the same weekend as ferrari's 1000th is crazy ex girlfriend levels of unhinged (pos). like posting ultrasound pics the same day as your ex's wedding type of shit. no one does it like him -sorry im incapable of watching ferrari episodes without writing an essay. hope you enjoyed

ep5: -the great daniel/cyril divorce -i cant remember who said it or where i saw it but when i first got into f1 properly someone talked about how Different things might've been if there hadn't been covid--since the season was delayed, the contract was signed before reneault could have any races with daniel that year--so daniel could only make that decision based off 2019 races -the jump clearly did not work out for him but alpine also went to shit too. but if cyril hadn't left who knows. i think all of daniel's choices make sense honestly!!!! he just got very unlucky -anyway their dynamic is insane and they deserve soooo many more fic than they have!! -"it's probably a bit like being dumped by a girlfriend, but she hasn't moved out of the house yet." christian did eat with this one. unfortunately -i love cyril but him being the one to actually complain about the pink mercedes feels very..... my wife is divorcing me so i'm gonna sue my neighbors over the property line -"i hate those fucking pink cars" oh i need to gif that. i'll be watching and i'll just KNOW like yeah that needs to be in the next gifset -i cant believe i havent mentioned it yet renault colors are the BEST daniel has ever looked i miss having yellow n black on the grid. maybe thats why alpine went to shit they gave up the best color combo they could have

e7: -pierre redemption episode!!! i think this is one of the best episodes ever tbh. very cathartic movie plotline really ticks all the boxes -HI PATRICK -ok but the fact that dts NEVER covered alex's podiums w red bull after milking the shit out of his missed podiums is a hate crime to me personally -onboards going through eau rouge are scary af. -filled with rage at how christian horner chews up new drivers and spits them up (even though its all so predictable at this point. no one will ever live up to the golden boy) -i remember seeing people complain that the williams family leaving wasn't given focus in dts, if anyone has any fun video essays about that i'd love to watch! -i do take issue with will buxton saying "red bull can't admit they made a mistake (with alex)" i think red bull made a mistake with promoting ANYONE too early and expecting too much from them, but not in a pierre v alex way. neither of them were given enough time or support by red bull to flourish. and they lowkey admitted that recently lmao -but it /is/ cathartic to know that red bull have tried to get alex back since then and he doesn't need his toxic ex in his life anymore no thanks ✌️ -i just know i'll LOVE watching this race in full -they set up the suspense so well for the end of the race -and it really is. if carlos had won this race with mclaren, his first win, how different would the trajectory of his career been -ANYWAY theres something that just always gets me about men holding all their emotions in right until they cross the finish line and they finally allow themselves to feel the emotions. (recent example that made me SOB was theo when he won f2) i also love how much it clearly meant to the alphatauri guys in the garage. last time that happened was with seb for torro rosso yeah? so its clearly so so special

[unsaidcurses]

can you please write smth with reader comforting marcus and being his support system after todays shit show.

i rly need it, i just want to forget todays race happened 😭😭😭

you don't have to go through this alone// m.a.

summary: marcus needs some comforting after monza and you're there to be his support system

pairing: marcus armstrong × reader

wordcount: 2.7k

warning: angst, graphic description of a breakdown, monza weekend (it's a tw itself basically), tiny bit of cursing 

a/n: i swear he's cursed or it doesn't make sense + probably he can pass the curse because tumblr deleted half of this and I had to rewrite :D anyways, is this more dramatic and cheesy than it should have? yes do i care? not particularly

the “delete” button doesn’t exist in real life, right? because if it did, you would certainly have pressed it by now, for marcus’ sake.

it was monza weekend and you accompanied marcus. thank god you did because it had been a real shit couple of races for him, and just the thought of leave him alone dealing with them destroyed you.

he qualified pretty well, to be honest, ending p3, which meant he would start in decent positions both in the sprint and feature race.

it looked so good on friday, you were confident about it.

saturday came and the sprint race with it. you were watching in from the motorhome, nervousness eating you alive as you looked at him overtaking some cars. nothing too bad happened. but then the last three laps arrived and when jack and liam started pushing him for sixth place, marcus had little choice but to skip across the run-off area, keeping his position. you didn’t think much of it, since your main concern was to see him on the track and not in the wall, and you just continued watching the cars speeding around.

when he crossed the line, you were content and satisfied. he finished p6 gaining one position from where he started, which meant a couple of point to bring home. at some point you heard the commentators saying that someone got a 5 second penalty, therefore out of curiosity you asked a mechanics who got it, and your face dropped hearing his answer.

“it’s marcus. he went off track and gained advantage. 5 seconds will bring him back to tenth.”

you tried to rub off your sad expression when you saw him coming closer to the garage. you didn't know if he was aware of the penalty and you didn't want to worry or scary him off in case nobody told him yet.

you kept your eyes on him all the time, from when he spoke to his race engineer, who you assumed announced him what happened, to when he went patting every mechanics’ shoulders murmuring small apologies for his mistake. after he was done, he made his way towards the back of the motorhome, close to his driver room, where he knew you always awaited him.

he stood there in front of you with a disappointed expression on his face. the only thing you thought of doing in that moment was to circle his body with your arms, trying to comfort him a bit, to which he responded just with sliding one hand on the small of your back. it made you frown: he never hugged you like that, if you can even call that a hug.

“hey, hug me properly. you love my hugs.” you tried to cheer him up, looking up at him when you noticed how his eyes were fixed on the floor.

“i don’t love when i finish out of the points though.” the remark came out with a serious tone you hardly ever heard him use. you were almost scared that the usual “make jokes to lighten up the mood” wouldn’t work as it commonly did, so you gave one last try.

“and your hatred for bad races is bigger than your love for my hugs? is it so debilitating?”

“mh, i don’t know let me check.” he placed both arms around your shoulders, gently stroking them. although you couldn't see each other's faces, his action put a smile on both of them.

“i guess i love you a bit more.” he chuckled. you were glad he still had some optimism, after all the next day he would have a huge opportunity starting from second row.

“why don’t you go shower and then we can celebrate with felipe and have some fun?” you hinted at the championship winner, bringing marcus in his room by pulling his hand.

“of course, i’ll be back in a flash.”

-

sunday morning was a repeat of the previous day. in hitch's garage, watching your boyfriend's car race with headphones on, but starting from third today.

you were hopeful. marcus was determined to fight for the podium today, if not even for a win. he wanted to prove himself after the two awful years he had in f2 that he was meant to be there, that he was fast and talented, just extremely unlucky. you perfectly knew it was not an easy game, considering the two drivers who pressured him from the back yesterday were in front of him today, but a huge smile appeared on your face as you see jack in pole struggling when the lights went off, allowing the new zealander to overtake him on the inside.

not even five seconds since the race started and marcus was already in second place, not bad right? wrong. 

six laps later, felipe passed marcus right before a huge incident that caused the deployment of a safety car. he slipped into third again, but regained the position as soon as the track was clear.

after a couple of laps, another incident took place and similarly as before, it resulted in a safety car.

hitech wasn’t particularly famous for making the most efficient pit stops on the grid, especially when it came to marcus’ car, so you hoped they didn’t mess up everything when you saw a silver car pulling in the pit lane. little did you know you didn’t have to worry about the pit itself, but about the way he got in. everything happened too fast, you didn’t understand if the engineer called him late or if he didn’t brake in time, the point is that the boy entered beyond the entry bollard, which caused him a ten second stop and go penalty.

you pulled your hands to your mouth in disbelief. each time he qualified high enough to compete for big points, something had to happen. It’s not like you wish anything bad to any driver, but sometimes the question “why always him?” passed through your mind. did he do something horrible in his past life to deserve this? was he a serial killer? judas? it’s not possible he was so unfortunate all the time with no explanation.

seeing his car getting on track, you didn't have time to rationalize your last thought as a red graphic with his car's number appeared on the screen.

another stop and go penalty for speeding in the pit lane.

“you can’t be real!” you couldn’t contain your shout, removing the headphone from your head and walking away from your spot. it’s absurd to throw away a race in less than 500 meters, yet it happened and clearly marcus was the victim, who else otherwise?

you were disappointed, as the whole garage was, after all, but you knew that none of that compared to what marcus was feeling, and you felt the world breaking in your hands realizing how devastating that could be. he was so positive that morning, only to get it snatched from his hands.

continuing watching the race was so painful, looking at him trying to gain as much ground as he could, but with his gap, you could consider that a wild-goose chase. the only thing that prevented him from being last was liam, who lost a lot of time after being hit by juri.

the race felt interminable, but eventually the checked flag brought an end to this disaster. marcus rushed out of the car, did the bare minimum he had to do publicly without even removing his helmet, like weighting himself and giving an apology to the team, and then left for his room basically running

“marcus, it’s me, can i come in?” you walked to the door and knocked on it, waiting for an answer that never came. you stood there some seconds and tried to lower the handle and then you realized: he locked himself in. you acknowledged the fact that he didn’t want to see, nor be seen from anybody, not even you, which explains why he purposely avoided the side of the garage where you usually were.

so you just waited there, with your forehead resting on the cold material of the door, counting minutes passing and watching all the mechanics moving around and leaving.

you heard a faint click, but at first it didn’t sink it was the key on the other side twisting in the lock. it did only when the solid object that was sustaining you wasn’t anymore, and you almost fell on the ground. you looked up to your boyfriend who had a blank expression on his face.

“can we go get lunch? i’m exhausted, i just want to eat and go to our room.” you wanted to check up on him and ask him if he was okay but he beat you to it by talking first. his face shifted to a pleading look, so you did not insist and just nodded as you walked toward the restaurant he found the other day in front of the hospitality.

not a word left marcus’ mouth during the meal. he didn’t even order, he just mumbled “the same” after you asked the waiter some dishes. some of his friends were with you and he didn’t laugh at their jokes, sometimes he smiled slightly but nothing more.

you slid your hand on his thigh, his eyes left his plate to meet yours and softened immediately, then he moved and placed his head on your shoulder. seeing him like this made you feel so powerless, you at least hoped that the contact could give him some comfort.

the lunch carried on and shortly after he finished his dishes, marcus tugged at your hand still on his leg as an indication to leave, therefore you said goodbye to everybody and headed to your hotel room.

as soon as he entered the room, the driver laid down on the bed. you observed him from the main door with his back turned to you, curling up with his legs close to his chest as to shield his body from all the thing that happened to him in the previous hours and shut them out of his existence.

your heart clenched at the sight. you didn’t know what to do, how to act. looking at the person you love knowing that they’re hurt, that their world is crumbling under their feet and not being able to stop it and protect them, it’s a nightmare.

you stepped closer to the bed and sat on the edge, brushing his hair with your hand in a soothing way.

“are you sure you don’t want to talk about the race?” the question came out as a whisper, not wanting to break the bubble you were in even more than you already did by just talking.

“what do I have to say about it? It was a shit show!” he answered turning briefly towards you, showing his defeated look, returning to his original position after finishing the sentence with an harsh tone. “and we can’t change how things went, it’s useless wasting time on it. just drop it, okay?”

“marcus-“ you called him passing on the other side of the bed to look at his face. “you don’t have to go through this alone.”

this was the last straw of keeping it together. he didn’t want to complain or bother you but when he realized you just wanted him to decompress and share his thoughts with you, he finally opened up.

"i'm tired of putting so much effort in this sport and always being walked all over. when i have the pace, i don’t have a good pit stop. when i have a good pit stop, i don’t have the qualification. and when i have the qualification, i mess up everything anyway!” he ranted sitting up. his hands were moving in the air and his eyes were darting in every direction.

“the fda dropped me, and i will lose my seat in formula 2 the end of the year.” listening him reviewing every single bad event he went through was a stab in the heart, and you really wanted to stop him and disagree with him, but he was unravelling everything he bottled up not only for months but probably years at this point, so you waited in silence listening to him.

“i left home when i was a fucking kid, i didn’t see my siblings grow up, i gave up time with my family, i give up time with you!" his voice progressively increased, breaking at the end of it.

“all of these sacrifices to just get a slap in the face."

he almost started rambling again, but it was clear he couldn't continue. his head fell in his hands, and hot tears escaped his eyes. he didn’t even have the strength to try to stop it, he just let everything go.

you immediately pulled him as close as humanly possible, his head naturally went in the crook of your neck, muffling some of the sobs of despair that left his parted lips. you hold him tight, as a way to tell him that you were there and he was not alone.

imagine how long and how much he held off to explode like this, to end in such an agonizing cry. with a lump in your throat, you whispered sweet nothings to his ear, hoping it would calm him down, and with some swinging back and forth, it did. after a good amount of time, his breath steadied, except for some hiccups sometimes. 

there weren’t big words of comfort you could offer him, after unfolding years of frustration and disappointment. you just wanted to make him realize that the majority of the things he said were none of his fault and that he deserved his place. 

“i’m so sorry you have to deal with all of this. I wish I had a magic wand to make all of this go away,” you let your hand wander through his hair, moving his head to look him in eyes. you meant every word, and you wanted to be sure he understood that. “but I do have time to listen. always. please don’t ever keep all of this to yourself, okay? you’re my boyfriend and best friend, helping you in any way I can is my top priority. we go through things together, and will work them out.”

the grey eyes turned teary once more, but from happiness this time. your words made him feel so supported and loved, he couldn’t find a better way to show you his gratitude than hugging you back, holding on to dear life, with your legs tangled together.

minutes passed and you slowly moved backwards, till you completely laid down on the mattress, marcus using your chest as a pillow while being wrapped safely around your arms as if you were the only thing who could protect him from all the atrocities the world may hold.

“i’m booking a flight for christchurch, okay? we can’t do much about the past, but you have ten free weeks ahead before the next race. spending some time with your family surely won’t hurt.” after meditating about how you could actively help him, you broke the silence.

“are you coming too, right?” he asked in a tiny voice, doubting you would let him down like the whole feeder series world did.

“of course, if you want me to.” you pulled the blanket over your bodies. “why don’t you rest a bit now, mh? you really need and deserve that.”

you felt him nodding subtly, a small yawn following. it wasn’t just for the play when he said he was exhausted, at the end of the day he still had an eventful feature race in the morning.

as you glanced at his face while caressing it continuously, you were met with a peaceful expression, finally. you let your cheek fall on the top of his head, letting your body relax at the thought of him sleeping.

except for the fact that he was still awake.

“thank you. for being my support system and choosing to be by my side every day. I couldn’t ask for anything better honestly. I love you.” 

it was unusual for him to make this kind of confessions, wearing his heart on his sleeves, spilling what he felt deeply, but if he didn’t say it today, when was he supposed to?

“i love you too marcus. dearly.”

and with that you both doze off, with the awareness that you were there for each other no matter what, through thick and thin, whatever your lives offered you.

[ghostfruits]

im gonna have made something in a week or two to show u

but

i wanna talk

i am inclined to talk to u quick

we have spent a lot of time in the last like little while doing what other people told us was a good idea to do bc we had never listened to anyone before and it seemed like worth at least trying to adhere to the advice of people drastically more successful than us especially as all of us individually began to experience like wild and usually financial crisises. i dont like how it feels. we r not really like, feeling how it feels. clout doesnt suit us like that. it just doesnt. its not a house that was built to accomodate it and it doesnt and im off it and niggas can suck my dick and i want to be like normal again i want to like draw stuff and post it and let the waves take shit where it gotta go. this whole rat race shit is fucking obnoxious & i dont care. iv been Strategically Not Having Fun for barely fucking 4 months and im already fed up. twitter is wild trash and i feel like angry the whole time im using it. i like the lower traffic. i like talking. we r bored to death of having fuckin conversations with othr people abt when and how to make some shit to maximize all whatever however like i give a shit. im so fuckin sick of trying to do like smash bros tournament metagame shit i dont care homie like i dont care none of us care

i dont want to be dr fuckin content, i want to make you, like, gifts

when i like found out abt city morgue or like animal kaiser tcg or bape or like 9hst3st or any of the shit i like it made my brain feel like electrical and grateful and it anchored me in wht my feelings abt stuff were, it got me like, in my mode. i have been especially careful over the years to not talk like im abt to talk bc i dont like to articulate an assumption that like anything tht gets sent to us is like purely genuine and unulterior and definitely means what it says it means but like out of 100s of people who have like said tht the things we have made at some point made them feel tht way or like have made art of the stuff weve made or like visibly and admittedly and enthusiastically co-opted our style (ur allowed) like if 20 of those ppl are telling the truth then tht is like enough of a reason for me to wanna keep just like feeding the street then

when odd future came out it wasnt just those 11 guys rly it was sort of like, a surrounding aura of like, 75 guys,there was a official roster but it wasnt rly a clearly defined In and Out of it i dont think. it really didnt look like it. u can like tell an OF nigga. nakel and the photographer guy and fuckin like half the supreme people and that one nigga w the beard and all whoever like thats odd future shit. vince staples is odd future shit. it wasnt a like single beneficiary of the flow. it was like given to the people around them pretty freely. ICP kind of did a version of this although it was a lot less organic maybe. i dont know. i am losing my thread here a little

i want to make u something u can use is all

tht is how all of us feel

we r more comfortable trying to make something of use to u than we are trying to like speedrun building some kind of dumbass particle board instagram empire

i wanna hold thanksgiving for u more than i want to like herd u and i have been getting told for yrs tht isnt like a real thing & it turns out i like dont care if it is and its just like what is gonna happen

big dog gon bark yfm

watch thsz space

[mammor0n]

human | solomon x reader

based on lesson 46-12, so spoilers if you’re not up to it. if you know u know 😉 MC is gender neutral ✌

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: softcore smut, not rly explicit and it doesn’t rly start till abt 1k words in but it’s still there. also like one swear word. plus it’s nearly 2am so if there are typos etc. pls forgive me, i’ll give it a read through when i wake up to fix ‘em (probably)

____________________

You awake to a shuffling sound in the corner, and a year of living with seven demons has left you with more sense than to just ignore it. Still half asleep, you squint into the darkness and sigh an incoherent mumble.

“...oh, sorry. Did I wake you?” Solomon asks, voice barely above a whisper.

It takes you a moment to remember where you are; in a cramped motel room in a world that doesn’t really exist, undertaking a trial for your goddamn magic license, which somehow did exist, and the master to your apprenticeship waking you up as though this circumstance wasn’t the stuff of a fever dream already, or some twisted fairytale that slipped the works of Hans Christian Anderson.

“Mm… it’s fine. What’s up? Can’t sleep?” you sleepily slur.

“No… it’s weird, you know? After all that walking we did today, I should be really tired.” Although his voice is even, Solomon’s face echoes a vestige of sadness; loneliness only exacerbated as he continues. “As I watched the twins earlier, I couldn’t help thinking… they’ve always had each other. It’s just natural for them. And even though they don’t say it outright, you can tell how much they trust and rely on each other… it must be nice, you know? To have someone like that in your life. I guess even if you live for centuries on end, there are some things that can always elude you.”

Blinking away remnants of sleep, you push onto your knees and crawl a little closer to him. He sits on the edge of the bed, and you hear it creak as it dips beneath him, the motion pulling you towards him like gravity itself.

“Hey… you have me. You always will, okay? You’re not alone… you have people who care about you,” you protest, and Solomon chuckles.

“Thanks, MC… you really are nice. I’d like to have people I care about, and who care about me… especially if one of those people is you.”

You exchange a smile lit only by the dim streetlight spilling through the weathered, yellowing windows. Solomon’s eyes don’t leave you, and there’s a softness there you’re not accustomed to.

“Hmm… you know, going to sleep in an inn room and then suddenly waking up in the middle of the night is another staple RPG scenario, isn’t it? And usually at times like these, you can expect some sort of really important story event to take place. So what do you think, MC? Is that what’s about to happen here..?”

His eyes find yours, capturing you in a warm a gaze you wouldn’t dare to break; you become all too aware of the sound of your shallow breathing, and rise and fall of your chest, the lump of your thrumming heart in your throat. The air smells like dust and ash, with remnants of smoke from the fireplace curling around the ceiling as the tendrils creep into the cracks between the wood. Your eyelids are heavy, yet sleep has surely relinquished its hold on you. 

Solomon is quiet as he looks at you questioningly; murky blue eyes seem to bore into your soul, and in this light, with his hair messy and wearing a loose shirt and cotton pants, you’re jarred by the reminder of his humanity. Now that the magic and jewellery and smirk has been stripped away, you’re left with warmth, sincerity, and something so purely human that you’d never seen in him before. It was something about his eyes, or maybe the bob of his Adam’s apple, the hints of five o’clock shadow carving his jaw, the slight flush blotching his cheeks. At this moment, he isn’t a powerful sorcerer to whom Asmodeus himself is beholden; he’s a person. A human. Two humans sitting together in an inn room with lights off, tangled in scratchy bedsheets as breeze rattles the windowsill overlooking the flame-lit cobbled streets outside. Like something out of a fairy tale.

You’re so lost in his eyes that you forget to speak, and a teasing smile slopes his lips, although the corners of his eyes are just a little too tight, his breath just a little uneven. He swallows, licks his lips…

“Does that look in your eyes mean I can kiss you?”

You reply by crossing the small distance left between you and kissing him. After a stuttered breath, Solomon kisses you back, leaning into you and deepening the kiss as his arms slide around your waist. Once he’s started kissing you, it seems he can’t stop; he presses kiss after kiss to your mouth, his tongue seeking yours, his hands squeezing and tugging you ever closer as you lose yourself in his warmth, the lavender and patchouli fragrance that always seems to follow him, in the eager grasping of his hands on your skin and of your fingers in his hair and of the taste of sleep and evening and to draw it all together, the smoky spark of magic in every touch of his body against yours.

“...I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Solomon confesses breathlessly between kisses. “But you know, wherever you are, Lucifer and his brothers are sure to be nearby. I thought maybe there was no hope. That I’d never get an opportunity.” 

In his pause, you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Well it’s just you and I tonight, right? Just us.” Your breath rustles the silken hair that isn’t snagged between your fingers, and Solomon smiles.

“Then… I take it this means I have a chance, right? A chance to… deepen our connection.” He supplements the words with a lingering kiss to your throat. “Why don’t you come just a little closer, MC..?”

You sigh, lips seeking his again as you crawl until you’re chest to chest. Slinging a leg over his waist, you climb into his lap and Solomon wastes no time in stealing your breath. His lips are hot, fast, sloppy yet calculated, and he holds you until your head is spinning and you can’t remember your own name.

“Solomon…” is the only utterance you can fathom, and then he smiles against your mouth, and you lose even that.

Wandering hands trail along your waist, beneath your shirt, and shivers ripple down your spine as Solomon suckles at your throat and twists his hands in heavenly ways that curl your toes and pry any thought from your head that doesn’t centre around Solomon, and you, and Solomon and you, two humans alone in an inn room and suddenly your clothes are gone and he’s on top of you and-

Solomon groans as he sinks into you, kissing along the column of your neck, suckling on your jaw, your chest, hands caressing every inch of soft flesh as he whispers curses in languages you’ve never heard into your skin. 

You can feel the magic radiating off him as he thrusts, feel your power imbued with his, the fusing of your auras as his lips meld to your skin, over and over, hot and wet and electric and then-

“Fuck, Solomon,” you hiss, head thrown back against the feather-stuffed pillows as his moans are lost in the temple of your body while his hips bruise against yours.

“Mm… you feel so good, my perfect apprentice… my… my beautiful MC…” His words come in sharp gasps out of time with his urgent motions, and you feel him collapse against you as his hips stutter and his seed starts to drip from between your legs, hot and slick as it spills onto the bedsheets. The intrusion has the tightening in your abdomen finally erupting into the shaking of your legs, into shivers of pleasure that race up your skin and draw sharp gasps from lips that Solomon stifles with a hard kiss.

“Solomon…” you manage to breathe as he removes himself from you, lays beside you with a heaving chest and sparkling eyes mirrored in your own.

“Sleep, MC… you did so well… more work tomorrow…” he manages to sigh, his arms closing around your back and dragging you into his chest as he kisses you again, and presses a final kiss to your forehead.

Relaxing into his chest, you nod, humming as forgotten tendrils of sleep begin to slink between your thoughts and numb your tongue.

“‘Kay… night, Solomon…”

You feel him smile against your forehead, and if this is a fairytale, you hope you never reach the last page.

___________________

heyo, thanks for reading! if u enjoyed and u have a spare moment pls comment and reblog, it really makes my day!!! love u hope u have a good day/night 🥺👉👈

[hrina]

In The Ring, Pt. IV - Uppercut

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 10.6k REQUESTED: yes! 

well lads................this is it 🥺🥺🥺 thank u guys so much for all the love you’ve given this series. i would’ve never expected to receive such a positive response, but u guys rly went above and beyond. i adore u all so much 

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

as always, my masterlist and my inbox are both linked in my bio! i worked really hard on this last part! i wanted to make sure it was all perfect, so i hope everyone enjoys it. gentle reminder to reblog the fics you like! it’s a great way to show appreciation as well as give authors more exposure. ok that’s all hehe can’t wait to hear your thoughts! take care 💙💙💙

PART I: Jab

PART II: Cross

PART III: Hook

~*~

    March 20, 2021

Harry keeps his promise, and Artie brings your car back around to your place the next day. You sit up straight at the table when you hear the familiar honking of a horn sound from outside. Your feet suddenly seem to have a mind of their own, carrying you out of the kitchen quickly with your father’s confused inquiries ringing in your ears. You open the front door before Artie even has the chance to knock.

“Thanks, Jason,” you tell him, breathless.

He hands you your keys and accepts the quick hug that you bestow upon him. “No problem, little girl. Is everything alright?”

Harry didn’t tell him.

“Yeah,” you lie, nodding. “I just—I had a bit too much to drink last night, that’s all.” Your voice drops an octave. “Don’t tell my dad, okay?”

Artie presses two of his fingertips together and drags them over the seam of his mouth, metaphorically sealing his lips. You smile, your heartbeat returning to its regular pace beneath the confines of your ribs.

You step back, extending an arm and gesturing for him to enter.

“Are you hungry? We were in the middle of eating lunch.”

“Sure,” he says, kicking off his shoes and arranging them against the wall. “Thank you.”

He and your father talk about anything and everything during the meal—boxing, the economy, the basketball game that had aired late last night. You just sit there and eat your food, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention.

They include you in the conversation for a bit—Artie asks how classes are going, and you tell him that you’re waiting for medical school acceptance (or rejection) letters to start rolling in. Other than that, they don’t bat an eye when you rinse your plate in the sink and politely excuse yourself from the table. You hide behind the fact that you have to work on an assignment that’s due in a week—the paper is worth a third of your grade and it’s crucial that you ace it.

But once you hobble back into your room, you’re crawling into bed and pulling the covers up over your head. You reach around blindly for your phone, snatching it up from where it’s charging on your nightstand. You unlock the device, scrolling through all of the grey messages that pop up right away—sent last night, one after the other, each of them unanswered, growing more and more desperate as the hours pass.

Can we please talk about this?

I’m sorry, please let me explain.

Are you ignoring me?

I know you’re seeing these. Please respond.

And then a final one, dejected and crestfallen, laced with palpable weakness even through the pixels of your screen.

Goodnight.

    April 6, 2021

Harry’s on a losing streak.

A five-match losing streak, to be precise.

He’s never been bested this many times in a row. Your father is baffled by it, unsure of why he’s been so distracted in the ring. It’s even more confusing, he thinks, considering the fact that he’s at the gym every single day, lifting weights, practicing his technique, throwing himself into the sport. But once the actual fights roll around, things change. You’re not there, and you’re his lucky charm, and because of that, he finds himself meeting the ground far more often than he’d like to admit.

Your father said that the end of the semester was approaching—as a consequence, you were buckling down with school. Harry supposes that the timing is right, so the pretext must be true. But his opponents don’t know that (nor would they care). Your absence doesn’t stop them from knocking him down with snarling faces and heavy fists. The crowds holler loudly, goading him to get back up, but Harry doesn’t. He refuses to give them the satisfaction of watching him get beaten to a bloody pulp.

He stopped trying to reach out to you a week after the night of the kiss. He composed several texts a day, but each message had been met with silence. He remembers staring down at his phone one time, watching as three grey dots wiggled on the screen for a minute or two before disappearing entirely.

That’s when he gave up. If you didn’t want to talk, fine.

It hurt like hell, though.

And it’s still hurting like hell, even a week and a half later.

You told your father about James. He had mentioned it in passing to Harry, having to end practice earlier than usual because he had to set a court date to deal with some bastard who wouldn’t leave you alone. And that’s comforting, Harry thinks, because at least he knows that you’ll be safe, now.

He just wishes that he could’ve been the one to bring you that bit of solace.

That’s why, when your father invites him over for dinner one night after a particularly strenuous evening of training, he jumps at the opportunity. You’re making lasagna, your father says, having taken a break from studying for exams. Harry agrees to come over, because it’s been a while since he’s had a real, curated, love-infused, home-cooked meal.

And because you’ll be there, too, obviously. But he refrains from letting that incentive slip loose.

His heart is racing nervously when he parks his truck in front of your house. Memories flood his brain, reminding him of what had happened the last time he’d been here—the glint of your necklace under his fingers, the alluring twinkle in your eyes. The softness of your lips against his, the sensation of your nails carding through his hair—

Your father taps on the window of the driver’s seat.

“H?” he says, muffled through the glass. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Harry chokes out, unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding out of the vehicle. “Yeah, sorry.”

He follows your father up the porch steps, waiting anxiously as the other man unlocks the front door. It swings open; they both step inside. Harry’s eyes widen when your father calls out, “Gioia? I’m home!”

“Hi!” comes your reply.

He freezes when the sound reaches his ears, because he hasn’t heard your voice—much less seen you—in over two weeks. He shuts the door discreetly, removing his shoes and trailing after your father as he pads down the hall. The closer he draws to the kitchen, the more he can smell it—meat, spices, cheese. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“Hope you made enough for three,” your father says, entering the room.

Harry lingers behind you, leaning against the wide threshold with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. He’s still a bit sweaty, but he hopes that the lasagna in the oven will mask the musky scent of the perspiration gleaming on his skin.

“Three?” you ask. You’re standing at the sink, your back to them. “Hi, Jason.”

A beat of silence passes, and then—

“Er, not exactly,” Harry grunts.

You stiffen immediately before spinning around. He doesn’t miss the quiet little gasp that leaves your mouth.

Your gaze locks with his, lips parted in surprise, and he can’t help but wonder if coming here was the smartest or the most foolish decision he’s ever made.

~*~

He and your father set the table.

After a few minutes, three plates and three collections of cutlery are laid out over a pristine white cloth. Harry eases into his chair as you carry over a hot tray of lasagna, your hands sheathed in a pair of red oven mittens. You put the pasta down in front of your father, who is sat at the head of the table. He inhales deeply, a small smile forming on his face.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he tells you, nodding in approval. “Even better than your mother’s.”

“That’s a lie,” you tease, chuckling quietly and removing the crimson gloves from your fingers. You cut a large piece from the platter and deposit it onto his dish. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” he says.

He waits patiently as you separate another chunk of pasta for Harry, setting it down on his plate without a word.

“Thank you,” Harry tells you, his voice hoarse.

“You’re welcome,” you say. The response is short, painfully clipped—it makes him wince.

As soon as everyone has food in front of them, you sit down in your chair, reaching for the fork and the knife resting a few inches away from your dish. Before you can dig in, however, you pause, lifting your chin and squeezing your eyes shut.

“Shit,” you murmur. “Forgot the drinks.”

“There’s juice in the fridge, I think,” your father says through a mouthful of pasta.

“No.” You wave his suggestion away. “How about some wine? I’ll grab a bottle from the cellar.”

“Alright.” He nods, but then speaks again as you stand. “Wait—I think the treadmill in the basement is blocking the door. Harry—,” Harry’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring at the mention of his name, “—would you mind going with her? She won’t be able to move it by herself.”

“Uh,” he says stupidly. “Yeah, sure.”

He quickly excuses himself from the table, glancing over at you to register your reaction. Your expression is stony, betraying nothing. You swallow heavily, looking away and marching quickly out of the kitchen. He follows you without another word, hot on your heels.

The basement is dimly-lit, stocked with a few shelves of non-perishable foods and household supplies. Harry remains silent as you make your way over to the far wall, approaching the dark grey treadmill pressed against the door of the cellar. You place both hands on the side of the machine, giving it a firm push and grunting when it budges only an inch.

“You going to help me, or what?” you ask, casting an expectant glance at Harry from over your arm.

He blinks. “Right.”

Together, the two of you manage to ease the treadmill a few feet to the left. It’s enough space for you to open the door of the wine cellar and slip inside. Darkness envelopes your bodies, dissolving only when a small click! echoes through the still air. A moment later, the alcove is illuminated in a dull glow, compliments of the scrawny yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling.

You release the thin string attached to the light, turning around and gasping when you find Harry perched directly behind you. Your chests brush together—the contact sends sparks whizzing down his spine. You spin back around quickly, clearing your throat and scanning all of the different bottles balanced on the shelves.

“Thanks for your help,” you say dryly. “You can go back upstairs, now.”

“I’m good,” Harry mutters.

He clasps his hands behind his back as you trail your index finger along dozens of cream-coloured labels. Your hair is gathered in a low ponytail; a few shorter, wispier strands peek out from behind your ears. You’re not wearing makeup, today—and why would you, Harry thinks, when you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen?

“So,” he starts, itching to break the silence, “your dad told me that you’re filing a restraining order against James.”

“Yeah,” you reply curtly. He waits for you to continue, but you say nothing else.

“Feel better now that you’ve come clean?” he questions. Immediately, he knows that it’s the wrong thing to ask. But it’s out there, now, and he can’t exactly take it back.

A hollow laugh tumbles off of your tongue. Behind you, Harry notices the way you shake your head in disdain.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say under your breath.

“What was that?” He cocks an eyebrow challengingly, frowning at your tone.

“I said that you’re ridiculous,” you gripe, whipping around and fixing him with a fiery glare. “Need me to repeat it again?”

“If that means you’ll finally be speaking to me, then yeah, go for it,” he snaps, folding his arms over his chest.

“I—,” you break off, surprised by the bite in his rebuttal. Harry clenches his jaw when you turn back around. Your hand quivers as you reach for a random bottle of red wine. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“When, then?” he demands, taking a step closer. His front skims along your shoulder blades, and when you face him once more, your eyes widen in shock at the close proximity of your bodies. The little room suddenly feels much smaller, walls looming forward and closing you in. Your chest swells as you suck in a deep breath.

“When are we finally going to fucking talk about this?” Harry presses, meeting your gaze. Desperation drips from every syllable of his query.

You purse your lips, exhaling raggedly.

“Soon.”

A feeble assent.

An insipid shake of your head.

You angle your torso to the side, easily slipping past him and out of the cellar.

“But not today.”

    April 10, 2021

Your nose is buried in a textbook when the message comes through.

Cell biology. So much information to remember, so many reactions to list, so many molecules to name. And weeks of studying, just for a two-hour-long final that’ll take place three days from now. If you weren’t so stressed out, the sheer nonsensicality of the situation would have made you laugh.

So when your phone chimes with the alert, you figure that it’s time for a break. A quick conversation with one of your friends, maybe. Something to take your mind off of the looming exam, even if it is just for a few minutes at a time. After that, you’ll get back to revising.

Sadly, nothing is ever that simple.

We need to talk. Come to the gym.

Your eyes widen when the words sink in. As you rub your clammy palms against the grey material of your sweatpants, another text pops up below the first.

Please.

You shouldn’t. You need to study. But even as you warn yourself against it, your brain is already coming up with a multitude of reasons to meet with him. It’s just one night. Your exam isn’t for another few days. You have time. You deserve to take a break.

Your keys jingle cheerfully as you toss them into your bag.

~*~

Harry is going to town when you walk into the gym.

You’re not quite sure how that poor punching bag has managed to stay balanced on its hook. Harry’s coming at it from every angle, pummeling the leather with hard, heavy fists. He’s wearing a black tank top today; deep armholes cut into the sides of the fabric and expose most of his torso. The dark tattoos on his skin glisten under a thin sheen of sweat; a small, stupid part of you expects the ink to run and smudge before you remember that the designs are permanent.

What’s even worse? Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande is playing on his phone. The soft, feathery croons of her voice mix with the low grunts that escape Harry’s throat—sounds that claw their way out of him with each blow delivered to the bag. Under normal circumstances, the juxtaposition would have made you snort.

Now though, it just reminds you of that night all those months ago, when you’d asked him to teach you how to box. This entire train wreck could have been avoided if you’d simply kept your mouth shut.

Harry still hasn’t noticed you. How could he, when you’re standing behind him?

You clear your throat. He freezes mid-strike.

His grassy eyes are wide when he turns around.

“Hi,” he says, surprised. “I—I didn’t think you would come.”

“I was halfway here when I realised that I didn’t text you back,” you reply, scratching awkwardly at the nape of your neck. “But, like…no handheld devices behind the wheel, and all that jazz.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Good.”

You cross your arms over your chest, scanning your surroundings. You don’t know why you do that—nothing in the gym has changed. You’re just trying to avoid Harry’s gaze, which is a lot easier said than done.

“You, um…you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He nods, walking over to the ring and pausing the music streaming from his phone.

He then reaches for two pairs of boxing gloves, nestling one in the crook of his elbow and tossing the other at you. The strap of your purse slides from your shoulder as you catch the leather in your arms. You peer down at the gloves, eyes narrowing in confusion before you train them back on him.

“I don’t get it,” you deadpan.

“Really?” Harry asks. He hoists himself onto the raised platform of the ring and slips through the gaps in the ropes. “Because you’ve been begging to go up against me since January. Are you seriously gonna back out now?”

“Go up against—” The rest of your sentence fizzles out. “I…I thought you wanted to have a conversation, not a competition.”

He shrugs, regarding you evenly as he pulls his gloves on and tightens the straps around his wrists. He then bumps his enclosed fists together, tilting his head to the side.

“Why can’t we do both?”

~*~

You look pretty, Harry thinks.

Standing on the far side of the ring, wearing a black tank top, grey sweatpants, and bright pink sneakers—yeah, you look pretty. You’ve cuffed your bottoms so that they’re rolled up to the spot just below your knees, and your hair has been pulled back into a low bun. There’s no emotion on your face as you stare him down, taking a few steps closer and assuming a fighting stance.

You’ve gotten better—he’ll be the first to admit it. But he’s going to beat you, and you both know it. It’s just a matter of when.

He decides that, for the time being, he’ll go easy on you. The two of you will talk things out, and afterward, he might let you win. Maybe. He’s still on the fence about that.

You both begin to move in a circle. After a long moment of silence, Harry says, “You go first.”

“No, you,” you grit out. He just shrugs.

Fine. Have it your way.

You block the straight, pointed jab that he throws, and pride swells up in his chest. It’s a simple punch to deflect, but nevertheless, it tells him that you’ve learned something over these past few months. And that means that he’s done a good job as your teacher.

As your friend…not so much.

Do friends kiss other friends the same way you’d kissed him in front of your house?

He really doesn’t know.

“Right, then,” Harry starts, nodding. “Let’s talk.”

“About what?” you ask. Your nose wrinkles in concentration as you direct a blow toward his stomach. He blocks it easily. “About how you kissed me back and then told me you didn’t have feelings for me?”

“I—,” he’s stunned, because okay, you’re coming right on out with it. “I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry for lying, but you don’t seem to realise that.

“I was so fucking embarrassed,” you say, lunging forward and throwing a cross at his nose. He bats your fist away like it’s nothing more than a pesky fly. “But I guess that I’m mad at myself, too. Here I am, starting to like you, meanwhile I barely know anything about you.”

“What do you want to know?” he asks, keeping his arms in front of his face.

(Deep down, beneath his stoic exterior, he can’t believe what he’s hearing. You had been ‘starting to like’ him? He’s scared, then, because that means he ruined everything that night in his truck. Do you still feel the same way?)

Harry blinks—shakes his head free of those thoughts and continues. “Ask me, and I’ll tell you.”

“Really,” you reply, though it isn’t exactly a question.

You drop your hands, taken aback by his offer. He’s not usually this open—you should seize the opportunity to probe while it’s still available. You will, he thinks. Over these past few months, he’s learned how you operate. You’re not predictable, by any means, but he knows that you can’t resist inquiring about his personal life when given the chance.

You want to know him. If he thinks about it for too long, his affections become exceedingly difficult to bear.

“Really,” he says.

He steps forward and curves his right arm in a powerful hook. You yelp jarringly when the rough leather of his glove makes contact with your left shoulder. He just shrugs, pulling back.

“Remember: don’t let your guard down.”

You clench your jaw and raise your fists once more.

“Fine, then,” you say, sidestepping another one of his jabs. “Where were you born?”

“Redditch, England,” he answers simply. “Moved to Holmes Chapel when I was a kid, though.”

You nod. The two of you continue to circle each other.

“Got any siblings?” you ask, charging him and attempting to deliver a series of punches to his torso. He deflects each of them with his forearms, never faltering.

“A sister,” he says, unbothered. “She lives back home.”

“And what about your parents?” you press, retreating and watching him with careful eyes.

He swallows roughly, shaking his head. “Dad left when I was seven. Mum died when I was fourteen.”

At that, you pause. You heed his earlier advice and keep your hands in front of your face, but it’s clear that his confession has caught you by surprise. Your gaze softens, and he watches as your lips curl down into a sympathetic frown.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him quietly, your shoulders slouching. “That’s terrible.”

He shrugs. “It’s in the past—can’t change it, now.”

He takes advantage of your pitying nature, springing toward you and aiming a punch for your hip. You barely manage to avoid the blow, jumping back at the last second. His glove scrapes swiftly against your side. The attack seems to snap you out of your emotions, because you scowl deeply and return to your original stance.

“What happened after that?” you ask, breathing erratically.

“They put me in foster care,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It was shit, though. I ran away after a couple of years. Went off on my own—that’s when I met your dad.”

“And he started training you?”

“And he started training me,” he confirms with a curt nod. “Couldn’t actually fight until I turned eighteen, but after that…I was taking up as many matches as I could.” He chuckles warmly at the memory. “Your dad said that he’d never seen anything like it. Told me I had to slow down.”

You smile a bit at his words. Your fondness quickly melts into shock, however, when Harry aims a hit for your face. You block the punch, retaliating quickly and throwing one of your own. Your fist makes contact with the barrier of his chest, and he stumbles backward, his eyes widening in disbelief. You got him.

Only once, but still.

You got him.

“Not bad,” he grunts, squaring his shoulders. “Maybe I should actually start trying, now.”

You grit your teeth, glowering at him. “God, you’re such a dick.”

He flashes you a contemptuous grin before lunging forward. You dodge two of his punches, but the third one catches you right in the stomach, making you double over and cough. Harry retreats, a mischievous smirk on his face.

“Done getting to know me?” he simpers.

You shake your head, straightening back up. “Not yet.”

You make a valiant effort, Harry thinks. Your dedication is commendable. But he’s had a decade of training, whereas you’ve only had a few months. Your technique—though improved—is still sloppy. And that’s what allows him to sidestep all of your strikes and react quickly, enough so that he’s got you pinned to the ground in just under two minutes.

You’re panting heavily; one of his forearms holds your crossed wrists down over your head. His other hand is planted on the floor just above your shoulder, the flat front of his boxing glove providing a stable surface to keep him balanced. His knees are next to your waist as he hovers over your stomach, giving you no room to worm out of his grip. You flail your legs in frustration, but he’s perched too high up on your body for the action to do any real damage.

“I win,” he says simply, arrogance dancing in his eyes. He leans down so that your noses are only inches apart. “Any more questions, baby?”

“Just one,” you bite, panting heavily.

He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for the inquiry to leave your lips. Once it does, however, it knocks every molecule of air from his lungs.

“Have you…,” you inhale deeply, “…ever been in love?”

The expression on your face tells him that you know exactly what you’re doing. Your chest heaves with exertion, and when his gaze flickers down to your breasts for only a fraction of a second, your eyes illumine with realisation.

“You want me,” you tell him, breathless. A thin, reflective layer of perspiration has gathered at your hairline. Your arms twitch from where they’re pinned beneath his. Despite the gloves still covering your hands, you grasp at his slippery skin, hoping that the contact will somehow make his already-weak resolve crack and crumble into nothing.

“No,” he says, his voice hard.

His green irises burn into your face. Who is he trying to convince?

“You’re lying,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “You want me.”

Your skin is hot. He can feel you radiating warmth like a fireplace. Heated, cozy, welcoming—it’s everything he loves about you, everything he’s been craving since he first became conscious of how badly he desired you. And, to top it all off, you’re looking at him like that—with eyes that could persuade him to jump from a skyscraper, if you so much as asked.

Just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry spits. He pulls back sharply and stamps his own eyes shut. His nose screws up in frustration. “Fuck.”

And then he’s kissing you.

The elated moan that slips from your lips has his cock twitching fitfully in his shorts. You arch your back to get closer to him, because with his hand still pinning you down, it’s not like you can throw your arms around his neck and bring him to you. The kiss is messy and frenzied and hot and carnal. Harry licks into your mouth, savouring the squeak that echoes in your throat.

You’re vocal—he’s going to fucking die.

When the two of you pull back, no words are exchanged. Harry stares down at you, taking note of how your pupils have dilated immensely. Your chest is still heaving, but this time, it’s for a completely different reason. He releases your wrists from where they’re pinned beneath his forearm, watching you carefully as he sits up.

He lifts his fist to his face and takes the strap of the glove between his teeth. The sharp riiip! that ensues may as well be a starter gunshot.

You both dive back into a sea of teeth and lips and tongue. Harry throws off his gloves easily. You struggle with yours, but he wastes no time, helping you discard them in a matter of seconds. With your hands finally free, you bury them in his hair, pulling at the soft, damp tendrils as he presses several hard kisses to your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters, slanting his body downward so that his crotch is level with yours. “You—you have no idea—”

The rest of his sentence fades into a groan when you suck harshly on his jaw. He shudders at the sensation.

Gradually, you bring your legs out from beneath his own, lifting your knees up to your chest and then wrapping your thighs around his waist. It’s an impressive feat, if he’s being honest. And it gives him more room to lean over you, to grind his cock against your centre through the layers of fabric separating your skin.

“Off—,” you choke, tugging at the bottom of his black shirt. “Get this off!”

He complies, sitting back up on his knees and ridding himself of the fabric. You take advantage of his instability, wrapping one hand around his bicep and giving it a hard shove. He topples to the side and you scramble up to straddle him, a small, smug smile ghosting across your face.

“What are you—?” he starts, but you place one finger against his lips, cutting him off.

You start to roll your hips gently into his—he groans, wishing more than anything that there were no clothes in the way. Goosebumps erupt on his arms when you lightly scrape your nails down his bare chest. You settle at the butterfly inked into his abdomen, tracing the insect’s wings with a wondrous look in your eyes. His palms sweep up your thighs.

“Why did you lie to me?” you murmur, keeping your gaze trained on his torso. “You feel the same, don’t you?”

He nods wordlessly.

���Why, then?” you press, frowning gently. “I—we could’ve avoided this whole thing if you’d just told me the truth.”

“Your dad,” Harry says weakly. “I can’t—you’re his—”

“My dad has no control over who I date or who I fuck,” you say. He’s stunned by the crudeness of your claim. “And if I want to fuck you right here, right now, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You—Christ,” he swallows heavily, squeezing his eyes shut. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Why not?” you smirk, grinding against him harshly and feeling the stiff outline of his cock in his shorts. “You seem to be enjoying it.”

“Fuck,” he grunts. You shriek when he flips the two of you over so that he’s back on top. His nose brushes against yours as he speaks.

“If we do this,” he warns, hot breath fanning out over your chin, “I won’t be gentle. In every single one of my fantasies, I’ve ruined you—made you drool, made you cry. You name it, I’ve done it. You sure you can handle that?”

“Yes,” you breathe, utterly enthralled. “I’m sure.”

Harry tucks a loose piece of your hair behind your ear, peering down at you tenderly.

“Look so pretty,” he coos, fingers skimming down the side of your throat. “Can’t wait to wreck your cute, little—” He sucks in a deep breath, weakened by the shamelessness of his own thoughts. “Gonna make sure your knees knock together once I’m through with you.”

And maybe it’s not smart to get you naked in the middle of the gym, where anyone walking by could easily peer inside and witness him fucking you into oblivion. But he can’t find it in himself to care—he’s been waiting for this moment for years, and damn him if he doesn’t seize it while you’re like this: open, inviting, presented to him like gourmet food on a silver platter.

And speaking of food…

“I’m gonna stretch you out,” Harry states. “You’ve got to cum first if you wanna take my cock, understand?”

You nod rapidly.

He shakes his head. “Need to hear you say it, baby. You want it, too, right?”

“I want it,” you confirm, breathless. “I want it, I understand.”

He smiles. His fingers ruck up the material of your tank top, and you lift your back from the ground to help him remove it. Your bra is next, pale pink with a simple bow resting between the cups. He swears when you unclip it quickly, letting the straps fall down your shoulders before tossing it away.

“Christ,” he says, blinking. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

He lays you back down onto the floor of the ring, ducking his head and enveloping one of your nipples in his mouth. You moan. The bud hardens between his teeth, sensitive to his touch. He sucks harshly before pulling off, littering kisses along the skin of your breasts. His head swims with lust, transforming him into someone nearly unrecognizable. You seem to like it, though, so how bad could it really be?

“Next time,” Harry murmurs into your flesh, “I’m gonna get a proper taste. Eat you out ’til you go blind. But for now—,” he dips his hand past the waistband of your sweatpants, “—my fingers will just have to do.”

You shimmy your bottoms down, kicking them off unceremoniously and spreading your legs. And fuck, he nearly loses it right there, because this is what he’s been picturing for months, if not years. Having you laid out in front of him, exposed and ready and willing. Your thighs stretched wide, miles of soft skin leading inward and morphing into sticky, wet folds. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and inhales deeply—the scent of your arousal floods his nose, rendering him utterly helpless. Something akin to a man unhinged.

He rubs you over your panties, first. They’re nothing special—simple black cotton covering your mound and your hipbones. But fuck him, he wasn’t expecting the ocean of excitement that seems to have pooled and soaked through the fabric. His fingertips are damp when he pulls them away.

“You’re drenched,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief. He hooks one digit into the elastic of your underwear, looking up at you with inquisitive eyes. “Can I take these off?”

“Yes, please.”

He tears the material down your legs, and then you’re naked beneath him, save for the rose-gold pendant resting on your sternum. He sits back on his heels as you spread your thighs wider, chewing on the inside of your cheek. His index finger taps the skin just below your navel, tracing a path down to where you need him most. You whine when he bypasses your clit completely, dropping instead to gather some of your wetness before trailing back up. He smears your arousal over the nub—just to get a steady, slippery rhythm going—and then leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Don’t wanna be too far,” he says sheepishly, sweetly kissing the tip of your nose. “Missed you.”

You seal your lips to his.

He makes you cum after a few minutes, slipping one finger into your channel, and then another. The entire time, his thumb stays perched on your clit, drawing expert circles and pulling wanton moans from your mouth. And when you cum—oh.

Oh.

You’re glorious, with lidded eyes and warm cheeks and teeth bared in pleasure. You ride out your high, spasming gently. Harry lays a firm hand on your stomach, feeling the muscles of your abdomen twitch beneath his palm. He continues to stimulate your clit, basking in the little aftershocks that zip up your spine and make your legs tremble.

If you were aroused before…good fucking God. He didn’t know it was possible for a woman to be this wet.

You kiss him as you come down from your orgasm, nipping softly at his bottom lip and sighing in relief. Both of his hands find your face—you seem unbothered by the fact that his fingers are coated in your juices, smearing messily against your cheek. He melts into you like he’s dying of thirst and you’re an oasis, lush and green and good. So, so good.

“Do you—,” he exhales raggedly, “—do you still want to?”

You nod, a soft smile forming on your face. It’s crazy, Harry thinks, how quickly you can oscillate between actual human sunshine and the devil personified. One minute, you’re asking him to fuck you, and the next, you’re giving him those eyes that make him feel as though every cell in his body has been liquefied.

“What were you saying about not being gentle?” you tease.

He chuckles quietly, shaking his head. You gasp when he hooks a finger into the chain around your neck. He takes your pretty pink pendant between two fingers, lifting it up and dragging the cool metal along the seam of your lips. You inhale sharply.

“I don’t have a condom,” he murmurs, sighing mournfully.

“I have an IUD,” you whisper, playing with the curls at the back of his head. “We’re good.”

He groans, dropping his face into the column of your throat. “You’re fuckin’ marvelous.”

You giggle.

He shudders when you begin to push his shorts down. You look up at him with raised brows when his cock slaps against his stomach, completely unrestrained.

“No underwear?”

“Always sticks to my balls when I get sweaty,” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut. “Need to let the boys breathe.”

A loud laugh flops out of your mouth. Harry snickers, too, trailing his nose up over your jawline so that he can catch your lips in a quick kiss. He moans as you wrap your fingers around his length, giving a few experimental pumps. Instinctively, his hips buck into your grip.

“You’re big,” you murmur. “Are you sure that it’s going to fit?”

“It’ll fit,” he promises.

He guides your legs up so that they’re wrapped around his waist, allowing him to slot himself closer to you. You gasp when his hand finds your cunt again, dipping two fingers inside before sweeping his palm over the length of your folds. He then smears your wetness along the shaft of his cock, makeshift lubrication to facilitate the first breach of your channel.

“You ready?” he says, positioning the tip of his dick at your entrance. “Deep breath for me, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You inhale, and he nudges his hips forward. You gasp as he slips into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you out in a way that you’ve never felt before. Harry reaches for your hands, tangling your fingers together and lifting them above your head. You arch your back with the new position, and he’s unsure of whether you’re trying to wiggle away or bring him in closer.

When the heels of your feet press against his ass, guiding him deeper, he assumes that it’s the latter.

“Fuck,” he stammers as your tight heat surrounds his cock. “How—how do you feel this good?”

A wheezing laugh punches its way out of your throat.

“Feel that,” Harry says hoarsely. “So fuckin’ hot and—and wet. Not gonna take any time at all, is it?”

“For me, or for you?” you taunt. He grumbles quietly, and you snicker.

After a brief moment of silence, you squeeze his knuckles reassuringly. “You can move.”

“Thank you,” he moans, capturing your mouth with his. Your breathing hitches as he pulls out before slowly sliding back in. When you sigh in response, he takes it as encouragement to pick up the pace.

Soon, he’s fucking into you quickly, your skin slapping together in a series of brutal thrusts. With each drive of his hips into yours, soft whimpers escape your lips, floating up into the hot air and melting like ice cream under the sun. Harry growls, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and your shoulder. The pain makes you writhe—in a good way.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this,” he grunts, laving his tongue over the indents on your skin. Your necklaces clink together—silver and rose-gold tangled in a mess of thin, delicate chains. “My—my hand could never—”

“Neither could mine,” you tell him, breathless.

His spine stiffens at your words, brain overcome with the thought of you lying in bed, your fingers buried between your legs and low whines pouring from your mouth. He groans; his next thrust is hard, keen, unforgiving.

He keeps you close, your bodies never separating. Your skin is slick with sweat, chests gliding together. Adrenaline rushes through Harry’s veins—he drives ahead, plunging inside of you with each fierce snap of his hips. You can’t do anything but lie there and take it, take it, take it.

“I want you,” he gasps, warm air washing out onto your collarbones. His hands are clammy, still locked with yours; he wouldn’t have it any other way. “I want you, I want you, I—” He gulps. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Harry,” you murmur, grazing your nose against his temple. “Harry, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he pulls his face away from your throat. Your eyes are soft when they land on his, forehead shining with sweat, lips swollen and raw. The bun holding most of your hair back has come loose (Harry is certain that it’s due to the way your bodies shift along the ground with every thrust.)

You swallow roughly and shake your head, staring past his features and searching for something deeper.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, nearly crushing his fingers in your grip. “I’m here.”

Your walls pulsate around him, and his rhythm falters. He swears softly, releasing one of your hands so that he can bring his thumb down to rub haphazard shapes against your clit. You moan, surprised.

“Cum for me,” he orders, nodding rapidly. “Cum for me, and then I’ll do the same. Where do you want it, hm? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you pant, your nose screwing up in pleasure. “Cum inside me.”

“Shit, you’re serious?” he asks, awestruck. His stomach twists hotly at your invitation. “Want me to claim your pretty cunt? Is that it?”

“God,” you say. You squirm beneath him, nodding frantically. “Please!”

“Fuck!” he cries, and when you clamp down on his cock, he’s gone.

The two of you ride out your highs together, quivering and grunting in unison. Harry wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close to his chest. You dig your nails into his back, clinging to him like a piece of wood drifting through the stormy sea. Colourful spots dance in his vision—he tries his best to blink them away. Your thighs tremble around his hips, caught in an endless cycle of vibrations.

“Holy shit,” you whimper, exhaling shakily. “That was…”

Harry braces himself over your face, keeping you shielded from everything outside of your little bubble.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

A low laugh falls from your lips, but it quickly morphs into a moan when he pulls out of you. He pauses for a moment, watching as white liquid trickles from your abused entrance. The erotic sight nearly has him ready to go again.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He scoops his release up with two fingers and plugs them back inside of you. “That’s hot.”

You gasp at the slight overstimulation, wrapping a hand around his wrist reflexively. He just shoots you a wicked grin, which has you giggling girlishly in response.

“I want a kiss,” you say, craning your neck.

Harry hums, crawling up your body to fulfill your request. You smile against his lips, tossing your arms over his shoulders. The two of you exchange soft pecks for the next few minutes, basking in the aftereffects of your orgasms. Warmth unfurls in Harry’s chest, potent and contagious. It spreads through his veins, dousing his senses in a golden glow.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “And I like you. So much.”

“I like you, too,” you reply, tracing your fingertips over the muscles in his back. “But if you ever lie to me again—” Your expression grows serious. “—let’s just say that you won’t have to worry anymore about your boxers sticking to your balls, okay?”

It’s an earnest threat—he knows that you mean every word—but nevertheless, it makes him laugh. You giggle along with him; he rolls off of you, his spine meeting the floor of the ring, and you cuddle into his side. Your nails tap languidly against his sternum as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. The two of you lie there for a few long moments, enjoying the peaceful silence.

“They’re taking my case against James to trial,” you say at last.

Harry stiffens, lifting his head so that he can look down at you properly.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You nod, refusing to meet his gaze. “But, um…my lawyer said that it might be a good idea to bring a witness to the stand. Just to seal the deal and stuff.”

You peek up at him shyly, and it clicks.

“Oh,” he says softly. “You want me?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” you say hurriedly, resting your chin on his chest. “Please don’t think that I’m forcing you—”

“Hey, no,” he cuts you off, sweeping his fingers through your hair. The action soothes you, makes your eyelids flutter shut and your lips tremble with a nervous exhale. “’Course I’ll testify. I don’t want that piece of shit coming anywhere near you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his skin. You litter a few grateful kisses along his pectorals, and he smiles. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Don’t have to keep saying that,” Harry mumbles, chuckling tenderly. He takes your face between his hands, thumbs trailing idly over your temples. “I wanna keep you safe. Or—or make you feel safe, at least.”

Your eyes glisten.

“I do feel safe around you,” you say. Your lips twitch. “Except for when you’re trying to punch me in the gut.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “If you want to start tussling with me more often, you’re gonna have to get used to that.”

“Duly noted.” You smirk.

Harry sighs, letting his head fall back against the ground.

“Speaking of keeping you safe…,” he mutters, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers resume their previous ministrations, stroking languidly through your hair. “You should go pee, yeah? Heard it’s important for girls to do that after sex.”

You laugh, surprised by his words. “How—how do you know that?”

“Sister,” he reminds you. His cheeks dimple as he grins.

You nod, mouth curling into a fond smile. “Right.”

    April 26, 2021

The crowd is deafening, encasing him in a cloud of noise. He refuses to let it distract him, zeroing in on his opponent with the intensity of a thousand suns. An experimental jab comes his way, gauging the distance between them, but Harry sidesteps it easily. He retaliates with a right hook, catching the side of the man’s head. It’s not a powerful blow, but it succeeds in disorienting him for a few milliseconds.

He charges forward, then, sensing an opportunity and seizing it before it can fade away. In a flurry of fists (and the odd kick here and there), he backs his opponent up until the ropes around the ring are digging into the man’s waist. He’s ruthless, giving him no chance to react, delivering blow after blow until his rival can barely stand on his own two feet. At that point, he retreats, stepping back and letting his victory come to him.

He needs this win. He needs this win. He needs this—

His challenger falls into the trap, stumbling forward with double vision and throwing a sloppy hook. Harry bats his hand away effortlessly, lunging forward and curving his arm up. Pride flares in his chest when his fist makes contact with his opponent’s jaw, making the man’s head snap back on his neck. He drops to the floor in an unconscious, muscular heap.

The seconds pass by like molasses, but at last, the referee is climbing into the ring and lifting Harry’s hand high above his head. The crowd roars. He closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the praise. When they flutter open again, they’re trailing upward, searching for one particular face in a sea of strangers.

And there you are.

You’re beaming, clapping frantically and pausing every so often to cup your hands around your mouth and amplify your cheers. Harry smiles, tilting his chin upward and letting his head fall back in relief. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you, even as the referee releases his wrist and crouches to rouse his opponent from the ground.

He hears someone call his name and turns to the side. He finds your father peeking at him through the ropes circling the ring, a wide grin on his face. He beckons him over, a water bottle clutched tightly in his outstretched hand. Harry complies, breathing out a heavy sigh.

Meanwhile, you’re pushing through the throng of people that have now started moving toward the exit. Going against the current is difficult—you murmur quick apologies as you nudge past countless shoulders and elbows—but finally, you emerge from the crowd, unscathed. You see Harry chatting with a few people approximately thirty feet away, but before you can take another step, a big, burly security guard blocks your path.

“No spectators beyond this point,” he tells you gruffly.

“But, I—,” your mouth opens and closes, though no words come out. Instinctively, you point over the guard’s shoulder, your finger pinned on a very sweaty, very shirtless Harry. “That’s my boyfriend.”

You only have a moment to feel shocked by your claim. Boyfriend?

It’s been weeks since that night at the gym, and yeah, you suppose that the two of you are a thing, now. You’re going out. You’re exclusive. Whatever the hell you want to call it.

But you’ve never referred to him as your boyfriend, and he’s never referred to you as his girlfriend. You haven’t talked about potentially putting a label on your relationship, despite the fact that you’re both clearly interested in seeing each other and no one else.

Is it time to have that conversation?

Harry jumps in surprise when he hears you call his name. He turns toward the sound and then grunts when you barrel into him a moment later, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. One of his hands reflexively falls to your bottom before quickly moving away. The feeling of his calloused palm on your ass sends a shiver down your spine.

You bury your face in his shoulder. He’s sweating all over, skin wet and muscles bulging from exertion. You know that you’ve caught him off-guard, because he whispers your name incredulously into your ear and presses a gentle kiss to your jaw. When he finally sets you down, you peer up at him with bright eyes and a large grin.

“That was incredible,” you gush, your hands falling to his biceps. “You obliterated him!”

“Thanks,” he chuckles. His cheeks are pink—you don’t think it’s because of the match.

In the periphery of your vision, you catch sight of your father. He’s standing there with raised brows and parted lips, and you suddenly remember that he hasn’t yet been made aware of your…situation. You gasp, stepping away from Harry quickly and draping your arms around your own torso. He seems to recognize your blunder as well, because his shoulders tense and his eyes nearly pop out of his head.

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Coach—”

“Dad—”

“I don’t want to know,” your father announces, holding up one hand and cutting you both off swiftly. His eyes bounce back and forth between you, features betraying no emotion whatsoever. Finally, his shoulders slump.

“I’m gonna call it a night, gioia,” he tells you. He then looks to the left, directing his next words at Harry. “Congratulations on your win, H. Have her home by midnight.”

“Dad, I’m a grown woman—,” you begin to scoff, but he gives you a pointed glare.

“Midnight,” he repeats.

You shrink away and nod.

~*~

Before leaving, Harry decides to take a quick shower in the men’s locker room. You sit on one of the benches, tapping your foot against the tiles as you watch him get undressed. It doesn’t take him long—he’s only wearing a pair of shorts, after all—but you savour every moment, your eyes raking over his muscular back as he bends down to pick his bottoms up off of the ground. He tosses the fabric into his drawstring bag before peering over his shoulder at you.

“Sure you don’t wanna join me?” he asks, a coy smirk playing on his lips when he catches you staring.

You look away quickly, picking at your nails and feigning indifference. “Where anyone could walk in? I’m good.”

He shrugs, snickering quietly. “Suit yourself.”

You ogle his plump ass as he walks away.

A moment later, one of the showers turns on. You can hear Harry humming softly as he steps under the spray. You sigh, leaning back against the wall and fishing your phone out from your pocket. For the next few minutes, you scroll distractedly through social media, bored out of your mind.

You grunt softly and set your phone down, tiptoeing over to the door of the locker room and fastening it shut. The lock above the handle slides into place with a low click!

“Fuck it,” you mutter.

You flick open the button of your jeans, shoving the material down your thighs. Eventually, you’re naked, goosebumps pebbling on your arms. You set your clothes back down onto the bench and grab a spare towel, fiddling with the necklace hanging from your throat. A thought occurs to you; you unclasp the chain, pulling it off and letting it pool in the palm of your hand.

Harry’s idle singing grows louder as you approach the row of showers. It’s not hard to find his cubicle—it’s the only one with the curtain drawn over the entrance. You pad toward it, hanging your towel next to his and calling out, “Harry?”

“Yeah?” His hums stop.

You grasp the fabric of the curtain, pulling it back and peering inside. Immediately, Harry’s gaze locks with yours. He’s completely bare, standing beneath the water with hooded eyes and shampoo foaming in his hair. You slip into the cubicle, not missing the way he gawks at your naked body.

“I changed my mind,” you murmur, peering up at him shyly.

He presses his lips together to fight back a smile. “Yeah. You sure did.”

“Shut up and let me rinse your hair.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Before you can bury your hands into the wet strands, however, you remember the jewellery clutched between your fingers.

“Actually—,” you say, hesitating. “I, um—I wanted to give this to you.”

You scoop the necklace up from your palm, holding it out nervously. Harry recognizes it immediately, and his eyes widen in surprise.

“What for?” he asks, not unkindly.

“It’s my lucky charm,” you tell him, shrugging your shoulders. “I just figured…maybe it’ll work for you, too.”

He kisses you, then, grabbing your face in his hands and crushing his lips to yours. You whimper into his mouth, finding his wrists and encasing them in a tight grip. The kiss is passionate, bruising, fiery—you’ve never felt so wanted.

Harry pulls back once the two of you run out of air. Even then, he keeps his forehead pressed snugly against yours, staying close. He’s breathing heavily, and you’re starting to sweat, the humidity of the stall seeping into every last pore on your body. Harry shakes his head, gazing into your eyes.

“You’re my lucky charm,” he says.

Your heartbeat stutters in your chest.

“But,” he continues, smiling softly, “I’ll take the necklace. It’ll be good to have for when you’re not there.”

You nod wordlessly, and he steps back. His hands find his throat, fumbling with the chain dangling over his collarbones. He reaches over his shoulders, unclasping his own necklace and presenting it to you.

“Here,” he says. “I’ll take yours, and you take mine.”

You nod again.

You turn around slowly, electricity thrumming through your body as Harry guides the silver chain around your neck. The shiny cross pendant rests against your sternum; the warmth of the metal seeps into your skin. When you face him again, Harry whistles lowly, his lips twitching.

“Looks good on you,” he says, nodding proudly. “My girl.”

“Is that what I am?” you ask, peeking up at him through your lashes. “Your girl?”

He pauses. He really does look ridiculous with the white, frothing shampoo slicked through his hair.

“Is that what you want to be?”

A moment of silence ensues.

“Yeah,” you finally say, biting your bottom lip. “It is.”

Harry smiles. He leans forward and kisses you again, softer this time. You nudge his shoulder with the hand that’s still holding your necklace, prompting him to spin around.

“Come on,” you murmur, delivering one last affectionate peck to his mouth. “Your turn.”

~*~

Harry pulls up to your house fifteen minutes before midnight. You unbuckle your seatbelt, modifying your position in the front seat so that you can look at him properly. Your hair is still slightly damp from your shared shower, and your skin is fresh and clean. You smell like him—like the body wash you had both used to scrub yourselves down in the small cubicle. A silver necklace—his necklace—peeks out from beneath the collar of your denim jacket.

The jewellery suits you. He doesn’t ever want you to take it off.

The two of you stare at each other for a moment until you eventually crack a smile.

“You look like you want to eat me,” you say, laughing.

“C’mere, then,” he chuckles, already leaning forward. “Lemme have a taste.”

“Gross.” You stick your tongue out playfully but obey him nonetheless, your lips meeting over the middle console of the vehicle. Harry cups your face in one hand, keeping you close. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound down—it’s the prettiest fucking thing he’s ever heard.

You carry on like that for the next few minutes, exchanging soft kisses that don’t go beyond him placing a calloused palm on your thigh. When you finally pull away, a breathless giggle bubbles up in your throat.

“Have I ever told you that you’re a great kisser?” you ask.

“Only a dozen times a day,” he replies, smirking gently.

You laugh, carding your fingers through his hair and tilting your head to the side as you stare at him. Your eyes are far away, getting lost in your own thoughts, it seems.

“What is it?” he whispers, even though there’s no one else in the car aside from you and him.

“I love you,” you murmur absentmindedly.

Harry freezes; your confession knocks the air from his lungs.

“What?” he says, his brows knitting together.

At last, you snap out of your trance. Your admission sinks in, and you recoil, shocked at your own boldness.

“I—,” you start, your eyes growing impossibly wide. “I just meant—we’ve known each other for years, now, but I feel like I really got to know you these past few months. These past few weeks, especially.”

You shrug, playing nervously with the silver cross hanging around your neck. Harry’s heart somersaults at the sight.

“I’m sorry if it’s bad timing,” you continue; you’re rambling, now. “And I understand that it might be weird considering the fact that we just put a label on this, but—,” you break off, taking a deep breath, “—I love you. I do.”

He reaches out, trailing his fingers over the faint curve of your jaw. You gasp softly when his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip.

“Did you just apologise for telling me that you love me?” he says. Crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

You squeeze your own eyes shut, cringing at his words and shaking your head.

“Don’t repeat it,” you plead. “I’m already embarrassed enough.”

“Oh, so loving me is embarrassing?” he asks, smirking slyly.

You frown, batting his hand away and shifting your body so that you’re no longer facing him. You place your elbow against the ledge of the passenger door, resting your chin on your fist and staring pointedly out the window.

“Hey,” Harry coos, though he can’t stop the inkling of laughter that seeps into his voice. “Don’t be like that.”

“I take it back,” you say flatly, refusing to turn around. “I hate you, actually.”

“Really,” he says, but it’s not a question. He unbuckles his own seatbelt so that he can lean over the middle console and nuzzle at your cheek.

“My girlfriend hates me?” he asks; he knows that he’s being insufferable, but he can’t help it. Messing with you is so much fun.

“Yes.” Your response is curt. “She does.”

“That’s not nice,” he says, curling his lips down into a dramatic pout. He presses a gentle kiss to the side of your neck—right against a particular spot that makes you melt every single time. He knows it, and so do you.

“That’s not nice at all,” Harry continues, littering sloppy pecks down the column of your throat. “This how you treat the man who loves you?”

You pause when his words register in your brain.

“Stop lying,” you mutter, keeping your gaze glued to the scenery outside your window.

“’M not lying,” he tells you, squeezing your thigh gently. “Said you’d cut my balls off if I did it again, remember?”

And despite your initial sense of humiliation, you laugh. Harry smiles, placing his free hand on your cheek and guiding you to look over at him. You submit to his wishes, gazing at him through pretty, wispy lashes. He tilts forward ever-so-slightly, nudging your noses together and fastening his lips to yours. When he pulls back after a moment, he pinches your chin between two fingers.

“I love you,” he says earnestly.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

Your eyelids flutter shut as he slides his palm up your leg; he stops only once it’s resting in the crease between your hip and your thigh, dangerously close to your groin.

“We have—,” he cranes his neck, peering over at the digital clock on the truck’s dashboard, “—five minutes until you have to be inside. Think I can make you cum between now and then?”

You scoff, pushing him away and laughing at his crudeness.

“You’re insane,” you giggle, shooting him a faux-stern glare. “Behave.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, frowning childishly. You just grin, slipping your hand around his neck and pulling him in for a doting kiss. You press a series of rapid pecks along the seam of his mouth, nipping playfully at his bottom lip before retreating. Instinctively, he follows you, but you dig your fingers into his shoulder, stopping him before he can get too far.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, reaching for the handle on the door.

Harry watches with wide, awestruck eyes as you exit the car. You clutch your purse closer to your side, looking back at him expectantly and waiting for his response.

He clears his throat, blinking out of his reverie.

“Yeah,” he nods, nostrils flaring slightly. “Goodnight.”

He peels away from your house only once you disappear through the front door. Subconsciously, his hand finds the rose-gold chain hanging around his throat. He fiddles with the necklace, running his thumb over the smooth surface of your shiny pendant. There’s something unreal—almost dreamlike—about having it between his fingers. He’s spent so long watching you fumble and toy with it—watching it bring you comfort when you’re nervous, or bored, or afraid.

Now, it’s his.

And so are you.

Faint music plays from the truck’s stereo; Harry reaches forward, twisting a knob and turning the volume up to its full capacity. Ariana Grande’s familiar vocal riffs pour through the speakers.

He sings along at the top of his lungs, hollering triumphantly the entire ride home.

~*~

Extra: Knockout [READ IT NOW ON PATREON]

if you enjoyed this series, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

[verfound]

WIP Wednesday: 8/11/21 (Hey, Brotherf*cker)

So about those twelve or so sentences from Sunday... 👀

At some point between Friday afternoon and Saturday night, Juleka came home and Luka told her he was officially dating Marinette. Marinette knew this because she was pulling a fresh pan of guava cheese pastries out of the oven Saturday morning when her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Once the tray was cooling on a rack, she pulled out her phone to find a text message from Juleka.

JC: hey brotherfucker

Her dad looked up from piping when she squeaked and dropped her phone. She laughed nervously and waved him off, telling him it was just Alya. He laughed and went back to his cake, buying the lie easily enough. Marinette excused herself and raced to the stairwell, dropping onto the steps and tucking herself against the wall before pulling the message thread up again.

…there were two more messages. And a picture.

JC: so I know u’ve got ur heart set on this dumbass, but

She’d attached a picture of Luka…doing laundry, it looked like? He was standing in front of their washing machine, at least, inspecting a shirt through bleary, half-awake eyes. His bangs were pushed back with a headband, he was shirtless, and he was wearing gaudy, hot pink boxers stamped with giant pineapples over white plumerias. His feet were covered in black and blue striped socks that she was pretty sure were supposed to be crew cut, but one of them was bunched around his ankle. The hand that wasn’t holding the shirt was holding a pastry. He seemed completely oblivious to Juleka’s camera.

JC: rly? u sure? not 2 late 2 change ur mind.

JC: (also we need more pastries the asshole ate em all)

Marinette bit her lip to stifle her giggle, tapping the screen of her phone against her forehead before shaking her head. Her mom was calling her to help with a customer a moment later, but she did make sure to pack up an extra box of treats for Luka to take home before she finished her shift. It was waiting on the kitchen counter when he knocked on the door a few hours later.

“So you told Juleka,” she said, smiling when he hugged her.

“You told your parents,” he said, kissing her before he stepped away. “I thought they were going to be here. Tom gave me orders to not do anything he wouldn’t do as they were leaving. I’m…not thinking about what that includes, in context. Kinda creepy coming from your dad.”

“He’s such a…” Marinette groaned, rolling her eyes. She pulled Luka back to her, kissing him. “Ignore him. They’re having dinner with my grandparents. Nonna’s back in town, and when I mentioned you were coming over tonight Maman thought we’d appreciate the time alone.”

“I like your ma,” he said, following her into the kitchen. She’d been washing up the dishes when he’d knocked. “Your dad still kinda scares me, though. He looks at me sometimes like he’s going to break me in half if I look at you too long.”

“You’re allowed to look,” she tutted. She put the last dish in the strainer, turned the water off, and dried her hands. She reached for his and placed them on her hips, grinning. “And touch. I’m not a kid anymore. Papa has to deal with that. Besides, I have it on good authority that he likes you, so I think you’re safe. The real question…” she paused, fishing her phone out of her pocket and pulling up Juleka’s messages. She grinned when she showed him the chain. “Am I safe with Jules?”

“…I’m going to kill her,” he laughed, She grinned.

“Right? I haven’t even fucked you yet,” she said, rolling her eyes. He choked, grabbing at her phone as she went to pull it away. “Ru-”

“Wait, what?” he asked, looking back at the messages. His eyes popped open, and he groaned. “Oh my God, Juleka…I thought you meant the picture. I am so sorry about her. I’ll talk to her.”

“…it’s fine,” she said, taking her phone back. She put it back in her pocket and pulled him back to her, sighing as she snuggled into his chest. “I…I actually kind of like it.”

“…what?” he asked, chuckling like he didn’t believe her. She peeked up at him, grinning.

“I like being her brotherfucker,” she said, her hands scratching lightly against his back. She could feel a blush rising, but it didn’t feel as embarrassing when Luka was staring at her like he was transfixed. “Even…even if I’m not actually fucking her brother. Yet.”

…which was probably how she ended up on the counter, perched precariously next to the sink with her arms and legs wrapped around Luka, who was kissing her like he liked the sound of her being Juleka’s brotherfucker, too. She probably could have said screw the movie and stayed there kissing him, too, except a few minutes into their makeout – right as hands were starting to wander and he’d pushed her too close to the sink and her legs had tightened around him to keep from falling in – her timer started going off. He groaned when she started giggling, pushing him back.

“I’m starting to hate your alarms,” he grumbled as she reached for the timer. She couldn’t quite reach it from where he’d put her, so she nudged him again. “No. I like you here.”

“You’re going to make me burn dinner,” she laughed. He kissed her, his hand squeezing her ass. She jumped, the fact that Luka liked touching her ass still new enough to surprise her, and he smiled as he rubbed the spot he’d squeezed before moving his hand up to slip into her back pocket.

“We can order pizza,” he said. “I know a place.”

“You hate that place,” she laughed. She tapped her foot against the back of his thighs before scooting back – and squeaking as she fell directly into the sink. A bark of laughter escaped him as she sat there, blinking at him in surprised confusion, before she started laughing, too. “Ok, you jerk – help me up!”

“I love you,” he laughed, taking her hands and giving her a tug. Once she was back on her feet, she leaned up to kiss his cheek before grabbing the alarm.

“I love you,” she said, smiling stupidly as the truth of the words settled and warmed in her heart. He leaned back against the counter, watching as she went to pull the skillet holding their dinner out of the oven. “Which is why I’m not going to make you suffer delivery pizza for dinner. Food is the Dupain-Cheng love language – let me cook for you, ok?”

[c-kiddo]

hello! i hope your day is good :) question? i just re-read annihilation and i know the movie is way different but would you still recommend it to someone who loves the book? your art of it from ages ago is what made me want to read it in the first place and you made it seem so lovely

hi :-3

oh ya i would recommend it very much, its different but also vry good. it has much more of a concrete escalating plot, i think, in some ways, like its been adjusted for mainstream film a lot, way less vague and characters are named etc.. but its really really good. even if you dont like the plot change watch it for the soundtrack and visuals (the translation of area x onto screen is top tier, so many rly good mutated strange things and all the refracting light). also, im not super keen on the biologist being named tbh, but i kinda do love the other women on the team, like josie and anya :'''')

the main problem with the movie is, unfortunately, whitewashing.. the director says that since the second book wasnt out yet (where we learn what people actually looked like bc the biologist never tells us) when he was writing the script, he didnt know. which is a bit ???? idk why didnt you ask jeff vandermeer who was writing the books? idk, i guess he was involved at all? but, i think probably they got natalie portman during casting and wanted a famous actress, and didnt change if they did find out the biologists actual race, even tho she is definitely not east asian >_> (if you dont know, the psychologist is also meant to be half white half native american, which ventress isnt) ... idk. its, weird how the director defaulted to white tbh :/ i do think the casting for the rest of group is perfect though. josie and anya again, so good :''')

also forgive me if im misremembering, but its weird to me that they made the biologist's distance from her husband from cheating in the movie... like.?? idk. in the book she was just distant, she was called 'ghost bird' and didnt like it. they were distant because she was hyperfocused on the back lot and the rockpools and things.. idk she's just nd lol . .. . but anyway. very long answer. but, yes, i recommend it vry much. i love the soundtrack sm. also its worth it entirely for the sound/creature design for the Bear :-)

[theres-an-impulstor-among-us]

Heyo, reporting back to request a continuation of a continuation of a continuation, if you wouldn't mind! Aka, please more 3rd Life Villainpulse angst, I'm so invested (and very curious as to whether his latest murder attempt was an actual success, or if he really should have stuck around to verify the death...)

i genuinely rly love this! i’ve got such plans for it now that i think i’ll make it into an actual proper fic.

i’ve also now posted it on AO3, titled Stand For Nothing! link here

…

Impulse is getting concerned. It’s been over five minutes and no death message in chat. It should’ve happened by now. He had been worried about being found near the scene of a death — it’d already been about five minutes since the meeting and someone would’ve gone to find Skizz, so his items would almost certainly be found — but now he’s starting to think he should have stuck around anyway and made sure the job was finished.

He had been intending to stay here at his villager trading centre until the death notification came up and then he would run back to Dogwarts and play the distressed best friend.

But no death message. So his plan has to change.

When he makes it back to Dogwarts, he finds Ren standing outside the Renchanting building, his face pale. When he spots Impulse, he quickly beckons him. “Impulse! For the love of god, where’ve you been?!”

Impulse blinks. With no death message in chat, what can Ren be so worked up about? “W-What? What’s happened…?”

“Skizzle’s been attacked! We heard an explosion outside our walls and when we went to check, we found him out there, passed out. He’s in a critical condition but Martyn’s with him now and hopefully he’ll recover.”

Impulse can only stare at Ren with an open mouth and a pit in his stomach. Somehow, in all the possible outcomes he pictured for this scenario, he never imagined Dogwarts would actually find Skizz alive. After three perfect murders, it seems he got careless.

“O-Oh my god,” he manages to choke out. “C-Can I see him?”

“Not yet, but Martyn will tell us when we can.”

Ren takes him down into the living area under Renchanting. There, Etho is pacing back and forth in front of a closed door, clearly deep in thought, but he glances up as Ren comes in. “Ren, you found him.”

Ren nods, even though it wasn’t really a question. “Any word?”

“Not yet. Martyn has three healing potions in there with him though, so I’d say Skizz’s chances are really good.”

Impulse has to strain to keep his expression steady at that. “G-Good. That’s good.”

Something changes almost imperceptibly in Etho’s expression, but Ren, clearly not noticing, rubs Impulse’s back reassuringly. “He’ll be okay, Impulse. Don’t worry.”

All Impulse can do is nod, not trusting himself to speak.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the door opens and Martyn appears, his body blocking the view inside the room. “He’s awake,” he reports, a very serious look on his face. “Ren.”

Ren quickly ducks into the room, but when Impulse starts to follow, Martyn blocks him. “Not you,” he says coldly. “Etho, stay with him, please.”

Impulse’s heart freezes. There’s only one reason Martyn would stop him from seeing his injured best friend.

Skizz has told him everything.

He takes a step back and bumps into something behind him, causing him to jump.

“What’s going on, Impulse?” asks Etho casually, an only-just-discernible undertone of danger in his voice. “You seem a little tense.”

“My best friend almost died,” Impulse replies coldly, but even he can tell his words are unconvincing.

“Indeed. I wonder how that happened?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Etho. Why would you have any reason to suspect me?”

Etho just folds his arms and says nothing, infuriating Impulse. “You said I was the only person on this server you really trust!”

“That was before I joined these guys. I’ve had a weird feeling in my stomach about you for a while, Impulse. Something hasn’t felt right since this whole thing started, but I assumed it was just me trying to apply rationality to this irrational world. But one thing never changes, Impulse. No matter how much you try to change it.”

Impulse falls silent, scowling at the ground. He’s already given away too much in his tone and expression.

He glances sideways at Etho, who has his eyes fixed on the door Ren and Martyn went through. Realisation dawns on him: Etho isn’t expecting him to put up a fight. Etho thinks he has nowhere to go.

Now is the time, then. He can’t afford to wait any longer; when Ren and Martyn come back out here, it’s over. Impulse knows he can’t take on three people at once. This is his last chance to escape alive.

So when Etho shifts position a few seconds later, Impulse strikes. Before he can react, Impulse sweeps Etho’s legs out from under him and shoves him into the wall as he’s falling. Without waiting around to see the result of his attack, Impulse takes off running.

He makes it out of Renchanting and is just about to run down the hill towards the crastle when an arrow whizzes by him, nicking the sleeve of his t-shirt and causing him to lose his balance. Suppressing a scream, Impulse topples down the hill and lands in the shallow river at the bottom. He tries to continue onward but has to stop as he puts weight on his left foot and realises he must have twisted his ankle during his fall.

Gritting his teeth through the throbbing pain, he looks up in time to be able to dodge another arrow fired at him by the figure on top of Dogwarts’s wall.

He has to keep going.

Every step on his left foot is agony but he pushes himself on, half-galloping down the hill on the other side, the crastle in his sights.

“Bdubs!” he shrieks as he draws near, his heart racing. The Red Army is likely right behind him. “BDUBS!”

The person he’s calling rushes out of the castle over the drawbridge just in time to catch Impulse as he finally loses his balance and pitches forward.

“Impulse! You’re soaking wet!? What the-?!”

“Th- They’re coming for me,” he croaks. His eyes flicker up and he spots two faces in the windows on the second floor. It’s time for the performance of his life. “Dogwarts turned on me! They think I killed Tango and Cleo a-a-and made you kill Joel!”

“What?!” gasps Bdubs. “That’s ridiculous! Why would they think that?!”

“I-I don’t know but th- They’re gonna kill me, Bdubs…!”

“Not on my watch!”

Bdubs quickly ushers Impulse inside the crastle and into the waiting arms of Jimmy. Together, the two guide Impulse upstairs and lay him down in the bed Grian has placed in a position safely away from the slit windows.

“What happened, Impulse?” Bdubs asks softly. “How did they turn on you?”

Impulse takes a shaky breath. “Something happened to Skizz. He… He got attacked. Then he told everyone it was me and that I’d killed Tango and Cleo and manipulated you into killing Joel.”

“First of all, that’s utterly ridiculous,” Bdubs snaps. “I killed Joel because he was about to kill you. And second, why on earth would you want to kill Tango or Cleo?”

“I-I think you might’ve been right, Bdubs. I th-think Etho was responsible for Cleo’s death. And now he’s got Dogwarts trying to make me a scapegoat.”

Bdubs’s gaze darkens. “Despicable little-.”

“BDOUBLEO!”

“Stay there,” says Bdubs.

He strides to the window, flanked by Grian and Scott, armed with his crossbow. “What do you want, Ren?”

Down on the ground, having left Skizz in the care of BigB, stand Ren, Martyn, and Etho, staring up at the castle. The latter two hold bows, while Ren is armed with a sword and shield.

“We know Impulse is hiding out in there,” Ren announces, with the regal but dangerous air of a king. “Hand him over to us, Bdubs.”

“No way in hell,” Bdubs snaps back. “He told me everything!”

“We can guarantee you he did not,” responds Martyn steadily. “Not the truth, anyway. He’s using you, Bdubs.”

“YOU’re the ones using HIM! As a scapegoat!”

“Impulse isn’t the angel you think he is, Bdubs,” Etho says darkly. “You’re protecting the person who killed Cleo.”

“No, YOU killed Cleo,” snarls Bdubs. “And I bet you killed Tango too and tried to blame it on me! You’re just trying to frame anyone you can so you can get away with it!”

Despite the pain and stress he’s experiencing, Impulse can’t help feeling proud of himself. The seeds of doubt and suspicion he’s sown between Bdubs and Etho are paying off now.

“Bdubs.” Ren’s voice drops slightly as emotion creeps into his tone. “He attacked his best friend and left him to die. If we hadn’t found him in time, Skizz would have succumbed to his injuries alone and terrified in the middle of nowhere, murdered by his own best friend.”

“What exactly is Impulse’s motive supposed to be, here?” Scott asks suddenly. “You say he killed Tango and Cleo, orchestrated Joel’s death, and tried to murder Skizzle. Why exactly would he want to do that?”

“Skizz claims Impulse said it was because Tango “knew too much” about something,” Martyn says. “Some kind of secret that Impulse is keeping. And that Cleo’s and Joel’s deaths were “necessary to push the war forward”. That’s his motive, Scott. Impulse wants war, and he doesn’t care who he hurts to get it.”

“We ARE talking about the same Impulse, right?” demands Bdubs. “Our Impulse? The sweetheart who wouldn’t hurt a fly? Are we sure Skizz didn’t just misremember? He's a little unreliable like that. Maybe he said it was someone else who-.”

“Don’t you dare!” Martyn bursts out suddenly, his voice filled with the most venom anyone had ever heard it. “Don’t you DARE say that! You weren’t there, Bdubs! You didn’t have to fix his broken ribs and his fractured neck and his shattered arm! You weren’t there when he finally woke up after several minutes of crying out and panicked breathing like he was having a nightmare! You didn’t hear the way he cried, how terrified he was when he told me what happened, the raw agony in his voice! That’s not the demeanor of someone who MISREMEMBERED! Skizz has gone through hell today and it’s all Impulse’s fault! So I’m not leaving here without his head, in one form or another!”

“YEAH!” Ren yells in agreement, hitting his sword against his shield. “No more arguments. No more wasting time. If you don’t give us Impulse right NOW, we will declare war on you and take him by force.”

Inside the crastle, Impulse’s heart skips a beat. This is it: the moment of truth. Either everything he’s been working towards will finally come to fruition… or Bdubs will hand him over and he will die.

Bdubs straightens up, a steely look of determination appearing in his eyes.

“Then consider us at war.”

[poptod]

Hi I hope ur having a great day! I love ur writing so freaking much! This request is a little different than what I’m sure ur used to but hopefully ur comfortable enough with writing it. Could u write a one shot (or headcanons if it’s easier) where Snafu from the Pacific is crushing big time on the reader (like almost in love) and he’s always hitting on her but she never shown any interest toward him. Then a few days in when the nurses come Snafu walks in on the reader making out with one of the nurses. They see each other and he walks out all like CONFUSED and shook and the reader runs after him to swear him to secrecy. He’s still shook and admits his feelings and she comes out as a lesbian to him. He’s even more SHOOK but he’s rly understanding and accepting even tho he’s incredibly heartbroken. Sorry if it’s not what u usually write, as a bi I’m just always a sucker for “I’m dumb she’s a lesbian”

notes: anon i love you you're literally perfect WC: 1.9k

+

He was used to this sort of behavior when he first met girls – curt and rude, meant to pry his eyes off their figure. Eventually though, after time, he would win their affection through his shining personality (or, at least, that's what he thought happened). Usually it only took about a week or less; he was good at what he did. This was ridiculous, though – he was ranging on the sixth week of knowing you. That's one and a half months, far above his usual score.

But you're beautiful. Even if you won't share a genuine conversation with him, you 'let' him watch you, allowing yourself to become his only source of entertainment on the island. The shine in your hair – always neatly pulled back – is a fantastic distraction from the blisters on his palms and the heat of his sunburnt skin.

You're the last piece of humanity here. It makes sense he would never be able to win you.

Today you're tending to his wounds, an activity he thought he would never love as much as he does. Your fingers are still soft somehow, brushing against the exposed skin of his arms, sliding over the bandages to ensure they won't slip. The concentration evident in your sharp eyes is revealed in the way you bite your lip, gaze never leaving the bloody blisters on his hands.

"Not for nothin' babe, but," he began to speak, voice raspy and dry, "last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid."

You very slowly raise your head, reluctantly meeting his eye with a dead stare.

"Not today, Snafu," you say.

"Tomorrow then?"

You scoff, shake your head, almost laugh, but in the end you say nothing. Instead you return to your work, diligently cleaning the scabs and covering them up. He can't say he minds––whether or not you truly engaged with him, he heard your voice, and felt your touch. That would be enough. For now.

Surprisingly enough, they still get to have movie night sometimes. That doesn't mean the movies are good, but they're generally more entertaining than watching the shore birds. Every now and then, Snafu will even go and join his tent mates, ogling more at the nurses than paying attention to the actual movie. Those are always good nights, and the forest is close enough that it's not a problem if he gets too excited.

Tonight's movie is titled 'Godzilla Goes to College,' and upon hearing the name Snafu knew he would not be able to attend a full hour of it. Instead he wanders around the encampment, watching shadow silhouettes and the movement of the breeze on tent flaps. The sound of shuffling catches his ear, and when he turns, he's pleasantly surprised to find you beside him, drowning in an oversized jacket. He laughs, loud and probably impolite, but the juxtaposition of him being shirtless beside you truly tickles him.

"Evenin', doll," he says through his laughter, stopping you in the middle of the pathway. A soft groan leaves you as you turn to face him.

"And good night," you say in a too-cheery tone, your saccharine smile instantly falling into a dead stare as you go back to walking, a renewed vigor in your step.

"Hey, where y' goin' in such a hurry?" He asks, and begins to trail slowly after you. He allows a decent amount of space to grow between you before he continues with, "stay n' chat a minute, cher!"

You don't even bother to respond once you turn the corner, where Snafu loses his trail on you. He curses to himself, turns back around, and finds several of his mates coming back from the movie rather tipsy. How long have they been there?

"Reeaaaall lucky with the girls, aren't'ya, Snaf?" Burgie asks, and the four of them fall into teasing laughter.

"I'll get her, you'll see," he promises, turning back to see if he can glimpse you between all the tents. "One a' these days, she's mine."

Later that evening he sees you again, through the sheer fabric of your tent, where you've been burning a candle. It casts your shadow clearly against the wall, allowing him to see you perfectly.

Snafu likes to claim he isn't a pervert, but most who know him in any way know that's not really true. Sure, he can be a gentleman, but if no one's looking he doesn't especially care. No one but him will know, not even you. Even if he wasn't a pervert, he still wouldn't be able to tear himself away––you're undressing, peeling the clothes off your skin and he can see the whole of your body. In outline, of course, but there nonetheless.

Fucking creep, he tells himself, calls himself, but he doesn't cease his staring till you've put out your candle. At that point he can no longer see you, and he returns to his own tent with fantasies circling his head like vultures.

It's not that you're particularly rude to him. You just don't engage or indulge any of his bullshit, which is fair enough he thinks. He has a lot of bullshit coming out of his mouth 24/7. Everyone knows that. There's a theory he has, though––a theory he came up with just a little while ago, that you would treat him perfectly normal as long as he didn't come on to you in conversation. If he treated you just like he treated most others, then you might actually be nice to him. You're a good person. You're not going to be needlessly mean.

"Afternoon," he says to you, and he has to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from calling you cher. You quirk one of your brows.

"Afternoon," you repeat back. "Something ailing you?"

"Why'd ya think that?" He asks, slinking into one of the chairs in the aid tent.

"This is a medical tent," you say, and he wants to facepalm himself.

I'm just achin' with love for you, boo, he wants to say, and again, he has to bite his tongue to stop it from coming out. Damn it, he thinks, that's actually a good line.

"So why are you here then?" You ask.

"Better than tryin' ta find somethin' edible in my lunch," he grumbles out, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes. He lets out a satisfied sigh.

You giggle, you actually laugh from something he did, and say, "understandable. You should still eat, though. Here."

You move from your spot at a nearly-fully stocked tray, instead digging through one of the numerous unlabelled boxes piled like towers in the aid tent. From there you pull out a granola bar, brand name, and throw it at Snafu's face. He nearly falls off balance, but catches it before he loses his cool.

"Thank ya kindly, ma'am," he says with a grin, tipping an imaginary hat your direction. Again you smile; there is nothing better than this, sitting across from you, and being the reason for your happiness.

Eventually he has to leave in order to make room for those who actually do require medical aid, but he leaves singing on a high note. You say good-bye to him this time, for the first time, and a smile tugs at his lips all day. Therein lies the secret to your affection––a blazingly obvious secret that all men should know––that he must treat you as an equal, not size you up to something he can win over, something he can buy with cheap words and undressing eyes.

He thinks it over all day, lets it mull over in his head how he should next approach you. Things get twisted in his mind if he doesn't speak them out loud, and by eveningtime he's convinced that he should meet you tonight, even if it's just him barging into your tent. Politely, of course. A polite barging in.

For a moment he stops, his hand poised above the handle of your tent flap. You're definitely in there––or someone is––as there's shuffling behind the material, a sound he can barely process over the rushing of his heart.

Fuck it, he finally says, and without giving himself a chance to doubt, he pulls open the flap.

You don't even notice him. To be fair, your eyes are closed. And you're a bit preoccupied. Your tongue is pretty far down that nurse's throat.

His mouth falls open as every muscle in his body freezes. It's the other nurse that actually sees him, and she taps you harshly with her wide eyes set on Snafu. You tear yourself away from her touch, turn to the marine, and all the air in the tent goes stagnant.

He leaves. Throws the flap back into place and all but sprints away, wide eyes burning in the cool night air. It's only a second or two of running before he hears the flap open and close again, followed by you yelling something, and ultimately your chasing footsteps.

You end up being surprisingly fast, and you easily catch up to him. Once you do you grab his wrist, tugging him back, and forcing him to face you. Both of your hearts are racing a hundred miles a minute, both of your eyes wide with shock.

"Merriel I am begging you, you cannot tell anyone about this, please, please, you can't, I’ll do anything," you beg him, and it's then he notices there's tears on the edge of your eyes. "Please do this for me, you can't tell anyone. Don't even think about it––just, pretend it never happened?"

He's panting, unable to formulate any response, only able to stare into your panic and sink in the fear pouring out of your desperate eyes.

"(Y/N), I'm––no, I won't," he says at last, and you practically collapse with relief, falling into him with your forehead on his shoulder. He continues in a murmur, awkwardly holding you, "I just... I'm.. I'm in love with you. I––I couldn't do that to you."

"Fuck, I know," you say in a breath, removing yourself to look him in the eye. "But I can't be with you."

You pause, and he waits a moment for you to continue, his brow quirked in curiosity.

"I'm a lesbian, Snafu."

"Oh," he says, but it doesn't process. Not for a minute, anyway. "Oh. Ohh. OHHHH."

"Yeah," you say with a vigorous nod.

"Okay, I thought – I thought I jus’ lost my touch, you're just.. a lesbian, okay," he says, sparking a laugh from you.

"You're not angry?"

"Shit cher, you can't control who you wanna get freaky with jus' as much as I can't," he says, smiling, and the tears in your eyes finally fall. They aren't sad, though––birthed from fear, yes, but falling from happiness.

"You're a lifesaver, Snaf."

As heartbroken as he truly is, none of it really shows in his face. At least now he knows it wasn't really his fault that you didn't show interest in him. Still, disappointment fills up his chest, until you tell him that he makes a good friend. It's then he realizes he can still keep you in his life, a version of modesty and stature and innocence that he can't achieve alone.

He won't ever be able to kiss you, which he does mourn––your lips are painfully soft, and every time he catches sight of them he yearns to press his own against them. Your statement on him works in reverse, though; you're a good friend, and that would be enough for Snafu. But Merriel hides within the bravado, within the suaveness of his voice and actions, and Merriel weeps childish tears that Snafu doesn't know how to wipe away and comfort. Snafu understands the reality of the world, but Merriel will always lament the unfairness of life.

You're the last piece of humanity here. It makes sense Merriel would never be able to win you.

[girls-scenarios]

The Warmth in Her Smile

Idol: Irene (Red Velvet)

Prompt: ceo irene age gap love story w gf (angst and fluff but more angst yknow) along the lines of having their differences but irene rly rly loves gf

Writer: Admin Kiwi

A/N: I did end up making this reader female, just because it worked better for the angst scenario I was inspired to write.

♡ Tip Jar♡

Irene had never been someone to jump headfirst into anything without stopping to think first. She hadn’t created a successful company by being careless, and her careful and calculating personality had made her rich. Even in high school, she had been careful of her actions, overthinking each situation as she planned her rise to the top of the business world. Everything was accounted for in her life.

Except for you.

She could have never accounted for you, or for the way you shoved your way into her heart and refused to leave. How could she have known that, on that rainy day, the panicked college kid she sheltered with her umbrella would make her fall in love? Had she known, she would have kept walking.

But she didn’t. Instead she smiled and took you in, offering you a change of clothes when you told her that you had a presentation and giving you her umbrella when you left, and now she couldn’t let you go.

What was it about you that was so addicting? Your smile? Your embrace? The way you tried your best even after being soaked to the bone? The way your lips felt against yours? Or perhaps the way your eyes sparkled when she praised you and when you accomplished what you wanted? When she tried to list the reasons, she only realized how much she loved everything about you. And how easily you could break her heart.

-

“Is it normal for you to loan people your clothes when they get wet?” You had laughed softly as you stepped out of her bathroom, your hair still slightly wet but now pulled back away from your face. With a shrug, Irene had walked over to fix the blazer around your shoulders.

“I’m a philanthropist at heart. Do you always follow people to their home?”

You’d flushed and grinned sheepishly. “Well, I recognized you. You helped run the animal shelter fundraiser at my college last year and my friend said you lent everyone gloves, so I figured you were a nice person.”

Amused, she’d laughed and shook her head, her heart already taking to this optimistic college kid. “Fair point. You look ready to give a presentation now that you no longer look like a drowned kitten.”

“But is it really okay for me to take these clothes? I mean, they’re really nice.”

“They were a gift from a colleague, but they never fit me. They fit you, so you can keep them.”

“Wow.” You had grinned, warming her heart. “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I have to go now, but I’ll be back to repay you, I promise!”

At first, when she had let you out the door and waved goodbye, she hadn’t believed that you would keep your promise. After all, how could a broke college student repay her for designer clothes?

However, the next day you had showed up at her office, catching her as she was leaving for lunch with a grin on your face. “Hey, I told you I would repay you, right? Let me buy you lunch!”

And she probably should have said no. She should have known what would come out of this from the warmth you’d left in her heart as you ran off that day. But she hadn’t. Instead she’d agreed with a smile, holding up the keys to her car and offering to drive to the place of your choice.

Instead, she sealed her own fate.

-

“How do you not know any slang? How old are you?” You laughed from where you were perched on the couch, looking over the back with your head resting on your arms, watching her as she cut strawberries in the kitchen. With a huff, she playfully pointed the fruit knife at you.

“You know, you’re pretty rude for a kid. I’m not even thirty yet.”

“Only a year out.”

“Oh shut up. I was busy creating a business, I didn’t have any time to learn slang.” Her lips curved down into a pout, which only made you laugh again. Her competitors always called her scary, but she could never intimidate you.

“Right, right. Maybe I should teach you some, so that you can be hip with the youth.”

“And why would I want to be hip with the youth?” Irene asked, rolling her eyes scooping the strawberries into a bowl.

“Well, you’re dating one.”

Your words made her drop her knife into the sink, her body freezing for a moment. Quickly, she covered up her mistake by turning on the water and washing her hands, but her heart was racing no matter how nonchalant she tried to be. She was dating a youth. A youth who could drink and was in her twenties, but still a youth. And she didn’t understand half the words you said. Swallowing, she dried her hands and picked up the bowl of strawberries.

“I guess you can teach me some,” she said as she walked over to the couch, handing you the bowl. “But I can’t promise that I’ll be able to learn.”

You were quiet for a moment as she sat down beside you, then leaned your head on her shoulder. “Better late than never, right?” As if trying to chase away the awkward air, you nodded at the TV. “What do you want to watch?”

Still, Irene felt a weight on her heart as she settled in next to you, remembering how you’d fallen asleep the last time she’d chosen what to watch. Maybe she was getting old. Reaching for a strawberry, she gave you a smile that she hoped wasn’t too strained. “Oh. You can choose. I think I chose last time.”

-

“Hey, do you remember when you picked me up from college the other day? For dinner?” You looked uncomfortable, staring down at the plate in front of you with your hands in your lap. The two of you were eating dinner together once again, at a new place her friends had recommended. Despite the amazing smells and fantastic food, though, you’d seemed troubled all dinner. Now, Irene frowned, putting down her chopsticks.

“Yeah, why?”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, twisting your hands together in your lap as you blushed. “Well, my friends are calling you my, um, sponsor.”

“Sponsor?”

“They think you’re my sugar mommy, basically,” you said, rushing your words as you flushed even deeper. Irene swallowed, her blood running cold. Suddenly she wasn’t so hungry anymore.

“I.... I guess I could see why they think that.” Her car wasn’t exactly conspicuous, a sleek brand-new Lexus that was so clean it gleamed in the light. “What did you-?”

You cut her off. “I don’t think of you that way! I tried to explain that we just met by accident and that you don’t give me gifts like that, but they wouldn’t listen! They said it was okay if I was getting paid to date someone, but they hadn’t expected it from me. I didn’t know what else to say. I’m not dating you for your money, but now that I think about it, it looks suspicious, the two of us together.” You were obviously flustered and upset by your friends’ accusations, but Irene wasn’t sure what to do. Still, she reached out her hand, offering her support, and after a moment, you took it.

“It was only suspicious because I was picking you up from college. When we’re out like this, we’re just two people. Nobody can tell that you’re a student or that I’m a CEO. And what other people think doesn’t matter, because I know that I love you and I’m not trying to pay you to be around.”

“I know,” you said with a sigh, squeezing her hand. “I just wish my friends didn’t think that way.”

“I won’t pick you up in front of them anymore. If there’s anything I can do to stop them from being suspicious, let me know.”

“Okay.” Your voice was quiet, and she hated it. She hated seeing you down when you were usually so optimistic. And she couldn’t help feeling that this was her fault.

-

Her secretary Yeri was looking at her with pursed lips, her eyes intense with scrutiny despite the early morning hour. Warily, Irene walked past her to her desk and sat her bag down.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, already knowing the answer. Yeri only got like this when something was wrong.

“I’ve heard from gossip around the office,” Yeri said, choosing her words carefully, “that you’ve been seeing a student.”

Oh. Oh god. Irene groaned and rubbed her hand against her head. Of course people were going to find out, but the wording made it sound worse than it was. “A university student, Yeri. There’s nothing illegal going on.”

“Even if it’s legal, don’t you think it’s risky?”

“Why?”

“No offense, but you’re getting older. What will the shareholders say if they find out?”

“If it’s not illegal, I don’t see why anyone would have a problem with it.”

Yeri rubbed at her temple, like she always did when Irene was irritating her. “It still doesn’t look proper. A CEO dating a college student? They’ll say you’re paying them to date you!”

“But I’m not. They can check my statements if they want. I’ve given them some small gifts and paid for some dinners but you can see that I’ve never paid them any money.” Irene was starting to feel annoyed. “Plus, if I’m making them money, can they really complain about what I’m doing in my free time?”

“They definitely can if they think something illicit is happening.”

“Nothing like that is happening.”

“Still, you have to think about it from their point of view,” the younger woman said, crossing her arms. “And what about the student? Have you ever thought that they might just be after you for your money? You’re a millionaire, you have to worry about these things!”

“I know (Y/N),” Irene responded, her voice tight. “She wouldn’t do that. We’re dating and we’re in love. Is that so wrong?”

For a moment, Yeri was silent. Then she gave in with a sigh. “Whatever. Just be more careful, okay? You know how easily reputations can be ruined. Even just by rumors.”

“I’ll be more careful.” What a way to start her day. Irene fell back into her chair and frowned. “And spread the word that I don’t appreciate the office gossiping about their boss behind my back. If they have a grievance, they can come and take it up with me directly.” She wasn’t usually one to feel angry. But she was tired from the stress of work and from staying up with you, and she was beginning to feel annoyed that the rest of the world thought they had a say in her relationship.

“Will do.”

-

One night, after a fitful sleep, she woke up to the moon slipping in through the window and to a headache behind her eyes. For a moment, she was confused at the warmth next to her, until she smelt your familiar shampoo and remembered that you’d come over to spend the night. Slowly and carefully, as to not wake you up, she sat up and glanced at her clock. It was 3am. She let out a groan and pressed her fingers to her forehead, annoyed with herself. She’d never let stress affect her like this before.

Not wanting her restlessness to wake you up, she slipped out of bed and headed to the kitchen to find her medication, hoping it would help her sleep.

For a while after taking her medication, she held onto her glass of water and looked around her large apartment. There were pieces of you everywhere, so stark and out of place that they were too obvious to miss. Your textbooks and backpack were on a kitchen chair, your slightly worn sneakers sat beside her expensive work heels, a YA book she’d bought for you when you wanted it peeked out among the reference books on her shelf, and your extra pair of slippers was covered in your favorite characters while hers were plain and grey. You’d slipped into her life, but it almost felt like you didn’t belong there, no matter how much her heart wanted you to stay.

Gulping down the rest of her water, she tried not to think of that. Instead, she washed the glass before heading back to the bedroom and climbing into bed beside you. The room was dark, but the moon outside was abnormally bright, and she gazed down at your features, relaxed and smooth. It was when you were asleep that it struck her how young you really were. Your hair was a mess and you still slept like you weren’t used to sharing a bed with someone, your limbs spread across her king sized bed. Where she was beginning to get lines in her frown and smile lines, your skin was smooth. The dark circles under your eyes weren’t as defined as hers.

Her heart twisting in her chest, she gently touched your face, running her thumb over your cheekbones. God, she loved you so much. To her, you were the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe it was because it was late and she was stressed from work, but tears began to well up in her eyes.

She was too old for you. It hadn’t been long since you’d had your first legal drink, yet she could hardly drink without getting a terrible hangover the next day. You were still at the age where you liked to party and go out with friends, but she got headaches from loud sounds and preferred to go to bed instead of going out after work. She couldn’t go to clubs or parties with you, no matter how much you wanted her to. She was busier than you, she often had to go on business trips, she couldn’t always be around for you like another student could. She knew her long hours annoyed you, because the two of you had gotten into arguments about it before. But work wasn’t like classes: she couldn’t just skip her duties.

Biting her lip, she pulled her hand away and tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. What was she doing? This wasn’t right. None of this was right. She was stealing your youth away from you when you should be spending it with someone who could give you everything you wanted. Her gifts couldn’t make up for all the times she missed important dates and left you alone for weeks on end.

You stirred and she froze, staring down at you as you rolled over to face her and reached out your hand towards her. “Irene?” Your voice was rough and tired, and she reached out to grab your hand.

“I’m right here,” she replied, quickly wiping at her face.

“Mmkay. Just making sure.” A smile came to your lips and you seemed to drift off into sleep, leaving her to ponder in the dark, her heart torn into pieces of indecision.

-

“You’re going on a business trip again?” Your voice was rising from where you stood, leaning against the counter in the kitchen with your arms crossed. Your eyebrows were furrowed and your lips pressed into a frown that she was now seeing too often. “But you missed my birthday last year too! I thought you would want to spend it with me this time, but I guess I was wrong.”

“I said that I’m sorry.” Her words sounded void even to herself as she ran her fingers through her hair. “But it’s a business trip. I can’t say no.”

“You can’t even reschedule?”

“That’s not how these things work, (Y/N).”

“There you go again!” You stood up, your face flushing with anger. “You’re treating me like I’m a kid who doesn’t know anything about the world!”

“That’s because you don’t know anything about my world,” Irene replied, beginning to feel hollow. How many times had she had this fight with you before? “I have responsibilities that I can’t throw away just to spend time with you. I own a company, (Y/N).”

“I’m well aware. And sometimes, I think you care about that company more than you care about me.”

“That’s not true.” Her heart fractured and broke a little bit more, her throat burning as the urge to cry welled up inside her. Why was she crying so much these days? “I love you, more than I think you know.”

“Then why don’t you show it?”

“Because I can’t show it the same way that someone the same age as you might show it. I buy you gifts, but you say that you don’t want them because it makes people think I’m your sugar mommy. I offer to take you with me on trips, but you can’t because of school. I can’t pick you up for dinner anymore. But I try and I try to show you. I buy you flowers and I invite you over whenever you don’t have homework and I hold you ever time I get the chance. I tell you that I love you all the time. Every time you want something, I try to get it or make it happen. Is that not enough?”

You fell quiet for a moment. “I just wish you could spend more time with me. That’s all I want.”

“I spend every moment I have free with you.”

“Why don’t you give yourself more days off? You’re the boss.”

“That’s not how it works.” This isn’t how relationships work, Irene thought. We’re both in totally different worlds. Why did I ever think this would work?

“Why not?”

“Because I have to run the place. If I slacked off all the time, what kind of boss would I be?”

“I don’t know what kind of boss you would be, but you might be a better girlfriend.”

In that moment, Irene’s world fell down around her, and she accepted the truth. She accepted that this was never going to work. That she was never going to be able to give you what you needed in a relationship, and that you would never understand her world and the stress of it all. It took everything in her and made the tears spill from her eyes, but she finally forced the words out. “Then let’s break up.”

You froze, your eyes widening. Emotions flew across your face as you took in her words, before your shoulders slumped and the anger in your frown melted away. “Wait, Irene, what-.”

“We need to break up. This isn’t going to work between us, (Y/N), and it never has. I love you, I really do. But we can’t give each other what we need. We live in different worlds and we can’t understand each other. If we continue like this we’ll only end up hurting each other more. So let’s break up before that happens.”

Your lip started to quiver and Irene looked away, wiping at her face. She knew that if she saw you cry, she might give in. And she couldn’t give in.

“But.... I didn’t....” You seemed at a loss for words, as if you thought she would never say those words. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure she would ever say them either. “I never meant to hurt you,” you said, voice softer now.

“But you did. And I never meant to hurt you, but I did. We can’t continue like this, with you having to hide me from your friends and family because you don’t know what they’ll think, and with me having to hide you from the people I work with. I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too. It’s all too much.”

“I don’t want to break up with you. I love you.”

“I love you too. But surely you see why we can’t keep doing this.” She glanced up to see that you were crying now too, the anger gone from your body. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice broke. “But I’m breaking up with you for our own good.”

“Even though we still love each other?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, staring down at the floor. For a moment, there was silence, other than the sound of crying. Then you sucked in a breath and shifted, standing from the counter.

“When I graduate and get a job, will you give me another chance then?”

Her heart ached to say yes as she looked up at you again, taking in your face for what she knew was the last time. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t know what the future will hold. But maybe if we’re meant to be, then we’ll meet again in the future. And maybe we can try again.”

“Then this is goodbye.” You stood across from her, your face streaked with tears, and suddenly the kitchen felt too big, and she felt too small. “Can I at least have one last hug.”

She had never been strong enough to tell you no. Despite knowing this would make it hurt worse, she nodded her head and allowed you to walk over and wrap her up in your arms one last time, hugging her like your life depended on it. For a moment, she sank into your arms and allowed herself to imagine a future where everything was okay and the two of you never broke up.

But then you pulled away, yanking her from her fantasy, and smiled. “I’m glad I met you,” you said, and she barely held in a sob, wiping at her face and feeling pathetic.

“I’m glad I met you too.”

She walked you to the door, helped you gather all your things, and saw you out. It was only when you were gone and the door was closed that she finally allowed herself to sob, her heart shattering as she sunk down onto the floor and buried her face in her hands.

Her apartment had never felt so cold.

-

Even years later, Irene had never forgotten about you, not really. Even though she’d tried to convince herself that she was okay, the suit she’d lent to you that day still hung at the front of her closet, and she often ran her fingers over the fabric and tried it on, only to look in the mirror and remember that it never fit in the first place. She went on a few dates that her friends set up for her, but no one ever took your place. Her bed stayed cold and empty, so instead she threw herself into her work, pushing her company further than it had ever been.

That was what she’d always wanted, right?

Her days all blended together, boring and bland and busy, until one day she sat down behind her desk and opened up a file of resumes only to see a name that knocked the breath out of her staring out of the paper.

(Y/N). Applying for the recently vacated secretary position, passed the test and first round of evaluations. She sucked in a breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Was it really you? After all these years?

She picked up her coffee and took a sip, trying to calm her shaking hands and push down the hope flooding through her body. If it was you....

There was a knock at her door and she quickly put down her coffee and straightened herself. “Yes?”

Joy, the HR manager, opened the door. “One of the applicants for the secretary position is here.”

“What’s their name?”

“Her name is (Y/N).”

Her heart climbed up into her throat but she put on her best poker face and nodded her head. “Send her in.”

Joy nodded and disappeared, and a moment later, the door was opened again by a familiar face with a warm smile that once again took her breath away. Just like it had years ago.

“Remember me?” You asked as you approached her desk, and she laughed. Like she could forget you. You were obviously older now, your features more defined, and you’d cut your hair, but you were still just as beautiful as she remembered.

“I thought it was you.” She wasn’t sure what to say as she leaned forward onto her desk, your file open in front of you. “But I never thought I’d see you here.”

You sat down and clasped your hands, and she caught a hint of nervousness in your mannerisms. “I didn’t want to let you go,” you said, your voice soft but steady, “so I worked hard to get my degree so I could come here. Will you give me a chance?”

“For the job, or for us?” Irene wasn’t sure what possessed her to make a joke, but when you laughed, she was glad she did.

“Both?”

“Well,” she replied, knowing that she still couldn’t say no to you, “we still have to do the interview. But I can say yes to one of those for sure.” At her words, you laughed again and held out your hand, and as she took it, she swore that her office had never felt so warm.

[tarantulas4davey]

more hc’s!! even though i’m in school!!

al mining all the way to bedrock with race and being like ‘hey babe can you get this block for me i’m gonna build our house try to get at least five okay?’

and race, clueless, is like ‘sure babe!’ and after twenty minutes race is loSING HIS MIND and al is like uhhh babe i kinda need it?? and race is like, near tears, IM TRYING IM TRYINF I SWEAR I SWEAR

eventually al tells him and race unplugs al’s computer

race speaking italian bc he’s stressed and al doesn’t know what he’s saying but dear god that’s so hot

people make a million gifs abt al’s face and race is like ‘oh so italian is a turn on for you huh?’ but race, little bitch, says it in italian and watches al live up to his nickname of red

one time al is rly tired as he’s streaming and just falls asleep at his computer and race is facing his computer and eventually he realizes he’s been rambling and that al hasn’t said much? and he’s like ‘uhh babe you okay?’ and then looks over and you can see the exact moment his heart bursts bc al just dozed off and he’s so cute and the comments r going crazy

al is pretty shy abt it he’s like oh my god they saw me sleeping that’s so embarrassing hey race stop!! it wasn’t cute!!! and race is like uhhh yeah it was but he’s still sweet ofc and al (who’s slowly becoming more comfortable with himself) is like oh. okay. and the fans are like THATS SO ADORABLE

someone points out at one point that race and al have the exact same follower count and they’re like !!! that’s actually so cute!!!

race’s background is him and al and al’s is just race and they’re so cute and so in love

race n al both getting super into the game and they’re put on opposite teams and become like. lethal. like race is super smart ofc but he’s not saying anything so al has NO idea where to find him, but alternatively, someone keeps killing race’s teammates and no one can seem to beat them theyre so strong??

at one point al walks in and race is like hey hey hey! it’s radioactive red! and starts playing radioactive by imagine dragons and al, bright red, is like i’m going to kill you slowly and race, cheeky bastard, is like ha that’s kinda hot babe and winks and al’s just turning even more red

and ppl are like????? wait wait wait how is al the top did you see how flustered he got?

race n al literally laying on top of each other and full body cuddles but they both get so red when they hold hands and everyone’s like? you just literally sit in each other’s laps but ok

izzy these are fucking incredible i’m dying 😭

- al is such a little shit he totally would do that. race unplugs albert’s gaming monitor but the one with chat is still up and the cameras still going for the stream so everyone can see race whack al in the head with rolled up magazine from his desk and albert just throws race over his shoulder and spins around in circles while chat is loosing its fuckin mind

- whenever albert and race end up on different teams in a game race isn’t as good at and can’t just,,,,, math his way out (i.e. rocket league) he babbles in italian and it got to the point where al would get so distracted he would end up loosing the game cause he’s too busy internally going holyshitthatsreallyhotholyshitholyshit. albert went absolutely scarlet when he saw all the gifs of it and he’s sitting on the couch scrolling through twitter and race walks up behind him and leans down and whispers “why didn’t you mentioned you liked my italian” in italian and albert just ✨looses it✨

- SLEEPY 👏 ALBERT 👏 he doesn’t fall asleep on stream very often, but they do 12+ hour charity livestreams at least once a month so,,,, tired red is a common occurrence. he lives in a perpetual state of,,, ruffled? messy hair sticking up in every direction, a voice that always kinda sounds like he just woke up, constantly reaching for some form of affection from race that’s vaguely reminiscent of a toddler that just woke up from a nap between games, the like. he’s also a very deep sleeper, and it makes his already young face go from about,,,, 19? 20? to like 16 at best. he’s definitely getting better about seeing himself more accurately and all the fans think it’s so cute he doesn’t vehemently reject all of race’s compliments anymore.

- of course these two would be cute about having the same follower count. at one point someone follows albert but not race and race threatens to unfollow albert just to fix it, but about 10 seconds later the person follows him too and all balance is restored to the universe

- they’re 100% eachothers phone backgrounds. their lock screens is that cute thing where race has the half of the picture with albert in it and albert has the half of the picture with race in it and when you set their phones next to eachother in makes one picture. albert’s home screen is art jack made of them for his birthday. and race’s is a picture from the disney trip when al proposed.

- race is trying to pick albert’s teammates off from a distance, and he does fairly well for awhile, but as smart as he is race doesn’t have that much experience (especially compared to albert) so race’s teammates are dropping like flies literally ALL OVER the map and race is just like “?????? how the hell who is doing that” and albert is just silently chuckling to himself from his desk. eventually race is the only one left and albert finds him and just laughs maniacally while race dramatically falls out of his chair when he dies.

- y e s ok so albert blushes REALLY EASILY and race is,,,, race, so he’s honestly not that easy to embarrass and the general ‘red being flustered’ thing makes people confused how he’s the top. that is, until once race is laughing at how red albert is and albert just leans over and whispers something to race and race’s mouth snaps shut and his eyes get all wide and he just immediately changes the subject and albert has the smug look on his face and suddenly,,,, it all makes sense and that face race made gets so memed and albert laughs for 20 years over it

- honestly yeah it’s like

race: *kisses al’s neck and sits in his lap to try and distract him while albert keeps playing with a straight face*

also race: *can’t stop giggling for 5 minutes cause albert locked their pinky’s while showing him something and using the mouse*

~ or ~

albert: *carries race around the gaming room in victory or will randomly kiss him full on the mouth cause he just thinks he’s pretty*

also albert: *goes pink every time race calls him any sort of pet name, especially in italian*

this was written while also trying to keep track of the one year old and six year old i’m babysitting so i apologize for any random mistakes. no small children were harmed in the making of this post 😆

thank you for all of these i love them so much jdhdjdjd