#seventy fucking seconds..

[hauntingblue]

VIOLA!!!!!! STAB THAT MAN IN THE EYE!!!

[stark-lord]

I know Charles and Crystal’s kiss in 1x04 has been analysed to the moon and back already, but I feel like there’s something to be said about the fact that it’s spurred on by the line “I just want something that’s real”.

Something about how the most real thing in Crystal’s life at that point is a ghost drowning in emotions?? A ghost just as desperate for something real. And yet the most real thing he felt like he could give her was a kiss that he had to construct halfway in his head.

And yeah, just because Charles isn’t quite as tangible doesn’t mean he’s any less real than Crystal. But ghosts are just snapshots in time, they’re emotions made manifest. That’s in their very nature. Does he feel that gap? Based on where she’s at at that point in her arc (spending half the episode believing her mother’s calling out to her, that there’s more waiting for her out there), does she feel like she’ll take what she can get, in the moment?

A ‘why not, what do I have to lose’ kiss and a ‘goodbye, time to close this photo album’ kiss. When do either of them get something real.

[fionnaskyborn]

Was tagged by @oceancamp to post my current five favorite songs! (They should invent a stages-of-grief-esque model that encompasses and accurately describes both types of anguish I had to go through making this list - the one of limiting myself to only five songs, and the one of trying to put as little videogame music on here as possible so that I don't end up looking like an absolute goddamn geek, which... I am... Oh well!)

Thank you so much for tagging me - here are the songs!

Heaven Pierce Her - War Without Reason

Tatsuro Yamashita - Love Space

This specific arrangement of Death And Republic + Meet Again

Winger - Junkyard Dog (Tears On Stone)

The Protomen - Light Up The Night

Is it courtesy to tag other people after you've been tagged in a post like this? If that's the case, I'll tag @spiralled-fury, @solradguy, @swamppossum, @five-by-five, @northstarring, @ineedmoredragons and @tbonechessor!

[justangrymacaroni]

knitting tutorial made by a twenty-something knitting influencer: 18 min long, 12 of those minutes being the intro and a sponsor plug, they show the first few steps of the tutorial at the slowest speed known to man, they show the most important steps at a neck-break speed, they stop every five seconds to talk about what they just did, 40,000 comments filled with questions ranging from insightful to “how do i knit”, filmed with a camera that costs more than a car, the tutorial is incorrect.

knitting tutorial made by a seventy-something grandmother: two min long, filmed 17 years ago, shows you what you want with the skilled patient hands of a beloved deity, made with the world’s shittiest camera, the best video on the fucking internet, four comments and 30 views, you lose the video and never find it again.

[joelsgoldrush]

“GUILTY PLEASURE” | 8.6k

logan howlett x fem!reader

“I want this like a cigarette / Can we drag it out and never quit?” Guilty Pleasure by Chappell Roan

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: smut - mdni 18+ fluff, angst, drinking, dirty talk, slow-burnish, grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader, reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes, age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, finger sucking, soft dom!logan, wade being the funniest asshole, logan calls reader "kiddo/kid"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[ramonathinks]

— LIVE NOW, THINK LATER (NANAMI K.)

warning: (18+) infidelity, car sex, creampie, small feelings (lolll).

“You look beautiful.” A familiar voice startled you. He couldn’t believe his eyes really, your beautiful skin glowing and your eyes twinkling.

“Oh, Kento! I didn’t think you’d make it,” You moved into his arms and he held you tightly, his fingers dancing across your waist.

You pulled away and smiled at him. He chuckled, “Wouldn’t have missed it.” But he wish he did. He hated how this tortured him and wound him up. He hated watching you be in love with someone else.

“I got you something.” He whispered, his fingers playing in your hair. He tried to remember to keep his distance. He could already hear the whispers around him, women judging and asking if you had “any sense at all” or decorum, to be with any other man than your husband right now.

Your husband who was too busy drinking and laughing with his friends to notice. But the women didn’t say anything about that.

“Oh really?” You asked, quirking a brow. “Lemme see it!” You jumped and clapped your hands so excited.

“I’ll have to take you away…” He licked his lips and did a devilish smile. He held up his index finger and walked towards your husband. “Mind if I take her away from you? No more than twenty minutes…” He asked, his tone annoyed as he looked at the man who just married you.

He waved Nanami off and continued back to his conversations. Nanami wanted to hurt him. He wouldn’t have let you go anywhere without him tonight. He wouldn’t have left you alone tonight.

He grabbed your hand and he whisked you away from it all. He took you to his car and looked around, making sure it was nobody near you both. He helped you inside, picking up the bottom of your long white wedding dress and carefully putting it inside.

“Why couldn’t you just wait for me? Huh?” He hated this. “I promised you and—“

“You promised me for years, Kento. Work was always a priority for you. I was tired of being second place.” Your words stung and he knew that it was true but he always figured that you’d stay. When you left he assumed you just needed some space, when you got a boyfriend he reassured himself that you’d come back…but when he saw the wedding invitations and even received one in the mail… he knew that he lost you.

He stared into your pretty eyes and caressed your cheek, “Why did you invite me then? Pity? I can already see how your life is going to be. Married for a year, pregnant with an inattentive husband who’ll fuck his co-worker more than he fucks you. He doesn’t even look at you and those vows of his? The embarrassment on your face told it all. You don’t love him…not how you loved me.”

You swallowed, “Kento… let’s not do this, here.” Your hands were shaky and your palms sweating. “You said you have a gift for me?”

He paused, thinking momentarily. Popping open the glove department and reaching inside, he presented a rectangular blue box with a scarlet red ribbon on top. “For you, I hope you like it.”

He heard you gasp, “A Tiffany tennis bracelet?” Your eyes were wide. “Do you know how expensive these are? Well — of course you do, you bought this one.” You did an awkward chuckle.

He already knew you would ask, when he saw your mouth open. “It was seventy-thousand dollars. I saw it, thought you’d like it and that was that. It’s the least I could do for you, baby.”

“Seventy— Are you insane? It’s beautiful but for that amount? I… you could’ve bought a house or… gosh… I barely even spent fifty thousand on this wedding.”

“Oh, so you really settled.” He muttered and to his surprise you laughed.

“I did.” You agreed with a strained smile and a sad look in your eyes. “Thank you for this… it’s so beautiful and I do love it, I always loved their stuff and I always hated that I left all my jewelry behind, all those years ago.” You released a heavy sigh.

“I still have ‘em. Could drop them off one day, maybe. Or… you could come and get them.” He said and you looked at him with narrowed eyes. He held his hands up in surrender, “No funny business.”

“Yeah right. I already know you brought me out here to try to fuck me.” He coughed in surprise at your words. “A present, really? That you had to take me all the way out here and not give me in front of everyone?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass your husband. That’s all. Nothing more. Honest.” He moved his hands to cover his hardening cock. “But… how’s the sex?”

“You’re that curious? I already told you I settled and you already know there’s nobody better than you.” You looked at him with heavy-lidded hazy eyes, your voice soft as silk.

He swallowed. “Divorce him and I’ll give you the wedding you deserve. I’d spend double the amount of that bracelet on you. You deserve the best, baby. I work and work because I didn’t ever want you to be comfortable living a simple life when I could give you more. I love you and there’s no one like you.” He took your hand and pressed it to his chest. “This has always been yours, it has your name on it and it forever will.”

You kissed him, it was too hot in his car to think about anything. You didn’t care that you were still in your wedding dress or that someone could see you. You just wanted him. He reached forward and put a tightening hand on your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss.

His tongue sucked on yours and swirled inside. Your nails digging into his hair as you pulled him closer towards you. “I want it.” You whispered against his lips, kissing the side of his neck and licking a long stripe up. “Let’s go.” You motioned towards the back and he smiled.

Crawling to the backseat and he palmed your ass. “Naughty, naughty.” You giggled, drunk off something. Drunk off Nanami Kento. He joined you in the back, you pulled at his tie and he happily sighed.

Unbuttoning his pants before he began bunching up your dress, he slid down the thin panties you were and looked between your legs. “This for me?” He looked at you, his dark brown eyes full of pure lust. You were soaked, wetness covering your thighs and your lips stuck together with glossy strings of your essence. You nodded, unable to speak and he kissed you again. It felt like before, when you both started dating and how soft he always was with you.

He inhaled, your smell all over the place and he loved every second of it.

“Does he know that you like to be touched, right here? Or right there?” His fingers were simply dancing across your lower body, working you up just from small touches, but he wouldn’t slip them inside, much to your frustration. Your hips thrusts up a bit, begging for more before all of the warmth of his fingers pulled away.

He slid his pants and boxers down, staring at your soaked folds. His cock had a thick bunch of hair that was lightly trimmed and it looked prettier than you ever seen it, with creamy white precum gushing out of the tip.

He slid a hand down after gathering the small amounts of leaking precum, the lewd sounds of him jerking himself off filled the car and made you whine. “Please, hurry up.” Spreading yourself more so that he can see the cream between your folds drip to his seat. He muttered something quietly and pulled your dress up more, rubbing his cock up and down your slit, both of you hissing and gasping.

Your nails were digging into his forearm when he finally slipped inside of you, he groaned close to your mouth. You huffed, wrapping your legs around his, wanting him to fully be inside of you. When both of your pelvis’s were touching, hips flushed together. He felt you squeeze around him and more of your wetness squirted out of your pussy when he snapped his hips in a solid thrust.

“Does he know your body like me?” Even though you told him earlier, he wanted to know while he was pounding into you, holding up the sides of your wedding dress. His hips were moving dangerously fast now, making your titties bounce. Foreheads touching and his cock filling you up, your eyes rolled back.

“No, he—ah— he doesn’t. Never even made me cum.”

“Oh, so I have to make up for that, don’t I, baby?” He drags his cock in and out of you, the loud sounds of slapping skin made him even harder as he looked at your fucked out expression. Your legs were already shaking, so he added pressure by rubbing your clit in small circles. Tightening around him yet again and he smiled, “That’s my girl.” You rolled your hips, trying to push yourself even closer to your orgasm.

“Look at me. Remember who’s fucking you and who’s making you feel this good, right now. Got that?” He whispered in your ear, biting it playfully.

You felt so good around him, closer to heaven and he knew for this moment with him fucking you right now, he was dragging you closer to hell. Be he couldn’t care less, your tiny cunt creaming around him, your back arching and your toes squeezing.

Your pussy constricts around him and a stream of your cum drips down between the both of you. But Nanami doesn’t stop; he rolls his hips again and fucks more of that creamy wetness out of you. He presses your stomach and you squirm. “I’m gonna come inside of you, ‘kay?” You can’t talk anymore so you just moan and sigh, nodding your head.

Both of your hips bucking, grinding into each other’s pelvis’s, he cums. It’s heavy and you spasm around him, sucking him deeper inside and he shutters. “You feel so fucking good. Could do this all night baby.” He slipped out for a moment, looking at his cum soaked half hard cock, before he pushed back in. You gasped, pushing him back a bit to no avail.

“You love me don’t you, baby?”

“Always, Kento.”

no part two.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him. 

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign. 

You look at it. 

And then you set your phone down. 

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness. 

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside. 

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes. 

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment. 

He looks good. Almost too good. 

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek. 

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head. 

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him. 

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully. 

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.” 

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek. 

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best. 

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body. 

You cover his hand with your own. 

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion. 

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies. 

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks. 

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense. 

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this. 

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy. 

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel. 

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm. 

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.  

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him. 

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you. 

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly. 

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds. 

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no. 

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful. 

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly. 

“Yes, please.” 

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting. 

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it. 

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for. 

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings. 

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present. 

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster. 

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest. 

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place. 

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand. 

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair. 

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him. 

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful. 

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again. 

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you. 

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame. 

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you. 

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” 

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin. 

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential. 

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands. 

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind. 

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK. 

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake. 

He knows. 

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity. 

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like. 

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before. 

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it? 

Maybe you have it all wrong. 

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you. 

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick. 

24 hours go by. 

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up. 

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure. 

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off. 

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep. 

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed. 

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone. 

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said. 

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room. 

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs. 

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones. 

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble. 

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no. 

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly. 

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence. 

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans. 

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure.  After a pause, he sighs in defeat. 

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown. 

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless. 

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up. 

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones.  It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic. 

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand. 

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket. 

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter. 

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges. 

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it. 

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer. 

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing. 

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?” 

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you. 

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?” 

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before. 

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft. 

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest. 

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows. 

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts. 

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning. 

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration. 

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous. 

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them. 

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And  how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit. 

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice. 

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making. 

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now. 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that. 

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers. 

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute. 

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base. 

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut. 

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock. 

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.” 

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk. 

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment. 

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry. 

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!” 

He knows. 

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist. 

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding. 

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease. 

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more. 

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone. 

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide. 

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else. 

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you. 

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here. 

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength. 

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?” 

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink. 

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue. 

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared. 

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out. 

“You regret your first time?” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does. 

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash. 

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins. 

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

You want to scream bloody murder. 

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse. 

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence. 

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back. 

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me. 

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later. 

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was. 

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help. 

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does. 

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound. 

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more. 

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right. 

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here. 

“Goodnight.”

-

part five

[satorusugurugurl]

Hiii :33 i literally read all ur works in one sitting omg ur amazing pookieee AND IT GOT ME THINKING-

What if reader and the JJK men had their bodies switched due to a curse??? Like- For example- Nanami Kentos body but readers mind/conscious and stuff like ykwim??? (same with readers body) Also i love how u write sukuna its so BEIFNSKFHKDD ARF👹👹 if u could add some smut and crack in it too pls🥹 tyty

(W/ nanamin toji sukuna n geto pls) ☺️☺️😚😚

JJK Men: Body Swap!!

Summary: Body swapping with your boyfriend? What could go wrong? 😃

Pairing: Fushiguro Toji, Nanami Kento, Ryomen Sukuna (Sorcerer AU), Geto Suguru, AFAB!Reader

Warnings: smut, a little crack, body swapping, creampies, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms

Word Count: 7,174

A/N: Hi Pookie!! hajsjjdjdthank-you so so much! I lo ove too! Modern Sukuna is one of my favorite boys to write for! I love him so much. (even though I know its OOC). Anyways thanks for being so patient with me. this last month has been insanely busy and I'm just now finding my creativity again!

Fushiguro Toji:

It was supposed to be a simple mission to take out a sorcerer. What you both didn’t know was that this sorcerer had a lot of curses to spirits protecting them. So when you both took him out, one of the spirits attacked you. And you weren't sure what happened. One second, you were standing back to back with your boyfriend. The next second, you were lying flat on your back, staring up at the sky.

While your head was spinning and you felt sick to your stomach, that meant you were alive and well, which was a success in your books. Sitting up, you grumbled out a groan as you blinked several spots away.

“Son of a fuckin’ bitch.” You said, but it wasn't you that said it? When your vision finally cleared, your eyes widened as you stared down at yourself. “I’m telling Shiu we need double the pay for that shit.” A string of vulgar words escaped your lips as you watched your body sit up.

“T-Toji?” You asked, finding your voice several octaves lower.

“Yeah, you good?” your head turned towards you, and that’s when your boyfriend finally seemed to notice something was wrong. Toji, I’ve been told you you were never good at hiding your facial reactions, and seeing a pure panic that crossed your features let you know he was right. “Oh, what the fuck?!”

“I-It’s me! I-I just—uhm—what the fuck happened?!”

After thoroughly researching the files you both refused to read, you discovered that this was one of the side effects of one of the curses you had taken out. It allowed the souls of its victims to switch with each other. The technique was only meant to last a few hours to a few days, which was a blessing, but your boyfriend didn’t seem to see it that way.

Although you both insisted that you could handle a few more jobs, Shiu couldn’t stand the way you were smiling sweetly at him with Toji’s face, and your face was glaring daggers at him from the rearview mirror. So he did the only logical thing he could think of. You were taking your asses back home until this side effect wore off.

Which was something you found yourself longing for. Because you weren’t sure how much longer you could handle being in the small confining space of the apartment with your boyfriend who is currently stuck in your body. You were trying to preoccupy your time, attempting to fix dinner with Toji’s sausage fingers, when you could hear your voice and make the most pitiful sounds in the living room.

“My fucking back hurts!” Toji yelled out, stretching his back out.

“Yeah?” you asked, “I told you I wasn’t fucking joking with you. Having breasts can weigh you down sometimes. Why the fuck do you think I ask for a back massage all the time?”

“Because you want my dick.”

“Hardy har asshole, now you know when I ask for a massage and being serious seventy-five percent of the time.”

You tried to focus on cutting onions but found it extremely difficult with the wines emanating from the living room. “Oww, babe, come give me a back massage. Your beautiful tits that I love are causing me immense pain.” Ignore him, you told yourself as you went back to cutting onions. If you just ignored his whining, everything would be okay. “Babe!” Your voice at you from across the apartment. “Baby!” Your fingers tightened around the handle of the knife you were holding, fighting the urge to use your newfound strength not to throw it at yourself. For just a moment, the tiniest millisecond, you thought maybe he had given up on calling you forward, allowing you to go back to cooking until you heard yourself cry out a wine that would make any toddler turn their head towards you.

“Oh my god!” You snapped, tossing the knife into the sink. “What?! What do you want me to do for you, Your Highness?!”

“Rub my back,” Toji grumbled as he shoved your face into the couch. “It hurts, and I know how good I am with my hands.”

With a sigh, you plopped down on the ground behind your body, using your boyfriend's hands to rub circles at the knots always in your back gently. Almost instantly, Toji let out a moan that was porn worthy. You could see him sink further into the couch; your fingers dug into the cushions as you continued to use Toji’s thumbs to rub circles into the sore muscles. Toji continued to whimper, squirming under your touch, pressing your thighs together as you worked your hands lower and lower.

And while it seemed like he was finding some relief in your touch, you found his pants a little too tight for comfort sounds that were resonating from your mouth.

“Fuuuck, that feels so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, babe, Fuuck.”

The sound of your moans seems to affect your boyfriend’s body. Allowing you to move on impulse, allowing his body to take the lead. “I bet I can make you feel better.” You whisper against the nape of your neck, relishing how your boyfriend recoiled back.

“Oh yeah~? And how do you plan on making me feel even better?”

Your way was fast and hard, much like the way Toji always gave it to you. You wasted no time, ripping your clothes off of your own body, slamming your lips against the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin as his hands reached around, groping your breasts, just the way you liked it. Despite being in different bodies, neither of you were at all clumsy. As soon as you started ripping your clothes off, he told you he was tugging his shirt off his own body, turning to face, allowing you to pin him below you.

The kisses you shared were messy teeth clashing against each other as you both worked at your bottoms. Toji pulled your shorts and your underwear to the side. While you yanked his cock out of his sweats. Even though you were in different bodies, sex wasn’t any different. Toji just needed to feel you against him despite being inside your body, and the same for you.

You spit into your hand, rubbing it over your boyfriend's cock before you press it against your entrance. Never once did you break that kiss, the kiss that was full of raw need as if you both were high on an aphrodisiac when, in reality, you were high off of each other. Toji moaned against your lips as you pushed yourself inside of the tight, wet heat. Your breathing hitched at the strange new sensations washing over both of you.

“Oh my fuck,” you grumbled, pressing your lips against Toji’s. “I-It’s so tight and wet, oh, fuck.”

Toji wanted to laugh to make some crude comment about making sure you didn’t come too fast, but that was hard when he was being split open by his cock. “I-I feel s-so full.” He whispered nearly breathlessly against your lips.

“Does it hurt? Do you need a second?”

“No, I’m okay. Keep going, it feels good.”

Not needing to be told twice, you found yourself pulling out slowly before pushing back inside of your tight, wet walls. You both cried out, your head falling forward while Toji arched his back off the ground. You aren’t sure how long you could last like this. Hell, you weren’t even sure how Toji lasted as long as he did when he was inside of you. The man who was like a crazed sex god going for hours upon hours. While your boyfriend was wondering how the fuck you were able to take his cock like this every other night.

The pace you both set was messy and entirely out of rhythm. But despite not having any rhythm you were used to, it didn’t mean it didn’t feel good. Being able to lose control and lose yourself in the passion and sensations of just feeling good was hot. It was so hot that it had you both biting and sucking and clawing at each other. Your fingers dug into your hips while his nails scratched down your back as you both lost yourselves in the sensation of being with each other in a way you had never experienced before.

Being with each other in such a raw, more personal way allows you both, in a sense, to know how it feels for the other to know what to do, how to kiss, how to touch, and how to move against each other. This might come in handy for future sexual sessions for you. You knew that when you dug his nails into your upper back, your body trembled with pleasure. And Toji realized that when you angle your hips, a sure way to brush over your g-spot and cervix made your walls clench down so hard. He was afraid he was going to squirt all over you. Neither of you had ever expected it to happen, but both of you were excited that it had. Even if it meant neither of you was going to last very long.

“Oph fuck!” Toji cried out in your voice, his back arching. “B-Baby, I feel weird, like I need to pee!” Your boyfriend stared up at his face, which smirked sinisterly down at him.

“Yeah~? You gonna cum on my cock?” You asked, your voice deep and ragged. “Be good and cum for me.” You growled against his neck, smirking as you released your grip on his hip, rubbing circles over the swollen, sensitive clit.

“Ah! Fuck! Oooh fuck yes, gonna cum!”

“Cum for me, Toji~ come on!”

Toji screamed as he came so hard he squirted all over you, his legs shaking with the aftershocks of his orgasm. As he screamed and squirmed underneath you, you lost yourself in the way your walls tightened around your boyfriend‘s cock. Hugging him, milking him, trying to get him to come inside. Which, fortunately, was far too easy to do. You collapsed forward, fingers digging into your hips so hard you were pretty sure you were going to leave bruises much, much darker than your boyfriend ever left on you. It was just too much, tightening the screaming, the pleasure. There was no way you could’ve stopped yourself.

“C-Cumming! Ooh fuck!”

“Yeah~! Give it to me!”

You thrust fast and hard, pumping your pussy full of your boyfriend's cum. Not stopping until the head of his cock was oversensitive, and you weren’t sure if you could hold yourself up any longer. You grumbled, somehow collapsing onto your side as your boyfriend giggled, curling up against you.

“Fuck, I understand why you don’t like pulling out now.”

Toji, your nails down his chest. “Yeah, it feels really good, doesn’t it?” You hummed, wrapping your boyfriend's arms around your more petite frame, not entirely used to the size difference. “God, I gotta give it to ya’ you take my dick like a fucking champ. Don’t know how you do it.”

You smirked, pressing a quick kiss against his forehead. “I’m lucky enough to have a boyfriend to make sure I’m more than ready for his monster of a cock.” He snickered, pulling back to look at me. “And I know I already failed at foreplay, but I couldn’t help myself when you’re making such pretty sounds. I needed to hear more.”

“Yeah, remember that the next time you bitch that I don’t prep you enough after giving you a massage.”

“Toji, I fully understand what you mean, and it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“Good, now— are you ready for round two?”

“Round two? Already?”

Toji swang your body over his hips, rocking gently over your oversensitive cock. “Oh yeah, I thought you were fucking with me, but your sex drive is insatiable; hurry up, I’m ready to go.” Maybe this whole body swap thing did have its downsides.

Nanami Kento:

It took five seconds for Nanami to turn away from the curse you were fighting. The curse shot out a green goop that coated you and Nanami in that span. It took five more seconds for your husband to act, blinking away the goop before jumping back into action. It was only when he went to swing his blunt blade that he realized something was wrong. Instead of swinging his typical weapon, he tossed a talisman paper instead.

In that momentary confusion, you and Kento took out the curse before looking at each other. Imagine his surprise when he didn’t find your pretty face looking up at him but his own, looking down at him. The initial shock turned into panic as he watched a look of pure terror and confusion cross his face.

“My love, it’s all right.” The calm manner of speaking sounded so strange coming out of your mouth. “We have to remain calm.”

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Nanami sighed, running a hand down your face. “What are we gonna do? This is terrible.”

Your husband wasn’t sure if you consider this terrible. Both of you were safe, so that’s all that truly mattered. However, he also found himself strangely intrigued by the predicament. He found yourself then. Seeing the expressions on his face, the cute little corpse you had, like picking at your nails, nipping up your bottom, lip, or weighing, looked strange to him, but it also left him longing to see what other reactions he could drop out from you.

Unaware of your husband’s intentions, you try to remain calm. You continued gently rubbing your hands together as Shoko and Nanami looked over your body he was in.

“Any pain or discomfort?” You watched in horny silence as Nanami moved your shoulder again.

“A little pain in my, well, my wife’s shoulder.”

“Let’s get that taken care of.”

You slipped your top over your head alone, you to see your body. The blue lace bra you wore was on display as Shoko's eyes flowed through her hands over your shoulder. Staring at your skin shouldn’t have any effect on you. It was your body. You had seen yourself naked one million times, but Nanami’s body reacted differently. Its bare skin and breasts had his pants feeling much too tight.

“How’s that?” Shoko asked as she stepped away, watching Nanami rotate your shoulder with a sigh of approval.

“Much better, thank you, Shoko.”

“And you?”

When Shoko turned her attention to you, your hands immediately went to cover your crotch. An action that seem to go unnoticed by your best friend but was clearly noticed by your husband. Nanami hummed cocking an eyebrow in your direction, his eyes focusing on his crotch, seeing how the fabric of his cream-colored suit pants with straining.

You cleared your throat, looking away, “I-I’m fine! Totally fine, just eager to get home and wait this out!” You wanted to get away from her and her praying eyes because how embarrassing would that be for you to be popping a boner in your boyfriend’s body at the sight of your tits?

“Alright, sounds good to me. If you need me, I’m just a call away; go home and rest.”

You have never been more happy to hear the words go home and get some rest in your entire life. You held your boyfriend’s hands in front of his crotch before taking his suit jacket to keep it over the prominent tent in his pants. This was perfect. You would be able to get home without anyone noticing. There, you could take a cold shower and sleep this off.

But your boyfriend had another plan.

Before you both could make it down the hall, Nanami grabbed your wrist, tugging you into one of the spare classrooms. “Kento?” You asked, the unsure tone of your husband’s voice sounded foreign. “What are you—nngh!” Your body jolted forward as he slipped his hand down, rubbing at the throbbing erection straining in his pants.

“Shh, let’s make this quick. I can’t have you walking around with an erection like some teenage boy.”

“W-Wait h-here?! If we get caught, that would be worse! At least I can hide a boner with your jacket!?”

At that moment, your husband was undoing the zipper of his pants, allowing you to see the hunger in your own eyes. It was a look that spoke volumes, and you suddenly realized why your husband had told you several times in the past to control your facial reactions. It was a look you only gave him when you were unbearably horny.

“Oh my god, that’s it. That’s the look you always talk about.”

“Mhm,”

“You’re horny?!”

Instead of answering your question with words, he took your hand and slowly slipped it under the waistband of your pants. There, you could feel the wet slick that you were familiar with. Not skipping a beat, your muscle memory kicked in as your fingers began to trace circles over your clit, knowing just how you like to be touched.

“I saw how hard you were and couldn’t help myself. Your body is screaming you need me. I’m so wet, and I’m throbbing; I need you.”

Hearing those words leave your mouth made you realize how your husband felt when he was in your position. When you talk like that in public, it is hard to control yourself at that moment. You had no clue how Nanami managed to do it because you lost your composure the second he opened his mouth.

You slammed your lips against his as you lifted him, pinning him against the wall, his hands worked at the button of his trousers while you slid your panties to the side. Luckily, both of you were so aroused that there was no need for foreplay. Lips moved against each other as you pressed the head of your husband’s cock against your entrance, pushing inside without a second thought. You couldn’t care less if the door wasn’t locked, and you seriously doubted anyone would enter from the moans resonating from both of you.

All that mattered was fucking each other's brains out. Whether it was a factor from the curse or your undying love for each other, you allow yourselves to lose sight of your control. You needed him just as bad as he needed you. And you gave it to him. It’s hard and fast as he gave it to you after he had been pent up from work all day.

Nanami screamed, head rocking back against the wall as you thrust forward, slamming the head of his cock against your cervix over and over, making sure to go as deep as you possibly could. You wanted him to know how good he always left you feeling after a rough session. Your fingers dug into the fat of your hips as you nipped and sucked at your neck, drawing out more moans from him.

You were giving it, your all fucking your husband as hard as he did; Nanami was gripping onto his biceps, staring into your eyes as he took it all in. Every thrust that led to immense pleasure, every kiss, he took in everything you were doing to him. Because the second he was back in his own body, he would make sure he made you feel as good as you made him feel.

And that was a promise he intended to keep.

“Oh, my fuck—” You cried out softly, feeling your orgasm already approaching you. “You feel too good—”

“Yeah, I know that’s how you make me feel every time. But it’s—nngh! It’s—haaah!”

“Hard to not cum?” You answered for him, feeling your walls tightening around your husband’s cock. “Fuck—oooh fuck.”

“C-Cummi—oh m-my god!”

There was no warning, no further words expressed. All that you managed to do was lose yourselves in your orgasms. Nanami cried out tears, picking your eyes as your walls constricted and convulsed around his cock, drawing out your orgasm. You roared a moan loudly into Nanami’s ear as you came inside, fucking his come further inside of you, doing exactly what he did to you every night.

The classroom felt stuffy and hot and reeked of sex. But neither of you cared as you slowly slid to the ground, holding Nanami flush against your chest. You kissed each other deeply, only breaking apart to take a deep breath as all the air escaped your lungs.

“I didn’t think it was possible—” Nanami whispered in your voice, “but I fell deeper in love with you right now.”

“Ken—I love you so much.”

You never made it home that night. Instead, you went to one of the spare dorms and ravished each other all night. Both of you took notes on how exactly your body reacted to certain touches and kisses because the second you were back in your own bodies, you planned on using this newfound information to spice up your marriage even more.

Ryomen Sukuna (JJK Sorcerer AU):

“I hate this!” Sukuna barked out, pacing the floor back and forth. “Ugh!”

“Calm down.” You said from the couch, rubbing your hands down your face. “You’re acting like it’s the end of the world.”

When Sukuna turned to give you the dirtiest look in the world, you weren’t met with his tattooed face, but your own instead. “Have you stopped to look at what happened? I am in your body.” That was true. Your boyfriend was in your body, and you were currently inhabiting his body.

“So it’s not like you’ve never been inside me.” You waggled your eyebrows at him, only to win it go to hell look in return. “Okay, shit, sorry for joking, but you heard Shoko. The effects of this curse will only last a few hours.”

“A few hours too many.”

You weren’t sure if it was the testosterone right now feeling in your blood or the very common annoyance you had with your arrogant boyfriend at times. But for some ungodly reason, watching him, he back-and-forth with a scale on your face was irritating, ever-loving fuck out of you. He was acting like a brat over something neither of you could control.

It wasn’t even just the whole situation itself. Shit like this happened when you were a sorcerer. You got hit with different curses, injured, and usually were expected to live not that long of a life. You knew there was always a chance you wouldn’t come home from a mission. You both were hit by a curse, and you manage walked away with minor injuries and a mild side effect. That was something he should be happy about. But for some damn reason, this whole situation only made him angrier than usual.

“This is bullshit; if only my reverse technique worked shit like this.”

“Kuna! Seriously, what is your problem?”

He growled at you, which would usually put you back in your place when you’re back talking to him, but it seems that growl wasn’t as effective when it came from your body. Meaning you were pretty much unaffected by his tactic of intimidating you.

“I feel weak, okay?!”

“Weak?” You asked with a scoff. “You’re seriously calling me weak?”

“N-No! Fuck I mean, I don’t feel as strong as I normally do.” The more he tried to defend himself, the deeper the hole he dug. “I don’t have the power or technique I have mastered through the years. Instead, I am unfamiliar with your technique, and all I have to defend myself with are these stupid papers.” He scoffed, digging into one of the pouches attached to your belt and pulling out one of your talisman papers. “I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this fold origami?”

“You could shove it up your ass when you get back in your own body, and I hope you get a papercut when doing so.”

“No, I—you know how I see you.” He sighed, plopping down on the couch next to you. “You’re strong, and you’ve mastered your technique. But I don’t know how to do anything you do. I feel useless, and I’m not saying that you can’t hold your own in a fight you kick ass. I feel weak because I’m unaware of how to use your technique.”

There was a paying of understanding deep inside your chest. You knew what he meant because you felt the same way. There was an immense amount of power coursing through your veins, which could easily be used for evil instead of good. Having such a plethora of cursed energy made you feel as though you were a ticking time bomb, like if you were to sneeze, you would blow up a building.

So, instead of lecturing or giving him even more of a hard time, you draped a tattooed arm over your shoulder, pulling your boyfriend close to your side. “I get it, I guess.” You whispered, tilting your head back and staring up at the ceiling. “Being in your body makes me feel as though I’m destined to destroy things.” Sukuna snickered, turning to look up at you. “But just because I don’t have the same amount of cursed energy doesn’t mean I’m weak. I’m still strong in my ways.”

“Yeah? In what ways?”

“When I’m riding your cock. I feel all-powerful like nothing can stop me. Especially when you’re groaning, grabbing my hips, encouraging me to move faster.”

At that moment, you regretted the words that came from your mouth. Because all you heard was your boyfriend's understanding hum. A hum that led to his hands working at your pants.

“W-whoa, easy there, Kuna. What are you doing?”

“Taking control, to see just how powerful I’ll feel.”

There was no room for protest; once your boyfriend set his mind to something, he made sure to get it done. Even if that means stripping down, straddling your hips, and lowering himself awkwardly on his cock. Watching his wish contort with pleasure left you feeling as though you might be able to take the reins on this. It wasn’t as though your boyfriend would be able to take control, to ride cock like a pro.

But you seem to forget that this was your boyfriend, one of the strongest sorcerers of the modern age, just as strong as Gojo, if not more robust. The man was smart, and despite the facial tattoos and the muscles, he knew how to get shit done.

“Oh fuck!” You cried out as he slammed himself down onto his cock with a satisfied growl. “K-Kuna baby! P-Please slow down!”

His hand clamped firmly over your mouth, silencing your protests. “Shut up, I’m in control.” your voice sounded so dark and sultry, god it was so hot! “Just be good and sit still for me; let me use you.” you couldn’t argue with that, and with the way he slowly lifted himself off his cock, before slamming your body back down onto it, leaving you feeling pussy drunk.

“Fuck!”

You cried out, shaking as Sukuna rode you like there was no fucking tomorrow. “Oh fuck, fuuuuck!”

“Yeah~ I suddenly see why you like to be on top of a lot.” he dug your manicured nails into his shoulders, dragging them down over his chest. “From this position, I can do whatever I want to.” You couldn’t even ask what he planned on doing to you before his hips were rolling in circles and you were seeing stars. “Are You paying attention? This is how I want you to ride my cock from now on.”

“K-Kuna—Kuna!”

“I feel so powerful; seeing that pitiful look on my face should piss me off. But instead, it’s making me wanna draw out more.”

It was a combination of everything that was going on that sent you coming first. It was the way Sukuna was purring in your ear, so how he rolled your hips around his shaft, to the stinging burn left of your nails over his skin. It happens so fast, and your boyfriend's cock twitched inside of your walls as you came first. And it was unusual. Usually, you were the first to finish, but it never happened like this before. Your boyfriend being the first to fill you up rather than you soaking him with your release.

Sukuna wasn’t even upset about it. He swelled with a certain sense of pride at getting you off first and with a body he was unfamiliar with. That left him feeling so satisfied he could feel his ego swelling. Before he could brag over the fact that he was better than you, his head began to pound as his vision blurred. His grip on his own shoulders tightened. Sukuna thought he might black out for a moment before he was blinking the black spots out of his vision. When it cleared, he was no longer towering above you but underneath you.

Much to his relief, he looked up at your beautiful face instead of down at his own.

You barely had a second to process what was going on and how it happened before Sukuna’s strong hands and your hips were holding them tightly. Open your mouth to speak, but before any words had the chance to leave your mouth, your boyfriend was pulling you up the link of his cock before slamming you back down on him. You nearly came again just from that action in itself.

“N-Nngh! K-Kuna w-wa—ahh!”

He holds you up and back back down on his cock again and again and again. “I thought I told you to pay attention while riding you.” His hips thrust up into your dripping wet pussy. “I want you to do exactly what I did. Don’t keep me waiting; show me how strong you are, Kitten.”

Geto Suguru:

“So let me get this straight?” Satoru questioned while sitting across from you and your boyfriend. “You both took out the special-grade curse?”

“Yep.”

“Suguru turned it into a ball and gulped it down as he does.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then everything went black, and you both woke up like this?”

He motioned towards the bodies of his two friends, lifting his blindfold to watch as you knotted your head, which was your boyfriend’s head. Satoru got the story right; it was a simple mission, simple enough for both of you to handle. You could take out the curse with no issues, but when Suguru absorbed it, everything took a turn. Everything went dark, and the next second, you were sitting up in your boyfriend’s body with the most unpleasant taste in your mouth after swallowing the curse.

It was a shock initially, but weird things happened whenever your boyfriend absorbed a curse. That just came with the territory of a curse manipulator. Cursed spirits sometimes had different effects on his body and sometimes the body of those near him. Fortunately, you had been near him on this mission. Geto would have hated to be in Gojo’s body, so this was a win-win scenario.

“Yep, for the time being, we’re stuck like this.”

Gojo sat back in his chair, wincing at the situation, you both found yourselves in. “Shit, sorry about that, guys.” Suguru shook his head, stretching your arms above you.

“Eh, it could have been a lot worse.”

“ that’s true, but are you guys gonna—ya’ know?” Satoru jester to the two of you with his hands. “Use the opportunity to your advantage?”

Suguru and you looked at the white-haired man, blinking in confusion. “Advantage? Satoru, what are you even talking about?” you asked, running your fingers through your boyfriend's black hair.

“You know, I’ll get down and dirty?”

“What?!”

“Satoru~” Your voice purred out as Suegro shook her head. “Is sex the only thing on your mind?”

“Hey, it’s a genuine question. I’m just curious.”

Your boyfriend, who was irritated from the throbbing vein in your forehead. Having sex like this in his body hadn’t crossed your mind. When it initially happened, neither of you had been more concerned with making sure both you and Suguru were okay than about what happened. Besides that, sex wasn’t the only thing on your mind! The thought of doing it like this even occurred to you, and it wouldn’t have even crossed your mind, but thanks to manifest. It was out in the open, sticking out like a sore thumb.

You shifted, trying to listen to your boyfriend bickering back and forth with his best friend. Suddenly, you were aware of the throbbing inside your boyfriend, thankfully baggy pants. And you had the sudden urge to go home because the only thing you bring could focus on was how your boyfriend‘s dick was swelling. The last thing you wanted to do was pop a Boner in front of your mutual friend after he had just suggested hooking up with each other while in the opposite body.

If he found out how you felt, you wouldn't hear the end of his arrogant comments and encouragement.

Yeah, it was best to keep him out of your bedroom life. Especially when you weren’t sure if you wanted to take it that far. There was a burning desire deep in your stomach, one that had you itching to touch your body, to kiss your boyfriend, to succumb to the lust that was burning like a fire deep down inside of you. Was this how Suguru felt around you all the time? Or was it just part of the curse?

“Hey,” you looked up from the bed, watching as Suguru brushed your damp hair. “I think I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight.”

Suguru stopped turning his focus on you. “Why would you do that?” What could you even say? You were hard as a rock and wouldn't be able to control yourself? That you wanted him, but you didn't want to gross him out or make things even weirder?

“Well—I uhm—I—have a bit of a situation.”

“I know. You’re hard; you've been hard since we left campus.”

Your hands almost instinctively died towards the crotch, trying to cover the erection that was still throbbing angrily within the confines of the boxers. “H-How did you know?” Your boyfriend let out a giggle that sounded so strange coming out of your mouth.

“My pants may be baggy, but they aren’t that baggy.”

You felt yourself turn fifty shades of red as you groaned, covering your face in your hands. “Oh my god, you could tell?! Why didn't you say anything?” Another sweet laugh came across the room as you resisted the urge to summon Rainbow Dragon to eat you.

“I didn't want to embarrass you.”

“Yeah, well, I think I'm more embarrassed now. Can I manipulate your curses to eat me? To put me out of this misery?”

“Oh, stop, you're fine. I was only able to notice because I know my body.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better.”

“Well, it should be because you looked so fucking hot. Seeing you fight against those primal urges has your body reacting just as strongly.”

You perked up, watching as Suguru swayed your hips as he slowly approached you. “Is that so?” Suguru nodded, pulling your sleep shirt over your head and tossing it to the floor.

“Even though we're in different bodies, my soul is crying to be near yours.” He slipped your shorts down next, kicking them off to the side.

You slowly ran a hand down your boyfriend's stomach, grabbing his hard cock through his pants. "Fuck guess I got caught. But can you blame me? This is weird." Your hands slowly stoked his hard cock. "But also strangely arousing at the same time."

Seeing your hand stroking his cock had Geto’s eyes widening as he looked over his body before he was overtaken with the sudden urge to shove you down on the bed, immediately straddling his hips. "Don't mind if I do~"

You moaned, blushing up at Geto as he hummed softly. "O-Oh, holy fuck." You said, grabbing his hips. "Fuck is this what I look like to you?" you were in awe of your body. The curves, softness of your skin, and fuck, the fact your pussy was nearly touching his cock. Making it even harder, which seemed impossible.

“Mhm~” Suguru nodded; he rolled your bare hips as he ran his fingers over your hair. "It's really hot, isn't it?"

"Fuck yes, fuck look at my boobs." You said, reaching up and squeezing them. "The way they bounce, it’s so hypnotic."

Your boyfriend giggled, rocking your hips harder before reaching behind him, pulling his own cock from his pants with a moan. "Holy shit.”

"I know it's really hard," You whispered. "I-I holy fucking shit." His cock was so hard Suguru knew it had to be painful.

"I knew I was big, but Fuuck, this put it in a different perspective. Fuck, I'm going to put it inside of your pussy, Princess.” He hummed as he rolled your hips up and down your cock like you had done countless times before.

"Oh, you are?" You asked, licking your lips. "Nah, I don't think so; it’s time I give you a taste of your own medicine.” You growled out while flipping him over onto his side. "I'm going to put it in your pussy." You ground your hips against drenched folds with a snarl.

Suguru gasped, moaning as he felt the head of his cock rubbed against your pussy. Being the one to do it felt much different than being on the receiving end. But it still felt good regardless. He suddenly knew why you begged so pretty; he longed for more than teasing touches. He was about to start praying for more when his whole body seized up as you pressed the head against the tight ring of muscles of the entrance, fighting the need to shove it all in.

“Baby, please—!”

“Oooh, who's a needy slut?”

"Fuck, I am! I want you to fucking destroy me, please.” Suguru moaned, his head slowly rolling back against the pillows.

You smirked, running your tongue over your bottom lip. "Oooh, begging for me already, that’s so cute.” You slammed inside Suguru’s tight pussy. "Fuck—you're so tight~!!"

Suguru gasped before screaming out a moan while you thrust in and out. "F-Fuck yeah!! Just like that, oh god!!~ Princess!!” Hearing such pretty sounds only filled your desire, making you eager to move, to make him feel as good as he did for you.

"Fuck yeah~ what are you always saying? ‘You like me fucking your cunt slut?’”

“Yeah, I see why, fuck you feel so fucking good!!" Suguru cried out, his eyes rolling back. "Fuck! Princess!! Fuck, I'm your slut, god I want your cum so bad!!"

"Cum for me then~!" You commanded, reaching around and rubbing your clit in fast circles just as you knew your body liked it. "Cum all over my cock." Your thrusts were becoming erratic as you felt your balls tighten.

Suguru cried out, his head thrown back as he clenched hard on your cock. "Yesyes-Yes! Fuck, Princess!! Fuckfuckfuck-!!"

You followed immediately behind Suguru; your hips stuttered as you came hard, cum filling your pussy with thick white cum. "O-Oh fuck~!"

"H-Holy shit!!”

"Fuck, oh fuck." You panted roughly, looking down at Suguru, who was still trapped in your body. "That felt s-ao good."

"Holy hell, the cum feels so fucking good—"

“Yeah~ it makes you feel all nice and warm afterward.”

Your boyfriend moaned softly. "You know what feels even better? Fucking you with my cum~ I promise it feels fucking amazing give it a try."

You perked up at that, turning red, but you couldn't just take his word for it. You needed to feel it for yourself. So you slowly started thrusting back inside, moaning loudly.

"Oh god, you're fucking right, feels good.”

“I N-Nngh told you!”

You kissed Suguru eagerly, thrusting faster. Your boyfriend smiled softly, cupping your cheeks in his hands, kissing you deeply as he moaned into your mouth. You kissed back just as eagerly, stroking Suguru’s cheek. Your nails dug into his hips as you moved faster than you could think.

"F-Fuck, can't stop—! God, you feel too fucking good!"

Suguru moaned softly, smiling up at you. "F-Fuck~ I love you too, Princess, so cum in me again!”

You groaned, sucking his neck, leaving a trail of hickeys. "I will." You growled, nipping her earlobe. "I'm gonna keep cumming inside your pussy." your hip bucked, slamming against her cervix as spurts of hot cum filled Suguru, the sensation enough to throw him over the edge with you.

“Y-Yeah! Oooh fuck!” He cried out a moan, clawing at your back as he felt himself cum around your cock when you slammed deep into him. "C-Cumming!! Cumming Princess!!"

You gritted your teeth as you came inside your boyfriend again. That’s how you both were. You were just in sync with each other. Despite the fact, you were in each other’s bodies. You knew how to make the other field good; you wanted to keep going because you weren’t sure how long this side effect would last. But your lack of experience having a dick and poor stamina said otherwise.

"M’ sorry baby, I-I do-don't think I can go anymore. I can’t take it.” You feebly cried out before collapsing on top of your own body, winning a satisfied sigh from Suguru, who was underneath you.

“Honestly, I’m okay with that,” he said as he gulped air. “Fuck you’re probably gonna be sore in the morning. And I don’t wanna hear you complaining about it because this was your own doing.”

Your mind felt fuzzy as you just nodded your head nuzzling your boyfriend‘s face into the crook of your neck because you took in the afterglow and the rash of being near him in such an intimate way. Suguru hummed happily, running his fingers through your hair. He was honestly surprised you were able to go two rounds.

“Sleepy?” he asked softly, only receiving a hum in return. “Ooh—my sweet girl. Lay down for a minute, and let's cuddle before we take a shower.”

“Okay.” you finally could form coherent words as you lay down on your side, cupping your boyfriend's cheek. “Can I—”

“Yes, you can be the little spoon.” You weren’t sure how long the curse's effect would last, but as long as you were with each other, it didn’t matter. All that you cared about was coming home safely with Suguru and sleeping soundly in his arms, which made your dangerous job worth it.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @luvsymai

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter One. Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Thèos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: Sub/Dom, Toxic Behaviour, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Begging, DubCon, CNC.

FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

You were a good girl, and an exemplary student. One who consistently demonstrated exceptional discipline and commitment. Your dedication to academics was unwavering, as you diligently followed the rules and guidelines, never straying from the prescribed path.

Your singular focus was on nurturing your intellectual curiosity, and you showed no interest in indulging in activities that might distract you from your educational pursuits. Your life was calm, quiet, and focused.

Until, one day everything fucking changed.

———

In the enchanted realm of Hogwarts, there resided a studious and exceptionally bright seventh-year Ravenclaw witch, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and her steadfast commitment to the noble pursuit of knowledge. This young sorceress, a paragon of virtue, refrained from the temptations that often lured her peers, steering clear of parties, alcohol, and the haze of smoke that veiled the Ravenclaw common room during clandestine gatherings.

Her life was meticulously ordered, her goals sharply defined. But the universe had a curious sense of humor, for it threw her into an unexpected affiliation with the most notorious bad boy in Slytherin:

Mattheo fucking Riddle.

He, the embodiment of rebellion, was a stark contrast to her pristine existence. Mattheo's reputation preceded him: a Slytherin troublemaker, one who was almost always found in the midst of chaos. His devil-may-care attitude was a challenge to authority, and there was not one singular individual that could tie him down.

Yet, fate had woven their paths together, forcing the astute young witch to confront the complexity of human nature, unraveling layers of his defiance while simultaneously testing the boundaries of her own steadfast resolve.

And that witch; that poor fucking witch--well, that was you.

———

"Please, Riddle...if you'd take a seat," you ran your tongue along the backside of your teeth, straightening your posture in your chair as you tried to contain your irritation. "...I must express my desire to commence our endeavors prior to the conclusion of the academic term."

"Eager, are we?" Mattheo sneered, sauntering toward the desk painfully fucking slow. "You know, Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is mastery. I'll sit when I'm fuckin' ready to sit."

His voice was low, the sadistic drawl of his tone making your bones ignite with fury. Gods, he certainly fucking loved testing you.

"And I won't tell you again...call me Mattheo."

You inhaled a sharp breath, flattening out your blue uniform skirt against your thighs as you bit your tongue hard enough to make it bleed.

"Rome may not have been built in a day, but it certainly collapsed in one--now, I won't ask again, Riddle..." you looked up, meeting his dark obsidian eyes, fighting back a sadistic smirk of your own as he narrowed his gaze in challenge. "Take. A. Seat."

The words were clipped behind your teeth with an obvious urgency that shut Mattheo up for a few seconds, the gears turning inside his head as he contemplated how he could one up your little jab--a constant occurrence that seemed to happen every single fucking time you met with him.

At this point, your tutor sessions were an easy seventy percent bickering with the remaining thirty being a half-assed session of one-sided discussion where he mostly offers you fleeting blank stares while zoning you out. You hated that you'd agreed to this, but you knew you needed to get on (and remain on) Professor Dumbledores good side if you wanted a career here at the school after you graduated--and you were so fucking hungry for it you'd do almost anything to solidify your fate.

Even if it meant surrendering your sanity to the hands of Mattheo fucking Riddle.

You chose not to let him, of all individuals, tarnish your path. Your reputation, fragile as it may have been, resembled a tinderbox, and he was the combustible element, ready to erupt at any given moment. This resolve became your steadfast anchor, shaping the direction of your choices.

"You know," Mattheo said as he finally slumped down into the chair across from you, his tousled brown hair falling effortlessly over his forehead. "I was under the impression that the brilliant Ravenclaws such as yourself valued intellect over impulsive haste..." he tilted his head, his gaze scanning every movement of your body as you stared at him. "It was my understanding that impatience was more of a Gryffindor trait."

Your fingers trembled with palpable irritation, yet you understood the imperative need to suppress it. You couldn't afford to reveal just how deeply he affected you, realizing that acknowledging it would subject you to endless taunts and jibes, a fate you were determined to avoid at any cost. This restraint became your shield in moments such as these.

"You wish to discuss house values, Riddle?" You tilted your head, straightening out your posture once again. "Because I, in complete honesty, was under the impression that Slytherins were known for their resourcefulness...your reluctance to cooperate suggests a rather curious lack of ambition."

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, his expression growing icier. "Resourcefulness doesn't mean blindly following every stupid instruction thrown at you, and ambition means choosing the battles worth fighting, not wasting time on pathetic, trivial matters."

With a subtle smirk, he leaned back, hooking his arm on the back of his chair as he eyed your discomfort--seemingly undisturbed by your challenge--and you chewed on the inside of your cheek, somehow knowing he wasn't finished.

And of course, he wasn't. "If you really believe this seemingly-stubborn insistence on when or if I sit reflects a lack of ambition, you clearly misunderstand the depths of Slytherin cunning. We pick our battles wisely, and right now, this isn't one of them."

Your blood pressure surged, the crimson currents in your veins reaching their boiling point. Months of enduring relentless bickering and one-upmanship had pushed you to the edge--this man may be an utter degenerate but he certainly knows how to use his mouth when it matters. You could no longer bear the weight of this incessant game, and in a fleeting moment of frustration, you finally succumbed to the pressure.

You knew this was your breaking point.

"I'm just trying to fucking help you." You said, before you even realized you had. You hardly ever cussed, never out loud--that is. "If you don't want to be here, then get out. I promise you, you won't be hurting my feelings if you do."

He huffed, leaning forward and crossing his hands together on top of the desk as he wet his stupidly plush lips, a devilish grin swallowing his cheeks while he revelled in the fact he'd so clearly fucking won. Yet again.

"No," he said. "I don't think I will."

You clucked your tongue, irritated even further at his response, gaze narrowing ever-so-slightly before you rolled your eyes--brushing off his suffocating arrogance and pulling your textbook out of your bag, slamming it down on top of the desk between your bodies.

"The Grimoire of Arcane Relics?" Mattheo read the title out loud, voice laced with a confused, almost offended undertone. "We don't cover this until the middle of second term..."

You cocked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Seems a bit...hasty, to shove this down my throat so early on," his voice carried a sadistic drawl that nearly made you leap across the desk and choke him unconscious. This man knew how to fucking test you. "Would it not be far more beneficial to proceed in the order the books are taught?"

You drew in another swift breath, the fabric of your navy robes clinging to your form, trembling fingers smoothing out any wrinkles on your button-up blouse as you adjusted it.

"I was unaware..." you said, not bothering to look up. "...that the individual I'd be tutoring this term was in fact a professor, and not a seventh year student..." you glimpsed him now, offering him merely but a slight tilt of your head as you watched his jaw tense. "...I must have been ill-informed, do pardon my ignorance."

"A moment of self-awareness? What a fucking breakthrough for you, Raven...pity it took you so long." He was clasping his hands together on top of the desk with enough force to involuntarily crack his knuckles. "Maybe there's hope for you yet, though I wouldn't hold my fucking breath."

"Please don't," you said, teeth gritting. "We wouldn't want to deprive your already-oxygen-starved brain of any more, now would we? It needs all the help it can get."

Mattheo's gaze sharpened, his lips curving into a teasing smirk, highlighting the scars that adorned them. The effect he had on you was undeniable, a sensation you longed to dismiss more than anything. However, with every passing moment in his presence, resisting the pull of attraction became an increasingly futile endeavour--yes, he was suffocatingly arrogant, but Gods, he was fucking attractive.

And he knew it.

"Quite the fucking mouth on you, I'll admit..." he dropped his voice to a low whisper, so deep it practically rattled your bones as it vibrated through you. "Never met a Ravenclaw with such an attitude problem...maybe I could tutor you on how to fix that issue, once we're done here, of course."

Your stomach twisted, heat spreading through your veins like wildfire. Curse him and his painstakingly arrogant charm. Curse him to bloody hell.

"It'd be a cold day in hell before I take any sort of guidance from you, Riddle..." you whispered, your voice accidentally reverberating as a seductive pitch. "And even then, I'd probably still refrain."

"You don't know when to shut the fuck up, do you?..." his eyes darkened, an evil mischief crawling its way through his irises. "What would daddy Dumbledore think about the way you're speaking to me, huh?"

Your heart stalled. "I-"

Your words faltered as Mattheo stood up, moving leisurely like a predatory creature circling its prey, until he was right beside you. His eyes, sharp as daggers, bored into your skull, and he loomed over you, a sadistic smirk twisting his lips into a cruel curve. The sight sent a shiver down your spine, knotting your stomach with an unsettling mix of fear and desire.

He placed a singular hand on your desk, leaning down closer to your level. "Perhaps I pay him a little visit...perhaps I tell him that you've been missing lessons, that you've been extremely unprofessional...perhaps I somehow fail my next exam...perhaps-"

"Okay, okay!" You panicked, cutting him off. "You've made your point, Riddle...I'm sorry, okay?" The words were fucking painful as you forced them past your teeth, and you swallowed your ego, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Let's just get this over with, please?"

Mattheo huffed, gratified by how effortlessly his threats appeared to compel your submission. The gears turned in his head as he grasped the extent of the power he truly wielded over you. He fully understood that your entire post-graduate career almost certainly depended on his decisions, and he was eagerly anticipating taking action.

"I like the way you say please..." his voice was breathless, his dark eyes consumed by something you couldn't really identify as he slumped down in the chair directly next to you, his sight never once leaving yours. "Do it again."

Your body tensed, immobilized as he inched closer, his penetrating eyes scrutinizing your features with intense focus. It was no secret that Mattheo had been oblivious to your existence until he was placed under your guidance--despite being the most popular Slytherin student in the school, you, a practically invisible Ravenclaw, were easy to overlook. It had taken him over three weeks to even remember your name, a fact he never bothered to acknowledge, let alone use.

But within that time frame, within the time you'd been tutoring him; as much as he drove you mentally fucking insane, you couldn't deny that every time he'd show up for lessons with torn knuckles, cut lips and alcohol radiating from his breath--you couldn't help but to feel something in the pit of your stomach.

Whether that sensation was disgust, arousal, or sheer terror, you couldn't quite pinpoint. It was a feeling that whispered in your veins, urging you to surrender to the dominance he held over you. It screamed for you to let him have his way without resistance, because just as he commanded your obedience, he wielded the same control over the entire damn school. The prospect of defying him felt like a dangerous game you weren't willing to play.

"Riddle-"

He tilted his head, his face dangerously close to yours now, his eyes peering into your soul as he stared. As he wet his lips, his breath turning shallow, you felt a feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, and one between your thighs as well.

"I said, do it again." His voice was a mere breath as it left his lips, his eyes studying you as though you were a page of a textbook. Not that he'd ever read one of those. "Go on, Raven...beg for me..."

Your breath hitched, and you involuntarily clutched the edges of the wooden chair between your fingers with an indescribable force. You didn't want to admit it--not to Mattheo, not to anyone really--but you were a virgin. You'd never even kissed a boy; your entire life was devoted to your studies...so this...this was extremely fucking new to you.

When you remained silent, Mattheo's eyes darkened even further, turning a shade of obsidian so intense they put even the stormiest midnight skies to shame.

"You want me to keep your perfect little reputation intact, hm?" He breathed, leaning closer. "You want me to help you stay on Dumbledores good side?"

Your throat was more arid than the desert, and you nodded, unable to blink--unable to peel your fucking eyes off of him.

"Then do as I say..." he murmured, a large battered hand finding purchase on your thigh, your entire body involuntarily flinching at the foreign contact. "I want to hear you, Raven."

You stared down at his hand resting lazily over the fabric of your blue uniform skirt--it's massive size swallowing up almost the entirety of your thigh, calloused palm catching on the pleats as it slid upwards, agonizingly slowly--and when he paused, stretching his fingers around the diameter of your thigh the best he could, fingers digging into your flesh as he squeezed; you gasped, involuntarily, and he huffed--bringing his lips dangerously close to your ear.

"One more chance..." he purred, and you could practically hear the smirk on his lips. "You won't like what'll happen-"

"Please!" You snapped, squeezing your thighs together out of pure desperation. "Please, Mattheo...please, let's just get this over with..."

"Mm." He hummed in satisfaction, slowly pulling his hand off of you. "That's fucking right..." he murmured, warm breath tickling your ear. "Nothing is sweeter than your submission, Raven."

You swallowed, not daring to look at him, nodding your head frantically in response as he pulled away, slumping back in the chair--not once peeling his eyes off of you, spreading his legs way-too-fucking wide as he made himself comfortable--he was silent, now, watching your chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, watching the way you squirmed in your chair at his sudden dominance--a dominance that had an effect on you that you couldn't even begin to describe.

And then, before you could even realize what was happening, Mattheo leaned back in, his fingers gripping your jaw and tilting your face towards his--and as you meet his dark, intoxicating eyes, your lungs stalled, entire body shrinking in your seat as he stared at you with such intensity that you felt like he could see right through you.

"From now on, I'm in charge here," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Understand?"

You swallowed the lump of anxiety in your throat, and watched his darkened amber eyes as they glanced over your lips, lingering there for far too long, before returning back up to meet your gaze--something swimming in his irises that made your stomach twist.

When you were silent, he tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow. "Use your words, Raven..."

"Yes." You squeaked, voice barely audible. "I understand."

He hummed, a devilish smirk crawling across his lips, fingers digging into your jaw with added pressure as he pulled you closer, lips so close you'd touch with a deep enough breath.

"Understand, what?" He breathed, eyes dipping over your lips yet again. "Say my fucking name."

"Mattheo..." you couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only obey his words as though he was controlling you like a puppet on strings. "I understand, Mattheo."

He huffed, smirking. "Good girl, Raven..." his voice was a mere breath as it left his lips, his full lashes fluttering as he blinked, meeting your eyes. "You learn so quickly...I should have done this months ago..."

When he pulled back, slowly releasing you, air slowly returned to your lungs; not enough to rid the dizziness from your brain but just enough to keep you conscious. Mattheo turned toward the desk now, as though nothing even happened, gesturing for you to start the lesson.

And somehow, you did.

—————-

Chapter two->

[whatshehassaid]

I’m just saying but look how cocky and smirky and like “how did you know about that my beautiful boy?” Armand’s expression is when Daniel brings up the fire… (the only time we’ve ever really seen him actively trying to read Daniel’s mind was the seventies clips where he’s leaned forward like this)

And then it triggers a memory of Armand in the 70s in Daniel and LOOK how Armands face changed from cocky and curious to “oh my god he remembers me”

And then how he has to tear his eyes away from Daniel cause he remembers that Louis is there and I don’t think Louis remembers the fire by the way in that moment he says “the fire?” Like he doesn’t know what Daniel is talking about.. but like LOOK how Armand even as his head is turning toward Louis his eyes are GLUED to Daniel until the last possible second

I think Armand thought Daniel would never remember him cause he didn’t think Daniel loved him in the past. He thought he was addicted to his blood- but now he’s like, “oh shit?”

Y’all the MICRO EXPRESSIONS… THE ACTOR ASSAD ZAMAN IS HOLY FUCK.

[steddiealltheway]

(I have just hit a very nice (silly) milestone of 6969 followers, so I wrote this little ficlet to celebrate and thank you all for always being so supportive 💛 I hope you enjoy)

Everyone is shocked when Steve and Eddie announce they’re moving in together.

But, to Steve, it’s really a no-brainer. Robin is going away to college, the kids are starting to get their licenses and no longer need a babysitter, and Eddie desperately wants to get out of Hawkins.

So, Steve bought a map, measured the distance between Hawkins and Robin’s college, and marked a spot right in the middle.

Okay, so maybe it ended up being in the middle of a river, but there was a town near there that was perfectly not too far from Hawkins while being far away enough for Eddie to feel safe. As well as being far enough from Robin to give her space at her new school while being close enough that she could easily spend the night at their place whenever she wanted.

But distance wasn’t a problem for anyone, they were mainly concerned about how Steve and Eddie would live with each other and not kill each other.

But after a few weeks, Steve can confidently say that living with Eddie is… nice actually.

Really really nice.

Of course, he had been a little concerned about all their differences and adjusting to having someone always around, but Steve enjoys the company.

Actually, he specifically enjoys Eddie’s company.

Sure, he can be loud and a bit messy, but Steve loves that their small apartment actually feels like a home.

Whenever Robin stops by, she comments about how domestic they’re getting. Especially whenever Eddie randomly appears with a cup of water not even seconds after Steve mentions he was getting thirsty.

But what Steve fails to mention to Robin are all the little other things Eddie does, like when it’s late at night and Eddie brushes the hair off of Steve’s forehead and says, “It’s a little late for me to see those beautiful eyes still open."

Sometimes when they're watching a movie, Steve will fall asleep and wake up to Eddie carrying him to bed as if it's an easy thing to do.

And yeah, maybe Steve finds it overwhelmingly hot, and maybe he clings a little tighter whenever Eddie tries to put him down so they're stuck in a tight embrace that Steve can wave off as a result of being half asleep.

But sometimes Eddie's eyes linger on Steve a little longer than they should or Eddie will throw his arm over the back of the couch and let his fingertips lightly trace over Steve's shoulder or run through his hair gently as if he doesn't even notice himself doing it. And it makes Steve think that maybe, just maybe, Eddie might have feelings for him too.

But just when things are going great, and Steve is thinking about testing the boundaries of their friendship to push more into romantic territory, Eddie starts fucking with him.

The problem is, it's not anything big or obvious that Steve can just laugh off. Instead, Eddie starts messing with the thermostat. The thermostat Steve likes to keep strictly at 71.

But Eddie has decided to set it to 69.

At first, Steve just adjusts it, wondering why Eddie is bumping it down when he's always cold and wraps himself in a blanket, complaining that 71 is too cold.

After two days of back and forth, Steve wonders if the thing is just broken because he hasn't actually seen Eddie mess with it. So, he wanders to Eddie's room and knocks on the door lightly before opening it.

Eddie lays back on his bed with a smirk on his face that instantly alerts Steve that Eddie has in fact been messing with him.

He crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. "Have you been messing with the thermostat?"

Eddie shrugs and comments, "Maybe."

Steve frowns, not sure what the hell kind of game Eddie's playing at. "Well, can you maybe leave it at seventy-one?"

"And if I don't?" Eddie challenges, cocking his head to the side, "What are you going to do about it?"

"Change it back to seventy-one," Steve replies easily. He feels like he's missing something when Eddie's face falters a bit, but he hopes it's just him getting the message to not mess with it. And just in case he doesn't get it, he shuts the door a little more firmly than usual.

Only, two days later, Steve happens to notice that the thermostat is set to 69 again. He scowls and presses the button twice before going off to Eddie's room and knocking on the door again a little harder than usual, wondering why Eddie is trying to mess with him after they had been having such a nice day.

"Come in!" Eddie chirps.

Steve swings the door open and rests his hands on his hips. "You changed it again."

Eddie shrugs and leans back on his bed looking overly comfortable. "Just setting the mood."

"Yeah, you've set the mood, and you set it to annoyed. Stop changing it," Steve says as he starts to close the door. He stops as it's about to close and peaks his head back in. "Please."

With that, he thinks he's done with the whole thing. And after a few days pass, he's pretty much forgotten about the whole incident.

That is, until Robin comes to visit and suddenly asks, "Does it feel slightly colder in here to you?"

Steve groans and walks over to the thermostat, seeing the number 69 staring back at him. He's not sure when Eddie changed it, but he's not even currently there so Steve can yell at him. Instead, he just complains to Robin, "Eddie's been fucking with me and changing the thermostat."

Robin snorts. "Isn't he like perpetually cold all the time?"

"Yes! Which is why I'm so confused about him keeping it at sixty-nine all the time."

Robin pauses and glances over at Steve. "What is he keeping it at?"

"Sixty-nine."

Robin just cackles in response, and Steve glares at her asking, "What?"

"Sixty-nine!" Robin laughs again.

"Real mature, Robin," Steve says, rolling his eyes before the realization hits him. "Oh, Christ."

Robin only laughs harder, but Steve is stuck on the other conversations he had with Eddie which were... definitely miscommunications. Oh god, was Eddie trying to... proposition him?

Robin's laughter dies down enough for her to ask, "What's wrong?"

Steve gives her a look and sits down on the couch next to her, further realizing the thermostat incidents happened after days when the two of them got a little more... friendly than usual.

Steve sighs and explains the entire situation including the things he's left out before including his feelings for Eddie. He's glad that Robin holds in her laughter until after he's done.

"Stop laughing, it's not funny."

Robin manages to say through her laughter, "You both are disasters. But you're both so gone on each other that it's almost a little disgusting." She then stands up and grabs her bag, walking toward the front door.

"Where are you going?" Steve asks, following her.

Robin turns around and gives Steve a look. "I'm leaving before Eddie gets back and you two..." she gestures toward the thermostat.

Steve groans, "Get out, Buckley." He can't help but smile before he pulls her into a hug and digs some money out of his wallet.

"What's this?" Robin asks.

"Gas money for sending you away early."

Robin smiles and salutes him. "I guess this means I'll be coming back tomorrow."

"I'll call in case we're still-"

"Gross, dingus," Robin says with a laugh before she hugs him one more time and whispers, "Thank you for telling me."

Steve just squeezes her a little tighter.

After she leaves, Steve takes a minute to form a plan before Eddie gets back from whatever store he went to. He looks at the thermostat and sets it back to 71 degrees while he tries to think.

Unfortunately, he doesn't get far in his thinking before the front door unlocks and Eddie walks in with a few grocery bags in hand.

Steve just turns around and tries not to look too startled by Eddie's sudden appearance.

Eddie gives him a confused look and gestures outside. "Did I just see Robin leave?"

Steve nods but gives no further explanation, stuck on how the hell he's supposed to approach this subject with Eddie. God, now he understands the thermostat method.

"You okay?" Eddie asks before his eyes settle on the thermostat. "Oh, shit. Sorry, I did that late last night. Can we just forget that that happened? It was... dumb really."

Instead of forgetting it, Steve dramatically reaches up and hits the down button twice. "I think I finally get it." Eddie's eyes widen as Steve crosses his arms and continues, "Setting the mood, right? Or, tell me, what are you going to do about it?"

Eddie looks at him for a second then suddenly drops all the bags in his hands, practically racing down the hallway to Steve and cupping his face in his hands. "Am I reading this right?"

Steve slowly glances at the thermostat. "Well, it does say sixty-nine."

Eddie huffs out a laugh but quickly clarifies, "I don't just want that. I mean... I like you. And I just couldn't think of a good way to bring that up without it being some type of joke. Not that liking you is a joke, but oh god-"

"Eddie," Steve says firmly, stopping his rambling. "I like you, too."

Eddie's face lights up. "Yeah?"

Steve nods as his hands come up to Eddie's waist and pull him in a little closer.

"You like me enough to sixty-"

"Oh, shut up," Steve says with a big smile.

"Make me," Eddie replies, giving Steve an exaggerated wink.

Steve shakes his head and sighs before pulling Eddie into a sweet kiss, both of them smiling too much to make it anything more than a peck. When they pull away, Steve thinks he might murder Eddie when he whispers, "Nice."

But he wouldn't have it any other way.

[pers1st]

thrown down

pairing: alexia putellas x reader

warnings: r has a seizure

You are usually the calmest person on the pitch - something that Barcelona fans often applaud you for. It is not often that you lose your cool, especially in comparison to players such as Alexia, Mapi or even Lucy. You rarely get into fights, whether physically or vocally. Maybe that's why your teammates are so surprised when you finally seem to give into the aggression that had been flooding your veins for the past seventy minutes.

The El Classico was always a hot-headed match, but you had never seen a player be as targeted as Alexia seemed to be in this match. It wasn't unusual at all, Alexia proved to be a dangerous player for any opponent, and as you were still level going into the second half and Alexia was creating difficult chances from the moment she was subbed on, it surely agitated Madrid's players.

It was only her second match back after her injury break, which might have been why you saw red when she was yet again pushed, only this time you had seen her knee give out. Within seconds, you were at her side.

"Estas bien?", you asked, huffing for air as you leaned down towards your girlfriend, who was clutching her knee slightly.

"Sí, yo creo", she answered within seconds, which calmed you ever so slightly.

Satisfied with her answer, you rose back up, turning around towards the player who had just tackled Alexia for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

"You!", you yelled as you marched over towards the woman, a clear smirk on her lips. It infuriated you.

"Can't you just leave her alone, for fuck's sake! That's such a dangerous tackle, there's no need!", you continued, shoving the defender away rather harshly, before Lucy could pull you away. You received a yellow for your shove, and so did the Real Madrid defender. Somewhat satisfied with the outcome, you marched back into your position after seeing Alexia back up on her feet, desperate to finish this match without any more injuries. You were so, so wrong.

Within seconds, the match resumed and Barcelona was awarded a free kick in a very promising position. You lined up, with the rest of the players, on the line of the box, hoping to get your head in on the ball and possibly score, securing your team the win. Of course, you noticed the very woman you'd just shoved taking a stance next to you, but you didn't think much of it. Really, everyone was there, both Madrid and Barcelona players, all except for Alexia, who was aiming to take the shot.

The ball found you quickly, and as you jumped, you used all your energy to summarize it behind the ball, clinging at the chance to find the back of the net. Your head never reached the ball, though. Instead, an elbow hit the side of your face, just next to your eyebrow, slamming you harshly. Pain surged through your head in an instance, before you could even hit the floor and bang your temple against the hard grass once again.

Everyone was too focused on Patri's header to notice your crumpled form on the floor. Everyone, except for your girlfriend. She didn't even follow Patri's header, instead surging forwards to lean over you, waving to the referee for a head injury and to allow the medical team to enter the field. She had seen the whiplash your head took from the collision, and knew by the fact that you weren't moving in the slightest that this injury was bad.

Truthfully, no one could have grasped just how bad it actually was.

"Amor? Hey, please wake up!", your girlfriend shrieked over your unconscious body, not knowing whether she could touch you or not.

"Hey, ref!", she yelled out, and finally the whistle blew as more players joined and a crowd was starting to form around you.

Just then, while your body was carefully hidden by a sea of blue and red shirts, your frame began twitching. Alexia thought it was a good sign at first, thinking you would finally began regaining consciousness. However, when the medics finally reached the formed crowd, the slight twitches turned into a seizure, and before Alexia could even react, your whole body shook aimlessly, a crumpled form on the pitch, almost like a fish in the dry.

Covering her mouth in pure shook, Alexia leaned past the medics, grabbing a fist of your shirt just to hold any piece of you she could grasp. She couldn't let go of you, no matter how desperately Irene tried to pull her away from the medics and your seizing body. The fabric was clammy in her hands, but not even the pain seizing through her wrist from how hard she was clutching onto you could get her to let go. Everyone seemed to be in shock as to what your body was going through, and no one reacted. It sent a pain through Alexia's body that she'd never felt before - worse than when she'd torn her ACL, worse than when she'd had the second surgery, worse than any concussion or bruise. Watching you suffer, helplessly gripping your shirt and trying to understand what the hell was going on, was worse than anything she could imagine.

It seemed like hours until your body finally stopped shaking, but Alexia didn't calm down in the slightest.

"Ale, calm down. The doctor's have got it", Ingrid tried to soothe the woman, but her attempts were helpless. If she hadn't gripped Alexia's shoulders just in time, your girlfriend would've jumped into the ambulance that had driven onto the field with you.

Luckily, both of the women were supposed to come off around this time anyways, with Jona being careful of Alexia's injury and Ingrid having played her heart out already, and so the two women rushed to the changing rooms, as the memories of your collision kept replaying in your girlfriend's head, the fear almost swallowing her whole. There was something that had made you look so - so absolutely broken, on that pitch, and just as tears were clouding her vision again, Alexia could barely change into clean clothes, let alone take a shower. Ingrid kept her composure up fairly well, reminding Alexia over and over again that you were in good hands, that the team's doctor had gone with you, that the doctors in the hospital knew how to deal with this, that they were trained to deal with this. But it had very little effect. Alexia's foot kept coming down onto the floor of the car without rhythm, bouncing up and down in anxiety as the woman tried to keep herself from opening up the absolute waterfall that was lingering behind her lashes. She had gotten them done just a few days ago, and something as little as your smile when she'd told you excitedly, asking for your opinion, almost made her suffocate. You were everywhere - your laugh, your smile, your voice, your smell, you lingered in the air around Alexia, intoxicating it and making it incredibly harder for her to breathe.

What if you didn't make it?

The question brought Alexia's foot to a halt, and a single tear travelled down her cheek at the thought that she might never hear your voice, your laughter, again.

"It's going to be okay", Ingrid whispered as though she had read Alexia's mind, even if the woman wasn't sure whether it was to ease your girlfriend or her own thoughts.

"We should probably get comfortable. We'll be here a while", Ingrid mumbled as she guided Alexia into the waiting room, who had fallen completely silent during the last few minutes of the car ride. She couldn't blame your girlfriend - Alexia wasn't a person to show her feelings, much less talk about them, and however she wanted to deal with this, Ingrid deemed it okay until they gained more knowledge about your situation.

And comfortable, they got. The whole team showed up, explaining how the ref had finished the match mere seconds after your body had left the pitch, and even Mapi and Pina, who usually liked to cause havoc, were silent as Patri distributed the takeout she had gotten on the way here across the team.

Panic grew within Alexia as the hours crept on and the sun set agonizingly slowly, but she didn't manage to say a word, sitting in silence with her teammates as she forced multiple gulps down her throat, fighting the tears brimming in her eyes. She didn't allow herself to think about the what-ifs anymore, not daring to let her mind wander into a world without you in it. There was no world without you in it. Alexia didn't allow it.

Nothing seemed to calm her, as she refused to eat, tapping her fingers against her legs nervously. Just when she thought she needed to run to the bathroom to throw up, a doctor appeared in the waiting room. The man seemed stunned at the amount of women in Barça clothes crowding the place, but he didn't complain.

"Are you the family of Ms Y/L/N?"?"

"We're her teammates", Ingrid answered, gently taking her feet off the opposing chair once more as Alexia sat up.

The man nodded shortly.

"She asked for Alexia?", the doctor asked, gently smiling at your girlfriend, who rose to her feet immediately at the mention of her name. He walked her and Ingrid, who followed her with a hand on the small of her back, away from the waiting room, into a more secluded area, before offering details of your operation.

"The seizure was caused by a traumatic brain injury, likely when she hit her head on the floor. We've had to do a minor procedure to stop her brain from swelling, but as of right now, there's no sign of any damage to her brain. She's just woken up and is very out of it, still. It will be a while until she's back to her normal self, she'll need to be under supervision here, for a couple of days. But she's asked to see you."

His words rung in Alexia's head, bouncing back and forth and giving her a migraine, bringing tears to her eyes once more. You were okay. You had asked for her. You had asked to see her.

"Can I see her?"

The doctor gave her your room number without hesitation. Ingrid had to hold her back as she hurried towards the floor you were on.

Despite the relief lifting a harsh weight from her shoulders, Alexia was growing anxious with every step. Memories of your body shaking on the ground, almost like a rag doll, were flooding her brain still, and it would take actually seeing you to realize that you were okay. It seemed like a miracle to her.

She glanced at Ingrid when she reached your room.

"Go. I'll let the others know."

Tears were brimming in her eyes when she opened the door to your dimly lit hospital, glancing at the small figure in a bed that seemed far too spacious for you. When she finally found your eyes looking back at her, she allowed the tears to stain her cheeks at once.

"Amor", you sighed, holding an arm out for her as Alexia was seemingly stuck at the door.

"Hey, I'm okay", you tried once more to stop her tears from falling, but it was to no avail. At least, this got Alexia's legs moving once more, as she cautiously stepped towards you. Your head was bandaged up and you were wearing a hospital gown, the blanket drawn up to your shoulders.

When Alexia finally grabbed your hand, she swore herself to never let go of it again. You were okay. You were alright. You were sitting in front of her. She wouldn't have to live her life without you. The realization seemed too much as she broke out into sobs, her whole body shaking as she gripped onto your hand so hard it almost became uncomfortable.

"Amor, I'm okay", you tried to soothe her as she sunk into the chair next to your bed, gently letting her head fall into your lap, burying herself in the fabric of your itchy blanket.

"I... I thought I lost you", she hiccuped through her sobs, and you gently began stroking her hair, desperate to calm your girlfriend down.

"Never, you're stuck with me, amor", you smiled softly down at her. Even hours after the seizure and the procedure done to avoid your brain swelling, you felt absolutely thrown down, eyes fluttering closed every few seconds as Ingrid finally led all of the women who'd waited for you into your room, which promptly got Alexia to kick them out again.

"Alright, vamos, everyone. This one needs sleep", she huffed, firmly motioning towards the door, shaking her head at every complaint of your teammates.

"Bye, guys", you smiled after them as the crowd slowly dispersed, allowing only you, Ingrid and Mapi in the dark room.

"Ale, are you coming?", Mapi asked as she gathered her bag from the table across from you, holding her hand out for Ingrid.

Alexia looked at you then, panic written across her face. You shook your head gently.

"I spoke to the nurses, they said you could stay", you smiled at your girlfriend, seeing relief spread across her cheeks in an instant, her hand gently squeezing yours. You knew how worried Alexia was, and you had known how worried she would be. Just for tonight, she could climb into bed with you, hold you all night long and help you in the morning. Just for tonight, she wouldn't have to leave you. You feared she never would again, anyways. Though maybe, that wouldn't be as bad as you thought.

[emmyrosee]

It’s not common to see Atsumu fuming.

Genuine anger, not the petty shit he throws at you when he decides he wants to be an obnoxious turd to yourself or his brother.

You can tell the difference, too, because a petulant pout and attitude is plastered on that pretty face of his, but when he’s genuinely mad, there’s no attitude; it’s just raw emotion and lips pulled in a straight line, his chest giving irregular, short breaths because he can’t breathe. It’s almost scary, but it happens so little that you’ve learned to manage it when it does happen.

This is one of those rare occasions you have no clue which he’s feeling.

The car door outside slams shut, sending a nervous chill up your spine, but it’s immediately squashed when you hear Hisako’s innocent laughter. You smile and turn towards the now opening door, and you give atsumu a fake, sympathetic look when his thick brows are furrowed in frustration. On his leg, Hisako’s tiny arms are wrapped around him, her legs locked around his ankle and her smile that’s missing a tooth is beaming up at him.

“You,” he scolds, looking down at his menace of a six year old. “Go upstairs. And don’t come out until you’re seventy-eight.”

“Can I hug mommy first?”

“If you must,” he growls. With that, Hisako quickly bounds over to you and reaches her arms up for a hug, and while you give her one, you watch as Atsumu paces the floor, cards his hair, chews on his cuticles, anything to make him calm down.

“Daddy’s mad,” she whispers in your ear.

You offer her a snort, “I know.” With a kiss to her head you plant her back to her feet and nudge her to go into her room, waiting until to door closes before you turn back to your husband.

“Atsumu-“

“I’m not ready for this,” he growls. “The little traitor, I can’t believe she’d do this to me- my own flesh and blood.”

“Don’t word it like that, you make it sound like she committed arson or something.”

He softens and pouts like a dog; clearly, whatever it is, it’s taking a toll, and you sigh before you walk over and plant a kiss to his forehead. “Whatever it was, I know it wasn’t on purpose; what happened?”

“She’s just not ready, okay, she just doesn’t know-“

“Sweetheart, you need to let me in here-“

“He was holding her hand!” He whines, scrubbing his face with his hands. “They-They-They were holding hands! I thought I had a few more years to prepare for this shit! Wanted to wait before I put the fear back into these damn boys! I can’t fight a six year old!”

You pause. You retract your hand and give him an absolute smirk.

“You’re kidding me?”

“Sure ain’t!” He barks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s so mad his forehead vein makes itself known with a sheen of sweat. “Tomorrow, I’m going to that damned school, and I’m moving her classes!”

“Honey,” you say sweetly, gently grabbing his arm to ground him. “It’s okay; I’m the one who told her to be nice to this boy.”

Instantly, his head whips in betrayal. His eyes are blown wide, muscles tense and despite how angry he looks, he can’t find the words to convey it.

“YOU WHAT?”

You shake your head, “she asked me why she feels butterflies in her tummy when she sees him.” To try and soothe him, you hook your head over his shoulder and bat your eyes innocently, “and I told her that it’s the same feeling I get when I see you-“

“Don’t try to be sweet, I’m mad at you,” he snarls, but there’s a softness in his eye that makes you think he’s not as serious as he thinks he comes across. A massive hand cards through his hair and he looks up to the sky as if to ask for patience. “I can’t believe this. My two babies, the loves of my life, betraying me in such juvenile ways.”

“Atsumu, spell juvenile,” you challenge.

“Spell ‘no’,” he grumbles. You sigh and gently grab his arm to pull him to the couch, and for a few seconds he puts up a small fight, but does end up giving into you in the end.

“Sweetie, listen to me,” you soothe. “Hisako is six. She’s going to start having little crushes soon enough-“

“Fuck, stop reminding me,” he whines.

You shake your head and rub a soothing hand on his back. “And all we can do is let her express those feelings in healthy ways; it’s what we’ve always done.”

“What if he hurts her?”

“He’s six.”

“What if he breaks her heart?”

“I’m sure she’ll cope.”

“What if he-“

“Atsumu.” Your hands squish his cheeks. “Calm down; she’s going to be okay.” You smile and kiss his pouted lips, “you remember what it was like having a crush at school-“

“Excuse you,” he grumbles from his squished cheeks, shaking his head from your grip. “I’ve only ever been in love with you.”

“You’ve told me about your relationship with Rintaro, trust me, that was a crush.”

“Was not!”

“Was too.”

“Was not!”

“It absolutely was.” You smile warmly, “and that’s fine. But now, you need to let her experience the same thing. She’s a big girl. Besides,” you nudge your nose with his, “you’ll always be her favorite man.”

“That’s actually Osamu, but I appreciate it.” Your words do seem to calm him down however, and he wraps a big arm around you to settle into the couch, “I just love her, baby… just want her to be safe.”

“I know; and she will be.”

The silence you get comfortable in gets interrupted by the door to your home getting flung open, and while you jump in the air in shock, next to you, Atsumu chuckles.

“Speaking of the devil.”

“What did you-“

Before you can say anything, Miya Osamu suddenly stands in the middle of your living room, the hat on his head tampered with and his apron turn on his hip, his head lined with sweat as if he ran here. Your jaw slacks in surprise, “Osamu, you did not leave work to come here-“

“WHAT STUPID LITTLE SNOT WAS HOLDING HER HAND?”

[caesium-55]

—seven days. [ vii ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

author's note: that's it folks. welcome to the end. peace out (my hand is hurting like a bitch) NOT EDITED NOT BETA READ EXCUSE THE MISTAKES

tags: @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @eugene-emt-roe @bellezaycafe @barnestatic @theseerbetweenus @wcnorris @notyouraveragemochii @lpab @vildetry06 @a-beaverhausen @formula1mount @loloekie @alucardsdaddyissues @juky-ps @cassianswh0reeee @devotedlycrookeddonut @amberpanda99 @supermaxv1 @evie-119 @spideylovin @harianaswhore @formulaal @landorris @onecojg @leclercdream @vicurious28 @c-losur3 @spookystitchery @0710khj @strollnstroll @justab-eautifulmess @ssrcsm i hope i didn't forget anyone

masterlist.

max: ANSWER ME

max: [NAME] I SWEAR TO GOD

max: I’LL FLY TO TEXAS RIGHT NOW I SWEAR

max: THIS IS ALL FUN AND GAMES FOR YOU ISNT IT

max: YOU FUCK ME AND THEN YOU LEAVE

max: YOU'RE ALL FUCKING THE SAME ALWAYS LEAVING ME

max: FUCK YOU [NAME]

max: TALK TO ME YOU COWARD

max: EXPLAIN YOURSELF

max: IM GOING INSANE HERE

Max has visited your apartment a total of two times since he’s given you the keys. The first time—Max remembers it was in early January 2020. You held a housewarming party disguised as a little lunch get-together as a thank-you for his gift. Daniel and him as well as two of your former roommates, Max recognizes them as Julia and Kendall from the PR team, are the only ones invited. You cooked pasta. Your mother’s recipe, you claimed. It easily became one of Max’s favorite dishes in the world and he requests you to cook it from time to time.

The second time, Max remembers going there again after the Monaco Grand Prix 2021. It’s been only a week after your breakup with Leo and four races before the incident with the Hamilton fan in Silverstone. The team holds a dinner to celebrate Max taking P1 and usually, you’re present in these types of things—the after parties and team dinners and all forms of team celebrations in general because you like celebrations but you're nowhere to be found.

Max finishes dinner quickly and excuses himself to Horner. He grabs a beer and drives himself to your apartment, because he knows you’re definitely not staying in the hotel with the team.

When you’re sad, you tend to hide away. It's an annoying habit. You make it your career to dig your nose into everyone’s problem—Max’s most especially—and provide everyone with the help you can offer. It's your love language, Max thinks, to be insanely helpful to everyone but the moment that the places switch and you’re the one who needs help, you run away because you refuse to bother everyone else with your problems despite the amount of people who are willing to return the favor you gave them in the past. It is very hypocritical of you.

He knocks on your door. Four slow knocks followed by three quick ones, so you’ll know it's him. It's an established pattern, a system that works for both of you. You shout for him to wait and Max does so, observing the details of the woodwork in front of him as he waits patiently for you. You have a very nice door.

You open the door. Max’s brows raised slightly at the sight of you. You're still in your Red Bull polo shirt but instead of the pencil skirt you were wearing during the race, you wore short shorts instead. Black, fitted, and they stop a little above your mid-thighs. You're barefoot, too. No YSL heels in sight.

Max turns into a lovely shade of pink. You don't notice it.

You have long legs despite being 5’5” only, which gives off the illusion that you’re very tall when you're actually not. Your body ratio consists of seventy-five percent legs and twenty-five percent upper body. You have lean legs. It's full of childhood scars—thin white lines that are barely noticeable because of how old they are. You have well-built calves and dainty ankles, which look weird but also look right, and your feet are veiny, jagged lines of green blue on skin. Max thinks it's because you wear heels every day.

“Somethin’ wrong, man?” your voice sounds nasal, hoarse, and deep at the same time. Your eyes and nose are red and Max knows full well that you’ve been crying over Leo again and yet you carry yourself as if you're fine, standing in front of him with your shoulders straightened and your tone professional.

Max never liked the bitterness that washes over him whenever he sees you with Leo. But at that moment, he’ll rather endure the bitterness that chokes him until he thinks he’s about to pass out if that makes you alright, if that makes you stop crying.

“I have beer.”

It's a lame thing to say. He should have said something better. He should have asked if you’re alright, should have asked why you were crying, should have asked if there's anything you need him to do just so you’ll feel better. But his mind blanks and he just thrusted the beer forward.

You smile, shaking your head. You take the beer from his hands gratefully, “I have pasta. Wanna go in?”

It's a fair trade. You love beer. He loves your pasta. And so, he entered your apartment.

He faces your door for the third time in 2023. A million thoughts run around his brain per second as his eyes train on the wood patterns of your front door. Dread pools in his stomach as he holds the door knob. He only holds it, not twisting it and pushing it open just yet.

Max is stalling. He knows that. He shouldn't be stalling. He knows that, too.

He dreads what's waiting for him on the other side of the door. He can hear your voice in the back of his skull, saying, “Pussy. You risk your life and drive a rocket ship for a livin’ and you’re afraid of openin’ a damn door?”

Max takes a deep breath and opens the door. Silence and emptiness greets him.

Your apartment has always been bare. You refuse to buy carpets, curtains, houseplants, decorative furnishings or anything that can make your loft apartment seem like someone actually lives there.

(“It's expensive here,” you said.

“I’ll pay,” Max offered.

“No,” you shook your head. “I’ll just bring something from home.”

You never did.)

Max’s feet lead him to your living room. Dust accumulates on top of your glass coffee table and couch. Max remembers them coming along when he bought the apartment. You never got them changed.

His brows furrowed when his eyes landed on the familiar looking box that sits atop the coffee table. He strides towards it, head tilting to read the little pink sticky note attached to it. It reads: Sorry Max, I can't steal more from Kelly.

Max’s entire world crumbles down. He opens the shoe box and sees the shoe, arranged carefully in place.

He hurriedly reaches for the folder next to it and reads the writings inside.

Max, I know you’d be the one who’d find this one day. By that time, I’ll be in Texas already. I don't know if I’d have told you that I resigned already. If I didn't, that's because I’m a pussy. Sorry.

Anyways, I will say this as straightforwardly as I can because I think I had been a pussy long enough.

I resigned, Max. I won't be your manager by 2024.

Max keeps re-reading the last two sentences just to make sure he’s reading it correctly.

I resigned, Max. I won't be your manager.

I resigned, Max.

resigned.

Max hurls the shoe box and it zooms in the air and hits the wall. He fists his hair and pulls. A scream erupts in his throat. The neighbors are going to file a noise complaint but Max cannot bring himself to care. He’s the one whose heart is breaking here.

He grabs the folder. Max feels something fall on his foot. He looks down.

A beaded bracelet. Navy blue and red—the color of Red Bull. There are three white beads in the bracelet and on those three white beads are the letters M and V—his initials—and the number 1—his current number.

Max drops on his knees. He picks up the little thing with trembling hands. He brings the bracelet to his chest and Max falls apart. This time, you’re not here to hold him together.

max: hey im planning to visit the US

max: do you think you can show me around?

Logan Sargeant is a good driver. That's a given. It's his profession. But the way he drives; it's making Max sleepy.

“So….” Logan begins awkwardly. “I’m assuming you're visiting Texas because of [Name].”

Max nods, “Yeah.”

“You're not mad at her, are you?” Logan asks. “For resigning?”

“She told you?”

So you told the American boy but not him? Max cannot help but be offended now.

“Well, I kinda assumed? Liam mentioned it to the other day, who heard the news from his cousin.”

Max’s brows furrow.

“Lawson?”

“Yes, Lawson.”

Max remembers the kid all too well. Liam Lawson has overtaken him in Singapore after all. It's embarrassing. Watch out, Max, you teased him. Liam’s out to get you.

“Liam probably heard it from Leo.”

“Leo?”

Logan is mentioning too many names. Well, it’s just two but two is still many for his brain to comprehend right now.

“Yeah, Leo and Liam are cousins.”

Max pauses.

“Leo and [Name] still talk so I guess [Name] told Leo, who must have mentioned it to Liam, who then mentioned it in the groupchat with me and Osc—are you okay?”

Max tries his hardest not to scream.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, voice tight. “I’m fine. How far are we from Austin?”

They drive past a sign that says “Welcome to Austin.”

“Well, it looks like we’ve just arrived.”

Max is once again offended that Logan knows where you live while he doesn't. Vista Del Pueblo, Logan tells him the name of the place as they hop off the car. It's funny how close you lived from the Circuit of the Americas. No wonder you always requested to be home after the Austin GP before flying off to the next city.

The two-storey yellow and red brick house is empty. Despite that, it looks like a perfect picture of a happy childhood home. The backyard and the patio is wide. Beside the driveway stands an olden tree. Below the tree is a reclining chair that looks like it has gone through a dust storm and a thousand rains.

“It’s empty,” Max announces. Logan nods.

“Yeah.”

Logan ends up approaching an old woman in the neighboring house who was sweeping dust off her porch and asks her if she knows the [Last Name] family’s whereabouts.

“They haven't returned home since Christmas,” she replies. “Everyone in the neighborhood tried contacting them but no one got through. Ever since Julio died… It's like the entire family followed after him.”

Max and Logan stiffen, shocked at the news that's just been revealed.

Julio died….?

Max needs to find you. Urgently. He needs to see if you're okay.

The sun retires for the night and Max decides that it's time for Logan and him to retire as well. Logan drives them to a hotel and Max pays for two rooms despite Logan insisting that he can pay for his own. They grab dinner at the hotel restaurant, in a private area that Max paid for.

“You’re not angry at her, aren't you?” Logan asks for the second time that day. His plate is half empty. Meanwhile, Max’s plate is barely touched. His appetite significantly decreased. He keeps thinking about you, worried about how you're coping with Julio’s death. You are never the best person when it comes to dealing with pain. Physical pain, you can handle. You’re barely fazed when you burn your hand in the oven, when you hit your hip at the corner of the table, when you accidentally get scratches and you don't even notice it until someone points out the blood that terrifyingly drips down your arm. Max can still remember how you dealt with your breakup with Leo. All those nights crying, the unhealthy fixation in work so you won't have any space feeling human emotions, the moments where you disconnect with reality that Max has to pull you out of many times. The death of a father is a million times worse than a breakup. Max imagines a thousand scenarios in his mind. He needs to be with you right now. He needs to make sure you're alright.

“I hope you're not. You obviously are but I still hope you're not,” Logan continues. “She was always going to leave, you know? She told me in January. She told me that she needs to—

Max accidentally throws the glass of water he was holding. It falls onto the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoes throughout the room. Logan stares at Max with his eyes wide. A cleaning crew comes in a hurry and cleans it up. Max doesn't apologize, he only says, “send me the bill later” and sends the crew out. He turns to Logan.

“She needs to what?”

“You're angry.”

You reminded me, Max said in his mind.

“And?” Max raises his brow. “She needs to what?”

Logan lets out a shaky breath, “She needs to become an engineer or else she’ll never forgive herself.”

Manager. Engineer. What's so damn special about that engineering position anyway? Why are you so hell bent on leaving Max? Red Bull pays you more than an engineer. Hell, Max is even willing to raise your salary to the same amount as half of his annual salary in Red Bull if it keeps you from leaving him. Max is willing to pay for your student loans and refund everything you paid to USC during your college years.

Max pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh. He’s feeling too many emotions all at once.

“I think it's best if you talk to Leo?” Logan suggests. Max appreciates that he’s trying to be helpful but mentioning Leo brings nothing but more anger in him. Fucking Leo. Why does he know where you are? He’s your fucking ex for god’s sake. Why are you even still talking to your ex? “He’s close with [Name]. I think he can help you.”

Max contemplates.

He doesn't want to ask fucking Leo.

And he’s not that desperate to seek help from him.

Logan writes his number on a table napkin. Max pockets it.

After dinner, Max sits inside his hotel room. He dials the number Logan gave him because if he’ll tell you where you are, he can swallow his pride for a day. It takes three redials and two rings before Leo answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Leo Stark?”

“Yes, this is he. May I ask who’s calling?”

“It’s Max Verstappen.”

Silence.

“Hello, are you still there?”

Max hears a loud crash followed by a series and a whole lot of ruffling, “Sorry about that. Do you mind repeating that?”

“Max Verstappen.”

“Ah, so I’m not hearing things. I thought I was hearing things. Sorry. Do you wish to talk to James Vowles? I can transfer the call to him.”

“No,” Max says. “I want to talk to you. It's about [Name].”

“Oh.” A pause. “You're going to ask me where she is, aren't you?”

“You're smart.”

“Well, mate, too bad. I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t?”

“I can’t,” he echoes. “I mean I can but I won’t.”

“So you know where she is.” It's not a question. Something bitter rears its ugly head in his stomach. His bitterness and anger now dwarf his worry for you in size. Fuck Logan for reminding him that you always wanted to leave. Fuck Leo for knowing where you are.

“I’m going to ask again and you better give me the answer I want. Where is she?”

“The answer you want?” Leo clicks his tongue. “It’s always what you want. Have you considered what she wants? Does [Name] even want you to find her?”

“You don't know what you're talking about—”

“I do,” Leo interrupts and the way he sounds so sure of himself aggravates Max. “I do, mate. Believe it or not.”

“I see what's happening here,” Max sneers. “I’ve heard you and [Name] broke up because she was prioritizing me over you. Is this it? Are you doing this out of petty jealousy?”

Leo sighs, “You’re making this about you again.”

Max opens his mouth to retort but Leo cuts him off, “Let me get this straight with you, mate. When we were still dating, not once have I been jealous of you. I understood that she works for you and that she has to put you first in certain situations. After all, you’re her job. I’m just the home she returns to after work.”

Max’s jaw clenches. Leo was her home. It was the truth no matter how much Max hated it. Leo does not stop there.

“I have no issue with her focusing on you. The only problem I have with it is her tendency to focus more on you than herself. If you come to her at a very vulnerable time, especially now, there’s a chance that she’s going to focus on you again. She deals with grief in a very unhealthy way and I don't want her to do that. Not when she needs to properly grieve for her father.”

Leo sighs again.

“So please, mate, just this once. Think about what she needs right now and it’s not you.”

You don't need Max.

But Max needs you.

That is one of the most painful truths he’s ever been given.

“She’ll come back. She always does. It may take months. Years, even. Just… Let her grieve and let her pick herself up. There are people who don't want help because they need to do it themselves or else it won't feel fulfilling. [Name] is no different. Also, I’ll be honest with you, mate. I don't want you coming to her before she achieves her dreams. You’re so used to [Name] giving you everything you want that you forgot that she, too, is someone who needs and wants and dreams. She just wanted to be an engineer.”

“And how is this my fault?”

“You knew what she wanted. You agreed to help her achieve it. You didn't allow her to move to Renault. You told her that you’ll ask your team principal after you win and you did win but you didn't keep your end of the bargain.”

“I—”

“Who are you to control her dreams? If you love her, you would have asked Horner, at least. She knows you never asked Horner. Maybe she would have never resigned if you tried to talk to Horner, but you let your selfishness win.”

Max feels all breath punched out of his lungs.

“You had the power to ask your team principal yet you didn't and she has to watch you achieve your dreams while she can't. Unfair, don’t you think?”

A pause.

“Just start considering what she feels, mate. That's all.”

“I am considering her. Always.” This is the closest to a love declaration he can admit out loud. The purest form of love is consideration, they say. When someone thinks about how things would make you feel, pays attention to detail, holds you in regard when making decisions that could affect you, keeps promises so you won’t be disappointed, that's when you know they love you.

“Are you really?”

Is he really?

“Take care of her for me, Verstappen. Even from afar. You can do that.”

The call ends.

Max stares blankly at the wall, still holding his phone against his ear. Then, he hurls it across the room. He aggressively drags his hand through his face.

Max flies back to Belgium after Austin to spend the rest of his off-season with his mother and sister. He apologizes to Logan for his behavior. Logan is a kind man, he forgives easily. He drives Max to the airport.

The next day, an article is posted, titled—AN UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP: MAX VERSTAPPEN OF RED BULL RACING AND LOGAN SARGEANT OF WILLIAMS RACING SPOTTED DRIVING AROUND AUSTIN.

On New Year's Eve, Kelly messages Max. He can't say that he’s surprised. In truth, he’s been expecting her to message him, whether it's to beg to take her back or to curse him out or to tell him something about Penelope or it's to inform him that she's going to pick up her things in Max’s penthouse in Monaco.

kelly: i sent someone to pick up our things in your place

max: okay

kelly: also

kelly: *sent a photo*

kelly: she apologized for something that's not her fault

kelly: you have a good one

The photo is a screenshot of Kelly’s conversation with you, dated December 30. That was yesterday.

you: sorry about the breakup

you: i didn't know about the shoes

you: i didn't take it

you: im so sorry

you: i hope you're not too hurt

kelly: i think i’m the one who’s been taking him from you

kelly: take care of him for me

you: thank you for loving him

you: but i can’t do what you're asking

you: not anymore

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Max looks up to see his mother’s worried face.

“Oh, uh,” he closes his phone and almost drops it. Fucking clumsy fingers, fucking messages, fucking pain. “Nothing, Mum.”

His mother does not look convinced.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? No need to hide it. You may be a world champion now but you’ll always be my baby,” she says. “What does [Name] always say? Even champions are allowed to cry.”

At the mention of you, Max looks away.

“Tell me. Is it Kelly?”

The last time Max cried in his mother’s arms was when he was eleven. Jos always said boys should never cry. That boys who cry are weak. And weak people do not become champions. Max wanted to be a champion so he never allowed himself to be weak. Weakness only becomes a weakness if it is known so he learned to bottle it up over the years and all the bottled grief became anger. Hence, the birth of his serious anger issues.

He’s twenty-seven now with three WDC titles under his belt. He’s outgrown both of his parents in terms of physical size and in career accomplishments but when his mother’s arms wrapped around him, he allowed himself to become a little boy again. He allowed himself to be weak.

“She left me, Mum,” Max whispers, hugging her mother close. Sophie rubs his back in soothing circles.

“You’ll find someone, Max,” his mother assures.

“I don't want someone else,” he says. “I want [Name].”

“Oh.”

Sophie blinks.

“Max, you—”

“Please, don't make me say it, Mum,” Max pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. A lone tear drips down his cheek. “Don't make me say I’m in love with [Name].”

Max sends an email to Christian that he’s not going to take a manager in 2024. Christian tells him it's a bad idea, that he needs a manager because he’s becoming busy with his schedules and everyone wants a piece of time with the third-time world driver’s champion but Max cannot care less. If it’s not you, he’d rather have no one at all.

Max wants to learn how to get used without you on his side. He did a little reflecting over pre-season and realized how he had become so dependent on you. He learns the functions of a Google calendar and how to use a Notion page.

Max just knows 2024 is going to be a shitty year for him.

Bahrain, Max remembers, is your favorite track. He doesn't know why you like Bahrain. Bahrain is hot. Bahrain is not as exciting as other race tracks. Personally, he prefers Spa-Francorchamps.

He also remembers that you like watching the air show. You never said it outright but you always have this smile on your face while watching the jets painting the sky with colors so Max kind of figured.

Max snaps a picture of the jets in the sky. He opens his Instagram and searches for your name in his message list. When he presses his conversation with you, the first thing that greets him is his spam of angry messages. All delivered, all unread. The last message, Max remembers, was sent when he visited Austin with Logan to search for you.

max: SO YOU TOLD LEO BUT NOT ME? DO I EVEN MEAN SOMETHING TO YOU?

His finger hovers on the send button. He lets out a sigh and he pockets his phone instead.

Daniel approaches Max after Max wins Jeddah.

“Hey, have you been talking to [Name]?” he asks.

“Not lately,” answers Max. Not since she left me, Max thinks.

Daniel scratches his nape. “I think she's angry at me.”

“You’ve been talking?”

Now, Max is offended. So you talked to Leo, you talked to Kelly, you talked to Daniel, but you made no effort to talk to him? When was he going to get a message from you?

“Well, I kinda…” Daniel pulls out his phone. “I just checked up on her? And she replied like a week later. She sounds kinda angry? I don't know. Do you think she sounds angry?”

Daniel shows Max his last conversation with [Name].

daniel: hey!

daniel: heard from max what happened

daniel: we miss you! you should visit come by in bahrain! the opening is gonna be sick

you: can't sorry

daniel: aww how about jeddah

daniel: i’ll fly you out don't worry about traveling commercial

you: idk man

you: might be too much noise and distraction for you

you: good luck in jeddah tho

A very passive aggressive reply.

“Yeah, she is,” Max supplies.

Max wins Bahrain. Max wins Jeddah. Australia, on the other hand, is a funny story. First, the Williams team pulls an annoying move. Poor Logan. He had to give his car to his teammate and sit out of the race.

Max visits him after the news was officially announced. He finds the American racer in his driver room, sitting sadly on the bed with his head bent low, after asking a rookie Williams mechanic, who trembled at the sight of him.

It's a pitiful looking room. Max has a villa for a driver room. Logan doesn't even have a closet for his overalls, just a rack held together by hopes and dreams. The bed is so tiny and narrow that Max is sure he wouldn't even fit if he lies in there unless he assumes a tight fetal position.

“You’re here,” Logan stands from the bed, eyes wide in surprise. He hasn’t expected Max to visit him out of all the people in the grid. Not even his own teammate performed that courtesy. “Uh, I don't have anything. Here, have my seat. Do you want me to grab—”

“It's fine,” Max holds his palm up. “Sit back down, Logan.”

Logan slowly sits back down and moves to the side so Max can have a space to sit on. Max occupies Logan’s given space beside him. Their shoulders and elbows are touching.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Logan nods.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Max nods, but he doesn't believe him. Comfortable silence wraps the entire room. It lasted less than five minutes.

“You should break the car,” Max suggests seriously. “So no one can drive it, too.”

A soft laugh escaped Logan’s throat.

The door swings open and enters Leo, who freezes when he sees Max Verstappen sitting next to Logan. He looks at the two F1 drivers then back in his hand, where he was holding a large Stanley cup and two styro cups.

“Great, I only brought two cups,” he says, kicking the door behind him to close it. “Should have told me the world champion is coming. I would have brought the expensive wine.”

“What do you have there?”

“Beer,” Leo lifts the Stanley cup and gives it a small shake. “Transferred it to a Stanley cup so no one would notice.”

“James wouldn’t be happy,” says Logan, frowning.

“We’re not happy with him either,” Leo retorts, pouring the beer into the two cups. He hands one to Logan and another to Max.

“I suggested breaking his car,” Max inserts, accepting the cup. He still feels a bit weird to be hanging out with Leo like this. He’s angry still, but he’s not as angry as he was in Austin. Leo’s words, though Max would never admit it out loud, made sense. You left because of Max’s own selfishness. He was the one who had cut your wings and thought that his gesture was out of love when in fact, it was an action born out of his desperation and his fear of being left behind by you.

“Should I?” Leo humors his suggestion, shrugging his shoulders.

Logan sighs, shaking his head at the two. He can’t believe they're both older than him but still wield that petty immaturity.

“Please don't.”

Second, the RB20 has brake issues in Australia so Max ends up retiring in the middle of the race. Max hears everyone cheer at his retirement. That's when you know he’s good. When everyone wishes for his downfall. Everybody in Red Bull grows wary watching their prized driver stomp inside the garage, looking like he has a lot to say to the mechanics. His head is as hot as the burning car at the pit.

Max hears two people whispering amongst themselves:

“Mad Max is back.”

“Where's [Name] when you need her? He’s going to get blow up at us now.”

“[Name] really is a saintess because she’s the only one who can handle him when he’s angry.”

“I never appreciated her efforts before but I am now. I hope she never left.”

Max hopes she didn't, too. Out of all the people in Red Bull, he’s the one who wishes that she hasn't left the most. Now, he’s even angrier.

Max wins P1. If he doesn't, it's a DNF. The problem is the reliability of the car, not him. Never him.

He steps foot in Austin soil again on October 15th for the 19th race of the season, eager to win another P1 and increase his chance of snatching his fourth consecutive world driver’s championship title.

Fortunately, the RB20 doesn't fail him mid-race. The Dutch national anthem is heard all around the Circuit of the Americas and Max retires to the garage, too tired for any form of celebration. He wants to change out of his racing gear. He still has to fix his Google calendar and check out a few things in his Notion page. Who knew being your own manager can be so tiring?

Kendall comes by, a camera in hand. She snaps a quick picture, only one take because she knows Max hates taking pictures. Max believes you mentioned it to her before and has asked her to take the pictures quickly so he wouldn't get annoyed. You were always too thoughtful, always mindful of the little details. Perhaps, it was why he fell in the first place.

Max pivots on his heels to leave after he hears the camera click.

“Oh Max,” Kendall stops him. “[Name] came by earlier. She said congratulations.”

Max entire world stops spinning. Everything else became a mass of white noise.

“Where's she?” Max demands.

“She left already, said she’s got somewhere to be—”

Max sprints to his driver room, grabs his keys and ran all the way to the parking lot where his car was parked, not minding the screams and the questioning stares he received from the people he ran past them to his car. His mind only focuses on one thing—he has to get to you.

He drives down to the familiar road that he and Logan drove in last December 2023. He's racing against time and like all races he'd participated in, he hopes to win. He hopes that he’ll be able to see you. Max arrives at the red and yellow brick house in Vista Del Pueblo, jogging up until the front door and knocking. Four slow knocks followed by three quick ones, so you’ll know it's him.

No one answers. Max jogs up to the window at the front and peeks inside. The house is still empty as it had been in December.

Max's shoulders sagged.

He wasn't fast enough.

[badgerbl00d]

one piece boys rescuing you

☆ characters: trafalgar law, roronoa zoro

☆ up next: yes, your highness (knight!sanji x princess!reader)

☆ summary: you're put in a situation where your life is put in serious danger. will they be able to save you in time?

☆ a/n: new fic yay!! so i'm working my way through the ask box slowly but surely.. a lot of the requests are for pt. 2's, so im gonna try to publish new content before getting to those... as always, thanks for your patience!

3.0k words

law - fire

Trying to calm your breathing down you closed your eyes, doing your best to not panic. 

“You ok in there?” Shachi called out. 

“What’s the temperature reading?” That might’ve been Bepo. You couldn’t tell. 

You’d gone into the boiler room of the submarine to try and fix an issue with the central temperature. 

The submarine was supposed to be descending toward the abyssal zone, and with pressures as high as they were going to be there was no room for error with the temperature. 

Before you could finish, something that was moving fast hit the side of the Polar Tang, resulting in the door locking you in. 

Law had designed the functional rooms of the ship to be perfect. 

The boiler room locked from the inside, so that if there were ever an issue with a pressure change, any explosion would be contained to the source of heat. 

You heard some debris clatter on the outside, followed by what sounded like a loud, metal clang. 

A high-pitched beeping noise started to sound through the small room. 

80° 

You pressed the down arrow five times. With the way it had been programmed, the boiler room shouldn’t be above seventy five degrees. 

Your stomach started to twist, and nausea climbed up your throat when the number didn’t change, and after a few more second read

83°.

“Y/n! You okay?!” Bepo and Shachi had started to move some of the debris that was blocking the door, “Something hit us!”

“The temperature is going up in here, it’s at eighty-three and the buttons aren’t working!”

“Hold on,” Bepo called out, “We’re moving the stuff from in front of the door, we’ll pass you the key from under the door.”

You steadied your breathing and managed to settle your nerves the slightest bit. 

A silver key slid under the door and you grabbed it. 

“You should be good to open the door now.” 

You placed the key in the lock, and started to turn it when the ship took another hit. 

This one sent you flying into the wall.

You heard Shachi and Bepo’s impact. 

Your head was pounding and you fumbled around looking for the key, unable to find it. 

You could hear yelling coming from outside. 

“Shit! Bepo- try and move that stuff!”

You assumed Shachi had left as you heard footsteps . 

Slowly you got up, your head was starting to stop spinning. 

You still couldn’t find the key and tried jiggling the handle

An unnatural rattling sound was coming from the handle. 

Fuck.

The key had broken off inside it, and the jagged edge that you could just barely get a finger around was too sharp to try and turn. 

The temperature in the room continued to rise.

Your palms had started to sweat and you felt your chest contracting more and more with each breath. 

The heat was starting to fill you up from the inside out. 

You ran to the thermostat, frantically pressing the cooling button.

94°

“Y/n?!” Bepo called, banging on the door, “I moved all the stuff! Try to open the door!”

“I can’t!” you yelled, your voice straining, someone was yelling- Law,  maybe? What had happened? “The key broke in the door! Bepo- the temperature won’t stop rising!”

Bepo continued banging on the door- you knew that he was starting to panic. 

98°

You sunk to the floor, looking for a way out- anything.

You twisted the door knob with so much force that you worried you might have broken it. Not that it made a difference. 

106°

Bepo’s banging stopped and you started to panic again.

The yelling could still be heard in the background.

“Bepo?”

No answer.

Sweat was dripping down your back and your palms were sticky. Your hair clung to your forehead and it was getting harder and harder to breathe- whether that was because of your panic or the heat you could not tell.

You peeled off your boiler suit, which offered you some temporary relief. 

Sitting in a pair of shorts and a tank top now, you simply sunk against the door- banging on it occasionally. 

“Bepo!!” You yelled. 

That damn bear. 

Where was Law?

You perked up at the question.

Where the hell was your captain? 

118°

You decided you’d try the key, taking a deep breath before grabbing onto the jagged metal edges with all the strength you could muster. 

You felt the metal slip past your skin, digging into the flesh of your hand. 

Blood dripped down your arm in a warm, steady stream and you strained to turn the key. 

It wouldn’t move- too little of it was exposed. 

Black dots started to dance in your field of vision, and you felt yourself slipping out of consciousness. 

It was so impossibly hot, your mouth felt dry and tacky- like a thin layer of warm glue had been poured inside it. 

Your head was pounding and your lungs felt like they were full of sand. 

As you started to faint, you thought you saw a pale blue glow cover the room. 

You smiled to yourself before you slipped out of consciousness. 

Better late than never. 

131°

“Room.” 

“Lift her arms,” Law ordered.

The feeling of biting cold sent a spark running down your spine as two ice packs were placed under your arm. 

You blinked your eyes open, a dull pain still drumming in the back of your head. 

There was something sturdy behind your chest, and you felt a hand resting on your stomach.

You tried sitting up, but the hand on your stomach held you in place. 

“Not yet, Y/n.”

“Law.”

“You have heat stroke- please don’t move. Stay right there, for me.”

You relaxed back against him. 

“Bepo- hand me another ice pack. Is the bath ready?”

“Almost, Shachi’s getting more ice.”

You strained to sit up again, this time Law held you down with slightly more force.

“Y/n. I’m serious,” his tone froze you in place, “Do not move.” 

“The boiler room-” you started, “‘s too… hot. Pressures- Gonna go up.”

Your speech was slurred and everything in your body felt so heavy.

You felt Law look back up at Bepo and nod. 

“Ok, come on.”

He lifted you up, holding you bridal style to try to keep you as relaxed as possible. 

“This isn’t gonna feel great,” he said, “But you need to stay in here for at least twenty minutes.”

“Law,” you mumbled, “ ‘s very nice of you.”

Slowly, he lowered you into the makeshift tub- a large plastic bin that was usually used for storage was filled with ice and water. 

The cold was biting and an icy burning spread throughout your body- lighting up your nerves as you were completely submerged. 

“Dunk your head in. Just once.”

You sleepily shook your head. 

Law sighed, “Alright, I’m gonna help you do it, ok?”

Your hands gripped the side of the tub, and you relaxed slightly when he brought a hand to rest on your neck and gently lowered your head down. 

He helped you back up, his steady grip taking the stress off of your body. 

Bepo had been sent out of the room to help the others in fixing the rest of the ship. 

You sat up and leaned back against Law’s chest, drenching him in ice cold water. 

He winced.

“Not so great, hm?”

“No, not so great.”

You sat there, resting against him for a while. Slowly feeling yourself regaining strength. 

You had acclimated to the temperature and the sensation that replaced the freezing cold was somewhat nice. 

“What happened?”

“Underwater volcano, if you’d believe it.”

You laughed, still too tired to hold a full conversation. 

“I’m sorry…” Law started, “I’m sorry I didn’t get you out of there sooner.”

He sounded so sad- you turned to look at him. 

“Law, everybody did the best they could- Even me, look.”

You lifted up your hand to show him the injury to find it had already been bandaged. 

He smiled at you.

“What kind of doctor would I be if I hadn’t noticed that, huh?”

You gave him a gentle smile. 

You could tell that he wasn’t fully convinced, and still felt guilt at having taken too long to rescue you. 

Before he could even react you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that you shouldn’t have had the strength to give.

You could feel tension spark throughout his body, but after a few seconds his arms found their way around your waist and pulled you back in. 

You let go first. 

He followed, a few seconds after. 

“If you really want to make it up to me,” you said.

“I do,” Law answered. 

“Never give me boiler room duty again.”

zoro - earth 

You had four hours to get to the Sunny. 

By noon you and Zoro had to traverse through eight miles of thick, unwelcoming jungle. 

It was humid and neither of you were looking forward to the journey but you had a mutual respect for the other, and though it was never said out loud, shared an enjoyment of each other’s company. 

Zoro liked your good natured humor and admitted to himself that you were easy on the eyes. 

You liked Zoro’s stoic nature and admired his relaxed composure. 

Your fighting styles were perfectly complementary. Zoro attacked first and thought later. His cuts and slices were executed with a terrifying precision and he was able to readily turn on his animalistic attack mindset. You, on the other hand, were thoroughly analytical. Zoro possessed the skill to not have to worry too much about reading an opponent beforehand, but you were able to read them as fast as he could draw his swords. Able to pick apart formations and fighting styles before they could even get a hit in, you were able to direct Zoro and predict enemy attacks perfectly. 

He’d never openly admit it but he liked taking directions from you. To him, independent and capable as he might have been on his own, it felt like he was a sword and you were the hand that guided it. 

He made the final cut, but it was you who had swung in the right direction. 

Needless to say, you had both set off on your journey toward the Sunny with very few complaints. 

The humidity increased, the further you got into the thick green that covered the island. 

You pushed through miles and miles of green leaves and branches. 

It was lively, the sounds of bugs scuttling across the floor, birds crying from the canopy above, and frogs chirping and yelping filled the scenery with the noise of life and energy. 

You were humming to yourself, enjoying the warm weather and snacking on the chips Sanji had packed for you, handing the bag over to Zoro when he reached his hand toward you. 

You’d made good progress in the two hours you’d been walking and agreed you could afford to sit down to eat lunch.

“Haha! I do remember that!”

“Or what about when that moron of a cook though he and Nami had us beat in trivia night-”

“And they lost to us in the category of cooking!”

You and Zoro were both laughing. Not such a rare occurrence when the two of you were together. 

Zoro’s head suddenly snapped around.

You felt it too, the hairs on your neck rising. 

A chill ran through your body and you turned to press your back against his. 

“I can’t tell where they’re coming from.”

“Neither can I.”

Your breathing was in sync and you both waited, weapons at the ready. 

In a split second the tension broke and your attackers revealed their position by shooting an arrow. 

“On your left!”

You jumped to the side as a flurry of arrows flew past your head and heard the sound of blows being dealt by Zoro as he handled his side. 

You pulled your throwing knives from your bag where they rested and aimed at the enemy. 

Flashes of shiny steel flew through the colorful greens and teals of the forest, the sound of metal against metal echoing in the open space.  

You and Zoro fighting together was truly a sight to behold. 

You set up every hit he got, and the hits you got were courtesy of Zoro. 

It was like a sport for the two of you, a team working perfectly in sync. 

Skill aside, your ability to guess his next move paired with his ability to accommodate his hits to the blows you landed, made the two of you nearly impossible to beat. 

After only ten minutes of fighting, you’d taken out more than half of the group ambushing you. 

Your blades were dripping matching shades of red, and it wasn’t long until the remaining attackers ran. 

A stray arrow was stuck in a tree and you pulled it out to inspect it. 

Thick, green liquid dripped off the end of it. 

Poison. 

“Y/n!” Zoro called. 

You dropped the arrow and ran to his side. 

“Who was that? I didn’t recognize anything about those attackers?” you asked.

“Same here, but it doesn’t matter. Could’ve just been bounty hunters.” 

“Working as a team? Unlikely.”

He shrugged. 

“Either way, they’re gone.”

You nodded and followed behind him as you continued your walk toward your crew. 

A dull throbbing had started to spread throughout your body. You had a headache, too, but shrugged it off.

You walked for another few minutes before you felt liquid trickle down your throat.

You pressed your hand to your neck, pulling away when you felt a warm film cover your fingers. 

There was a small gash on the right side of your neck-  you’d been hit. 

“Fuck!”

Zoro turned around, eyes widening when he saw the wound. 

He ran toward you and pressed a hand against your neck to stop the bleeding. 

“Shit, shit, shit! Ok- Ok, um, just stay calm,” he was panicking, sweat was lining his brow.

 He reached into his backpack and pulled out a napkin that was meant for your lunch. 

He held it against your neck and you started to feel faint. 

You felt your right foot lock. You tried to move it but it felt like trying to move a steel ball with only your pinky finger. 

“Zoro…” the fear in your voice was evident. 

The swordsman sat you down against the trunk of a tree and held your hair up with one hand as he held the cloth to your neck. 

You started feeling faint, and a slowly increasing feeling of nausea was spreading throughout your body. 

“We need to get the poison out.”

You nodded, the strength slowly leaving your body, like water flowed from a leak. 

He rummaged through his backpack which contained only the lunch Sanji had packed you, a standard first aid kit that Chopper had insisted you take with you, and a broken compass he had forgotten to throw away.

He grabbed the first aid kit and frantically dumped it out. 

You pointed at the gauze and Zoro grabbed it. 

“Okay… I’ll, um, wrap this around… your neck?”

You nodded, “But we still need to get the poison out.”

You winced in pain, doubling forward. 

You grabbed a few pills Chopper had thrown in and swallowed them as Zoro continued to try and calm himself down. 

“It’s spreading.”

Zoro’s head was pounding- this was definitely not his area of expertise and there was nothing in the kit that said ‘Poison Remover’.

“H-how do I,” he asked, overwhelmed, “Just tell me what to do.”

He might not have any medical knowledge but he’d be damned if he let a crew mate die on his watch. 

Especially you. 

Your eyes had started to close and he was set in his resolve to save you. 

Get the poison out, he thought. 

As he felt your grip on his arm loosening something in his brain clicked. 

He brought his arm around your neck, letting your head rest against his bicep. 

His lips wrapped around your neck, and you felt his warm tongue swipe over the shallow wound. 

You hissed as he traced his tongue back over it, his saliva coating your soft neck in a thin glaze. 

A slight pressure built up as he started to suck the poison out, occasionally spitting it out on the ground next to you. 

You made it with a half hour to spare. 

The rest of your crew warmly greeted you, happy to see you having made it safely. 

You walked onto the ship, Zoro staying by your side, like a knight does with a princess. 

Sanji was the first to notice the bandage wrapped around your neck.

“Y/n-chwan!! Are you hurt? What happened?”

You shook your head, “I got hit with a poisonous dart. But I’m okay.”

You gave Zoro a thankful look. 

Sanji further inspected the wound, noticing the deep purple and red hickey that sat right on top of the gash. 

“What… exactly happened?” he asked, shooting a glare in the swordsman’s direction. 

“The poison had started to spread and, uh…” your voice trailed off. 

You weren’t sure if Zoro wanted to announce his heroics to the crew. 

He stood taller and crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

“And I sucked it out,” he announced.

He sounded proud enough, but his increasingly red cheeks implied otherwise.  

There were mixed reactions..

Sanji was furious and started to bicker with him, Luffy and the boys were laughing, but Nami, Robin, and Chopper all seemed confused.  

“But,” Nami had started, “I thought that that doesn’t work-”

You cut her off and shot her a look, that said Don’t say anything.

“I would’ve died if it weren’t for him.”

Robin giggled and ushered them all back inside to finish lunch, explaining to a very confused Chopper what was going on.  

You and Zoro were left alone on the deck. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, bringing a hand to rest on his shoulder, “You saved me.”

He looked away from you, rubbing the back of his neck and nodded. 

“Anytime.”

Of course, you knew that sucking the poison out of a wound was an outdated myth. 

It was the pills that had saved you. 

But Zoro had been hellbent on saving you and did everything in his power to keep you alive.

He believed he had saved you.

And you’d be damned if someone told him otherwise. 

[comic-sans-chan]

Fic I'll never write where Dukat decides the biennial Cardassian Festival of Whatever the Fuck (it is never actually specified) should be hosted on Deep Space Nine as a way of bridging the gap between the Cardassian and Bajoran peoples. Sisko and Kira are both Ehhhh about it, but Dukat is obnoxiously persistent until finally the Bajoran government and Federation higher ups are like “K”, on the condition that no Cardassian military (or Order) personnel be allowed. All security for the event will be handled by Odo and Starfleet. Dukat is suspiciously cool with this, which puts everyone on alert, but soon Cardassian vendors and decorators start showing up and they turn out to be pretty chill people, so they let it happen.

While the preparations for the festival are underway, another operation has started. A motherfucker from Garak's past is doing typical motherfucker things on the station. One of these things is scouting Garak's quarters, learning the layout, tracking Garak's routine. It becomes clear very quickly that the rapidly increasing number of Cardassians on DS9 is putting Garak on edge, though, because he seems to be fiddling more with his security protocols, so the motherfucker realizes they need to make their move and they need to make it fast.

They succeed. Sort of. With the circumstances as they are, they had to get a little... creative, but it should do the trick.

By early next morning, every PADD, screen, and computer system on the station is streaming seventy-two different poems on a constant loop. Love poems. Ardent, anguished, often utterly indecent love poems, all with the central theme of being about one Doctor Julian Bashir.

Quark is one of the first to notice the problem, being the type of asshole who opens early despite this only increasing his bottom line by a fraction of a fraction. At first, he's furious that his systems have been tampered with, but after reading a few lines of what his normal menu and advertisements have been replaced with, he's laughing, and by the end of the third poem, he's on the floor.

"Odo!" he shouts, banging on the bastard's door twenty minutes later. "Odo, open up! We've got a problem!"

Odo slinks under the door and slips up between it and Quark's pounding fist with a glare. "Quark! I'm not on duty for another hour. What could possibly be so urgent?"

Quark's sharp little rat teeth are splitting his face clean in half as he holds up the PADD. "Take a look."

Odo scrolls through a couple poems, then squints and scrolls through several more. "Erotic love poetry? I didn't peg you for the type."

"To like erotica? Hoo, I thought you paid better attention than that, Constable."

Odo returns the PADD with a dry expression. "To read."

"Oh, you're hilarious." He taps Odo's chest with the PADD. "The whole station is filled with this stuff. My bar, the Replimat, the Celestial Cafe, the promenade. Someone's either desperate to make a statement, or we've been sabatoged."

Dramatic sci-fi music swells and we get a close-up of Odo’s eerily hairless face and nasal cavity.

The next few hours are dedicated to trying and failing to seize back the servers and briefing the bridge staff on the situation.

"Are we sure these are all about Doctor Bashir?" Sisko's voice booms across Ops. He's on his second cup of coffee and a pile of useless PADDs lay beside him.

Julian has remained stoic throughout the discussion and he remains so now, avoiding eye contact with anyone who's smiling a little too wide. Like Jadzia. "Oh, definitely," she says. "He's mentioned by name in three of them, and several others make a point of highlighting the subject's 'golden sand dune skin', 'aristocratic' features, and 'voice that never stops singing.' Sounds like Julian to me."

A few snickers break out, but Sisko is taking the matter seriously. Thank fuck, Julian thinks. It actually looks like it's giving him a headache, which would make two of them if Julian was capable of having headaches. The captain's rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "And the source..."

"There's a clear data trail back to Garak's quarters. Whoever did this, they wanted us to know where it came from," Kira reports. A muscle jumps in Julian's cheek.

"I tracked Garak down for his statement on the issue," Odo says, gruff, "and he told me he had nothing to do with the virus. In fact, he denied ever having laid eyes on the poems in his life. He's claiming he's been framed." He rolls his eyes.

"Okay," Jadzia says, "we all agree he's lying, right?"

"But which part..."

"Oh, they're Garak's. I've read enough Lloja of Prim to be familiar with traditional Kardasi meter and syntax, and that isn't even going into all the parallels drawn between our doctor and Prime. Sand, heat, rainforests. Bit of Romulan imagery in there, too, if I'm not mistaken. A lot of flowers and vines. Wasn't Garak a gardener?"

"I see no reason why anyone would want to embarass themselves like this," O'Brien cuts in before Jadzia can make it worse. "Even if he is trying to distract us or something, this seems counterproductive in the long term. Everyone’s watching him now, not just us. The rumor mill is running rampant. Not exactly a spy’s MO."

"He did blow up his shop once."

"Because someone was trying to kill him," Julian pipes up for the first time, looking concerned. "Do you think this might be another cry for help?"

"Oh, it's a cry for something," Jadzia quips, and Julian shuts the fuck up.

"Dax," Sisko snaps, like the good benevolent Wormhole Alien Jesus he is, and Dax shuts the fuck up, too. Sisko gives them all the stink eye. "Constable, you're nearly as familiar with Garak as the doctor is," he says, and holds a hand up before any jokes can be made. "What do you think?"

"I don't think he's behind this, sir. None of the pieces add up, and he seemed genuinely agitated when I spoke to him, in his way. At present, I believe he is as much a victim here as the rest of us."

Sisko sighs. "All right. Do we have any idea who is behind this?"

The room is silent for a time, before Odo reluctantly answers for everyone, "Not yet, sir."

"Find out," Sisko demands, "and Chief, get these damn poems off of my reports. Dismissed."

Julian is out of the room before anyone else has stood up.

The rest of the day is spent ducking in and out of his office, only treating those who ask for him by name and keeping all conversations strictly professional. Any mentions of poetry, the festival, Cardassians, or Garak are firmly sidelined, and on a couple occasions, rewarded with a none-too-gentle hypo. He skips lunch altogether and extends his shift by two hours to avoid the dinner rush.

By the time he's leaving the Infirmary, it's late. Unfortunately for him, not late enough that the halls aren't still speckled with observers to his personal soap opera. With the Festival of Frank’s Hot Dogs less than a week away, DS9 is becoming increasingly crowded with tourists, mostly Cardassian, but a surprising amount Bajoran, too–apparently this festival was a rare bright point during the Occupation, when their oppressors were not only lenient with them for once, but generous with food and drink and freedoms. It doesn't hurt that the only Cardassians on board are civilian rather than military, so the atmosphere is rather more colorful, courteous and conversational rather than cold, dark and aggressive. It would make Julian smile if he wasn't so busy being gawked at.

"I don't see it," one Cardassian man grumbles and Julian's accursed augmented ears pick up. "He's even smoother than a Bajoran."

"Oh, yeah," his companion replies, "just think of how easily he'd slide around."

"Tanett!"

"Oh, hush, Grandpa. You're just xenophobic. He's cute."

"Well, you be careful who hears you say that. That Garak fellow is in the Order, you know. Ears everywhere. You don't want to know what things a man like that is capable of."

"Wasn't he exiled? Hardly intimidating now. Apparently all he's capable of anymore is whimpering over an alien like a pakrela."

Julian covers his ears and walks faster.

But that just brings him within range of a cluster of Bajorans. "Oh, there's the doctor now," one is saying, up on the balcony. 

"The one the Cardassian tailor wrote about?"

"That poor fool. He thought they were friends, but here this whole time it was perverse. I can only imagine how much that hurts."

"Happened to my friend once. He thought a glinn was being kind because he was having a crisis of conscience and wanted to help him escape. No, he just wanted to–"

He could go to his quarters, but a flash of memory - Garak's bright eyes at the end of his bed, his figure encased in shadow - sends him in the opposite direction. Before long, he finds himself on an oft-unused Observation deck, since it offers no view of the wormhole or either Bajor or Cardassia's suns. It's blessedly empty, as usual, and Julian settles on a bench and stares into the dark nothingness of space for a long time.

At some point, he finds that his hand has retrieved the PADD from his medical bag, and the screen is lit up automatically with the first poem.

He reads well into the night.

—

The next morning finds Garak with a tall glass of rokassa juice and two eggs, staring intensely into a mysteriously operational PADD at the far end of Quark's bar. Quark pops out of his backroom like a jack-in-the-box.

"Ha! Well, if it isn't the man of the hour himself, gracing my fine establishment so soon after nearly destroying it. Do you know I've had to have menus printed, like we're in the dark ages? Do you have any idea how extensive my menu is? I ought to sue you for damages." He catches a glimpse of the PADD's screen and its decidedly unpoetic contents. "Hey, you fixed it? How?"

"It was just a simple virus. Viruses can be purged," Garak says without looking up. He barely seems aware of Quark's existence.

When no other words are forthcoming, Quark huffs. "Well, can you purge it from the rest of the station, then?"

"I gave the program to the Chief last night."

"And he didn't immediately come here to fix my bar? I'll have to file a complaint.”

Garak offers no reply. Just continues to stare into his PADD.

There are other customers he could be seeing to, but Quark can't pass up this golden opportunity. He's known Garak a long time and known of him even longer, and now that he has the guy's guts all neatly lined up on several dozen isolinear rods, he's never felt closer to the man. He makes a point of knowing things about his customers, but before yesterday, the most he knew about Garak was that he was an assassin, a tailor, a mean, weepy drunk, and friends with Bashir, Odo, and a smattering of other shopkeepers. That was it. But now...

He leans over the counter, closer to Garak's unblinking face. "You know," he says, with a smile rising slow on his cheeks, "if it's humans you like, I have a couple holosuite programs that might be just what you need."

Garak's gaze ascends as if on a motor, smooth and mechanical.

Good. He’s considering the bait. Now he just has to get him to bite. "All completely customizable. Skin, eyes, hair. You like long legs, they've got long legs. Scrawny, they're scrawny. Whatever you want. Although if you're really hung up on the one face, that can also be arranged. For the right price." When Garak just looks at him, Quark switches tactics. "Or maybe it's the uniform that does it for you? I've got 'em, but I'd suggest something out of my lingerie databases. I've still got some little Cardassian numbers filed away that I think even a man with your discerning tastes could appreciate. Just imagine, Doctor Bashir in a–"

He doesn't see the hand coming until it's already crushing his windpipe. Quark claws at it for several long, desperate moments while Garak continues to look.

Leeta scuttling over and yanking him away is what ultimately puts a stop to it, and it's while Quark is gasping in dramatic bursts of air that Leeta says in a rush, "Garak, please! Whatever he said, he didn't mean it!"

"Oh, I meant it," Quark coughs out with a high, strangled laugh, "he just didn't like it."

"Whatever conclusions you've drawn in the last twenty-six hours, allow me to dispel them," Garak says primly, as if he hadn't almost committed murder in broad daylight. "I am not a xenophile and I do not have feelings for Doctor Bashir. There are no less than two-hundred Cardassians currently aboard the station, and I assure you, none of them like me. Those poems were obviously planted."

Oh, but Quark is a little pissed now, unwise as that is. "Please, Garak," he says, "who has time to write that many poems about Julian just to mess with you? Two or three, maybe, but over seventy? If you're going to lie, at least don't insult our intelligence."

Garak's eyes flash and Quark ducks behind Leeta, repentant. Leeta sighs. "Garak, what's so bad about loving Julian?" she asks softly. "I thought the poems were really touching. It’s sweet how much you care for him."

But he's already staring into his PADD again. "I'm sorry, Miss Leeta, but I am a bit busy. Perhaps we can discuss my hypothetical feelings for your paramour another time."

"Julian and I have never been serious," she tries to assure him, but he's engrossed again, or at least pretending to be. Her and Quark share a look and leave him to it. Lesson learned.

"Let the bastard be pent up and miserable, then," Quark grumbles from the other end of the bar as he pours Table 3's drinks. A prickle on his neck has him looking up and there Garak's eyes are again, piercing, and Quark rushes off to deliver the drinks.

The three young Cardassians there are much more friendly. One has their nose stuck in one of the useless poetry PADDs while the other two smile at Quark while he sets out their orders.

"Three Raktajinos, extra bitter," Quark says, and is thanked. Polite. One even praises the drink's exoticness. Klingon coffee, exotic. Heh. "Your food will be out in a few."

Before he can finish turning, though, a hand is touching his arm. "What is the title of this anthology you include at every table?" the young man asks.

"Oh, that's not..." He sighs. "It's new. I can't remember."

"Find out for us, please," he says. "Works like these can be hard to come by on Prime and we make it our business to collect them. Whoever this author is, they're very unique."

"If these aren't banned on Prime already, they will be soon," his friend comments with a giggle.

"No doubt."

"'In my desolation, I am as weeds: Cut my roots and Let the waters take me, To drown and bloom anew, in You,'" the one with her nose in the PADD reads aloud, and shivers. "They'd burn the whole Central Archive down just for this one. It's so explicit."

"Let me see that," the boy demands, as the other one is already surging over to read over the girl's shoulder. Watching them fight over the PADD has Quark thinking back to the isolinear rods in his safe, and he hums thoughtfully, glancing over his shoulder.

Garak isn't looking.

—

Glinn Halon Duvur. Former underling of Gul Dukat. Out of uniform, vacationing on Deep Space Nine with his wife and nine children. Spends his days gambling while his kids play unsupervised in the holosuites and his wife visits old friends. 

Beloved uncle sent to trial by the Obsidian Order in 2356 and executed that same day for crimes of attempted sabotage against Cardassia.

Garak watches the man wander down the promenade sans his proud lineage, jingling a fat little bag of gold-pressed latinum and yet-unconverted leks. He wanders out of range, so Garak switches to the next camera and there that unfortunate face is again. He drums his fingers on the desk. It won't be long now.

An alert rings in his ear and he almost initiates the shockfield on impulse, but the flash of smooth, brown skin on a monitor stays his hand. The knocking comes, and that haunting voice calls out, "Garak! Are you there?"

Garak rests his head next to the surveillance screens.

Predictably, the doctor tries to input his override, but the door remains shut. There's a long pause.

"Garak..." Julian sounds irate. Garak hums. "Did you deprogram my override code? Nevermind how illegal that is, that's dangerous! What if you're injured? Or fall ill?"

He says this just after attempting to abuse his station privileges for personal reasons. Infuriating hypocrite.

"Oh, my barging in at random, odd hours is no less than you deserve, Garak," Julian says as if in response to Garak's thoughts. "You set that precedent in our relationship yourself."

Terrible man.

"Fine. I'll give you some more time, since you want it so badly, but I'll be back and when I am, that override had better work. If it doesn’t, I promise there will be hell to pay, my friend."

Beautiful man.

"Goodbye, Mr. Garak."

Goodbye, Doctor.

Glinn Duvur dies two hours later of alcohol poisoning while his wife is in bed with Gul Rilimn's wife.

—

“I just can’t believe it,” Kira is bitching. Jadzia smiles and sips her drink, looking out over the Replimat balcony at all the happy brunchgoers. “A Cardassian writing poetry about something that isn’t conquest or the wonders of dictatorial rule or, at best, the pride of the traditional family nobly bowing and scraping. I’ve never seen it.”

“It would certainly seem to run counter to Cardassian values.”

“And about Julian!” she shrieks in her inside voice, slapping her hands down on the table. “Garak the spy, writing love poetry about Julian. Going on and on about his–his...”

“Ass?” Jadzia offers.

“Eyes. His eyes! Ohhh, I knew he wanted to have sex with him, everyone knew that, but to write about his eyes like... like that? It’s practically Bajoran.”

“That’s true.”

Kira stops long enough in her tirade to eye her, and presses her lips into a thin line. “How are you so calm about this?”

Jadzia takes another sip. “I’m just fascinated,” she says. “I’ll admit, I’ve been looking at this more through Tobin’s eyes than my own. Have I ever told you that he met Lloja of Prim during his exile?” 

“He did not.”

“He did, and Lloja flirted with him outrageously. It was embarrassing, looking back. Of course, nothing ever came of it, because Tobin was always hopelessly blind to those sorts of things even without the language barrier, but his children liked to joke that many of Lloja’s poems were about him.”

Kira’s jaw is hanging. “Were they?”

Jadzia grins and shrugs. Kira laughs.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Jadzia allows, “but I do wonder... Being able to call nervous, asexual Tobin the lover of Lloja of Prim would have been quite the notch in my belt. Think of the stories I could have told! And now here Julian is with the opportunity. I know it’s not the same, I mean, it’s Garak. But, you have to admit, to write about him like that...”

“He must really love him,” Kira finishes for her, stumped. “I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I didn’t see it, either,” Jadzia confesses. “I was still wrestling with the idea that they were actually friends. I thought their association was strictly professional and all the books and flirting were just a front.” She cradles her head in her hands suddenly and sighs. “Ugh, but those poems. The poems are so good! Kira...”

“I know,” she moans. “They’re heart-wrenching. Which one are you on now?”

“Thirty-nine. I came back home, but I came back gone.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

A shout from below interrupts them and they both shoot out of their seats. Below, a Cardassian man has just had a beam fall on top of him. Jadzia and Kira bound down the stairs to him, Jadzia already slapping a hand on her comm badge. 

“Dax to Infirmary, a man has just been crushed, possibly impaled. Send a medical team to Replimat and be ready for emergency beam out.”

“Acknowledged, we’re on our way,” Girani says, but already Kira is looking up at Jadzia helplessly, the man’s wrist laying limp between her hands.

“He’s gone.”

“Shit!” Jadzia hunches over, hands on her knees. “That’s the third one today. Are Cardassians always this accident prone? No wonder you won the war.”

“No,” Kira says. “They’re not. You don’t think...”

“I don’t know,” Jadzia says grimly, and looks around at the crowd that’s formed. All Cardassian, all terrified. “But we need to find out.”

—

A Cardassian is sitting at the bar. This isn’t an unusual sight now, with the Festival of 90s Funk and Beyond coming up, but seeing one so young and looking so hunted is odd. Quark approaches him casually.

“What’ll you have?”

The Cardassian’s eyes dart. “Uh...” He leans over suddenly, cups both hands over his mouth, and whispers, “E. G. Special.”

Christ, these kids are going to kill him. “Coming right up,” he says in a normal person voice, and reaches under the bar for a glass. A little drink-mixing magic later, a beautiful fizzy blue drink is sitting between them, with an isolinear rod tucked neatly in the straw.

The Cardassian takes the drink between both hands excitedly, and Quark snaps his fingers in front of him. “Oh! Right,” the kid stutters, and all but launches the latinum at Quark’s face. “Thank you!” And off he goes, out of the bar with the glass still tight in his grasp.

“Idiot,” Quark mutters to himself, crouching carefully down to pick the latinum up off the floor without dirtying his expensive pants. “You’re supposed to take the straw, not the entire glass. That’s it, I’m switching to plastic. These little rebel brats don’t deserve my ni—Oh, hello, Constable! I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

Odo looks as unimpressed as ever. “That’s a funny question since last I checked, I don’t drink.”

“Ah, right, because you’re a liquid. How could I forget. You know, one of these days, I ought to serve you up with a little umbrella, see how people like it. I’d bet you taste bitter.” Odo harrumphs, and Quark makes himself busy with wiping down the counter. “Well, out with it then. What nefarious scheme am I up to now? I love to hear your little stories.”

Four isolinear rods drop onto the counter, right where Quark was just cleaning. “Hey now,” he says, throwing a performative glare at the changeling. “Careful. If you shatter glass in my bar, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I just had the most interesting conversation with the Tokal family,” Odo says, steamrolling right over him. “It seems their four darling children had somehow come into some questionable reading material. They tried searching for it in the Central Archives and yet, despite it being clearly Cardassian in origin, they could not find it. And I don’t need to tell you that when a piece of Cardassian reading material isn’t in the Central Archives...”

Quark, from his plastered position on the floor, stares up into Odo’s face directly horizontal to his and smiles. “What?”

“It’s illegal,” Odo sneers, stretching his body even further over the bar and nearly sending Quark starfishing. 

“Okay! Odo! I get it! But what does that have to do with me?”

“Quark!”

“Okay, okay! Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’ll stop! I’ll stop, okay?”

“I know you’re going to stop, because I am going to confiscate every copy of Garak’s poetry that you have absconded with and destroy them.”

Quark gasps. “Book burning? In this day and age?”

“Garak did not give his permission for you to sell his work! He didn’t even want anyone to see it in the first place! Those poems were stolen. Now, I expect a list of every person you sold a copy to and a full and complete refund to be issued by tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”

Quark glowers. “You’ve made yourself something, all right.”

“Quark...”

“Okay! All right. Consider it done.”

-

Turora Lumok. Obsidian Order operative and old colleague. Usually in deep cover in the Organian sectre, but has abandoned post to explore the space station. Barren, unattached. Cold. A model agent, if you ignore her unfortunate habit of going rogue and eliminating civilians on a whim. 

Recruited into the Order by Enabran Tain’s former right hand, Euluk Bucun, who was assassinated by Elim Garak in 2341 under orders from Enabran Tain for suspicions of treason. Turora Lumok disciplined shortly afterward by Elim Garak for complaining that she had wanted to be the one to kill that bitch.

Garak watches as the woman pretends to touch up her makeup while scouting for cameras. “Oh, Lumok, you always were woefully obvious. Have you been expecting me? I wonder why.”

Satisfied with the positions of the cameras, she puts away her mirror and strolls out of sight.

Garak shakes his head. “Fool. You forget how long I’ve lived on this wretched station. I don’t need to see you every second to know where you are.”

But then, the smell of antiseptic. Starfleet issue soap. Herbal shampoo, unique, robust. Gels. Oils. Sweat. 

He’s near.

Forcing calmness with a deep, measured breath, he takes off his eyepiece and slips it into his sleeve. He pays for the food he barely ate. He stands. He turns.

And is promptly thrust into the dark, deep woods of Julian Bashir’s eyes. “There you are, Garak! I’ve been looking all over for you,” the doctor says as if it’s just a regular day on Deep Space Nine. His hot, mammalian body caging him tightly in place against the table betrays the ruse. “Who was it you were talking to?”

Garak tries to step around him. Julian steps with him. “Oh, only ever myself. Forgive me, but you’ve caught me just on my way out. I have a strict appointment at 2.”

There’s Julian’s hand now. On his shoulder. Garak is calm. This is normal. “Well, why don’t I walk you there then.”

“My dear Doctor, I couldn’t rob you of your meal. Clearly you’ve just walked in.”

“Actually, I’ve found I’m craving something a bit different now.”

Garak makes to step around Julian again, and still Julian’s steps match his. It’s like they’re dancing. He doesn’t let this deter him. He’s not sure he’s capable of letting anything deter him now, with his heart trying to pound out of his throat. He keeps stepping doggedly forward, and Julian keeps mirroring, still with that damned hand burning through his tunic. “Well, you only have so much time before you must return to the infirmary, I know. Do not allow me to delay you in securing a table at a different locale.”

“Oh, but you’ve already delayed me so long. What’s a few more minutes?” A peek of teeth, a hint of warning. “Though I will admit... I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”

“Then don’t.” Finally, Garak manages to elbow past this madness and shoot out of the restaurant. The station is so crowded these days, it’s short work to get lost in it. In a sea of ridges and black hair, Garak slips his eyepiece back on and lets the wave take him. 

“Garak!”

Oh, for the Union’s sake—

He does not run. He does not stumble. He walks normally and not desperately, keeping his eye on both the path to the turbolift and Lumok. She’s down the corridor now, pretending to check her makeup again like an imbecile. Just a few paces more. Almost there...

“Garak, you’re the best dressed one here! You are not difficult to spot, you ridiculous dandy! Oh, no offense, Ma’am. Lovely scarf. Excuse me.”

There.

In the reflection of the mirror, Garak makes eye contact with the rogue and taps in the correct sequence on the device sewed into the seam of his pants just as the turbolift doors close behind him.

Like that, Turora Lumok is beamed into space and dies instantly, without a soul to mourn her, and Elim Garak walks back to his quarters with a hand over his mouth and a warmth on his shoulder, without a soul to mourn him, either.

—-

The Festival of Fierce and Fantastic Frogs is two days away and already it is being protested.

Outside Quark’s Bar is a growing army of dissident children with voice amplifiers and holoprojectors shouting to the stars that if they don’t get their porn back, they’ll tear it all down. Signs are projected in the air with essays cycling through them that look to be several pages each, a small holographic fire barely reaching ankle-height is lighting up the length of the promenade, and – perhaps most disturbingly – a comically inaccurate approximation of Odo is rotating at the center of the group, fitted in the typical regalia of the Cardassian military and holding a Klingon bat’leth. It is certainly... something.

“They’re Cardassians,” Quark is saying as he pours out some root beers. “They’ve probably never seen a protest in their lives, they don’t know what they’re doing. The Union puts an end to things like this pretty fast on the surface.”

“Heh,” Jadzia says, “what happens on DS9, stays on DS9.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Kira asks.

“It’s something Julian likes to say. Basically, they figure they can get away with speaking their minds here.”

Kira drums her fingers on the bar, staring into the flailing protestors thoughtfully. 

Right then, Odo arrives back on the scene. It looks like he’s trying to get through, respectfully, but the protestors are not making it easy. Jadzia and Kira come to his rescue just as about fifteen Cardassians start forming a blockade around him.

“I walked around as you do, investigating the endless stars,” one young woman is yelling at him while he stands there with big helpless baby eyes, “and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind!” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Odo says consolingly.

“Clearly!”

“Okay, okay, let him through!” Kira wiggles her way between the crowd and Odo, snatching him by the arm like a fish with a hook. “He’s not your enemy here, he was just upholding your laws!”

“The Cardassian government has no jurisdiction on a Bajoran station!”

“He made his choices!”

“Beautiful Julian would be ashamed of you! Repent! Repent!”

Kira and Jadzia manage to reel him most of the way through the protesters and he shapeshifts the rest of the journey. The protestors try to follow, but Quark bustles over to stop them. “No, no demonstrations inside! Remember who your allies are,” he says, and they all cow back. “Thank you.”

Odo ripples his form a couple times to make sure everything’s back in the right place and harrumphs. “Allies, Quark?”

“Yes, allies. It’s terrible what you’ve done to them. You can’t police art, Odo–-this is culture we're talking about here, the very bedrock of society.”

“And I’m sure this virtuous attitude of yours has nothing to do with the incredible profit you made and lost at the expense of our mutual friend.”

“Oh, I did him a favor.” Quark uncaps another bottle of Kanar and gestures back to the entrance, with its swarm of frothing Cardassian children. “Look, he’s got fans!”

“How has Garak been handling all this?” Kira asks Odo, sharing a look with Jadzia. “I haven’t heard a peep out of him since he gave us that antivirus program.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Didn’t you have breakfast with him yesterday?”

“Hmmm, that would have been routine. Except he didn’t show. When I made it back to my office, I found a message from him apologizing, telling me he’s so busy with orders he’s lost all track of time.”

“How has he been getting commissions?” Jadzia asks. “His shop’s been closed all week.”

Odo rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure the reality is he’s simply avoiding the issue. Dr. Bashir has informed me he’s been treating him like ‘the black plague’ as well.” 

“Julian’s one to talk. He practically pole-vaulted over a vedek the other day to get away from me.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Quark says, looking towards the door, and everyone turns just as the commotion starts–or, more accurately, the commotion abruptly stops. 

The protestors have all gone quiet, in apparent awe as they part around Julian like the red sea around Moses. He’s smiling stupidly as he stands in the center of them, nodding at something a Cardassian man is exclaiming. It’s an incredibly awkward scene, and Quark starts choking at some of the things his ears are picking up. “They’ve deified him,” he tells them, and Jadzia bursts into giggles at the idea, but Quark isn’t joking. “Really. He might as well be one of the prophets to them. You read the poems. You know.”

Ugh. Kira wrinkles her nose in disgust. The worst kind of blasphemy–horny blasphemy. “What is he even doing here?” she asks. 

“Getting his head inflated,” Jadzia says dryly, because now that Quark has mentioned it, it’s pretty clear from the shit-eating grin on Julian’s face that that’s exactly what’s happening. 

“Poor Garak.” Quark says it absentmindedly, but the comment gets several eyes turned on him. He’s shaking his head as he watches the scene unfold. “First, he falls for a human… humiliating… but then that love becomes public knowledge and several young beautiful Cardassians decide that he’s onto something, and now that human is going to get more action in a week than he’s seen his entire life. I’ve witnessed the rise and fall of more than a few star-crossed romances, but this might just be the saddest.”

“Julian wouldn’t have an orgy the same week the whole station found out Garak’s in love with him,” Jadzia says, insulted on his behalf.

Quark hefts a tray up onto his shoulder. “He just did,” he says as he leaves to go do his job, and Jadzia whips her head around to see Julian escorting two attractive Cardassians away from the protest. Her jaw drops.

“Bastard,” Kira spits, surprising everyone, herself most of all. Those poems must’ve affected her more than she realized.

Odo clears his throat unnecessarily. “I’m no expert on the behavior of solids, but it seems to me that neither party is handling this situation well.”

“I’ll tell you how the pakrela should be handling this,” an older Cardassian sitting at the far end of the bar cuts in, with a twitch to him that makes it clear he’s more than a few deep. “He should be settling his assets, because he doesn’t have long now. Whatever his human is doing is the least of his worries. Ha. Hehe. Being a traitor wasn’t enough for him. No, now he’s gone and corrupted the next generation with his degeneracy. Exile was too soft a punishment. Uh-huh.”

Kira opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Odo touches her shoulder. “You speak as if you know him,” he notes mildly, because of course, the exact reason for Garak’s exile isn’t public record. It’s barely even private record. The Order doesn’t work that way–or didn’t, as it stands. It is interesting that this man is acting like he has classified information despite being a civilian. 

But then, sometimes day drinkers just like to spout speculation as fact.

The man looks into his glass and laughs at his reflection. “Who doesn’t know Garak these days? But that’s temporary. He’ll be forgotten soon enough, just like the Order.” He finishes his drink and gets up. He insincerely mutters some friendly Cardassian farewell and starts to walk past them, but Kira can’t let it go.

“Excuse me, but what’s your name, sir? You’ve been so informative.”

He looks at her for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, and elbows past the protesters.

—

“Solt Mebol, left behind a widow and child six years ago when he was tragically killed in a transporter accident. In reality, he accepted an undercover mission which required him to fake his death and have his bond dissolved. A significant sacrifice. Certainly not one many Cardassians could have made.”

The Cardassian stares at Garak sitting on his couch. Turning, he tries to exit his temporary quarters, but the door won’t open.

Garak tuts. “Oh, you know better than that, Mebol.” He taps his disruptor with his forefinger, resting harmlessly against his knee. “The festival isn’t for another couple days, yet here you are. Catching up with old friends before the festivities, I assume? Only I haven’t found you in anyone’s company but your own. You must be lonely. Please, let me alleviate your loneliness for a while.”

The Cardassian sighs at the closed door. “Solt, is it?”

“I can tell you the names of your wife and child as well, if you’d like, and the city they live in. Do you know your wife never rebonded? Unusual behavior for a Romulan. Quite dangerous, as I understand it.”

Solt steps carefully into the small living space and sits in the chair opposite Garak, with the coffee table between them. “As one of the last living members of the Order, I don’t suppose you would consider letting me go?”

Garak smiles pleasantly. “I would be delighted.”

“Would you? I had a deal with Central Command and they’ve been good to me so far. You, however, have been known to…” He eyes the disruptor casually turned in his direction.

“Yes, I imagine I must be something of a mystery these days to my people. I have been… squirrely, is what I suppose a human would say, and I must as well now that I’ve been painted with their brush. Oh, it is an incredible sin, I know. That I should enjoy the company of an attractive alien while in exile.”

Solt snorts. “You expect me to believe those poems were the natural result of a fling?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything you do not wish to. I only say that it’s convenient that I should be seen as even more traitorous just as a swarm of Cardassians should enter the station.”

“What’s convenient is that you’re still alive. You have friends in high places willing to go to bat for you, in spite of everything you’ve done. It’s a disgrace. You are a selfish disloyal anarchist and no one is holding you accountable, because you just happened to be good at your job once and everyone likes the idea of having you as a potential weapon should the need for one arise. Until then, they’re content to keep you in a cabinet collecting dust and sentiment. You can wave that disruptor all you want, but we both know you make a poor operative now. You’re in love.” 

Garak is still smiling, but Solt can see the signs of a grimace. Dusty, indeed. Too passionate. Too human. “I’m hardly so foolish. You know better than I the dangers of such things in our line of work. You’re little better than a puppet now that you’ve had a whiff of the truth, Mebol.”

“You’re right.” Solt attempts to raise one eye ridge, despite it being unfit for such maneuvers, and leans forward towards that disruptor. “Pull my strings, then, and let’s test that grip Bashir has on yours.”

—

Kira crashes into Garak’s quarters and kickflips past all his booby traps like Indiana Jones’ hotter cousin.

“What the fuck, Richard?” is basically what she says, only it’s in character, so it’s more like, “What the fuck, Garak!”

Garak spins around in his maniacal villain chair with a look of surprise. “How did you get in here, Major?” Miles bustles his way in after her with his impractically enormous toolkit, and Garak lets out an, “Ah,” then, sedately, “I suppose Dr. Bashir filed a complaint about my tampering with the door codes. Of course, there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You see, it–”

“This isn’t about door codes, Garak,” Kira yells. “What I want to know is why our best suspect for the sudden influx of murders on the station was just found drowned in his own toilet!”

“Oh my,” Garak says. “What an unfortunate end.”

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. We know what you’re capable of, but we’re good people and we didn’t want to accuse a victim until we had exhausted the rest of our line-up. Only, interestingly enough, they’re all dead, so now…” she marches over with the fury of the Prophets on her heels and stands imposingly over him, her teeth clenched, “here we are.”

“That is interesting.” He runs a hand down a roll of fabric in his lap, smoothing it. “I suppose you must have some of that ironclad evidence that the Federation so treasures.”

Kira glares at him.

Garak feigns looking around. “Oh, but I can’t help but notice the good Constable isn’t here with you. What could that mean? Surely not that you broke into my quarters without due cause or a hint of warning–at your own word, not even to fix my glitching door. For all you knew, I could have been in here writing one of my vaunted Bashir epics.”

Kira’s hands are in fists now. “The evidence we have would be more than enough to have your face plastered on every viewscreen in Cardassia and you know it.”

“The Federation and Bajoran legal processes do seem a tad inefficient in moments like these, don’t they?”

“Okay,” Miles cuts in, because he has Turbo PTSD and is not in the mood for a flare up. “I think I'll just wait in the hallway, then. Holler if you need me. Good luck, Major.”

Kira and Garak spend a few moments watching him waddle out of the room and then go back to staring each other down. 

“Look, you ass,” Kira starts, “we couldn’t link every victim to the Cardassian government or some third-party organization, but we were able to link enough of them to recognize that these aren’t just random nobodies having ‘accidents.’ Someone was able to break into your computer and embarrass you and you don’t like that so you’re pitching a fit. I can’t have Odo arrest you – yet – but I can tell you to cut it out. This vigilantism isn’t helping–”

That gets a reaction. “Vigilantism!”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“Self-defense.”

“They attacked you?”

“Possibly.”

“Goddamn you, Garak! Just… don’t do this anymore, okay?”

Garak looks at her with innocent astonishment, like he’s still bewildered by her totally plausible accusations. “Well. You have my word, I suppose,” he says, bemused.

—

Gul Skrain Dukat. Blessed with a wife, seven children, two sets of living parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, minus one father. Habitually cheats with lower ranked military officials, slaves, and barely legal adults, unbenownst to his family. Father was interrogated by Elim Garak and executed by the Union over live broadcast in the year 2350 for the crime of being a piece of shit. 

Elim Garak was shortly thereafter levied with an amateurish execution attempt by Gul Dukat. It failed.

The second attempt will succeed, but at a great cost.

The Festival of Filthy Fucking Foot Fetishists has officially begun, but Garak is struggling to feel any enthusiasm. He is surrounded by his people. The station has been dimmed by 15% to better suit Cardassian eyes and misting stations have been set up in limited locations. Extinct and invented flowers crafted by Cardassian and Bajoran artisans decorate the banisters and doorways. A wash of blue, green, and sparkling gold lights up every direction. There is the smell of freshly prepared Cardassian sweets on the air, a gentle warmth suffuses the atmosphere, and children are laughing on the promenade. It’s the first time the station has felt not just tolerable, but nearly pleasant, in years. 

But then, Garak has never felt particularly welcome among his people. As a child, he was an orphan generously cared for by service workers and sponsored by a government official, and as an adult, he was a member of the Order, which granted him more fear and loathing than it did admiration and respect. Companionship, in its truest form, was a rare thing to come by and not something he was encouraged to come by at all.

Perhaps that is why Dr. Bashir blindsided him. 

In any case, Garak is delicately balanced on the line between proper misery and numbness. He gave up imbibing around the same time that he gave up the implant—or rather, the implant gave up on him—but he’s on his third cup now, wandering through the festivities with no particular direction in mind. The exact spot of this last operation isn’t important, only the timing.

He finishes his drink while a group play a spirited game of cold moba in front of him. It shouldn't be long now.

All the nearby screens suddenly flicker from the event schedule to Dukat’s sharp grin and Garak hums. There we are. He knew the bitch wouldn’t be able to resist showing his face.

“Welcome everyone to the biennial Festival of–” a baby wails, “generously hosted here on Deep Space Nine by Bajor and the Federation, and of course organized by our own prodigous Detapa Council. Ah, that wormhole… quite the view, isn’t it?”

Garak looks around for another food stall that serves alcohol. 

There aren’t any stalls in his immediate vicinity, but there is a young Cardassian couple marching towards him while making dogged eye contact. 

Oh no. 

Garak starts to make a break for it. Not too fast, it won’t do to cause a stir, but there are a number of very good reasons for him to stay far away from any Cardassians who might recognize him right now. Especially if the source of that recognition is those damn poems he was too stupid and sentimental to destroy.

Before he can make it more than a few steps, however, he looks up to see another few Cardassians working their way towards him, also making eye contact.

No, no, no.

He makes to move towards the stairs then, only for his eyes to land squarely on him. 

Him, wearing the silky green outfit he lovingly crafted for him a few months ago. Him, shining in the festival lights, casting him in an even more arresting shade of gold than usual. Him, looking determined and coming straight towards him.

Oh, fuck no.

“Garak,” Julian calls out, likely reading the panic on his face and stance and soul.

“Today, I am not a Gul, though,” Dukat is saying. “I am but a humble representative of the Cardassian Union in its totality, and as such, I would like to thank Colonel Kira Nerys and Captain Benjamin Sisko for their hand in this week’s festivities. They have been nothing if not accommodating these last few weeks while our coordinators ran rampant through their halls.”

He should have accounted for the possibility of this. Thinking of Julian had become excruciating as of late, but that was no excuse. Whatever interaction Julian had been hoping to have with him couldn’t be allowed, not now, and not only for the sake of Garak’s traitorous, disgusting feelings. Even if it would give the sweet man closure, it would not be worth his life. 

“Now, it may be a bit unorthodox, but I thought it would be only fitting if the first Reenactment was carried out by our benevolent hosts, and the Lakarian City Acting Troupe were all too happy to take them under their wing.”

More eyes are turning towards the screen now, the laughing and playing and sloshing of cups quieting down. Julian is nearly with him, his approach halted only by the gathering crowd, and Garak can only pretend to be interested in Dukat’s speech while he racks his brain desperately for a solution. Any solution. Anything.

“I trust that the history of Cardassia is in capable hands.”

The screen flickers again and changes to a shot of one of Quark’s holodecks, where a lone Bajoran man stands in a beam of red light.

A hand grabs Garak roughly by the arm, and he nearly cries with relief when he sees that it’s Lumok.

Well, Lumok with the face and attire of a Bajoran, but that ever-present spark of unchecked malice in her eye is quite unmistakable to someone who worked with her for over a decade. 

“Surprised, you ugly old regnar?” she asks under the actor’s impassioned opening monologue.

He sucks in a breath as the sharp edge of something presses into his back. “Impossible. They found your body caught on one of the station’s spires.”

“A simple bait and switch,” she purrs, pressing the weapon closer, slicing through his tunic. A pity. This was one of his nicer ones. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

He manufactures a smile. “A knife, then? A favorite of yours, I recall, but terribly messy for such a public venue. Not to mention if your aim is even an inch off, I’ll be in and out of the infirmary within the day, as if nothing at all had happened.”

“Don’t lecture me,” she growls. “You can’t do that anymore. You’re not anyone to anyone. Your master is dead, and what did you do the second you were off leash for the first time in your life? You went and choked yourself on the first Starfleet sotl you could find. You’re pathetic.”

It took incredible effort to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull. “Oh, just stab me already.”

“I’m not going to stab you. I’ve done a bit of outsourcing, in fact.” She slid the knife from his lower back to his side and looped her arm through his, pinning him in place with a wide smile. “All I had to do was suggest to my new friend that you were infiltrating the Federation. That you were poisoning them against Bajor from the inside, uniting Cardassia and Starfleet in a secret alliance under the guise of wooing the CMO. No, no, you won’t be killed by one of your peers. Your death will be at the hands of a perfect stranger. A pointless death for a pointless man.” She leans in and whispers into his aural ridge, “It always was so easy to make people hate you.”

The next few seconds are a flurry of chaos. One second he’s watching as Human, Bajoran and Cardassian actors alike are all holding hands and reciting ancient poetry and the next he’s on the floor with a searing weight bearing down on him from calf to shoulder. There are screams and footfalls coming from all directions and Odo’s voice is immediately discernible shouting over the commotion. His back is on fire, he can’t breathe, and there’s a slash in his side, but he doesn’t miss the thump of Lumok’s body a few feet away, dead before she hits the ground.

“Garak? Garak?” the weight on him is speaking frantically, pawing at his head and shoulders. The weight shifts and the hands flip him onto his back. Those same hands pat him down, blazing a path down his chest and his stomach and his sides, stopping at the superficial gash near his rib, and Garak knows who this is before he even opens his eyes.

“Garak,” Julian sighs with relief. Garak was meant to be dead by phaser blast right now, but instead Julian Bashir is smiling down at him like he’s important, kneeling beside him, his hands on him, branding him with their incredible heat. It shouldn’t be possible. No one could be that fast. 

“Doctor,” he manages on a wheeze. One of his ribs might be broken, actually.

“Dukat,” Sisko growls from the monitor in billowing robes and a long flowing wig, surrounded by flowers.

—

“Explain,” Sisko commands.

Having decided that showing weakness right now can only help his case, Garak is sitting hunched to the side, holding his reeling head in one hand. It’s through a hiss that he replies, “A woman named Turora Lumok was responsible for sabotaging the station with those poems forged with my data signature. The Bajoran woman who was just assassinated–she was no Bajoran, but rather one of the last remaining members of the Obsidian Order. She was hired by Dukat to kill me during the festival under the guise of a hate crime. No doubt because of her indomitable reputation, I’m sure. A number of Cardassian casualties these past several days were at her hands.”

Sisko walks to the viewport to stare out into the stars for a moment, processing this. “All his talk of friendship between Bajor and Cardassia…” he trails off, the ghost of a sneer on his lips as he turns back around. “His goal was just the opposite. He wanted to destroy any hope of cooperation.”

“And get me out of the way in the process,” Garak grumbles. 

Sisko hums and wanders over to Garak’s side, looking down at him thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me who assassinated Ms. Lumok?”

Garak stares at the floor through his fingers, his eyes glazed.

“Or who your informant is on Dukat’s involvement?”

“Captain,” Garak mutters, not looking up, “I have sat here concussed after an attempt on my life and shared with you everything that I know, and here you have not even told me who the tailor of your magnificent robe is.” He tugs half-heartedly at a strip of embroidery on the fabric. “I must admit, I am feeling a touch betrayed you didn’t come to me.”

Sisko flicks his eyes up to Julian, who has been standing in the corner with his hands behind his back. “Very well, Mr. Garak. I release you into Dr. Bashir’s care for now, but I expect to continue this conversation soon.” He massages his forehead. “Once I figure out what to do about this damned festival.”

Julian comes over to help Garak out of his chair, but Garak snaps upright and to the door before he can touch him. Sisko takes the opportunity to lean into Julian’s face and whisper, “Get more information out of him.” The doctor nods.

Julian isn’t angry when he steps out of Sisko’s office and sees that Garak is walking in the exact opposite direction of the infirmary, but he is disappointed. 

“Mr. Garak,” he says urgently once he’s caught up to the idiot.

Mr. Garak interrupts him in the same tone, “Now, now, my dear doctor, we both know I have a dermal regenerator in my quarters, so we need not extend–”

“And I think we both know this is about much more than a few bumps and bruises. I’m afraid the time for beating around the bush passed quite a while ago.”

“You’re right, Doctor,” Garak says, coming to an abrupt stop and rounding on him with wild eyes. “There is an urgent matter we must discuss.” Julian’s eyebrows raise, and Garak nods severely. “Oh, yes, let us not ‘beat around the bush.’ We should talk about how you threw yourself directly into the line of a lethal phaser blast on the one in a millionth chance that you might save my life. The cost of such an action being almost certainly your own life, and yet, here you stand, and here I stand. Will wonders never cease.” Julian opens his mouth, but Garak raises a finger. “Nevermind that I was in the middle of an altercation with a very dangerous, very volatile woman who would not have hesitated for a second to dispose of you. She had a nasty habit of that. Now I knew that you were naive, Doctor, Doctor! I knew that! What I did not know – what I never could have guessed after all these years – was that you are an idiot.” 

Julian stares back into Garak’s hissing face, unimpressed. Garak feels a wave of deja-vu and does not like it. It has no place here. And yet, Julian takes in a breath and smiles, raising his shoulders. “All right, Garak. If it’s really so important to you, we can talk about your suicide attempt.”

“What?” Garak bites out.

“You were going to let yourself get shot, yes?”

“I was n–” Garak starts to lie, disgusted, but is stopped by Julian stepping entirely too close. He stumbles back a step, then another when Julian attempts to crowd him again, and the familiarity of the routine has him shutting his eyes, rueful. They’re dancing again. It’s humiliating, the things this man makes him do, how effortlessly he can gain the upperhand. Most of the time without even having to lift a finger.

“You figured out Dukat’s plan and arranged for Lumok to die if she succeeded, but you expected her to. You didn’t expect to be saved,” the doctor tells his blank, unresponsive face. His eyes are still closed, his hands tense at his sides, but he knows Julian’s stepped closer again by the heat of his livid breath. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Very well. I didn’t figure it out. I was informed.”

“So, the captain was right.” He sounds bored, but Garak seizes his chance. His eyes open in a sudden burst of animation.

“Yes, I had an informant. I believe the major was familiar with him, a fellow by the name of Damoc who was recently presumed dead? Though I knew him far better as Mebol. We first met on Romulus, you see. In the event of my death, he had strict instructions to reveal Dukat’s plot in my stead and protect my remaining assets. In return, he was to receive some valuable coordinates, which by now he will have long accessed. I suppose he’s already booked passage off of the station, if he hasn’t already gone.” 

“Quick to abandon you,” Julian says, completely off-script. Garak’s carefully measured breathing stutters.

“Surely Captain Sisko would like to have a word with him.”

“I’m sure.”

“Doctor…” Garak says, lost. “There isn’t time to was–”

Suddenly there are two hands slamming into his chest like they’re iron forks and he’s a slab of meat, rocketing him back into the nearest wall with a loud thud. Garak gasps at the strength of it, astounded, but all his attention is quickly monopolized by Julian’s snarling words.

“Stop trying to distract me, Garak! Stop racing away before I can even properly get into the room, stop begging off lunch, stop ignoring my comms, and stop acting like your bloody life is over just because it was found out that you have feelings for me!” 

“I–I don’t–”

“Lke hell you don’t! Thirty-seven.”

Garak blinks several times. “What?”

“Thirty-seven. That’s how many direct references to our literary discussions are in your poems. All chronologically concordant with the dates of those discussions, and six of which from that classic Earth album I recommended to you a year ago that you swore up and down sounded like a pack of voles had been crammed into a bucket and shaken around. I knew you were having me on. You love Mitski, and you love me.”

Garak’s face shutters. 

Finally, Julian takes a step back. His hands remain on his chest, pinning him in place, but he allows him some oxygen. Exactly twenty seconds pass like this, before the doctor becomes impatient and huffs, “You can’t possibly have nothing to say.”

“What would you have me say, Doctor?”

“I would like you to admit it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve heard it from friends and coworkers and strangers and every tourist on this damn station, it feels like, but I haven’t heard it from you.”

Garak is silent for a long time. Finally, he quietly asks, “You would further humiliate me this way? Knowing what you do? My dear friend…” He, carefully, with only the gentlest of pressure, puts a hand over one of Julian’s. “Please. You’ve read everything I could possibly have to say. What more could there be?”

Julian’s hands are unforgiving, but his eyes soften at the simple lowering of the curtain. It’s not the direct confession he was looking for, the I love you completely, traitorously, ruinously that his poems professed and a deep, broken part of Julian desperately wants to hear, but it is, it is. For Garak, this is as explicit as it gets, and Julian can feel his heart trying to catch in his throat.

“Garak,” he starts to say.

Garak isn’t scowling anymore. His eyes are shining as he looks away and sucks in an aggrieved breath. “Oh, please, let us skip this excruciating precursor. I have no intention of remaining on this station.”

Julian goes unnervingly still. “Excuse me?”

“I will need time to pack up my shop and settle my lease, but then I promise, you will never suffer the consequences of my unfortunate… condition again.” When Julian only stares at him with mounting alarm in his lovely eyes, Garak grimaces. “You must know I had no intention of pursuing you.” At least, not after the implant had been shut off and he’d realized what horrors he’d stumbled into with the doctor while under its influence, and by then, it was already too late. He was too weak to stop speaking to him, but he was not a complete monster. “I wouldn’t have. My writing was never about nurturing the emotions, only managing them.” A bit of a lie, but only a bit. He does love to languish and he never could resist a good innuendo. Their friendship had been infinitely precious to him, though, and he couldn’t bear the slow death it would undergo now that everyone knew the truth.

The worsening rumors that would spread. The suffering of Julian’s reputation, career, and love life with the Cardassian spy’s drastic affections hanging over everyone’s heads. The danger it would place them both in, the damage it had already done. The way Julian would know every time Garak flirted now, it was never idle. It had never been and could never be. 

It would be a torture hitherto unthinkable. Better to sever the limb before it could rot.

Still, Julian is silent. The pressure on his chest is more a suggestion than a command now.

“Doctor, I…” he swallows back anymore hideous truths. “I apologize. Your rage is understandable, but I swear to you, I have every intention of righting this wrong.”

“Oh,” Julian says then, softly, as if he isn’t speaking to Garak at all,  “you don’t know.”

“Doctor?”

He makes a bizarre human gesture, skimming the heel of his hand off his forehead. “My God! Of course. I thought it was pride, or shame, or paranoia. Anything and everything but this, but of course you would be this ridiculous. Well. That’s an easy enough problem to solve.”

“Doctor–?!”

The hands on his chest are gone. Instead, they’re seizing him by the head and pulling him up to connect his mouth to Julian’s.

Oh.

If Julian’s touch was a brand before, this is lava running down his throat, into his stomach and down, down, down to eat through the twenty inch thick duranium floor. Slow, thorough, and final in its devastation. A transformation that cannot be persuaded. He grapples with it, hands scrambling stupidly over and across his doctor’s shoulders. Whether it’s to pull him closer or push him away, he doesn’t know. He’s too busy being brutally altered to give it much thought.

His hands settle for burying themselves in his hair at some point. When doesn’t matter. Time holds no power here. It happens, and then he knows how soft Julian Bashir’s hair feels, and there is no going back.

The loss of control becomes alarming enough that he finally manages to pry himself away, gulping in desperate, anxious breaths of frigid station air. It works. The fire and the madness that followed it calms down and he manages the strength to push Julian back, but the wet smack of their lips disconnecting will echo in his dreams for the foreseeable future, as will the dizzy grin on Julian’s face inches from his own. There’s a hand on his ass keeping him from tumbling through the hole in the floor and a couple unlucky passersby gawking at the gruesome scene and Garak is a different creature entirely, incandescent and strange, forged anew in the curious fires of mutual attachment. 

He feels insane.

“Doctor, you cannot truly be this naive.” 

Julian looks anything but naive right then. He can’t focus on that, though. He needs to focus on the fact he was nearly assassinated; the fact that the kindest man alive nearly died with him out of some misguided terran idea that all lives are of equal value and importance.

And yet, Julian is leaning in to kiss him again, so Garak puts a hand on his chest and says, “You know what I am.”

Julian’s expression turns complicated and it’s clear he understands. Garak’s roiling emotions can’t settle on being relieved or horrified. How to go on after this? After knowing intimately what he almost had, with the smoke of it still thick in his eyes and his throat and his heart?

A gentle hand on his jaw brings him back to the moment, where Julian’s eyes are serious. “I know,” he murmurs.

Garak sucks in a wet breath.

“The question is,” Julian continues, even quieter, “do you know what I am?”

His head is spinning. “Doctor?”

Julian just smiles sadly, and it's clear that there are some long conversations in their future. But for now… “About that dermal regenerator in your quarters,” Julian begins, and Garak is relieved to find out that whatever stupid, lovely thing he’s become can still appreciate an innuendo.

—

Not long after, in the middle of telling Sisko all about Mebol over Julian’s comm badge while its owner watches expectantly in a state of teasing half-dress, he’s horrified to find that whatever thing he’s become is also rather eager to please.

—

A couple days later, the two of them are picking from a generous cut of flaming taspar in the Replimat.

Or, Garak is picking, anyway. Julian is stuffing his face. Ordinarily, this would mildly scandalize him, but the fact it’s taspar, one of the most traditional delicacies of his homeworld, being shoveled enthusiastically into that pretty face makes it so he can feel only hope.

Rather than giving into that inadvisable feeling, he takes a dainty sip of his tea and tries to look nonsuspect. Cardassians from all sides and angles are staring.

“About Miss Leeta…” Garak begins.

Julian wipes his face with the side of his hand. Disgusting, but oddly compelling. “What about her?” 

“When will you be breaking the news to her?”

“Oh.” Julian smiles, bemused. “She knows.”

A tightness in his chest dispels slightly. “Does she?” he says faintly.

“She’s the one who first brought it up. We performed the Rite of Separation days ago. She said it was great timing, what with the festival and all. We didn’t even have to leave the station.”

“So you were together then.”

“Well, in a sense. We weren’t in love, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Garak takes another sip, lowering his eyes. “I wasn’t worried. Only concerned for the young lady’s feelings.”

Julian’s face is incandescent. A Cardassian to his far left is openly gaping. “Of course, of course.” He leans suddenly over the table then, moving a hand forward to rest on his knee. “So, should I take this line of questioning as an indicator that you’re open to a relationship with me?”

Garak shifts a little in his seat, moving his knee further under the table and its shadows, but otherwise doesn’t pull away. “It would be unwise,” he says quietly, without actually saying no.

The hand squeezes. “It isn’t as if people won’t assume anyway.”

“Rumors can be dispelled. Redirected. Altered.” He reaches forward to take a small saucière and pours a bright red sauce over a couple groatcakes. “There would be no coming back from a confirmation.”

Julian’s hand falls away. “Would it be so bad?”

“I don’t know,” Garak says, splitting a cake up into three neat sections. “Would it, Doctor?”

A Bajoran couple walks past their table then, and while one purposely avoids eye contact and seems to be giving them a wide berth, the other throws a meaningful glare Julian’s way. This is the fourth judgemental or pitying look he’s received since they came in for brunch. Julian calmly returns the look, refusing to be the first to look away, until finally the man averts his eyes and Julian looks back to Garak with a stern smile. Garak inclines his head.

“Be careful, Doctor,” Garak goes on. “Rumors can ruin lives. End careers.” He scoops up a bite of his cake, dripping with red sauce, and lifts it to his mouth. “Kill,” he finishes, and eats.

At that, Julian leans back in his seat with his arms crossed tight. Garak gives him his time. It’s a relief to have finally made a dent in Julian’s lovesick, idealistic conviction–and Garak can admit, after the last few days, that it is lovesickness. Julian’s decided he loves him back and there will be no stopping him from pursuing this, but there may yet be some tempering. A small, equally stubborn, sentimental part of Garak despairs at the whole horrid affair, but the behemoth of his good sense squashes this part down with little difficulty. 

It’s this moment that a smattering of young Cardassians, accompanied by one Jadzia Dax, arrive at their table. Immediately, Garak recognizes them as the ones that nearly intercepted his meeting with Lumok and his stomach drops. Julian, on the other hand, brightens back up.

“Well, hello there,” he says warmly.

Jadzia responds first, with each elbow leaned on a Cardassian’s shoulder and a knowing sparkle in her blue eyes, “Hello to you.” The Cardassians all echo with similar greetings, some shy, others giddy.

One young woman standing at the front, with her hair in three elaborately plaited braids and little makeup, is looking at Garak with particular interest. “You’re the one who wrote the poems about Julian.”

Garak looks at the girl coolly. “Do you mean Dr. Bashir?”

She goes blue. “Oh, um. Yes. I do.” She tucks an imaginary lock of hair into her perfectly coiffed hair and lowers her head respectfully. “My apologies, Doctor.”

“Hey now,” the doctor scolds with good humor, “none of that. We’re all friends here.” 

The girl throws another searching glance Garak’s way. “Friends?”

That’s enough of that. “This is certainly quite the surprise,” Garak says genially, plastering on his most pleasant smile. “Is there something you needed? As Deep Space Nine’s resident Cardassian tailor and reputed troubadour, I’m always happy to be of service.” Julian sends him a sharp look, which he ignores. 

Jadzia is looking as foxy as she ever does, with a grin nearly to her spotted ears. “Julian asked me to bring them here,” she says too happily, and Garak has to sit back in his seat to process that. Julian scratches his neck with a guilty smile, obliviously alluring. It cannot be overstated that there are, still, eyes on them from all directions and angles.

“Garak, sir,” the Cardassian woman-child begins again, earnest, “let me start over. My name is Inia Milam. I am the President of the Ivory State Liberation Library. We collect–”

“Madam,” Garak interrupts her quietly, stunned. “This is hardly the time and place.” He blinks, still shocked stupid by her brazenness, and leans towards her, peering into her distressingly young features with beseeching desperation. “And I am hardly the audience.”

Milam doesn’t appear to process his warning at all, though. She just continues to look inquisitive. She has that gleam in her eyes that is common in Cardassian women, calculating and intelligent, but there’s something else there. Something indefinable that he’s seen hundreds of times over an interrogation table, but without the fear to staunch it. Without the hopelessness. It makes his stomach flip. “On the contrary, you are exactly the sort of person we look for.” She bows her head. “Dr. Bashir promised that if we assisted him a few days prior, he would introduce us so that I could formally welcome your book of poems into our shelves. I apologize if this comes as a surprise. I wish only to thank you for your excellent contribution, E. G., and tell you that we hope to welcome many more pieces from you in the future. I’ll be in touch. Dr. Bashir.” She nods to him, returns his gentle smile, and walks confidently away. The rest of the group mirror her, voicing similar words of polite farewell and appreciation, and leave.

Garak forces himself not to track their departure and instead picks up his fork again, as if nothing world-shattering has occurred at all. The cake is tasteless in his mouth.

Julian is concealing nothing of his thoughts, however. He’s staring openly at Garak, as if he’s a bomb and he’s trying to figure out which color wire to cut.

Ultimately, it’s Jadzia that breaks the tension. “Well,” she says, “that is some harem you’ve got there, Julian.”

“Jadzia,” Julian barks. She laughs.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing.” Uncharacteristically, her impish smile turns regretful. “Now that that’s out of the way, I do have to bring your friend in for questioning,” she says, and that explains that. “I’m sorry, boys. I stalled Ben as long as I could.”

Garak polishes off the last of his meal and takes one last gulp of his tea to wash it down. With that done, he stands with a placid, conciliatory smile.

Julian puts a hand on his shoulder before he can take a step. “I’ll come see you after my shift.” Those lovely, dark, deep eyes search his, pinning him like a moth above his fireplace. “Okay?”

Garak inhales. “Without end,” he murmurs, waits for Julian’s eyes to light in understanding, and then aloud says, “I am at your disposal, Doctor. Good day.” With that and a firm, friendly pat on Julian’s hand, he limps away.

Jadzia rather pointedly watches him limp to the exit for a few long seconds before throwing Julian a rakish grin. “Well, well,” she says largely. Julian pretends not to notice, and Jadzia pivots on her heel after Garak.

“Before we lock you up and throw away the key, could you sign my datarod,” Julian hears Jadzia asking, and he shakes his head, unsuccessfully trying to rub away his smile.

Without end Do I think of you and so Come to me at night. For on the path of dreams at least, There's no one to disapprove! Ono no Komachi