#v; A Life of Simplicity

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem .ᐟ reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quick learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. “But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

──────────────────────

a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

this fic now has a complementary c.ai bot .ᐟ

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

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other works — the boys masterlist

© bluemerakis — do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

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[4] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.

Ch. 4 Word Count: 8,762

Ch. 4 Warning: Talk of menstruation and bleeding, mentions of blood and wartime, aggressive male behavior (Harry gets a little violent with the Lord Mayor), discrimination

It's Good to Be King Masterlist

. .

Y/n hadn't been given a choice on the style of her wedding dress. It had already been selected for her. But it was breathtaking. She'd never seen anything like it before, and that she would soon be wearing it in front of the kingdom? It was no wonder she was not given a choice. She would never have picked such a lavish thing because she did not feel worthy of it.

That morning was her first fitting. She stood with her arms stretched outward, one person on each side, holding her steady, while the dressmaker pinned and tucked and cut at the lace and the silk, adjusting it to her size. Mrs. Mable was the royal seamstress, and Y/n couldn't help but feel she held some contempt for her. The way she was pulling and prodding, even poking her with pins, all felt intentional.

"Ow!" Y/n winced when Mrs. Mable stuck a pin through the silk skirt, and it grazed her skin. Again. She was becoming ireful toward the woman when all she wanted was to relive the kiss she'd just had with the king, not a few hours earlier. She'd received a handful of strangers into the Rose Room for the fitting, and she'd been soaring with hot cheeks and a softly fluttering heart before Mrs. Mable got her hands on her.

She didn't know that the lace had its own name, Honiton, or that the diamond necklace they showed her (to be kept in its satin case until the day of the wedding) was Turkish. The dress had an off-the-shoulder, open neckline, with layered sleeves down to her elbows, all lined with the special lace. The silk corset bodice was pointed downward in a deep V, while the skirt was full and pleated silk.

Staring at her figure in the mirror, she felt like a fraud. How had this happened to her? How had luck (or misfortune, she wasn't sure yet) stricken her so abruptly? It was one thing to have been expecting her new lot, to have been raised up for it and accustomed to royal life, but it was another to have been plucked from the streets, shoved into it blindly, and to have people enraged by her presence without ever getting to know her first.

"Please be careful. You're poking her…" Phoebe said to Mrs. Mable.

The woman, whose face was hidden behind silk and lace as she bunched up the bottom hem of the dress, dropped her pin cushion to the floor as she jabbed another sharp object into the fabric. "She'll be fine. I've only nicked her a few times. It's part of the work if you want it done properly."

"But she will be your queen. She is to be treated with the utmost care and —"

Mrs. Mable stood up and pulled at the back collar of Y/n's dress, making her nearly stumble. "Queen Consort. There is a difference. We'll see if she makes it that far."

"The King is taken by her. She will prove you all wrong. You'll see." Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the dressmaker.

Y/n glanced at Phoebe in warning. She didn't want people arguing over her status. It wasn't worth it. If Mrs. Mable wanted to treat her like she was still a street beggar, all while fitting her for her royal wedding gown, then so be it. She'd soon learn who she was dealing with, and Y/n would not forget the treatment she was being subjected to.

"We will see." Mrs. Mable turned Y/n around and took her measuring tape to her hips, waist, and bust, before spinning her around again to help her step out of the dress. "I'll return two days before the wedding for the final fitting, along with the finished veil. And don't get too heavy-handed with tarts or the dress will be too tight."

Y/n looked down at her figure and glanced at it in the mirror. She hadn't gained very much weight at all, but kept being told she needed to gain more. Now there was the dressmaker telling her to go lightly on the very tart Y/n requested to have in the room for herself and anyone else who wanted some. Her mood was a little foul after having been prodded and nicked, so she huffed, stepping past Mrs. Mable to grab a piece of tart and shove it into her mouth as she stared at the woman in defiance.

When the dressmaker and her helpers left the room, Phoebe closed the door and leaned into it, shaking her head. "That woman is awful. There's gossip that she's been vying to have her daughter meet the king before you two are wed."

Y/n slid her standard dress back on, and Phoebe pushed herself from the door to help fasten the back. "What do you mean? To present her to him? For marriage?"

"I believe so."

She knew that the middle and upper classes of Thornekeep were spoiled and mean. So, it shouldn't have surprised her that Mrs. Mable didn't take seriously her eventual new title, and that she hoped her daughter could steal the designation for herself. Y/n was slowly learning about the politics of the kingdom and she was going to have to brace herself for what was soon to come.

"Now let's finish that tart."

. .

Harry was seething. The council had found the Lord Mayor guilty, but he was only charged a measly fine for his transgression. A fine! Imagine forcefully taking the king's wife-to-be from her quarters, openly disrespecting the crown, and humiliating her in front of the kingdom… and the punishment was nothing more than a fine?

He couldn't believe it when the news was sent to him. He'd planned on an in-person visit to retrieve the brooch from the Lord Mayor, but when he learned he'd gotten away with nary a slap to the wrist, he immediately sought out his Proctor to go back before the council to appeal the decision. His only recourse was to prove she'd been hurt in some way.

He stormed into the room where Y/n was in the middle of her etiquette class, and the governess stood from her chair quickly and lowered her head. "Your Majesty."

He breezed by the woman and pulled Y/n's chair out, dropping down to his knees in front of her without so much as a glance toward the governess. Y/n gasped when he pulled her skirts up and he put his hand over the dark blue and brown spot on her knee. He'd seen the bruise the morning before when he tried to get her to join him in his tub.

"This. Did this happen when they pushed you around and removed you from the castle?"

Y/n blinked slowly at him as he looked up at her. He looked desperate, wild. She had nearly forgotten the bruise herself and she certainly hadn't realized he'd even seen the thing.

"Yes. I was pushed down to my knees and hands from the steps. It was bruised much worse at first, but it's better now. Can hardly feel it really."

"And who pushed you? His name, Y/n. Was it the Lord Mayor?"

"I… I'm not sure. It was two men… The Lord Mayor never touched me except to take the brooch."

She watched as he clenched his jaw and looked down at the bruise, his thumb running along the top of her knee. "He was there, though. Did you hear him order the men to take you?"

Y/n thought back to that awful morning, and she nodded. "Yes. He said that your duties fall on him when you're away and that it was his command. And Niall! The guard, who's just there outside the door. He was there and he heard it and saw it all. That's who he said it to."

"So he ordered men to do this to you. And we have a witness." He pushed himself to stand up and stepped away quickly, back toward the door, before he turned to speak again. "I will get your brooch back for you today."

When the door was closed, the governess looked shocked as she watched Y/n slide the fabric back down her legs.

"What? Is this what it takes for you to notice my presence? The king himself must barge into your classroom and cause a disturbance for you to realize I'm sitting here?"

The woman wiped her hands down her dress and turned toward the table to speak. It seemed she only spoke to Y/n with her back turned to her. "I notice. I've already taught you plenty—"

Y/n stood up. "You should speak to me with more respect from now on. I will be the queen soon. If not, I'm sure the king will have words with you next. I will not return for any remaining classes. I understand now that I have much better manners than even you do."

She dismissed herself and stepped out of the room with that awful woman. Niall was waiting at the door, and he greeted her with a polite, sharp nod. "At least you and Phoebe are kind to me," she said, smiling at him as she began to walk toward the grand staircase that would lead them up to the king's chambers. "And you're kind to Phoebe as well. Thank you for that."

Niall didn't speak often. His duties didn't allow for it. But a few times he let his guard slip — so to speak — and he'd say a few words. "I've no reason to disrespect you or your lady-in-waiting."

Y/n smiled to herself as she continued up the steps. The stairs were wide, and they seemed to go on forever. The landings, on the way up, split the levels into threes, and the stairs curved around and continued up until they found the floor with the king's chambers and the Rose Room, where her chambers were. "If you disrespected Phoebe, I'm sure she'd be heartbroken. She rather likes you."

Before Y/n could pull the door open with it's heavy iron knob Niall spoke. "She does? Did she say something?"

She looked around the hallway and then up at Niall. "Of course she did. But that's nothing I can discuss with you. Secret is safe with me. No need to worry."

. .

Y/n had a large bruise on her left knee and a castle guard as witness. Harry doubted anyone else would offer to attest. He'd bring Niall with him the following day to meet again with the Proctor for proof of the Lord Mayor's mishandling of his queen-to-be. But first, he needed to find the Lord Mayor to deal with him at once and retrieve the brooch.

He didn't bother announcing his arrival or sending the house steward to call to the Lord Mayor that he was there. And it was good to be king because it meant that people had to listen to what he asked of them, even if they didn't much like him. So when he lowered his hand and stepped inside, the house steward bowed his head and let Harry in without a peep.

He wasn't hard to find. Harry spotted him quickly in his first-floor study, reading, and the Lord Mayor stood in haste. "Your Majesty. To what do I owe the honor of your sudden and unexpected presence?"

The king stepped toward the large bookshelf and ran a finger over the hard bindings. Harry's saunter and cold grin were vexing. The Lord Mayor had never met anyone so plaguy in his life. The king was full of himself and was purposefully bucking tradition. He had a much more suitable and beautiful option than Y/n, which the king would have loved.

"You have something that belongs to Y/n. The woman to whom I will be wed at the end of next week."

"I have nothing in my home that belongs to that girl."

Harry bit down on his molars as his dark gaze seared at the Lord Mayor before he bounded toward him, heavy steps over the wooden floors, until the king's hand was wrapped around the man's throat and his back pressed against the wall.

"I will not be disrespected by you once more, Virgil," he spat the name between his teeth. "First, you insult me behind my back and make a show of carting off my wife-to-be and her family like animals. And now you lie to my face? If you do not produce the brooch, that will be considered theft, which you will regret when I drag you before the council."

The man's eyes were wide as he tried to pry the king's strong grip from his windpipe. He wheezed as the back of his throat constricted when he attempted to speak.

"I can't hear you. Speak louder, worm."

Harry was enjoying watching Virgil squirm and gasp. He could squeeze tighter and hold on for a few minutes longer, be done with the man for good. But then, having to explain to Parliament what had happened would be awfully annoying, so he opted for just scaring him instead.

"You were much easier to subdue than I imagined. But then again, you have aged like spoiled curd. Flimsy muscles trying to pry my hand away. Give it another go. Let's see what you've got, old man."

The Lord Mayor did not have it in him to pry Harry's hand from his throat. And it was true, he was getting older and his body was not as virile as it had once been. He was no match for the young king. He tried twisting, but instead of working himself free, Harry released him and stepped back as the man fell to the floor and violently coughed.

Harry laughed as he stepped around the Lord Mayor to his desk and sat down in the chair, closing the book Virgil had been reading. "Where's the brooch? Or should I fetch your wife and tell her what you've done?"

The Lord Mayor, with his palm at his throat, coughed. "King Styles…" He inhaled sharply, his voice pinched as he tried to speak after the king had restricted his air. "I was protecting you. Protecting Thornekeep!"

Harry glared at the pathetic man, still on the floor, trying to push himself to his knees. "You defied me and the kingdom. You showed contempt toward Y/n and her family." He pushed himself from the chair and stood over Virgil, looking down at him. "And on your command, you had two men push her down to her knees, inflicting pain and making her bruise. That is assault, which will not go unpunished."

The Lord Mayor finally leveraged himself to stand, placing a hand on the bookshelf and pulling himself upward. "My Lord, please. The girl is a street beggar. Her word is not to be trusted. My advice is to consider another—"

Harry stepped in closer, his boots bumping into the old man's as he pushed him by his chest, his back against the bookshelf. "Your advice is not needed nor warranted. I am King. I will choose what I please, and I will have what I want."

The man stood with his hands upward as he bent back and away from the king, still standing toe-to-toe with him. "I didn't hurt the girl or her family. I simply returned them from where they came."

"I will have you tried for treason. Assault! What you did to her is inexcusable. You flagrantly disobeyed my command. If the council doesn't find you guilty, I do. And if they don't impose a more severe penalty, I will. I'll take this into my own hands if need be."

"There's a beautiful young woman. Much lovlier than Y/n. Pearl is her name… Smart, golden hair, a virgin. Her family comes from—"

Harry laughed loudly, cutting Virgil off. "I will marry Y/n. I want no one else for my queen. You have overstepped your duties with me, and after I'm done with you, you will not be welcome in or near the castle. You will be stripped of your title, and you and your wife will be considered a disgrace to the kingdom. I will see to it."

"Please… My Lord…" He kept his hands upward in surrender. "This is excessive. Do you really think that having my title stripped will be well received by the proletariat who elected me? It would be bedlam! The people would not stand for such controversy!"

"Has it not gotten into your skull, yet, that I am not concerned by outrage or controversy. Let them be angry. Anger is better than complacency."

"Complacency is prosperous. Anger is costly."

"And I have the means to pay whatever the cost if need be."

"You are going to bankrupt the kingdom with your frivolous actions. Your father would be turning in his grave if he knew what you were up to."

Harry spat, "Good. I hope my father rots. Let the spoiled aristocracy learn to work for their meals like everyone else. Have you seen the rookeries? Do you know the reality of what sits on the outskirts? Thornekeep is prosperous, but only for you. Only for those who don't need it."

"Oh, pish!" Virgil laughed incredulously. "You act like some kind of martyr, yet you've seen the rookeries of Thornekeep but once! Stop this madness! You will drive our kingdom into the ground with your foolishness! You've no idea the damage it will cause—"

Harry slammed his fist into the wood of the bookcase directly next to the Lord Mayor's head. "I have been to the slums in many a kingdom. You forget, maggot, that I spent most of my adulthood outside of Thornekeep as commander-in-chief of our kingdom's armies. I led my men to victory in dangerous battles across the land. I fought alongside the downtrodden. I've lived it. I've seen it all up close. I do not care who hates me. Let my father's rest be disturbed. I care not!"

"Heavens! What is going on?" Virgil's wife appeared in the doorway, the look of surprise on her face quite amusing to Harry.

Harry patted the Lord Mayor's shoulder and stepped back. "We were just having a good ol' chat about my future wife. Though Virgil here does seem to fancy a golden-haired girl called Pearl, I explained to him that I'm a man with morals and already spoken for. I'm sure any other man would be grateful for a chance with her. Even married ones like yourself."

The woman blinked in surprise at her husband. "Little Pearl? You mean Mr. and Mrs. Mable's daughter?"

Harry nodded, clasping his hands behind his back as he moved toward the doorway and smiled casually at her. "Yes. I believe that was who he was referring to. He's quite fond of the girl. I don't know how he's become privy to her virginal status, but your husband seems quite excited about that detail. Bit too young for me…"

He leaned in closer to the Lord Mayor's wife and spoke quietly. "I prefer 'em thicker through the calf and more mature personally, but your husband has his own tastes, I presume. Just keep an eye on him around little Pearl, will you?"

"Your majesty!?" The woman looked at the king, her mouth agape.

Harry grinned back at the man. "My wife's brooch, the one you stole? Have it sent to her within the hour, or I will be back again before nightfall."

. .

Y/n felt feverish and her insides were twisting and turning and squeezing tight, like her guts were being clamped together and wrung into a ball. Her sisters' bickering about the little game they were playing nearly tipped her over the edge of anger. She wanted to scream at them for silence. And most interestingly, she hadn't been able to finish the dinner that was served to her either. She had no appetite.

"Y/n. Are you feeling alright? You look unwell." Her mother put the back of her hand up to her forehead and gasped. "My child! You're burning hot! Phoebe! Where is Phoebe? Where is the guard?"

Y/n sighed and leaned forward as she closed her eyes, placing her elbows on the table. She wasn't worried about her manners at that moment. She felt like she was about to vomit. She heard her mother shuffle from the dining room to find Phoebe, who'd just wandered off only moments before.

If she hadn't been in so much sudden pain, she would have found it amusing that both Phoebe and Niall were nowhere in sight. Pushing herself from her chair to stand, her father rushed to her side. "Careful there. Here we go."

He leveraged her to standing, draping her arm over his shoulder, and began to help her back to the King's quarters. Before they had reached the stairs, Phoebe was there on her other side, arm drawn across her back to help. "I'm so sorry, madam! I didn't know you were poorly. I would have—"

"It's okay, Pheobe. Don't stress. I just need to lie down…"

She hadn't seen the king all afternoon and figured it was better that he wasn't seeing her in that state. He'd probably change his mind about her altogether if he saw her like that. If she wasn't healthy, what good was she to him? She inhaled sharply through clenched teeth when a spasm wracked her organs.

"Should we fetch a doctor?" Her father said.

"I just need to lie down. Please."

Y/n was brought to the king's bed and propped against the pillows when she noticed her mother, sisters, and Niall standing in the doorway watching. She didn't want an audience. She wanted to rest and needed the pain to go away.

Phoebe pulled at the blankets as she tried to make the bed more comfortable, and Y/n groaned. "Please… I just need rest. I'm not dying." Although she felt like she was.

"Yes. Of course. We'll leave you be. But we will be fetching a doctor whether you like it or not."

Y/n closed her eyes and rolled to her side as her father and Phoebe finally left the room. She groaned quietly and hugged herself around her stomach. She wondered if she'd eaten something bad. Or perhaps God was finally punishing her for her lustful thoughts and behavior.

Making herself into a ball, she clenched her teeth and felt something wet on her leg. She paused and slowly she reached down, bringing her hand under her chemise to feel, and when she lifted her hand in front of her face, she hadn't expected to see blood.

Blood coming from… there?

She pushed herself up to sit and pulled at her skirt. More blood. "Am I with my monthly sickness?" she whispered.

It had been some months since she'd bled at all, so to suddenly see blood… Well, it explained the pain she was feeling, though it'd never ached like that before. Hissing in pain, she bent forward and closed her eyes. At least now she knew she wasn't going to die.

. .

Y/n startled when the door to her chambers was suddenly pushed open, and in stepped a vexed-looking Harry. "Are you okay? I was told you've fallen ill."

"I'm not ill. Not in the sense that I'm sick with something I've caught. It's my…" She glanced away and sighed before looking him back in the eye. "Lunation."

"Lunation," he said the word slowly as he stood there, blinking at her. If she'd ever seen a confused man before, he was it. She nearly laughed at the expression on his face. To see the king look at her like that… Well, it wasn't something she felt she'd be seeing often. Had no one told him? She'd assumed everyone in the castle was talking about it by now.

"I'm having my menses."

"Oh! Yes. I see..." He stepped in closer next to her bed. "But why must you be here? I thought I'd find you in my room."

Y/n pressed her hands into the top of the bedding she sat upon. "Special mattress. They put this over the bigger one underneath. To catch my blood. I didn't think you'd want me next to you while I'm… well…"

Harry pushed his hand over the thin, smaller mattress and nodded. "Is it comfortable. Feels stiff."

"Nicer than anything I used to sleep on. I'm perplexed that this is meant for me to bleed on, and then it gets burned after. I'd have loved to have had this mattress at one time."

"Is it always like this for you? Your menses?"

Y/n leaned back and placed her hands over her stomach. "No. I haven't bled in some time. It was never on schedule anyway. The doctor said I must have been malnourished, and now that I'm eating well, my body is… revitalising was the word he used. He did come with tea and some medicine, and I feel much better now, though. He said I'll be fine."

She heard him push out a breath, like he'd been holding it in. "I've got something for you…"

He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out the lovely brooch that had been taken from her. She smiled and sat up. "I'm so glad it's not been lost for good. It's so beautiful."

Harry reached for her hand and placed the golden breastpin into her palm. "Virgil will not be coming around here again. His invitation to the wedding has been revoked. My Proctor is working on having his title stripped."

"Thank you for getting it back for me. I realize my presence here is an incumbrance. To you and to everyone who cares about the crown. I can see I'm not well-liked in this castle."

Harry furrowed his brow and trailed his eyes over her figure. "Who else has been rude with you?"

"Besides you?" She tucked her lips into her mouth and watched his expression fall.

"My rudeness was meant to be a test of your resolve. Have I not amended myself to you?"

"Little by little, I suppose. I can't expect you to dote on me like a man burning with desire when you have none for me."

"I may not express my desires plainly, but I would not have you here if I didn't want you here. Perhaps it's not evident to you, my motivations, but you have been a surprise to me. A pleasant one. One that I intend on keeping for good."

Y/n had only been teasing at first, but his tiny confession was consoling to her. She knew there was a small flame burning between them, but his visage was not an easy one to see through.

"You chose me to anger the kingdom and to produce an heir. Are you saying now that there's more to it than just that?"

He clenched his jaw and slid his irises down to her bare feet. "It is true that was my initial purpose with you. But as I said, you've been a surprise to me."

She looked down at her feet as he ran the pad of his finger over her ankle and then upward to her shin, stopping at the bottom hem of her chemise. She swallowed as she looked back up to his face at his lips. The lips she'd kissed just the morning before. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about how it felt. It left such a warm, lingering sensation on her skin that she was sure she'd never be without it again.

Harry sat down at the edge of the mattress, his hand still on her shin, before he drew his fingers back down to her ankle. He'd been so worried about her at first. His assistant, Fred, told him she'd nearly fainted at dinner and had to be brought to bed, and something about a doctor. He probably should have waited to hear the rest, but his legs were carrying him quickly up to his room to get to her before he could even think about what he was doing.

When he didn't find her in his room, he dashed back into the hallway like a madman to the Rose Room, to her quarters. His heart had been racing, and he was already thinking the worst. Until he saw her propped against her feather pillows with her pretty eyes aimed wide at his intrusion.

The truth was, his mind had been in a fog since he'd kissed her. He wasn't a man who kissed his conquests typically. He found kissing to be a waste when his only intention was usually to get himself off. But Y/n's mouth was soothing and sweet. He could have let himself kiss her for hours, just savoring the smell of her skin and the tiny licks of her tongue against his. Best of all, her breath wasn't offensive in the least. It was like herbs and warm honey.

He brushed his knuckles against his lips in reverie and pressed his palm over her shin, wrapping his fingers around the underside, and kept his gaze fixed on her. He didn't know what he'd have done if she had been worse off. He was still feeling the waves of calming relief easing his mind now that he'd found her well.

"You've also been a surprise to me. I disliked you at first. Thought you were the devil." She smiled softly, biting her lip and then releasing it.

"I'm still the devil, little mouse. That, you were not wrong about."

She shook her head. "No. You're different with me. If you were still treating me as you had at first, I'd be contemplating running off with Lane."

His brows stitched together tightly, and the ease on his face was gone. "Lane. Is he going to be a problem for us?"

"A problem? He's my friend."

"He's a friend who's smitten with you, and you just said you'd thought of running off with him. Are you also smitten with him?"

Y/n laughed and shook her head. "Heavens no! Never."

Harry did not laugh with her. "But you're close to one another. Has he ever tried to kiss you?"

She stopped chuckling and blinked at the king slowly. Was she to lie to him and say no? Certainly, he wouldn't take it well if she told him the truth. She'd seen him in his jealousy before and wasn't keen on another outburst from him.

Looking down at where he was now clutching her shin, she shook her head no but kept her lips pressed together. She was afraid that if she were to speak the lie, he'd see right through her.

Harry reached toward her chin and tilted her face up. "Look at me when you answer. Have you kissed him?"

She blinked harshly and inhaled through her nose as she shook her head again, but she couldn't lie when she was looking directly at him. "Just… Well… Once. He was drunk, and I only wanted him to stop asking, so I let him, but that was it. I never even thought of him like that… I—"

"Who else have you kissed other than me?"

"My Lord, I—"

"Harry." He interrupted. "In private, you will call me by my given name, unless you plan on running off with another man, then the cold formalities will do. So tell me. How many others have you kissed?"

"No one else. Just you. I can hardly even count Lane, it was gross."

He let go of her chin and stood up, stepping away, his back to her. "And did he do anything else to you? Touch you anywhere he shouldn't?"

"Of course not. You are the only one who's ever touched me where he shouldn't."

Harry turned to look at her. "Where I shouldn't? Are you the maker of the law now? To tell the king, your husband, that he shouldn't touch you?"

"We're not wed yet."

"I could wed you tonight if I so please. Do not forget who I am."

"How could I? You're the devil. Just like you said."

Harry let out an incredulous sigh and shook his head. "You're free to leave if you like. I'm sure you'd prefer Lane over the devil."

She crossed her legs together and sat up, glaring at him. "Your jealousy is risible when the whole kingdom knows of your past exploits. How many women before me did you lie with and kiss, and how many do you still take?"

She wasn't sure she was prepared to hear his answer. She was sure he'd been having his fun and would continue to.

Stepping back toward the bed, he narrowed his eyes at her and placed his palms down on the mattress. "Since you? None. I haven't."

"You didn't return to your room last night. I must assume you were in another woman's bed."

"I was in my office working. I slept there. I have taken no women since you have arrived, and before you, it matters not."

She wanted to believe that he had not been soothing his heathen nature with other women, but a man like Harry, the king, could do as he pleased, and Y/n would have no say in what he did when he was away from her.

"Then why should it matter that a boy once kissed me a long time ago? And I don't think I believe that you've been keeping your fiddle clean either."

He couldn't answer her first question without sounding like a pathetic sap, but he knew the answer was because he was, in fact, jealous. He thought that when he'd kissed her, he had been her first. Harry didn't know why he was feeling so sentimental about a little kiss, but he likened the feeling to someone having poked a sharp pin into his chest. Even her accusation left him stung in pain.

"I might be the devil to you, but your accusations of me are false. I have no interest in anyone else in that way."

"But you could if you wanted. You're the all-powerful king. What's stopping you from rogering any other pretty girl who surely throws herself at your feet? Certainly, it isn't because of me."

Harry stood up, removing his hands from the mattress and stared at her in disbelief. He'd been accused of many things before, but somehow, having Y/n fault him with infidelity when he'd practically been a saint was absurd.

"Would you like me to go off and stick my fork into another woman? I have no interest in doing such a thing, but you seem quite fond of the idea."

She looked away from him. She wasn't sure why he cared or why she was provoking him. "I'm tired. I need rest."

"You didn't answer me earlier. Who else has been rude with you, Y/n? Tell me."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she sighed as she looked back at him. "The governess, the laundress, the dressmaker, some of the maids, the castle steward, the butler's servants, one of the footmen was particularly hateful when I was being dragged away into the cart—"

"Is your lady in waiting also hostile with you?"

She shook her head. "No. Phoebe's very kind. I think of her as a friend. Niall too, he's also very genial. I trust them both equally.

Harry looked down at the floor and worked the bottom part of his jaw from side to side. He hadn't realized that so many of his staff had been cruel to her. He expected some friction, but this? He lifted his gaze back up to hers. "Why haven't you told me?"

"Did you not already imagine I'd be treated with such disdain? No one wants me here in the castle… Well, most don't. I represent everything they hate."

"I suppose I was mistaken in thinking that even if they disliked you, they wouldn't outright scorn you. Even the governess?" He shook his head and placed his hand on the wooden poster of the bed.

"I've tried everything with her. I meet with her on time for every class. I'm polite, quiet, and I always practice what she's shown me. But I've come to accept that she thinks she's wasting her time with me… that I'm not worth the trouble. She never looks at me. Only speaks with her back turned, and then half the class acts like I don't exist. Most of the hour is spent looking at a wall while she reads. One time, I arrived early and she wasn't there. When she finally stepped into the room, it was half past and she never once looked at me or spoke, even when I asked her what she'd be teaching me that day."

"Do not indulge her anymore. You needn't put yourself through that kind of turmoil for a class that teaches useless politesse."

"I won't. I told her today that I wouldn't return."

"Good. And how are your parents faring?"

Y/n smiled, confused and a little astounded by the sudden change of subject as well as the shift in his mood. "They are very happy. I think they, too, are treated poorly, but they ignore it because they're so strong-headed. The beds and the food are quite enough to keep their mouths shut about ill treatment."

She watched as he traced his fingers over the thin stuffed mattress she sat on. "As soon as you are given your title, anyone who treats your family badly will be punished for it."

Y/n nodded and looked down at the brooch in her hand, running her thumb along the engraving. The small thing was heavier than it looked. She was glad to have it back, mostly so that it wasn't lost. She knew it meant a lot to Harry because it was once his mother's.

"She didn't have a chance to wear it but a handful of times," he said, looking at the breastpin. "They were going to bury it with her, but I stole it." He smiled at the memory as he traced his finger along the edge of the blanket near her thigh. "It was sitting in a tin tray with her other valuable jewels, and after I took it, my father tore the castle apart to try and find it. No one ever suspected it was me. Had hidden it for many years, then took it with me to war. No one ever knew."

Y/n looked up at him. She wasn't surprised that he'd stolen it as a child, and somehow it made him seem so much more human. He was just a small boy when he lost his mother. He deserved to have a piece of her to take with him.

"So you've always had a rebellious heart."

He licked his lips and looked down at her. "Yes. I suppose I have."

"Do you miss her?"

Stress lines carved into his forehead. "Not anymore. I still think of her, though. Fond memories… I came to terms with all that a long time ago."

"You're a very strong person."

"Strong? Maybe. Most everything is a farce, Y/n. I prefer the appearance of stoicism, so that's what I allow everyone to see. It's better to keep emotion out of reach."

"Does that mean you don't allow yourself to feel sad or happy?"

"I don't allow others to see it. That does not mean I don't feel those things. I do, however, prefer to remain rational. I let logic rule, not my emotions."

"But you are making significant changes by rejecting convention. You are causing tumult in the kingdom, and people are outraged. How is it that you are ruling by logic when you've created such a stir amongst the people?"

Harry sighed and sat down next to her, his eyes reaching from her face down to the brooch in her hand. "Do you believe that my actions speak of a man governed by his irrational feelings?"

"Some people think you're acting rashly. But to me, I find your plight noble. The poors are always overlooked. We fend for ourselves the best we can, but now to have the king on our side feels like our voice has finally been heard. Emotional or rational thinking, I don't know. But it's not without good virtue or mindful discernment."

"Mindful discernment." He smiled as he returned his gaze to hers. "I suppose I do have a soft spot for the undervalued among us. Even if it began as a means to an end."

Y/n let the words sink into her pores. She knew all along that he chose her to upset people. She wasn't delusive. Even if he'd started being nicer on occasion, she was still but a means to an end for him. But he was also a means to an end for her as well. She and her family could live comfortably, well fed, well rested, safe… Maybe true love had not been meant for her like she once imagined.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you saw me that day. Otherwise, I'd just be another undervalued, begging strangers for any kindness. At least I have a comfortable bed to lie down in." Yn laughed and closed her fingers around the brooch. "My mother thinks you courted me. I don't know why she'd believe a king would be interested in a street beggar, but I won't correct her. She still believes in true love and fate and all that. Don't have the heart to tell her how it happened. That you selected me out of convenience. A means to an end, if you will."

Harry's brows pulled together. "Is that what you think? That this is all just a show?"

"Is it not?"

"You will be crowned Queen, and you will be my wife, with whom I will produce an heir. That is not a show."

"Maybe not a show. But you said it yourself, a means to an end."

"What were you expecting, Y/n? Love at first sight? Anyone I would have selected would have been the same. But I did not anticipate to find you so alluring. I've grown very fond of you in these weeks."

She swallowed as her skin burned hot. It was most infuriating to her that he could sway her emotions so rapidly. In one beat, she was a disappointing burden, and yet in another, she was fond and alluring.

Even as she sat there, the thin fabric of her chemise covering most of her skin, while she bled into the mattress below her, he meant his words just the same. She was more beautiful and captivating by the day. Lifting his hand up to the curve of her jaw, he let his pupils wander over the features of her face, and he could tell she was nervous.

"What is it, mouse?" he asked in a soft timbre.

She blinked her eyes and looked back up at him, her mouth parted as she paused for a moment to let her irises mesh with his. "Sometimes you're confusing to me. I don't know how to feel when you speak about me. I know you don't love me. I never expected that from you. But I don't think I imagined you'd find me alluring either. Especially right now while I'm painting the mattress under me in red."

He slid his thumb over her cheekbone as he pushed out a breathy laugh.

"Is what I said laughable to you?" she asked, her brow raised.

He grinned. "Yes, your words amuse me. You're quick-witted. Do you think that because you're having your mensus that I would recoil in disgust?"

She nodded. "Yes, in fact. Even my father is repulsed, and he loves me."

Harry shook his head, and she watched his gaze drag down to her bare ankles and then back up to her face. It was almost lewd the way he so brazenly wiped his sight over her frame the way he had. She might as well have been lying there naked.

"I'm not squeamish by a little blood, Y/n. I've sewn limbs and gashed wounds together. I've used my bare hands to stop the bleeding of maimed soldiers more times than I care to count. I saw the most ghastly things when I was leading our royal army not that long ago. Your mensus does not unnerve me in the slightest."

"I see. But even still, it isn't desirable. You cannot tell me you find me alluring in this moment."

"And why not? You are not less beautiful or mouthy because of it. It does not deter my fondness." He grinned.

She had a hard time believing him. But why would he lie to her? He had no reason to try and make her feel better about herself because either way, she wasn't going anywhere.

"Even when I offered myself to you the morning before, you didn't want me, and I wasn't yet bleeding. How can you say these things to me now?"

Harry shifted, his knee pushed into her thigh as he took her face in his hands. "What are you on about? I made it clear my feelings about that. And then I kissed you. Do you not remember any of it?"

Her lashes fluttered as she tried to maintain calm. Of course, she remembered it all. Word for word. And then the kiss… Every brush of his lips and tongue, the way her body washed in heat every time she relived the kiss in her mind. It had changed a part of her, so of course, she hadn't forgotten.

"I remember."

He nodded and let go of her cheeks. She remembered, but did she remember it the way he did? Had he been alone in the way his heart pounded wildly behind his chest, in the way his fingertips burned, and his blood simmered… The way he was breathless when he finally pulled away? For that had never happened to him before, and it marked him so violently that he couldn't think straight all night.

And it had just been a kiss. Was he a fool to let the feel of her warm mouth against his take up so much space in his chest as he had? Even then, he'd wanted to kiss her again to revel in the sensation.

"I can't stop thinking about it. The kiss…" she confessed.

He looked back up at her face, relieved at her words but stricken by his shameful inner thoughts. He couldn't help but feel a kindred madness working its way through his veins.

"Nor can I," Harry replied quietly, almost reluctantly, like an admission passed between the cracks of armour. “The kiss, I can still feel it sitting on my lips.”

His thumb skimmed her bottom lip, light as breath, his eyes fixed there. "The moment I felt your mouth on mine, I knew it was something that would stay with me.” He paused. “And I found myself imagining it over and over.”

Y/n sat still, afraid to breathe too loudly, her heart fluttering rapidly like a mouse, the pulse pumping in her neck.

Harry’s voice dropped lower. “It lingers. The feeling of you. I wasn't prepared to let it sink me to the depths.”

She shivered, her nerves causing her skin to prick, as his words lay gently over her heart. "But you left so quickly after and didn't return to me last night. I know you said you were working, but you made your choice to keep away from me."

“Because I didn’t trust myself last night.” His hand slid to the side of her neck, his thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of her throat. “You offered yourself to me, and I was feeling reckless things. I have spent a lifetime reining in heedless actions. Staying away was best for us both.”

She boldly slid her shaky hand against his leg as his gaze lifted sharply to hers. He hadn't expected it, and in that brief moment, a recognition passed between them; they were two people, human and flawed, no different than the other. Their outward status meant nothing in those seconds that ticked by.

He leaned forward slowly, his nose brushing against hers. “You drive me mad.”

She smiled gently, their lips nearly touching. “You deserve it.”

That earned a brief breath of a laugh from him, more air than sound. And then, before reason could interrupt, before obligation, or her own festering doubts could rise to interfere, Harry kissed her.

It was not like the first time. This one felt impatient, a test of sanity or madness, a sating of curiosity. It was filled with a slow ache that had been building since their first clash of wills. His mouth moved over hers with devastating precision until she pressed her tongue to his, and the precision turned into a starved pace, as though every second he didn’t kiss her was one he could no longer justify.

Y/n’s fingers crept up his hard, solid chest, curling into the soft linen of his shirt as she responded, matching his hunger with a keenness of her own. Her body ached with a desperate need to be touched, to know she mattered to him.

And Harry touched her like she did matter. As if the truth he couldn’t yet speak was being carved into the space between them. His lips opened and closed around hers, his fingers slid gently up her spine to the back of her neck as she moaned into his mouth.

A harsh knock on the door startled them. The king slowly parted from her and turned toward the door. "Who's there?"

Y/n sat forward to watch the door open, and in stepped Harry's assistant, hands clasped behind his back, head lowered. "Your majesty. Forgive my intrusion, but your presence is requested. The Lord Mayor and His Grace, Duke Hughes are here to settle a dispute."

"Send them away. It's far too late to be resolving conflicts, and I have nothing more to say to the Lord Mayor today."

The man nodded shallowly as he kept his eyes turned to the floor. "He said that if you refuse to meet with him, he will report you for theft, assault, and trespassing."

Harry laughed and ran a finger under his nose. "That spineless worm. Fine. Tell him to make himself comfortable in the drawing room. I'll come find him soon."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Fred said as he closed the door behind himself.

Harry moved his hand from hers and fixed his gaze on her pretty eyes. “You should rest.”

“I won’t be able to,” she murmured. “Not after that.”

“After the kiss or the intrusion?"

She smiled shyly and looked down at her lap. "The kiss."

Harry nudged her chin upward to look at him. "Then think of it as a dream.”

She looked at him as he pulled away, her voice barely above a hush. “Did you feel reckless again?”

His soft green eyes scanned hers for a quiet moment. Then, with a final kiss to her brow, he answered, “Maybe.”

With that, he stood, smoothing the front of his waistcoat, his mask of control slowly knitting itself back over his face — but not before she caught the softness still lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“I'll be around to check on you, but I'd better find you fast asleep when I return. And I’ll see to the governess tomorrow.”

He made for the door, and just before exiting, he glanced over his shoulder with a glint of something playful in his eyes. “Rest, little mouse. The devil’s watching over you tonight.”

She pushed a breathy laugh from her lips and watched the edge of his mouth turn upward before he left her alone in her room. The silence around her felt stiff and accusatory, but she quelled the burgeoning shame and guilt that started to rise up in her. Y/n was done with needless worrying about wanting to kiss a handsome man who would soon be her husband. She touched her lips softly, the feel of his mouth engraved on hers.

Perhaps he was the devil but she was beginning to see that maybe the devil wasn't as bad as everyone had said.

. .

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[wild-rise]

All of It <3

MDNI 18+

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x F!Reader

Summary: After years of pining and obsessing over you Daryl finally works up the courage to tell you how he feels.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Language, P in V, Fingering, Oral (F! Receiving), Size kink if you squint  

*Knock Knock*

No answer.  

*Knock Knock*

Not a single sound.

You slowly turn the doorknob into Daryl’s room and invite yourself in like it’s your second home. Walking in you hear the shower running in the bathroom, no matter. You walk through his living space observing whatever projects he has scattered across his work bench and…. *thump*. Two paws are suddenly on your back and a snout dug into your side.

“Hey Dog, my sweet boy whatcha doin!” You say excitedly to the furry companion Daryl has grown attached to over the years. You head to the couch and cuddle with Dog waiting on Daryl to finish his shower leaning your head back and enjoying the mundane moment.

Soon the water shuts off and the familiar rummaging of drawers and doors opening and closing fill the room. Daryl emerges sliding down the rest of his shirt

 “Make sure to get behind the ears?” you tease him, and he looks over to you with his half smile “No, the water gets back there anyway so it’s fine, you ready to go?” he says reaching for his vest. “I hope you’re joking right? You know you have to actually scrub back there, right? I mean all that hair on your head things could be living back there Daryl you really chancing that in this day and age?” you continue badgering him till you’re outside getting on his bike.

 “Clearly I scrub behind my ears damn ya think I’m that dirty?” Daryl says shaking his head at you as he throws his leg over the bike.

“I can honestly say I haven’t had the pleasure of finding out how dirty you are Dixon.” You tease him with a smirk on your face, he turns around to spare you a glance and you give him a wink. “Stop it weirdo” his cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink as he looks forward and gets you both on your way.

Every morning it was like this the two of you would go out for a hunt and scout the woods around the community trying to find whatever supplies you could for the people back home. This was the best part of your day being able to spend time out in your element while also spending time with Daryl. Life felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

“Whatta ya thinkin?” Daryl asks as you both track through the woods following the game you shot down. “Just how much I enjoy this, being out here, being able to provide and help out, being with you.” Daryl stops and stares at you like you just told him your biggest secret. “What? It’s true, this is the best part of my day, and I get to spend it with you making it even better.” You try explaining the simplicity of what you said while trying to decipher the puzzled look plastered on Daryl’s face. “Why are you looking at me like that??”  you say trying to figure out what the hell he’s thinking now.

Out of nowhere Daryl’s in your space bringing his hands up to cup your face as he leans down and kisses you. At first your eyes are open in shock but as the moment progresses your lids close and you start kissing back. The kiss is slow and passionate but becomes hot and needy as Daryl slides his tongue across your bottom lip begging for entry. You happily oblige and a small whimper leaves your mouth as your tongues tangle together. You both pull away trying to catch your breath feeling dizzy. Daryl looks down at you “I’m sorry I just I dunno I, you were…. *Sigh*… I like you. You’re the best part of my day.” A smile breaks out across your face at his confession and your heart flutters. “I like you too.” You lean up to give him a chaste kiss before breaking the contact completely as much as you didn’t want to “c’mon we’re gonna lose that pig to some walkers if you don’t keep it in your pants.” You laugh as you walk ahead.

“And then he kissed me!” you hide your face in your palms to try and make the red go away.

“He kissed you AND said he liked you? When’s the wedding?” Carol says chuckling at your bashfulness.

“I’m serious I really like him but he’s my best friend I don’t want to screw it up.”

“You won’t” Carol reassures you and pats your back. “You will regret it though if you don’t even give yourself a chance to explore what this could be and every moment counts so quite worrying, get up and go find Daryl.” Her pats have now turned to light shoves as she pushes you in the direction of his house. “Okay! Okay! I’m going but if this goes wrong just remember you have to deal with me a lot more!” you shout down the street at her “I’ll take my chances!” she yells back smiling at you.

Here you were again

*Knock Kn-

The door swings open and Darryl is standing in front of you in only his jeans while shaking a towel on his head trying to dry his hair. Without even saying a word he moves aside to let you in, and you fall onto the couch letting out a dramatic sigh. “What a day huh?” you stare up at the ceiling trying to avoid staring at Daryl's naked torso, the perfect contour of his muscles that travel all the way to his massive...

“Hey, did ya hear me?” Daryl says snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Huh? What? Yeah, of course you we’re saying something about that thing for the other thing.” You tried to play it off but lying has never been your strong suit and he just lets out a sigh.

Daryl walks over to the couch and lifts your legs to sit down and brings them back up to rest over his lap looking at the ceiling now too. “You gonna be weird now?” your gaze drifts down to look at him and he’s already looking at you. “I’m not being weird I was just thinking.” Your eyes betray you as they fall to Daryl's lips, scanning his chest following his happy trail to the top of his jeans

 “Ya just did it again! Ya know if this thang right here is gonna work, ya can’t just use me for my body.” Daryl jokes as he motions between the two of you. “What are you even going on about right now? I wasn’t even looking at you my god Daryl!” the embarrassment evident in your voice. “You were totally checking me out.” He says as his hands graze up your leg and he begins to tower over you. “So, what if I was?” your voice barley above a whisper as you’re both face to face with one another. “Like I said sweetheart, you can’t just use me for my body. I have feelings ya know.” Your cheeks are now beat red and there’s nowhere to hide from his teasing.

“Stop being an ass. I clearly like you for you dummy.” You bring up your arms to his chest in a sad excuse to try and push him off you, but he just laughs and holds your hands putting them above your head and intertwining your fingers in his. “I know I just like to see you get red as a damn tomato it’s cute.” His eyes were filled with playfulness trying to get any reaction out of you that he could as he chuckled at your embarrassed state. Suddenly you lean up and kiss Daryl, making the laughs quite down and now his face is just as red as yours. “Now who’s a tomato?” you let out your own light chuckle now and lean up to do it again and again and again till Daryl is hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “Who knew a couple kisses would take you down.” you smile. Daryl picks his head up to look at you. “Who’s being the ass now?” he locks his eyes in on you again.

“At least I’m not a tomato”

“I’d rather be a tomato than an ass”

“Yeah, that does seem to be the better option.” You say giggling together now. Daryl’s gaze intensifies as he keeps staring from your eyes to your lips like he’s conflicted on the next move to make. Finally, he dips his head down and lightly kisses you again gently moving his lips across yours. You squeeze his hands as the kiss deepens and out of instinct you roll your hips up to meet with Daryl’s earning a soft moan from his chest.

 “Ya really want this. All of it?” You know what he means. Daryl hasn’t always been the best person with the best past and he often feels he isn’t worthy of much, especially you. You’re perfect for him, everything about you makes his heart ache. From the first day Daryl met you at the quarry, he knew he was a goner, but the feeling of inadequacy kept him from pursuing you as anything other than a friend. “Yeah, I do. I’m all in Dixon. You’re stuck with me now.”

“You’ve been stuck with me from the start doll.” Daryl leans back down to capture your lips with his and the rolling of your hips starts again. He slowly moves down your jawline and neck finding that sweet spot that has you moaning out his name. He untangles your hands, bringing his down to caress the curves of your body until he’s tugging at the hem of your shirt.

 You both lean up as he takes it off throwing it on his floor and continuing to kiss you with every ounce of passion he has while he skillfully removes your bra with one hand. You break the kiss “Ah impressive, thought you’d fumble with that for a minute.”  You giggle again. God, he loves the sound it just encourages him to see how many other sounds he’s able to pull out of you. “Pretty good with my hands doll.” He says leaning you both down and he gives another kiss on the lips before he’s moving down your body following the valley of your breast making sure to pay attention to each of your pebbled nipples. He latches onto one and lightly pinches the other between his fingers.

The sound of you moaning his name becoming a drug for him as he moves down further leaving kisses on your hip bones and tummy above your jeans. Taking them off gently followed by your panties Daryl is face to face with your dripping core. He can’t stop staring at the sight until his eyes flicker up at you trying to close your legs on him. “You’re a tomato again.” He laughs at you “Well you’re starring what do you expect!” you huff out in defeat “Just relax baby ima make you feel good promise.” He says as he spreads your legs holding them open by wrapping his large arms around your thighs.

“Ah fuck Daryl” you moan as he licks right through your sopping slit and circles his tongue around your clit. Damit, he knew now he could never go another day without tasting you for the rest of his life. After that Daryl dove in eating like it was his last meal on earth you were the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. You were so wet, and he was so messy making it the perfect combination for urging the tight feeling in your tummy to snap. “I’m gonna ah, fuc- Daryl, close ugh I’m so close please please don’t stop fuck!”  Your begging and whining go straight to his cock straining on the confines of his jeans. Focusing on sucking in your clit he unwraps one of your legs and brings his hand to your core. Giving you a single finger has you arching your back and begging him for a release. “Daryl fuck please baby please.” You’re barely holding on “Let go ma it’s okay. I got you c’mon give it to me.”  After his words of encouragement and returning to his assault on your clit the band in your belly finally snaps and Daryl is lapping up every last drop you have to give.

 He keeps going and your hands tangle in his hair trying to push his head away from the overstimulation. He finally lets up and crashes his lips into you in a hungry kiss letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Daryl stands up undoing his belt making the anticipation run straight to your core. Removing his jeans and boxers his cock springs free his red angry tip leaking precum slapping against his abs. He’s so fucking big. Honestly you weren’t sure what to expect but now you have a tinge of nervousness attempting to figure out how he'll fit inside you.

 “Don’t worry sweetheart I’ll go slow, okay?” as if he senses your uneasiness, he crawls back on top of you giving you another loving kiss. You start to push his chest, and he lifts his head confused.

 “Lay back.” You whisper against his lips and Daryl sits back against the couch his legs spread out. You get up swinging a leg over straddling his lap with his cock nestled between the two of you.

“Don’t hurt yourself doll whatta doin?” he says as you start aligning his cock with you dripping entrance.

“You’ve been doing all the work let me make you feel good too.”  He looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes. With your hands gripping his shoulders you slowly start taking in his cock inch by inch with tears forming in your eyes as you finally reach the bottom. He stops you from moving by wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush to his chest allowing you to adjust to his size. You both stay holding each other his cock twitching against your walls.

 “As much as it turns me on with you cryin over my cock like that I waited too long for this. Don’t worry about me let me make you feel good baby.”  Daryl brings you back down to the couch and slowly starts rocking his hips into you with your legs wrapped around his waist. “Fuck you feel so fuckin good doll. Never gonna let you go fuck. You’re so fucking perfect, fucking beautiful, god damnit.” Daryl continues to praise you as his pace becomes faster and his strokes start getting deeper. You’re moaning and crying out his name like a mantra you’ve never felt so much pleasure before. The added love and adoration he was pouring into you only fueled the satisfaction.

 He keeps hitting that deep spot in your body just right and it has you teetering on the edge again begging for him to keep going. You cry out as he lifts your legs over his shoulders, hitting deeper than before. “Taking me so damn good doll, doing s-so fuckin good” He stutters as his hips move fast chasing both your highs. He reaches his hand down to rub fast tight circles against your clit pushing you over the edge. “Cum- Im cumm- Daryl fuck!”

“Cum on me baby c’mon, show me it’s all yours mmake a – fuck, mess on me swee-god damnit- theart.” Your release triggers Darryl’s, with his hips stuttering and hot ropes of his cum filling you up to the brim. He rides both of your highs out till his hips stop and he collapses onto of you but holding his weight to keep from crushing you. Both of you are panting like you’ve just finished running a marathon.  Daryl rolls over, dragging you on top of him holding you in his arms like if he lets go, you’d disappear. Both of your faces are hidden in each other’s necks.

“I love you. I always have and I always will. It’s okay if you don’t but I just wanted ta let ya know that I love you so god damn much.” Daryl breaks the silence with his confession and tears spring to your eyes again and you bring your hands up to lift his face seeing him eye to eye.

“I love you too Daryl.” Your voice sounds so soft and sweet to his ears and hearing you say those words sends his heart thumping in his ears. “You’re still the tomato if you’re wondering” you say with a little smirk playing on your lips. “Okay ass.” he says, making you both laugh.

 After cleaning up and settling into bed you drifted off to sleep curled into Daryl's chest as he lightly played with your hair while Dog slept by your feet. Daryl smiled to himself and kissed the top of your head thinking of all the moments to come that would be just like this one.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Seeking Salvation

Label Mature 18+

Summary spiritually broken, lost, and living in a world turning to chaos, you seek refuge at Peak Ranch, where the charismatic cult leader Vernon Jefferson Peak takes you as his chosen one, stripping you to your core to rebuild you as his own.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut ❤️‍🔥 Cult leader x curious girl •temptation• ulterior motives• brainwashing • persona splitting • chosen one •isolation • indoctrination• celibacy •sacred union • body worship • talks you though it •nipple play•clit play• fingering • stretch fingering • simultaneous stimulation • multiple orgasm denials• squirting• p in v • lotus pose • devine orgasm • cream pie •after care

📖 Proof readers / plot consultants @peggyao3 @eternal-love ✨ Inspo multiple DMs comments & requests, nine seconds of a trailer clip.

Seeking Salvation

You were never one to follow blindly. Restless, curious, always chasing something just out of reach, that was you.

You lived in a place where everyone had a plan for you, their voices a chorus of shoulds and musts that drowned out your own.

You were always, too defiant and sharp-witted with a heart guarded just enough to survive, and when the weight of their expectations pressed in, you left.

You left in search of your purpose, your meaning in life, only to discover the world was just a bigger cage, lined with obligations and responsibilities.

You sought solace online, scrolling through endless social media content seeking something that resonated in a sea of voices. 

That’s where you first found Vernon Jefferson Peak. 

His words were clipped from a speech about  freedom, rebirth, shedding expectations. It hit like arrows, piercing the armor you’d built.

You’d watch his videos late at night, your phone glowing in the dark, his voice a quiet storm that stirred something deep. 

He wasn’t like the others, peddling quick fixes or hollow promises. He spoke like he saw you, like he knew the ache you couldn’t name.

In those clips, he was striking, his messy blonde hair, and handsome features expressing so passionately, but it was his eyes that drew you in. Blue and intense, like they could see right through the lies. 

You’d pause the screen staring a him, wondering what it’d be like to feel that gaze in person.

You weren’t a follower, not yet, just curious, drawn in to the way he seemed to be both dangerous and divine, a paradox wrapped in white shirts and casual suits. 

Your curiosity led you to one of his gatherings, a makeshift auditorium filled with restless bodies. The world outside was unraveling, masks, lockdowns, fear, but here Vernon Jefferson Peak was a beacon, a voice in the chaos of uncertainty.

As you gather among a sea of countless others you feel your pulse quicken with anticipation, a spark of something raw and real, like you’re teetering on the brink of revelation. 

You linger at the back, your fingers pulling at the edges of your sleeves, caught between curiosity and unease, as your heart races with the promise of finally seeing those blue eyes in person.

You’re not here to become one of his followers, you just want to see him, to know if the man matches the myth.

The stage is bare worn wood, with an orange and yellow backdrop spreading like rays of sun, with a single spotlight that seems to bend toward him, as if even the light can’t resist.

As Vernon steps forward, the crowd goes still. His sandy blonde hair is messy and long, falling to his nape in soft, defiant waves.

His blue eyes are a paradox, calm yet searing, like a sky hiding a storm, his full lips and strong jaw framing a face that feels both angelic and dangerous.

His white shirt beneath his matching blazer hangs loose, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of ink, the edges of wings expanding across his chest.

At the hollow of his throat, a small tattooed happy face stares out, jarring in its simplicity against the intensity of him.  He is untamed, physical perfection to behold, but it’s the impact of his aura, that truly holds your captivation.

“The world teaches you fear,” Vernon says, his voice a low, velvet cadence that weaves through the air like whispered truth. “Your leaders teach you guilt.” He steps to the stage’s edge, peering out. “Your body is uncertain, weary, carrying the weight of those expectations. Your pain is not a coincidence. We are not a coincidence.”

His blue eyes find yours immediately in the crowd. Not wandering, not by chance, they find you pinning you in place, and you’re unable to look away.

In that moment, you feel seen, not your face, not your clothes, but the raw, hidden truth beneath your skin. The truth you’ve spent years burying.

You find him just after the crowd has started to disperse. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, tall and still, his white shirt open at the collar beneath his white blazer. He’s mesmerizing, not just in how he looks, but in how he commands the space around him.

His gaze meets yours and he doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes… they admire you. Not in a way that feels performative or polite but in a way that feels deep, private, like he’s seeing something you didn’t even know was there.

You hesitate before you step closer. “I wasn’t sure if I should come over,” you admit, your voice low, uncertain. “But I wanted to thank you, the things you teach really resonate with me.”

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head just slightly. “I know the look in your eyes.” He confirms his expression shifting still unreadable, but slightly softer. “You’ve been living in pieces, haven’t you? Never fully allowed to be whole.”

The words strike you deeper than they should and your eyes widen.

“I don’t know how you…” you trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the way his voice touches places inside you that no one else ever has.

He steps closer, his presence quiet but absolute. “You don’t need to explain,” he says gently his eyes lowering to your heart. “You just need to explore what’s already there… what’s been aching to be found.”

He looks back up and your eyes lock, his stare is calm, unwavering… hypnotic, reaching into you with nothing but his presence.

He leans in slightly just near your ear, his voice low and intimate. “Come to Peak Ranch,” he says, and as he pulls back, something inside of you opens without resistance, like a silent agreement has already been made.

You don’t intend to follow him, not really, but you know the invitation to join him at Peak Ranch is always there, lingering, waiting and all you have to do is ask. 

The weeks blur as the world outside becomes sharper, crueler. Lockdowns begin, news flashes scream mandates, pandemics, hoarders empty shelves, offices shutter, schools close, and hospitals overflow.

It feels like doomsday the way panic spreads so widely, and as the fear of the unknown seeps in and the world is thrown into chaos, you finally choose to seek the solace in the haven Vernon promised.

Peak Ranch is a sanctuary sprawled across wildflower fields, with open skies, and wooden cabins, a valley of abundance hidden in the middle of nowhere. 

His followers move with purpose, tending gardens, building structures, their faces lit with something you can’t quite name…devotion… or maybe even fulfillment.

You plan to stay here, hidden from the chaos of the outside world for as long as you can, even though you don’t know how long that will be.

As the days weave into weeks , Peak ranch finds you.

You savor the simple structure, rising with the sun, sharing meals, tending the earth.

You lie in the grass midday, the blades tickling your skin, the sky above endless and free, a stark contrast to the cage of the city. 

You swim in the hot springs and lake, the pure water washing away the weight of fear, each ripple a retreat from the world’s clamor.

Here, time slows, and you breathe easier, as if the ranch itself is a safe haven carved out from the madness you no longer hear beyond.

Vernon is everywhere, a vision in white shirts or casual suits, the fabrics tailored but relaxed, his tattoos teasing at the edges of his collar. Those wings, always half-seen, remain a mystery you can’t quite unravel, their curves a silent promise that pulls at your curiosity.

He holds small sermons daily, often at dawn or dusk, gathering followers under the open sky or beneath a large wooden pavilion.

One evening, as the sun dips low, painting the wildflowers gold, he stands before the group, his blue eyes scanning the crowd as he speaks, and every time they land on you the weight of his gaze feels like a hand resting on your soul. 

“You’ve all been taught to shrink,” he says, his voice a low, velvet tide that washes over you, warm and commanding. “To fold yourselves into shapes that fit the world, to be small, obedient, afraid.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours, “But you’re not small. You’re vast and boundless, waiting to break free to let go of the lies and discover the truth.”

His words hit deep, stirring the restlessness you’ve carried since the ache you felt scrolling his videos. 

He makes you feel exposed, yet alive, like he’s speaking only to you, pulling back layers you didn’t know you had. 

Your fingers curl into the grass where you sit, a flush creeping up your cheeks. You want to believe him, to step into that vastness he sees, and the way he watches you it makes you think he believes it too.

He observes you with quiet patience over the next few days, like a sculptor studying stone, his blue eyes tracing your movements with a veiled intensity. 

One afternoon, as you kneel in the garden, tending rows of blooming herbs, your fingers brushing the soft leaves and rich soil, he approaches. 

His white shirt is loose, the tattooed wings peeking from his chest and his messy blonde hair catches the light like a tarnished halo as he stands over you.

“You nurture life so effortlessly,” he says, his voice low, watching you tend to the plants with care. You stand to face him, brushing dirt from your hands, your pulse quickening under his gaze.

“You’re finding your purpose here,” he says, his voice a velvet current, his blue eyes locking onto yours, like he sees every nervous spark within you.

“Yes,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere… until now.” You admit. His eyes darken, taking in your vulnerability, his lips curving just shy of a smile, like he’s savoring a secret only he knows.

“It’s because you have a higher calling,” he conveys, his voice softer like a sacred vow. “Ive always known and I can see it inside of you just waiting to be awakened.” He confirms, his voice low and reverent.

Your cheeks flush at his words, a warmth spreading through you. His praise makes you feel special, chosen, like your right where you belong. 

You gaze up at him and a soft smile breaks through your usual guardedness. For the first time  you feel a flicker of hope that he’s the one who will finally be able to fix what has been broken all along.

At dusk, as you make your way to your cabin, you spot him sitting barefoot on the edge of his sprawling porch. His sandy blonde hair catching the last rays of the sun, as his blue eyes track your every step across his ranch.

You wonder what goes on in the mind of a man who seems so untouchable by anyone, but the weight of his stare makes your heart race with questions you’re not ready to voice.

The next morning, when he summons you to his study, you can already feel the shift, like a current pulling you under, drawing you somewhere deeper where you won’t return from the same.

His study is austere, steeped in the faint scent of jasmine and sage. His shelves are lined and filled with leather-bound books of philosophy, and ancient texts. 

Handwritten journals lie in uneven stacks on a side table next to novels marked with his name.

The high steepled windows let in slanted light, casting shadows across his large oak desk piled high with books.

The room feels instilled with his presence, every object a piece of his carefully crafted enigma.

He gestures you to sit in a velvet chair, the deep fabric soft under your thighs, and he rests a hip against his large oak desk, staring at you. 

His blue eyes are soft but unyielding, his messy blonde hair falling slightly over his face as he tilts his head to study you.

His voice is smooth and steady as he speaks, each word intentional. “You’re carrying something that’s holding you back,” he finally says, leaning forward, his fingers steepled like a prayer. “What is it?”

Your throat tightens, your hands knotting in your lap, finally forced to face it. “I—I don’t really know how to say it,” you confess.

He tilts his head, the happy face tattoo on his throat shifting with the movement. 

“You don’t have to say it perfectly. Just say it from here.” He reaches out, his fingers pressing your chest, just over your heart. “It’s here, isn’t it? Heavy. Like a stone.”

You swallow, his touch anchoring you as much as it unravels you and his eyes search yours, his fingers pulling back, leaving a warmth that lingers.

Then he waits, expectant, unmoving until finally the silence breaks you.

“I-I’ve always felt… wrong,” you admit, the words forcing their way out. “Like I’m not good enough. Like I’m failing..at my life at whatever I’m supposed to be doing… at even just being me….”

He nods slow and deliberate. “That’s not yours,” he says, his voice a quiet blade. “That’s what was forced upon you. Your shame, your memories, your fears … your pain ……they’re chains.” He says as his finger moves to your temple, faintly making contact. “You were never meant to be who they told you to be. Let me show you who you are beneath this skin.”

Your breath trembles. His words aren’t just words they’re a current, pulling you under. “How do you do that?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He smiles, a flicker of something warm, almost tender. “By letting me take what was once yours.”

You want to ask what he means, but his gaze holds yours, those blue eyes a tide you can’t resist, and the question dissolves. All you can do is nod, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and longing.

The next day when you are moved from your cabin into Vernons main ranch it feels like crossing a threshold, a shift from self discovery into something deeper, more binding.

The ranch is vast, a haven of blooming meadows, and boundless skies, but in the main compound, in Vernon’s inner sanctuary it’s different.

You’re given a room on the second floor near his, simple but intimate with a single window overlooking the valley and a canopy bed draped in white linens.

Living with him brings structure and discipline something that makes you begin to feel both favored and entrapped.

He begins teaching you one-on-one, his philosophies unfolding in private sessions that blur the line between guidance and submission.

He isolates you slowly, praising your unique potential and pulling you from the group, assigning you tasks only to him, organizing his journals, tending to his personal gardens.

“You’re different,” he says, his fingers lingering on your arm as he hands you a book of his notes. “You see in me what others miss.” His praise fills you and makes you crave his approval, and you start to measure your worth by his words.

He controls your environment, limiting outside news, framing the world beyond the ranch as a place of “falsehoods” and “distractions.” “The world wants to keep you in fear,” he says, his voice sharp as he paces the study. “Here, you’re boundless. What do you need from them that you don’t already have?”

You nod, your mind softening, the ranch feels much safer than the chaos you left.

As the weeks wear on, you become devoted, hanging on his every word, his philosophies reshaping your thoughts.

You don’t notice how he’s rewiring you, how your old self, sharp, and skeptical, fades under his gaze.

He starts hinting at a deeper union, his words laced with promise. “To be one with me, is to be initiated, to be broken and remade.” he says on a night where you sit beneath a giant oak, its branches casting shadows in the moonlight, “It is the final step to freedom.” He says as he looks over at you.

Your throat tightens, a mix of awe and fear. “What does it mean… to be broken and remade?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He smiles, slow and knowing, his fingers tracing your jaw. “It means you give me everything, your body, your mind, and your soul.”

You shiver, his words stripping you bare, realizing he doesn’t just want to have you —he wants your very existence. As your eyes meet, his hand slides to your neck, resting there, a gentle claim. “We’ll be together soon,” he says, his voice a hushed vow. “You’ll see what it means to be truly free.”

He chooses your union ceremony to fall on a moonless night. You walk down a long hall toward a black door, the air heavy with wax and rosemary, candles flickering along the floor like fallen stars.

At the end of the hall, you push open the door to reveal a room glowing by candlelight, its walls draped in soft curtains. In the dimness, you make out a full-length mirror standing in the center, and in the reflection, your thin white robe hides the pulse thrumming wildly in your chest.

Vernon enters, barefoot, his white shirt open at the collar, his hair loose and wild, the winged tips on his chest spreading like a promise, the happy face at his throat a quiet taunt.

He steps behind you, his reflection merging with your own, his presence a weight you feel in your soul.

“Tell me who you see,” he says, his voice soft, encouraging.

You stare at the mirror at your own reflection now with his. “I… I don’t know.”

“Name it,” he says, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, grounding you. “What do you feel?”

“I feel changed,” you admit , your voice cracking slightly. “From my former self.”

“Again but claim it,” he whispers, his lips close to your ear, his breath warm.

“I am changed,” you say, the words softer but certain. He nods, his fingers tightening briefly on your shoulders with approval. “Free yourself from your pain,” he says, his voice soft but commanding. “Shame your former self and watch it vanish.”

He steps back to watch, and you pour out every thing into your reflection, all your failures, your rejections, the weight of every expectation you never met. Each word feels raw and painful, but it’s unapologetically true, and as the pain shifts from guilt into release you feel like you can finally breath again.

Vernon watches you fall silent your chest heaving, laid bare, and takes the mirror, his movements graceful and methodical as he pushes it to the floor, shattering it to pieces behind its frame. The sound is jarring in the quiet, and you gasp, your body tensing.

The air becomes heavier with the scent of molten wax, rosemary, and the unfiltered silence of surrender.

The shards of the mirror glint on the floor, a chaotic mosaic reflecting your former self, broken apart to make way for the new.

“Now we can begin,” Vernon says, his voice a low vow.

He approaches you with reverence, his blue eyes locked on yours, unwavering and knowing, as if he’s peering into your very soul.

His fingers find the tie of your robe, undoing it with care, and as he slips it off your shoulders he unveils you as if you are something sacred to him.

When the fabric falls at your feet you shiver standing naked before him, not just from your body but from feeling your very essence laid bare.

He doesn’t touch you, he circles you, his blue eyes tracing your every curve with unrepressed desire.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, the words landing like a truth you’ve never felt before. “Come with me,” he says, extending his hand. “Let me take you where our union will set you free.”

He guides you to the back of the room, parting the curtains to reveal a smaller chamber within.

A woven mat lies encircled by candles, their flames flickering in the intimate setting, and he turns to you as he stands at the edge.

You watch as he reaches for his shirt, unbuttoning the fabric to reveal the full expanse of his tattoos, the wings spreading across his chest, stretching toward his shoulders.

His torso is lean and chiseled, every ridge taut with restrained power, and as his hands move to his waist, his fingers deftly untie the fabric, sliding it down his thighs as your eyes follow the motion.

His body is a revelation, long limbs, golden skin kissed by candlelight, and between his legs, his cock sways with each step, unapologetic, commanding.

Your eyes are drawn to it, the movement hypnotic, a primal pull that makes your thighs press together instinctively.

He is beautiful, not just in form but in the way he inhabits it, every inch radiating a quiet, terrifying power.

He crosses the small distance to you, his gaze never wavering, and he takes your hand. His touch is warm and laced with affectionate. “Come,” he says, his voice a low, a hymn.

He guides you to the mat, easing you down with a gentleness that defies the intensity in his eyes. “This is sacred,” he says, kneeling before you, his hair falling slightly over his face. “This is where we form our union.”

You lie back, your skin prickling against the woven fibers, your heart pounding as he settles above you, and his hands begin their work, trailing down your skin, slow and methodical.

“Your body is a map,” he says, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone. “Every part holds a truth.”

His hands slide lower, palms warm against your chest. “Here,” he says, his fingers pressing gently, “is where you’ve hidden your love.” His hands brush the peaks of your breasts with a reverence that makes you shiver. “You’ve been taught to guard it, but I want it open.” He says.

Your nipples harden under his touch as he circles them, slow and knowing, making a sigh escape your throat. His eyes flick to yours, reading every reaction, every sound, and you feel seen, not just your body, but the raw, aching need deep inside.

He moves lower, his fingers gliding across your stomach, pausing at your navel pressing firmly into a grounding point that makes your core clench

“And here,” he says,” is where you hold your trust.” Your breaths are shallow, your hips shifting instinctively, seeking more, but he holds you in place with a look in his eyes.

His hands slide lower, his fingers pressing into your inner thighs and parting them with a care that feels ceremonial.

Your slickness is evident, your body filled with need for him, and his eyes glint with approval. “You’re already offering yourself to me,” he says, his voice laced with veneration.

His fingers trace your outer folds with featherlight strokes, teasing you in ways that make you sigh with pleasure . “This is your sacred gate,” he says, his voice hushed as he presses a single finger against your clit, holding it still.

The pressure without movement is maddening, and your hips buck, seeking friction as a whimper escapes, but he pins your thigh to the mat, his free hand forcing your surrender.

He holds you in place pressing your clit until your body twitches as you whine for relief, then he slides his finger inside of you, slow and methodical, curling it to stroke against a ridge that makes your hips writhe uncontrollably.

His thrusts are rhythmic, hypnotic, syncing with your breaths. “Feel it more,” he says, adding a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb brushing your clit in slow, alternating circles, the varied stimulation driving you to the brink.

You can’t hold on in your current state, the sensations too powerful, too overwhelming, like a current surging through you, and your body trembles as your thighs shake, your sounds of soft gasps and desperate moans rising like a chant.

You feel yourself slipping away as your consciousness becomes tethered to his touch, his voice, his will.

Your hips surge up against his hand as you whine and just as you reach the edge, your muscles clenching, your breaths hitching, he stops, his fingers stilling inside you cutting off the pleasure flowing through.

A cry tears from your throat, your body twitching, slick and aching, your core screaming for release. “Not yet,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring reveling in your desperation.

“I want you to offer more for me.” He says. The denial is exquisite torture, filling you with such an intense need your hips rock by force, seeking relief, but he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you firmly in place, his control absolute.

You look into his blue eyes, your gaze pleading, begging, and he watches you, unyielding, until your breathing slows, your body calming despite the throbbing ache deep inside.

Then he begins again, slower, pulling his fingers all the way out to circle your clit before dipping them back inside. He does it repeatedly, alternating the depths and speed, until your hips rock against his hand and you plead to him with soft whimpers.

When he pushes in a third finger, it shocks you to your core, the fullness pinning you in place, making you unable to move.

His fingers stretch you wide, shoving in over and over again, his movements precise, scissoring, curling, and driving you to a deeper level of sensation beyond anything you’ve ever known. You choke back sobs as his thumb flicks your clit at unpredictable moments, your moans rising higher and more depraved as your body tries to lift from the mat uncontrollably.

Your moans turn into high, broken whimpers and pleas, that merge together like a desperate prayer. Your need is shameless as he reshapes you, forging you into something raw and divine.

“You’re transcending,” he whispers, his breaths syncing with your own as he pulls his fingers from you again and the emptiness causes a raw sob from your throat so helpless it sounds like it was torn from your soul.

You softly whimper feeling your core throb so painfully, and as a warm slick pools beneath you, your hands clutch the mat as if it could save you.

“Not yet“ he says his blue eyes glinting with approval . “Not until you’ve given yourself completely.”

His denial amplifies your need to a fever pitch, pushing you into a state of heightened awareness where everything feels intensified.

When he positions himself to take you, it is like reverence laced with divinity, a union of body and spirit as he settles above you, his cock heavy and hard, leaking with his desire.

“This is holy,” he says, his voice a low chant, his blue eyes locked on yours. “This is where we become one,”

He pushes into you slowly with shallow thrusts, letting you feel every inch, every pulse and your consciousness struggles to maintain, every thrust into you deeper for his devine claim.

Your breaths are short gasps, each one laced with a soft moan that breaks into a whimper. Every part of you is overstimulated and hyper aware, your pulse thundering as your hips shiver trying to take his thrusts.

“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice steady and calm, guiding you back to him, syncing your rhythms together. His cock nudges your cervix with every stroke, and as your body trembles your core clenches around him, teetering on the brink of release again.

He shifts angles, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, his thrusts precise hitting a spot that makes you see stars on every stroke, and as your walls clench around him on the verge of another orgasm he stops.

“Stay with me,” he demands, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place, and your core throbs around him as your moans fracture into soft needy whimpers.

He thrusts in again alternating rhythms from shallow and quick, to long and deep, his hips slamming against you prolonging your pleasure for as long as he can.

Your sounds spiral, losing coherence, a cascade of breathless cries and choked sobs as you lose yourself entirely, your voice no longer your own but a primal echo of surrender.

Each thrust is a promise and a punishment, building a pressure so intense it feels like you’re consumed by the intensity. Your body trembles uncontrollably, your slick coating your thighs as your sounds merge with his in a symphony of moans and desperate gasps.

Your consciousness fragments into a state of pure sensation, pushed beyond the limits of flesh, your mind lost in a haze of euphoria, of exhaustion, transcending the physical into a realm where pleasure blurs into divinity.

His rhythm shifts, his thumb returning to your clit, and this time he doesn’t stop. “You’re there. Let me take you,” he says, his thumb spiraling on your clit with relentless precision and his thrusts deepen, each one striking your core with devastating accuracy until suddenly you break.

Your orgasm is cataclysmic, an inner-body experience that tears through you, your vision whiting out as your body pulsates, a raw, primal scream ripping from your throat.

It’s more than physical, it’s spiritually binding, you see the light, you see him, his face above you like a deity forged from pleasures you can’t name. He holds you through it, his movements steady, his blue eyes locked on yours, and in that moment, he’s more than a man—he’s a god, and you’re his creation.

Your slickness drenches you both, making every thrust wet and obscene as his cock glides in you with in a rhythm that’s profane.

His abs pull tight, muscles flexing as he holds your leg over his shoulder, his hips thrusting into you so hard, that each plunge drives deeper, claiming you fully, and the sounds escaping his throat are so pleasurable they cause you to moan too.

His fingers dig into your soft flesh with bruising need as he nears release, his cock pumping faster, his muscles flexing with strain. Then he slows, pulling his cock back, only to plunge in again at his deepest, his eyes never leaving yours.

Watching him climax is like the universe aligning, his face softening in divine ecstasy, his blonde hair falling in his face, the wing tattoos stark against his flushed skin. You pant beneath him, your body a trembling wreck, bound to him in this sacred act.

As he comes, he spills into you hot and thick, his release filling up your core as your walls throb faintly unable to take more. His fingers splay across your stomach, grounding himself as he ruts the last few ounces into you, and his hips stutter with the force of his release.

He lowers your leg and stays close his chest heaving as his body hovers over yours one hand resting on your stomach, sealing what he’s given you.

Your breaths are shallow, your mind still half-lost in the haze, every touch sending aftershocks through your oversensitive core.

He slowly eases out of you, his cock slick and softening, leaving a warm trickle that makes you shiver.

He doesn’t pull away, instead he lays beside you drawing you closer, his arm curling around you, his lips brushing your temple in a gesture that feels both possessive and tender.

His voice is low and sated as his blue eye search yours in the dim light. “You’re mine now,” He breathes his as fingers tighten slightly on your hip, grounding you in his words, his presence.

You nod, your throat tight, still reeling from the intensity. “ I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice raw, your body humming with the weight of what you’ve become under his touch.

The candles have nearly burned out, their wax spilling like tears, and as you lie beside him and his fingers trace your shoulder, you look into his blue eyes, and you truly want to believe in his divinity.

“You are my chosen one,” he says, his voice serene almost worshipful “Never forget who you are becoming.” He says placing a soft kiss to-your forehead.

The truth settles down like ash. Vernon hadn’t freed you. He bound you to him, to his touch, his world, his teachings. And the terrifying part is how much you want him, how much you see him as your salvation, even though deep down you know he will be your ruin.

END 🌻

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[tabootoji]

"YOU COLD? LEMME WARM YOU UP..."

✰ - SYNOPSIS: you try to learn more about your cryptic partner, but toji has plans of his own... (OR) you cockwarm toji and he fucks you on the couch while you while you have company over. (ft. naoya zenin & shiu kong) ✰ - WC: 4.0k ✰ - TAGS: age gap, size diff., teasing, pet names, impact play, alcohol use, nipple play, dry humping, cockwarming, exhibitionism, v. penetration, f. orgasm, creampie, (mentions of threesome), no use of (y/n), all lower case, reader is female ✰ - A/N: my first toji fanfic can you tell i'm excited?!?! i ended this with a pretty fluffy ending to my own surprise, so enjoy! (age gap is 10 years, reader in 20's, toji in 30's)

first impressions are important. people use them to determine their initial opinions of you that they'll probably hold on to for as long as they know you. most of the time it's hard to sway them from it once their minds are made up about the type of person they think you are.

which is why you're currently standing in front of your bathroom mirror for the third time in the past 20 minutes to do another check on your hair and outfit. you smooth down your t-shirt and skirt with your hands along with your hair, and take in a deep breath to calm your nerves.

the reason for your anxiety? any minute now you were going to meet your boyfriend's best friend and cousin, two guys on a very short list of people toji seemed bothered enough to care about.

you and toji began dating only recently, but the two of you have been smitten since meeting at a grocery store where he promptly asked you out. you weren't the type to accept date offers from random men you just met, but there was just something about his unwavering confidence and devilishly good looks that made you unable to say no. and oh did toji know how to use his attributes well. you both moved fast, even deciding to move in together after only knowing each other for such a short amount of time.

despite the fast development of your relationship, you cared deeply about the older man, and you enjoy the time you spend together...it's just that you wished you knew more about him.

whenever the two of you are together, you're usually the one doing the most talking while toji listens, with the occasional head nod to show he’s paying attention to whatever you're saying. but he barely talks about himself. you know nothing about any family members or friends, in fact, anything that happened before you met him is a complete mystery to you. you're not even really sure what he does for a living, only knowing him to be a contractor of some sort. at times you're brutally reminded that you're practically living with a stranger.

you've expressed your need to know more about the mysteries you know he’s hiding behind the opaque glass emerald of his eyes, but toji only chalks it down to the fact that he's just a boring older man that just enjoys the simplicities of life. you know he’s lying to you, a man like toji gave everything but the ordinary. but you let the issue go anyway, not wanting to pry.

toji knows how much you want to learn more about the inner workings of his life, and he can admit seeing you act so despondent about it bothers him, which is why he's arranged this hangout - to give you some insight on his complex past. and although you're incredibly excited for this, you’re also extremely on edge. you had to use this miraculous opportunity to ensure that the people most important to toji not only accepted your relationship, but liked you as a person.

in the middle of your thoughts, you hear said boyfriend call out your name, making you jump back into reality. they must be here! you take one more glance into the mirror before coming out of the bathroom.

you rush to the entrance of the apartment where you heard toji's deep voice boom from. "are they outside?" you ask with a slight squeak of your voice as soon as he's within your field of view. toji stands at the front door waiting for you, his tall frame almost surpassing the height of it. he had on his usual wear, black compression top that you always teased him for wearing a couple sizes too small (which he would always answer: "can't ever find any that make my size") and gray sweatpants that held onto his narrow waistline beautifully, then fell loose around his extensive legs.

he bobs his head, answering your question. walking to his side, you watch his verdant eyes take their time to look you up and down. once you're finally within arm's length, toji grabs your waist and pulls you into the lateral side of his solid abdomen, bending down to plant a smooch on your cheek. "relax ma, y'er gonna jump outta y’er skin. don’t worry, they'll love ya."

"okay toji..." you decide to listen to him, attempting to shake the nerves out of your body. "ya look damn good, that's f' sure." he smirks, the scar on his calloused lips curving upwards before he slaps your ass, causing you to gasp in surprise. he then abruptly opens the front door, not giving you anytime to recuperate before your face to face with your visitors. oh how he just loved messing with you.

in the hallway of the complex stood an average built man with a tapered haircut, the sides on the top sticking out. his small yet enigmatic eyes displayed politeness as he smiled at you and toji. beside him was a taller guy with a fitter build, his haughty attitude emitting through his relaxed posture. and if his flashy blonde hair didn't put you off, his edgy piercings did.

you gather yourself quickly, greeting them with a clumsy "hi" and a small wave of your hand. the latter shamelessly gives you a once over blatantly. once it seems he’s determined that he likes what he see’s, he utters a "nice" to toji with a nod of his head, arrogantly pushing his way past you both to enter your apartment. you stand frozen in disbelief, blinking your eyes in confusion. no way he just...?

"shut y'er ass up naoya." toji warns playfully, shoving his shoulder as he passes by. "that's my rude ass obnoxious cousin. this here's shiu." he flicks his thumb towards the dark haired gentleman's direction.

"nice to meet you." he says, his mouth arching up in union, making you take notice of the peach fuzz on top of it that seemed to complete his corporate look. once you've all entered, naoya looks around at the ensemble of the living room with a look of disgust, while toji and shiu begin to catch up with one another. not knowing what to do with yourself, you skittishly announce that you'll go and get drinks for everyone, scurrying into the kitchen.

you rush to the shelf filled with bottles of hard liquor that toji stashed and decide to grab a bottle of whiskey, along with four old fashioned glasses in the neighboring cabinet. as you fill the cups a little more than halfway, you strain your ears to listen into the trio's conversation.

"been a while since i've seen you. this meetup all of a sudden? ya must be serious about this one."

"sure am, so quit ya gawking dickhead."

you hear shiu snicker at the two’s playful banter while you set the glasses on a tray, building up the courage to head back into the main room. you stride to the three, holding out the platter to serve them their drinks. toji and shiu thank you before taking a swig of theirs, while naoya cockily snatches his own wordlessly and goes to take a seat at one of the lounge chairs in the room, leaving the three of you to join him on the corresponding arm chair and couch.

when you're all seated, shiu turns his attention to you and toji. "so fushiguro, how'd ya manage to trick such a cute girl into dealing with'ya?" he jests, leaning forward onto his knees and taking another gulp of the dark substance. after sipping your own, you already start to feel the liquid amplify your bravery as you ease up for the first time since your guests arrived.

"he's not so bad." you say sarcastically, leaning on his brawny arm. "oh yeah?" toji combats smugly, wrapping it around you and laying his rough palm on your hip. shiu peers at the two of you with a look of appreciation. naoya mutters "how cute." with a roll of his eyes.

"toji's never told me how you both know each other." you blurt out, not missing a beat. with your newfound boldness, you weren't going to waste anymore time not utilizing this chance to learn more secrets about your lover. toji’s gaze raises from yours to shiu's, who's already silently watching him. the two exchange a wordless stare down for a while, shiu being the one to break it with a laugh. "we used to work together, a long time ago." he finally says. you glance at toji and he's guzzling down his beverage, seemingly refusing to elaborate. hm, that was definitely something...but what?

"this meaningless chit chat bores me." naoya suddenly announces, swirling his chair to the direction of the tv in the room and turning it on with the remote he somehow found to flip through the channels, forcing everyone to watch his selected program. looking at the group's glasses on the table in the middle of you all, you realize the guy's have already finished their spirits. you take it upon yourself to clear the area, getting up and gathering everyone's empty cups besides yours back on the plate to put into the sink back in the kitchen.

once you return, it looks like naoya has decided on a film to watch. the lights are off, the television providing the only dim light in the small area while all eyes were trained onto the moving pictures. as you're about to take your seat next to toji, he swiftly takes your arm, pulling you to him to plop onto his lap instead. "wrong seat girl." he whispers, making you shiver slightly when you feel his hot breath hit your clavicle.

toji wastes no time holding your small frame with his arms that are more than twice your size, adjusting both of you so he could lean his back on the plush sofa, and you could lean on his broad, sturdy chest. he's rubbing small circles on the exposed skin of your hip with his thumb, and you can already feel his budding erection poke you from beneath your skirt that barely covered your crotch.

you may not know much about the enigma of toji fushiguro, but there is one thing he's made sure to make apparent to you very quickly after the two of you got together: the fact that he's a total horn ball. the man always needed to have his hands on some part of your body whenever you were together. and it's not like you don't enjoy the physical attention, you were just hoping that toji could master some self control, especially in front of others.

at first, you only feel occasional pecks on the back of your neck caused by him pressing his moist lips onto various sites of your nape. then, toji's hand moves from your waist to underneath your shirt. this evening, you decided to forego a bra and instead wore pasties to cover your nipples, which he easily peeled off to expose them. the cotton material of your shirt rubbing against the swell of your chest coupled with the hasty grazes of toji's hand already leaves them stiff, ready to be played with.

he takes one of your peaks in between the rough pads of his fingers and gives it a teasing pinch, almost making you leap right out of his lap. chuckling at your reaction, toji then uses his knuckles to gently twist the other, planting his mouth right below your neckline and sucking on the skin there.

you bite the inner flesh of your cheek at the prickling sensations that start to rush through you, very sure you've already made a mess of your panties from toji's touches. the alcohol you've been drinking is doing wonders for your assertiveness, and your libido, because you begin to rub your groin against his growing bulge, seeking relief at the neediest part of your body.

for a while toji leaves you be, grunting softly at the friction from your humping. he feels your damp underwear on his clothed cock as you rut against him like a dog. suddenly, he pushes you forward momentarily to fidget with the drawstrings of his joggers. when you turn around to see what he's doing, your eyes sparkle in amazement and excitement at the sight of toji's fat cock lying on his abdomen, his swollen head already threatening to dribble precum onto his shirt. he pulls you back till you're close enough for him to mutter in your ear. "sit on my cock doll face"

if you were sober, you'd have already reprimanded toji for being such a pervert, especially in front of their guests. worst case scenario you'd have at least snuck him into the bathroom and dealt with him there. but the liquor was making you feel more and more risque as the seconds passed.

so you reach forward and grab your lone glass to take another sip of its bitter contents. arching your back, you make sure toji has a good view of your ass. once you confirm he has when you hear him hiss "oh shit..." you pull your panties to the side to uncover your drooling cunt. you set your cup down and take a deep breath to brace yourself, taking toji's dick to align with your awaiting pussy before slowly sinking down onto it.

"fuck..." he breaths out once you finally manage to take in all of his thick girth. he rests his head on your shoulder, holding you even closer to his solid body. you can feel the mass of toji's penis expand your squishy insides, the bulb of his cockhead pressing against your cervix deliciously. your tight, moist hole provides a snug hold to his large shaft. was it always this hot? a bead of sweat falls off your brow as you try not to bring attention to yourself.

but when toji returns to tugging on your taut nubs while he licks up and down your slender throat, your mixed fluids seeping out of your conjunction, you almost let out a moan before shiu abruptly breaks the silence in the room. "hey fushiguro, win any bets lately?' he asks, freezing the both of you in your tracks.

toji clears his throat, remaining cool calm and collected as always. "nah, not yet. m' not worried though. been feelin' real lucky lately." he answers, satisfied at the clench of your pussy around his member at his suggestive words. shiu simply lets out a snicker, continuing to watch the television.

whew, that was close. "you cold baby?" toji asks you all of a sudden. you give him a confused raise of your eyebrow, baffled by his worry of your temperature now of all times. "poor thing, ya got goosebumps all over ya." he teases you, running his digits up and down your arms. "don't worry, got just tha' thing to warm ya up..."

taking a blanket on the other side of the couch, toji lifts you up with one arm like your weight is nothing to him. he lays you both on your sides, covering your bodies with the rug. his previous question finally clicks for you once the two of you are situated in this new position, one of his large palms gripping your bent leg while the other supports the side of his skull so he can look down at you.

it'd be risky, but naoya seems to have fallen asleep, and shiu appeared to be entertained enough with whatever program was on to pay you guys any mind. all you had to do was try and stay as quite and still as possible till toji was finished. hell, who were you kidding? you needed him just as badly. if toji didn't move inside of you soon, you thought you were going to combust.

you get your wish when he begins slowly thrusting into you. "i...change my mind, ah...you're bad all the time." you moan quietly. toji seems to be making each stroke count, plunging deeply into you with every push of his hips. he bends down to kiss your hot temple with a cocky grin. "and ya love it."

toji ended up being right, because if you thought you were hot before, you're sure that you're boiling now. nevermind the blanket serving as cover while toji fucks you, you were enveloped by the warmth of his tight embrace, his large body caging your small one against him. you try your best not to squirm, covering your mouth with your hand in case any lewd sounds fell from your lips as toji continued to drag his cock against the goopy walls of your pussy.

it was getting harder and harder for toji to contain himself as well. he wanted nothing more than to fuck the living daylights out of you, like he always does. he had half a mind to throw his guests out right now so he could thoroughly have his way with you. though he could admit this was another level of naughtiness that turned him on even more from doing this in secret.

by going so agonizingly slow, toji could take his time to not only feel each and every inch of you, he could admire how cute you looked trying to contain yourself as he stuffed you with his bulky cock. each time he was fully inside of you, he paused to stare at your pretty face scrunch up as you took all of him, the weight of his hefty member prominent.

he's partly surprised he's even able to go this far with you right now, given the current circumstances. but seeing how cock hungry you are for him, uncaringly giving into your lustrous cravings just as he was fills his heart with a mixture of adoration and desire.

a layer of your slick coats the rim of toji's rigid dick, allowing him to easily slide inside of your warm mound. you start to push your butt back to meet his tantalizing jabs halfway, causing toji's breath to hitch in his throat. he looks forward to make sure the added movements haven't caught the attention of his friend and cousin. once he's confirmed that the coast is still clear, toji returns to focusing on the leisurely pace of his throbbing cock.

your bosom bounces off of his lap each time he drives himself into you, and the way you pivot your hips back and forth allows toji to reach even deeper inside of you, your g-spot being consistently stimulated by the round end of his shaft. wet strings of your combined arousal begin to form and snap, and it all becomes too much for toji as he lets his head fall behind you. he uses both of his arms to cuddle your waist to hold you still, afraid that he’ll cum just from the gracious movement of your hips alone.

now that he has a good hold on you, the force toji uses to propel further into you knocks you forward each time. he’s squeezing you so tightly, almost as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear from him. and when he begins to flick the sensitive nub in between your legs, you fear your chest will cave in from the pleasure at any moment.

toji rubs your responsive bundle of nerves with his long digits, using the wetness your pussy made from being played with. an overflowing amount of your sap leaks down onto his pelvis as he continues to use your body like his own personal flesh light. he peppers the length of your neck with kisses before gliding his tongue against the veins protruding from it. you can feel the indentation of his scar as his lips brush your pulse.

you feel toji's desperation as he rocks you back and forth; he's close, and you want nothing more than to feel him erupt inside of you. you reach underneath to clasp onto his weighty nutsacks. toji almost chokes on his own breath when he feels you start to massage them with your soft hands. you take both masses into your palms, utilizing the moisture from your sex and rubbing prominent circles into his scrotum. for fuck's sake, it was like you were manually attempting to milk him dry.

both of your heads fog from the overwhelming satisfaction you were giving each other. neither of you were even sure if you were still doing a good enough job keeping up your facade of ‘cuddling', too entrapped with the task of helping the other climb up their ladder of gratification. toji sinks his canines into your collarbone while you press your face into the cushions of the couch to muffle your noises as you both reach your climax.

with a final thrust, toji stills inside of you before emptying his load into your awaiting womb. hot ropes of his cum shoot inside of your trembling cunt, and it's so much. toji always cum's like a horse, but this particular time it's like its never ending, to the point where it begins seeping out of your pussy that's still contracting around him from your own release.

the combination of the heat of the moment plus the liquor must aid in your exhaustion, because your eyelids close right away, ushering you into slumber. toji takes a moment to calm his rapid heart beat by controlling his erratic breathing, bathing in the tranquility from his orgasm. the slow rise and fall of your body tells him you've already fallen asleep, which makes him chuckle.

oh but toji was far from done with you. his engorged balls that were still filled with more of his cum twitched as his cock began springing back to life. the velvety texture of your inner walls that still gripped his length even in your sleep had him rock hard again in no time.

he contemplates waking you back up, knowing you'd probably feel bad later about falling asleep while your guests were still over. but his good girl worked hard to be a good hostess, and a good cock sleeve, so he opts to letting you rest for now. you'd need it anyway, especially for what he has planned for you later after he kicks his companions out.

speaking of, toji looks up at the two in question who, in his opinion, were now overstaying their welcome. naoya is still knocked out, snoring obnoxiously with his mouth hung open. but to toji's surprise, shiu was not only still wide awake, he was already looking back at him knowingly.

"you know, you two aren't as sneaky as you may think you are." he says, shaking his head with a tsk. not seeming too affected about being caught, toji shrugs, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear while admiring your sleeping form. "what can i say? can't keep my hands off of her."

humming in acknowledgement, shiu speaks again, a sly grin on his face. "fuck your girlfriend on your own time. or at the very least, ask me to join, like old times." toji makes eye contact with his old friend, a long pregnant pause stilling the room.

his first reaction was to entertain shiu's comment with a snide response of his own, which has always been the nature of their friendship. however, as toji looks down at the girl who's managed to capture his mind, body, and heart, someone who was able to awaken emotions inside of him he thought he abandoned a long time ago, he can’t bring himself to joke around about the most important person in his life: you.

"nah, not with her." toji finally says, giving your forehead another kiss and gazing at you lovingly as you continue to sleep peacefully. observing the tender moment between you two, shiu smiles to himself, content with seeing his friend express genuine happiness after so long. "she must be real special."

"yeah, she is."

[mariasont]

PART III: BARTLEBY, THE SCRIVENER

this is what it means to love in verse and violence

part I -> part II -> part III -> part IV -> part V

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: situationship, canon-type cm violence and case work, allusions to sex and intimacy, self-destructive behaviors, severe self-loathing and self-blame, unhealthy coping mechanics (avoidance, denial), obsessive thinking patterns, toxic relationship dynamics, dissociation, dark themes wc: 3.1k

T.S. Eliot understood too well, disturbingly well, how a man could choke the life from oneself by suppressing one’s own nature, how denial could fester until everything within turned rancid.

Spencer found Eliot too young, maybe eleven, sitting cross-legged on the icy linoleum of some forgotten bookstore, half-hidden behind a crumbling wall that trembled whenever washing machines shifted gears next door.

The book, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, was already battered by the time he got it, edges frayed, pages stained and scribbled upon by countless souls who felt compelled to write their own despair between the lines. 

Spencer read it anyway. Back then, Prufrock was just words, intriguing abstractions he didn’t yet understand. A man trapped inside his own head, dissecting every urge until it crumbled into nothing.

Now Spencer lives his life in digestible units, his existence divided into rationed morsels, not for savoring, but simply enduring.

Teaspoons, as Prufrock would suggest, although lately even that feels unjustifiably lavish.

There’s safety in such partitioning, he tells himself, protection from the searing disappointments of unrestrained want. The cruel joke, of course, is how these small allowances only sharpen the ache. And so he remains suspended, hesitating at the brink, forever awaiting the phantom signal to step forward or step back.

He’s never sure which.

Even less so now, in the half-light of morning and his muddled memories, with the sound of you moving around his apartment.

The intimacy of this moment, ordinary and domestic, robs Spencer of air. He remains frozen, paralyzed by contradictions that pull him taut from opposite sides.

He could sit up, mutter a tentative good morning, offer you coffee in that tone he’s perfected, calibrated to convey nothing deeper, but even that feels too loaded.

You spare him the choice — a quiet kindness or quiet condemnation, he can’t decide — slipping wordlessly into your clothes, collecting yourself piece by piece from the detritus of his floor.

He shuts his eyes as if that might erase the shame rising hot in his skin. Pretending to sleep is easier than pretending this means nothing.

In the safety of imagined futures, Spencer reconstructs this morning differently, without the suffocating grip of his fear. There, he sees clearly the movement of reaching out, grabbing at your wrist and pulling you back onto sheets still rumpled with last night’s activities.

He would mouth apologies into your skin, into all the places he’s avoided, all the truths he’s silenced prematurely. Your laughter would meet him halfway and you would let him fuss. Let him burn pancakes in a kitchen too small for two.

Sometimes this same imagination offers him pictures of rituals you two might share. Would you reach instinctively for coffee or pour a glass of orange juice first thing in the morning? Maybe you would wander barefoot across cold kitchen tiles, goosebumps rising along your calves until Spencer intervened, sliding oversized wool socks onto your feet in gentle compromise.

He dreams of the simplicity of knowing something as simple as whether you prefer brushing your teeth before or after your hypothetical first sip of coffee, imagines himself leaning past you for toothpaste, your reflections overlapping in the mirror, exchanging brief, sleepy glances and wordlessly understanding each other.

Reality, unlike fantasy, isn’t as forgiving. And so Spencer remains rooted in place, the comfort of inertia winning out again. 

Your hurried exit feels far too definitive, too much like fleeing. And if that’s true, if you’re running from something, or someone, he can’t risk confirming it’s him.

The door slams with finality. Spencer’s body reacts automatically, propelling him forward — water hot enough to blister, razor sharp enough to sever thought from sensation. Ironed shirt, cuffs perfectly symmetrical, gestures performed with obsession.

He meets his reflection with wary eyes, expecting nothing familiar and finding exactly that.

There’s no extra toothbrush, no shadow beside him. Your absence seeps into every crevice of the room, insidious until it becomes oppressive. He denies your impact, pretends you’re negligible, but denial is notoriously fragile, especially his.

All that’s left is a man shaped by consequences he willingly summoned. Who should’ve known better. Who did know better. And still chose wrong.

He shouldn’t have let you stay over, obvious in retrospect, apparent in the sickening epiphany that spreads through him like venom in vulnerable tissue.

Recklessness. Spencer knows its anatomy, has mapped its path toward devastation in thorough diagrams, and yet still succumbed. Still allowed himself that luxury of not thinking things through.

It’s only fair, then, that he faces a morning with a hundred invisible questions hovering about him. Unapproachable and insoluble.

He wonders what last night even signified for you. Was it comfort? Convenience? Or was it simply another misguided decision, one you realized the second the door closed behind you?

You admitted to a past shadowed by rash decisions, each man in your life written in progressively darker ink, staining deeper each time.

These weren’t things you shared with the team or in physical manifestations, no, your scars were internal, carried beneath polished surfaces and practiced smiles.

This is why you’re okay with the arrangement — no attachments, no illusions, nothing capable of binding or suffocating you again.

You told him once that relationships tended to consume your sense of self until escaping felt more impossible than enduring the harm itself.

Spencer now wonders whether last night fit too neatly within that recurring framework.

Another rash decision, another self-inflicted wound you had promised yourself you would avoid. Perhaps he’s inadvertently become the newest entry in a history filled with well-intentioned mistakes, another reminder of patterns you seem destined to repeat.

Sixty minutes. That’s exactly how long he has before he’s forced to confront you again at work. No grace period, no mercy allowed by the relentless progression of time. Just another cold fact stacked atop the ever-growing pile constricting his lungs.

How can he possibly pretend normalcy beside you, feeling your regret as keenly as if you physically pushed him away this morning?

The way you left wasn't just avoidance… it was repulsion. 

And despite knowing this, he’ll have to put on that familiar mask once more, morph into the identity of someone who knows all the right answers, who completes every tedious task without faltering.

He does what he needs to survive.

And by the time he walks into the BAU, he’s already transformed into the version of himself they’ve come to depend on.

On the surface, it looks the same. Clean lines, ordered desks, activity that signifies routine. Yet beneath it, something fundamental is off-kilter, warped and misshapen. Or perhaps that imbalance resides solely within him, each tendon wound tighter than ever, his breaths doled out in increments. 

Teaspoons. 

He keeps a distance from you at all times, five feet in the briefing room, ten in the field office. He times his entrances and exits to avoid yours, routes his movements around you like you’re something dangerous, volatile. 

Morgan makes a joke to everyone at some point. It’s nothing remarkable, lazy charm and well-timed bravado, the type that usually earns polite chuckles.

But you laugh freely, openly. Spencer’s head snaps upward at the sound, regretting how quickly he finds your face. You look radiant, alive with a warmth he hasn’t felt in weeks, maybe months. A version he no longer has access to.

There was a time when making you laugh was something Spencer took for granted, something spontaneous and inevitable, as predictable as tides or changing seasons. It was intrinsic, a subtle conversation carried on without words, just glances exchanged across tables and dry humor shared in the small hours.

He remembers one hotel lobby, late at night, in some city he’s forgotten, after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Just you and him, heads close over coffee grown cold and someone else’s unfinished crossword.

You were teasing him about his handwriting, some offhand comment about how he made his e’s look like backward 6’s.

He corrected you, of course, earnestly, over-explained something about pen grip and kinetic muscle memory. And then you laughed.

It was the same laugh he just overheard directed at Morgan, deep from your chest, full-bodied and wheezing.

You touched his arm without thinking. “You’re cute when you get defensive.”

It could have ended differently, if only friendship had stayed just that — friendship. If he had the restraint to acknowledge and dismiss that brief impulse, let it dissipate like smoke into open air rather than holding onto it with longin.

Because after that night, after the first time he found out just how you kissed — soft, tentative, then progressively daring, warm with vulnerability — and after he let his hands fumble under your shirt like a starved man, he had irreversibly altered your trajectory.

Pulled you into a place where good things go to die.

Isn’t that exactly what happened? After that first feverish collision, your laughter receded, became precious and rare, an indulgence he had forfeited all rights to claim.

Now he stores those moments, like dried petals hidden away in darkened books, preserved in memory but drained of color, fragrance, life. Because somewhere along the way, he transitioned from being the one who coaxed your smiles into existence to becoming the very reason it withers away.

What inherent corruption does he have, this contamination that spreads unnoticed until everything begins to spoil?

He doesn’t just touch. He taints.

“Chamomile with a side of honey, my genius friend. It’s supposed to be good for, well, everything, really. Nerves, mood, existential dread. Not that I’m implying anything. But maybe, just this once, trust the herbs instead of caffeine?”

Spencer eyes the steaming cup placed before him, forcing the corners of his mouth upward, hoping his expression resembles gratitude. “Thanks, Garcia.”

Her smile is uncertain as she pulls the chair next to him slowly, giving him ample opportunity to object. He doesn’t. “Hey, um, do you have a sec? Well, more specifically, a sec for me to ask the question we both see coming and that you’re obviously hoping to avoid?” 

He doesn’t mean to look. But his eyes, untrustworthy things, bypass Garcia and find you anyway, at your desk now, oblivious, your concentration manifesting in the way your tongue peeks from the corner of your mouth. It’s a detail he’s tried not to remember about you.

But memory is a cruel archivist, and familiarity, even more so.

He once mentioned origami in passing, casually enough, back when your interactions still bore the uncomplicated clarity of friendship. You asked questions. Smiled like it mattered. So he folded you things. Creatures, cranes, dogs, things with symmetry and every morning, he placed one more on your desk.

You made a game of ranking them.

“Really?” Spencer once protested, mock offense coloring his voice. “The dragon’s behind the frog? The frog was experimental at best. He’s uneven. Possibly defective.”

You just smiled, completely unrepentant. “The frog has character, Spencer. He’s scrappy. I reward effort.”

Even then, you possessed a quiet talent for romanticizing frailties, cherishing the cracks and calling them beauty. He should’ve noticed. Should’ve seen clearly your tenderness toward damaged things and taken that as the warning it was.

Eventually, driven by sheer determination, you insisted on mastering the origami folds yourself, repeating the motions over and over with your characteristic tongue-out expression of focus.

Each failed attempt had brought your soft, frustrated sigh. “I swear I’m doing exactly what you’re doing.”

“Here,” he said, adjusting your fingertips, “you’re just folding too tight. The paper knows when you’re trying too hard.”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

It was the first time he noticed your mouth in a way that didn’t feel appropriate, didn’t feel platonic.

Until then, it had simply been another innocuous detail of your face, the conduit of your words, nothing more. Now it consumed his attention entirely. He fixated on the curve of your bottom lip, the slight sheen of it, the fleeting glimpse of your tongue before it hid again behind the safety of your teeth.

It felt improper to notice this closely, but Spencer did it anyway. He wondered, without meaning it, how you’d taste, the tentative hesitation or eager desperation with which you might kiss him. He pictured your hands threaded into his hair, the sensation ignored by the gentlest friction of fingertips. 

When you finally produced a paper boat (undeniably the most rudimentary shape in the origami lexicon, though he bit his tongue to keep from saying so) your eyes were bright with unguarded triumph.

“It’s perfect, right?”

“It is,” he answered simply.

And somehow, it was. Not the boat itself, which tilted unevenly and held creases made from overzealous fingers, but the purity of your gaze, directed solely at him. The admission stirred restlessly behind his teeth — you’re perfect — a phrase both truthful and forbidden.

He knew how easily he could release them, knew precisely why he never allowed himself to.

That little paper boat still sits carefully preserved on his desk, while his own line of creations remain frozen on yours. Spencer has tried pinpointing the exact moment he stopped adding to him, combing through his memories, seeking some neglected timestamp, some overlooked detail. 

There’s nothing.

He clears his throat, forcing his attention back to Garcia. “I’m fine.”

She tracks his gaze, and when her voice comes, it’s gentler than he expects. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Reid. I know certain things… they don’t really go away. If you ever want to talk about it, any of it, I’ll listen. You know that, right?”

Spencer blinks hard, a reflex more than a reaction. “No, I’m good, Garcia,” he says, too quickly. “I promise. Just tired.”

Spencer senses immediately when your eyes land on him again. It’s stinging. Like iodine seeping into an open wound. 

He doesn’t wait for Garcia’s inevitable skepticism, pushing himself upright too quickly, momentum throwing him off-kilter. His knee collides with the desk, a jarring miscalculation of angles and intention, nearly sending him sprawling. 

He regains himself, just barely, refusing to glance back to measure her reaction. 

When he reaches the bathroom, Spencer’s fingers grip the porcelain edge of the sink until bone presses tautly against skin, blood retreating in ghostly white. He twists the faucet on, splashing cold water onto his flushed skin, though it feels as futile as smothering flames with frost. 

Certain things they don’t really go away.

The sentences plays with a vague, almost lazy finality. 

It shouldn’t get under his skin, but it does. He turns it over again and again, looking for the flaw in the phrasing, the assumption buried in her voice. Why did it feel like she was talking about him and not to him?

Whatever existed between him and you, it wasn’t for sharing. It wasn’t even fully defined, even inside his own mind.

And yet Garcia had spoken like someone who already understood the parameters. It leaves him feeling porous. Too visible. He hates that.

Visibility implies exposure, and exposure is a prelude to collapse.

He straightens slowly, as if reconstructing himself joint by joint, vertebrae realigning one breath at a time. Inhale, exhale, repeat until the trembling in his fingers subsides. Work demands presence, clarity. The victims deserve his focus. The team requires his stability. 

The hallway swims slightly as he steps out. And then, without warning, you materialize, nearly crashing into you. Your startled eyes flare wide, your palms landing against his chest.

“Oh — sorry,” you murmur quickly, already retreating, your eyes catching on the water still clinging to his pores.

He pulls away like your hands were knives. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just — watch where you’re going.”

He doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, but the words come out pointed and harsh anyway. And when your expression flickers, he wants to take it back. But he doesn’t. 

“Can we talk?”

He freezes.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replies, voice colder than it should be.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just exasperation. 

“There’s obviously something to talk about,” you say. “You’ve been treating me like I’m invisible all day.” Your voice cracks, just once, and you bite it back. “You’ve been cold. Distant. Did I do something?”

He exhales hard, fingers tangling roughly into his hair, wincing when they catch on strands that feel oily, neglected. Didn’t he shower earlier? Or was that yesterday? He needs sleep, needs a break from this gnawing discomfort that makes his skin feel two sizes too small.

He tries to settle his focus on your face, but your features blur at the periphery, as though his brain is censoring a truth too painful to acknowledge directly. Because there, in your expression, he knows he’ll find hurt. Real, human hurt he alone caused. And for a second, he hates himself.

But all he says is, “I’m just trying to do my job. Not everything is about you.”

Because he sees your panic clearly, recognizes your unease ever since you woke in his bed. You were the one who stepped toward him first, who crossed the line only to retreat. He’s simply following your lead now, giving you permission to pull back fully.

“Spencer,” you say, “I know you’re deflecting. You think I can’t read you? You taught me how to read people. You’re upset with me. And I think you’re upset because you care. You’re upset because I see it.”

His jaw clenches, tension pulsing through the line of his neck. He steps closer, voice roughened by barely restrained frustration.

“You don’t see anything,” he growls. “No, you just can’t stand that for one second, my thoughts might be about something other than you. That I might exist outside of this.”

“Oh, fuck you for that.” Your voice rises to meet his. “Don’t twist this into some ego trip. You lash out every time someone gets too close. You push until there’s nothing left, then act surprised when people leave.” You step back, just one step. Enough to make a point. “You want to be alone, Spencer? Fine. But don’t you dare act like I’m the reason you ended up that way.”

For a moment, he’s stunned into silence. Alone. Is that what he wants? Is it ever what he really wanted, or just another lie he’s repeated until it becomes real? He’s nauseous with contradiction, trapped in a mess of his own making, unable to separate truth from reflex, fear from fact.

“Okay,” he says, “If that’s what you want, then fine. Let’s stop pretending this is something it’s not.”

Spencer can’t remember now. Did he ever deserve closeness, or was it always destined to end exactly like this?

Conceive a man by nature and misfortune / Prone to pallid hopelessness / Bartleby, the Scrivener

part IV

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 09. DESPERADO

a/n: i want to say that i waited so long to put this one out because life got unruly and unmanageable and horrid and while that is true that's not why i waited. i don't want this story to end. i don't want to say goodbye to logan and his honey. this fic has meant so much to me the past nine months. it inducted me into a fandom that became a comfort for me to turn to. but it's also my whole entire heart poured into a love story filled with tragedy and pain. and i couldn't bring myself to write its ending. but here it is. the final chapter (excluding the epilogue of course).

summary: time is cruel. time is infinite. time is...you. when you first came across the lonely x-man you never thought he'd carry you through a love that felt as delicate as time. yet there you stood on his front stoop - a different person - asking him to save your life. one last time.

word count: 10k

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, angst, and overt amount of angst, heartbreak, arguments, ptsd, superhero training, arguments, mean!logan, laura kinney being amazing, violence, tw: blood, mention of death, love confessions, spit, cum eating, creampie, rough sex, tears, so much crying it's actually concerning, small amounts of fluff (but not really), p in v sex, hope, time.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | EPILOGUE | SERIES MASTERLIST

"Logan...tell me about your dream."

"I will. I'll tell you everything. Just not tonight."

The crunch of dirt beneath worn tires rocked the old car the harder you pressed on the gas. Speeding down a deserted lonely road felt exactly as you expected. The shitty coffee you bought at a nearby gas station sloshed in its place near the dash—the scent of whatever food you could find on the way here forced you to roll down the windows. All of which were somehow cracked in particular places and squeaked with each movement.

Laura prompted you to bring a jacket. Wade did what he could to loan you a knife (even as you rejected him). Althea gave you the keys to her beat up car—a grin on her face and the reminder of her pistol in the glove compartment. Each offering their own version of a goodbye they never thought might come to pass.

Instability became the makeup of your life, the echo of who you used to be disappearing into smoke and ash with each passing day. The unfamiliar itch beneath your skin screamed between the bars of a cage you trapped it in. You could hear its call—the need to flow between gaps and crevices of your bones. The demand to embed into your veins rang true with fear and agony. Emotions you could taste like fuel on the back of your tongue.

You tried to live with it. Forget that what she placed in your body even existed. And some days you found you could fall with ease back into a version of yourself that once walked this Earth. The normalcy that came with having a job and going home to an empty apartment, the promise of simplicity until the very end.

A person before the other half of his soul carved his way into a dull life.

You could pretend you were anything but a person afraid of their own body.

Terrified of the mind ravaged by centuries you had yet to live; by the promise of one day outliving Death.

You could separate yourself from the memory of him, from the hope that he would come find you. But when fate's distinct grasp yanked harshly at your psyche it returned. Flaring to life with a vengeance that would linger long after you managed to capture it again—forcing it into the darkness with a snarl. It pulled you through time, fought with tooth and nail to find space in a still healing body.

After finding yourself in the X-Men mansion thirty years in a future you barely recognized, you knew the short span of time spent ignoring it was rapidly coming to an end.

"Send her here."

"I'll keep her safe."

His voice cracked through your skull, pounding against bone the longer you drove—the wind whipping through the rapidly approaching car.

Laura spoke his words over her soda, the clock nearing three in the morning as you fought anxiety and nausea. A mere whisper of truth to keep you sane—a reminder that someone in this world ached for you, that you could still be saved in spite of the chaos that stirred in your lungs.

His promise should have warmed your heart, brought tears of relief to combat the madness you drowned in. But they tasted like ash from a fire that still roared. Words pulled from a life he already lived, meant for a woman he used to love.

He made that same vow before. He promised to protect Fortuna, even after life handed him the severed and bloody strand of fate. The faith you once held for a man who still owned your soul—who clung to every living breathing part of your overwhelmed body—diminished. Slowly yet all at once you understood who Logan Howlett was. Who he might never be.

You were never supposed to be this. Finding your path now carved by eternity was never in the cards of your small life. Yet how could you ignore what burned its way through your skin? How long could you push off deciphering the unknown before it tore you apart?

How were you meant to put trust in the man who'd broken this promise before?

How could you call him a savior? After so much grief.

"You have to go!" Laura shouted dumping the burnt pieces of her toast in the trash. "He can help you."

"I can handle this myself."

"He's trained to help mutants-"

"And I said I'll take care of it," you snapped.

She knew you were lying; you knew she could see right through your false sense of calm. You had nothing left to offer, no parts of yourself to give as you stared forever down the barrel of a gun yet to be fired. The bullet was locked in the chamber, waiting for someone to pull the trigger. Breaking down felt wrong. Merely another burden added to an ever growing pile. But moving mountains had never been your forte.

Laura fixed problems. She took care of those she loved.

She was all the things Logan yearned to be—a protector who never abandoned the other half of their heart. She stood tall and bared her teeth and when life offered only one way out she dug her claws in to carve out something new. She solidified herself as your kin—a daughter left by her father with an unspoken promise that hung in the air.

Protect her family.

The decision to leave came swiftly. With the swing of a hammer nailing your coffin shut and devastation painting the grave he never buried you in. Whatever existed in your body rose to a crescendo you couldn’t control anymore.

Laura dragged you out to an open clearing near the mansion days before. A space hidden away from others that liked to talk—as she put it. Here you could exist as yourself. No longer the hermit dreaming beneath the floors of a library, shuffling papers and boxes older than you into their rightful place. Here you could be time. Endless, forever growing, forever shaping what you never thought possible into reality.

You could let go.

But that was the thing about chaos. It cherry picked moments never meant to be damaged. Instances in time that were swallowed by peace—light flickering behind memories you would have had centuries to replay. Eons to contemplate and eternity to revisit.

You shut your eyes to the sight of Laura bracing herself into the ground, claws puncturing her boots and burying into inches of hardened soil. She expected the power to unleash itself in waves, lashing into the surrounding area with the need to consume. Until you slid the lock out of place, released the breath trapped in your tight chest, and drowned in the anger that broke free with vengeance.

It blinded you, overwhelmed every sensation you might have been able to focus on. Slamming into Laura in an all too familiar rough strike you’d witnessed once before—in the crack of Fortuna’s whip. She went flying into a tree and the deafening snap of her body hitting the floor forced you to shove it back down. Swallow the pain that flared through your cells, screaming for a sliver of the freedom it once had.

Time encased itself into an already fragile body.

It only seemed like a matter of time before the clock ran out and outrunning the detonation was futile.

Causing harm was inevitable. A side effect you swallowed down alongside the shitty whiskey Logan drank—the burn a rope you latched onto. Dragging yourself up and out of a pit you were trapped in. You knew pain would follow, pressed into your unstable footprints. But hurting Laura is where you felt the rope wrap tight around the raw skin of your throat.

She’d suffered enough; experiencing the instability of your powers was never part of the plan.

“I’m not hurt. I heal fast-”

“I can’t. I won’t hurt you.”

“Even if you do…”

“No.”

Perhaps this was the burden Logan bore like a wound that burned. The possibility that he could hurt the ones he loved without trying. A streak of paranoia tangled along the makeup of your DNA, strangling the breath from your lungs. He ran from you once before—pushed down his feelings for your sake.

Back in a time that felt like decades before all of this. Bound by the freedom of humanity you never realized you should have cherished.

He left to keep you safe.

Ironic that it would be you doing the same.

Even though she existed as another version of him. A hero in her own right. Hurting her—by accident and fault of your own obliviousness—forced bile up your throat. The ache in your chest suddenly a flare of emotions you were afraid to pick apart.

She was your own. You came to that conclusion the day she came to your rescue, willing to save the stranger her father’s soul was tied to.

So you left—to keep every part of her safe.

You wouldn’t save yourself because Logan believed in you, or because Laura and Wade fought to keep you afloat. You’d save yourself because she deserved a better protector. Someone who would finally take the weight off shoulders that were far too young to bear the brunt of the world’s pain. A girl—brash and brutal and exactly like her father—who never asked for this.

You’d survive for her. Until her dying breath one day existed in your mind fractured by time.

The house was breathtaking, standing at the edge of a cliff encased in hills and mountains covered by trees so thick sunlight would never break through. Wood and windows and the comfort formed by a man who no longer walked this Earth. Yet there it was, his memory carved into the structure of a place meant to outlive him.

Laura told you about this house—how she lived here on her own for a year in an attempt to remember her father—but nothing prepared you for the sight of it in person. It suited him. A perfect reflection of a soul you got to know over what little time you had together. Simple yet sustainable. A home meant to survive.

It shouldn’t have surprised you to see him waiting. Standing at the porch, a mug of coffee on the wooden railing in front of him, a forgotten novel left in a chair crafted by hand. Surely the other Logan’s work in another life you were never meant to be apart of. He watched with scrutinizing eyes of hazel and a body tensed for the appearance of yet another mistake—the harm he caused blatant on your exhausted form.

You should have expected this.

Prepared for it.

But the longing that slammed into your chest, twisting the knife deep enough to crack bone, sent you reeling. Gasping for air as sat in the idling car, hands gripping the wheel tight enough for your knuckles to scream out in pain.

He was here and he was watching you as if the world suddenly started to spin again. A man who finally managed to kill the hollow ache in his body—the other half of his soul feet away and close enough to touch.

You and Logan moved in unison. An extension of one another even after so long spent apart. He stepped off the porch quickly, you stumbled out of the car—the keys pressed hard and unrelenting in your clenched palm. And for the first time in months you didn’t know what to do next. He’d been the shaky one in this relationship, clutching onto you for guidance, but now the roles were switched.

Now it was up to him to lead you.

“Honey,” he breathed, voice softer than before.

You gasped for air, unsure of where you stood—what this new power meant for something that once existed with such ease. Would he love you in spite of your powers? Would he only see her? Would he save you…one last time?

“Hi Logan,” you uttered meekly, lips hesitant to curl into a wry grin he’d never seen cross your face.

So timid compared to the person from before; new and afraid and yet still drenched in the familiar warmth of a love he’d claw his way back to every time. He came to the conclusion long ago, the moment he watched you meander out of that store—unassuming and unaware of what was to come. He’d die for you. There was no place for him if you didn’t exist.

No matter the universe you were meant to find one another.

A match made at the beginning of time and stardust and the collision of galaxies. The was no stopping the inevitability of love.

“I’ve missed you.” The truth wasn’t hard for him to admit. Not when it was you.

Surprise flickered across your face, lips twitching as a smile fought to bloom. “I missed you too.”

“There’s so much I need to fuckin’ tell you honey.” He surged forward, hand outstretched with his heart bleeding into the lines of his palm.

What he didn’t expect was for you to flinch back, feet stumbling in the dirt as you put distance between your bodies—enough to stop him in his tracks. This wasn’t borne out of the displaced fear that he might hurt you. Quite the opposite. You were terrified you might hurt him. That this unhinged power would break him in ways he couldn’t fix—wounds his body might not be able to handle.

“Laura explained what happened.” He took a step and the hot burn of tears welled in bloodshot eyes. “You’re not gonna hurt me honey.”

“I could. I hurt her without meaning to.” How could you explain the surge of anger that overwhelmed your body, firing along snapped synapses and half formed memories? “I…I can’t control it Logan.”

“I know,” he uttered, his hand curling around the shape of your jaw, tilting your head back to see the tears that blinded your vision. “I know what that’s like.”

Reasoning with the darkness in your own mind felt like an impossible task—something he’d never witnessed in someone with so much light. You weren’t meant to be broken this way. Never supposed to be handed the weight that came with powers—the future of struggling to maintain some semblance of control every second of every day. His soft sweet girl. Bent into something new, yet entirely familiar as he watched your lashes flutter.

You relaxed into his touch, the caress of his thumb along your cheek a welcome warmth you could lose your pain in. He was there. He would drag you from the edge of an ocean you couldn’t traverse alone.

He’d dig you out of your grave with bare hands bloody from the pain you might cause.

“That’s it,” he murmured, blue sparking to life in the whites of your eyes. “Let it in for me honey. Don’t push it down.”

A breath escaped your lungs, tension wound tight enough to splinter down a stiffened spine began to dissipate, and suddenly you could feel the grasp of power settle into your open palms. Blue unfurled from your body in waves, cerulean and midnight, the shadows of night and day colliding around you. It bled into the space, wrapping around his body, lapping up your arms until the rope around your throat snapped.

“It’s…” You gasped, molding your hands around something solid, a unfamiliar welcome weight. “I can feel it.”

Logan felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, hackles coming to attention as the shift happened in quick succession. It cracked through the air, lightning along the horizon of darkened storm clouds. Burning down his back until he staggered away from you shouting. That all too familiar whip slid up around your arm, wrapping tight to flesh and bone as your eyes flared white.

Anger seethed in the air, pungent and bitter along the back of his tongue. Only this wasn’t coming from you—barely a fraction was tinged with your honey-like scent. This stemmed from the rage Fortuna left behind, the lingering agony she set into the DNA of your body without asking for permission. She left you brittle, waiting to shatter as madness crept into your heart.

The sight of blood seeping through his flannel snapped you back into place, body going rigid and hands curling into fists as you shoved it down far enough to hurt. He was already healed—skin stitching itself back together—but you couldn’t see straight. A cry emanating from your parted mouth.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t meant to-”

“It’s healed.”

“She’s in my head. That fucking rage is in me and I can’t get it out.” Your hands slapped over your mouth as the muffled sob broke free, strong enough to slice another string of his heart.

“Honey.” Grasping your hands in a tight grip, he pressed them around his waist—his blood soaked shirt seeping along your palm. “Feel that? No scars, no open wounds. It’s done and gone.”

Solid muscle rested beneath the soft press of your fingers, the steady thump of a heart you could pick out with your eyes closed lingering where you touched. He cupped the back of your neck and suddenly you weren’t a helpless case unable to be saved. You weren’t the person destroyed and brought back from the brink—someone capable of causing enough pain to scar.

You were his, the same person from all those weeks ago, and you were going to be okay.

The space felt familiar—filled with a peace you knew Logan sought. Even if it was subconscious. He set the coffee on the coffee table, settling into a leather couch large enough to make him look small. The tables were hand carved with designs you’d seen once before. In the door his hands set in place so long ago; the gift of his love before he even knew what to call it.

“It feels like you.”

He huffed, ducking his head to stir sugar into your mug—the tips of his ears blooming crimson. “Yeah well it’s not really mine.”

“It’s yours,” you assured. “Laura wouldn’t have handed you the keys if she didn’t see it too.”

Seeing him here dragged the overwhelming all encompassing love back to the surface. Until you were swallowing around it thickly, battling the last dregs of pain that pierced your spine with your chilling new reality. It wouldn’t be the same. None of it. Falling for him, letting him back in, it would forever be stained with the grief of what happened.

The death of the person he used to know clashing with the mutant sitting before him.

He cleared his throat, settling into the creaking couch. “How is she? Laura.”

“Strong,” you smiled. “A lot stronger than me.”

“You’re strong too,” he replied.

“She’s different.” The coffee was a sweet bite on the tip of your tongue—ridding your body of whatever exhaustion still lingered. “She’s like you. Stubborn and angry, but there’s something there beneath it all. Like she knows what she has to lose and refuses to let it happen.”

Logan went stiff, hands mechanically bringing the mug to his lips. “She’s better than me,” he muttered.

You hummed. “Better than either of us. You’re lucky to have her as your own.”

“Not just me.” The words sunk deep, right down to the root of all the grief you refused to dig through. The cloud that hung just a bit too low. “I don’t think you saw it honey. But she chose you. Probably even before she fuckin’ chose me, you were hers.”

When you met Logan in that parking lot you expected things to shift. The winds were always meant to change, pieces finally clicking into place as he happened upon the other half of his lost soul. But Laura snuck up on you. She latched onto your bleeding heart, the kindness you showed even as you grieved the person you used to be. A girl who fought alongside her dying father—a lost soul begging for redemption at the end of the timeline.

Without knowing it she became everything you searched for.

The daughter that dug her heels in and vowed to love you. Even when you couldn’t love yourself.

Home would always exist in his arms, a place of safety you knew you would fall into. But now you found it in the eyes of a girl who could finally sheath her claws and settle. Home existed with both of them. A family found and forged in the chaos of time.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he finally spoke, pulling you from the thoughts that ran rampant. “I know Fortuna’s…your power. I’ve helped get a handle on it before. And I’ll tell you everythin’ you need to know about it, all the research Charles put into figuring it out.”

Believing him was easier than breathing. What reason did he have to lie? When the alternative was already a future you watched play out before your very eyes. You couldn’t turn into her—refused to lose any more of yourself to a power that remained unwanted and unsteady.

Sucking in a breath, you felt yourself settle into the comfort of his presence. Oh how you missed him—your heart pining for him to come close, to press his lips along your skin that now ran hot. If you asked him to drop to his knees he’d relent without question. So you kept your mouth shut. Offering him a smile as the olive branch.

Your time would come again. An inevitable future written in the stars of every universe.

For now you were okay with this. Friendship and support as you struggled to keep your head above water.

“What do I have to do?”

Logan exhaled, shoulders falling with a grin. “Stop pushing it away. You’ve gotta accept it as your own.”

“But it’s not mine.”

“It is now,” he stated. “Whether you want it or not honey this power is with you. There’s no gettin’ rid of it.”

Much to your own disappointment, he was right. “What if…”

“Say it,” he said softly, urging you into the waves that crashed at your legs, his hands clamped around yours.

“What if I accept it and nothing changes? The anger…I can’t live with it Logan.” Swallowing the stone lodged in your throat, you bit back whatever tears crested to the surface. “I-I don’t want to die like she did.”

They were unrelenting and hot against your cheeks, spilling over your trembling lips, and before you could blink Logan was in front of you. Crouched before the chair, his hands gathering yours to the soft press of his lips. A mouth you dreamed about—kisses that haunted the back of your mind every time you closed your eyes. He inhaled your scent, pressed a line down your palm and into the juncture of your wrist; your vein thumped an unsteady beat he smiled against.

“You aren’t dying,” he whispered like a vow, reverence dripping off his tongue. “You are going to live for a long long time honey. And you’re gonna do it with me. I won’t let this power take you okay? I won’t.”

He’s made promises once before, now broken and tossed to the side. But you swallowed his words with a sigh, cupping his face to draw his forehead to yours. To indulge in the contact you never thought might come again—at least not in this lifetime.

“I have your room ready,” he said as if he wasn’t prostrated before you, praying to the love of his life that you might grace him with your forgiveness.

You laughed, light and airy and a balm to his cracked heart. “I have a room?”

“It’s mine. I figured you’d want the bed.”

“Logan I’m not going to kick you out of your bed-”

“No use arguin’.” Calloused palms set themselves on your shoulders, gentle and promising in their soft brush. “I’ll be fine on the couch. Besides…I’ve been there before.”

You huffed, sliding to the edge of the chair as his hands found purchase on your hips. “Is there a window to see you through?”

“Don’t need a window bub,” he breathed. “You’ve always been able to see me.”

Right from the very start you caught sight of the man you would love through the ends of time. The one who had your name written in the tissue of his heart the day he was born. You were always meant to find one another. Always standing at the end of each other’s path—willing one another forward with a love greater than the universe.

“I should go get my bag.”

With a sigh he reluctantly let you go, helping you stand. “Take your time honey.”

The trunk creaked as you pushed it open, the keys dangling from your front pocket. Logan stayed inside dragging what wood he had left into the bedroom’s fireplace. The nights were cold here—temperatures never an issue for him—and you could still feel the brunt of it. Though your body now ran warm it didn’t deter you from freezing in the middle of the night, blankets barely enough to keep what body heat you had trapped inside.

You yanked open the small duffle bag stolen from Wade’s closet, seeing what clothes you managed to find in half empty dresser drawers and a closet that held most of Laura’s things. Sweaters were stuffed in the bottom, a book or two, and the small Polaroid gifted to you by Wade. Even though Logan was here in person you still clutched it tight, welcoming the comfort it brought.

Set atop the mess you haphazardly packed was a small key chain tucked into tissue paper. Bright blue and painted with enough tender care that could only come from one person. A bird ready to take flight.

The familiar scrawl of her handwriting was squeezed on a torn sticky note, the words barely legible yet utterly her.

Good luck.

P.S. Peter helped me make it.

Such a simple phrase to bestow on someone who ran from her. But there she was pressing her faith into your hands, wishing nothing but to see you bring her father back to her.

A family awaited your return. That was enough.

THREE DAYS LATER

“I can’t do it!” you screamed, falling to one knee with a harsh grunt as Logan wiped the sweat off his forehead. “It’s to much to fucking hold.”

“You were born to do it.”

“Coming from the man who doesn’t have to do much. How reassuring.”

He laughed, offering and hand up as you struggling to catch whatever air your lungs could hold. “Charles said it’s never from where you think it is. So where is that?”

Your face scrunched, eyes flicking down his bare chest glistening with sweat. Logan fought against the itch he couldn’t scratch—his relationship with you temporarily on unsteady ground until the dust eventually settled. That still didn’t deter his feelings. The stirring in his stomach at the sight of you panting and gasping for air, scent calling to him the longer you stood there drenched in sweat.

He would be your friend. The person you needed in order to get you through this. What happened after would be entirely up to you.

“Focus honey.”

Sighing, you shut your eyes to the sun. “It’s a pull on my insides. A sharp kinda painful tug on the stomach.”

“‘S not supposed to be painful. Means you’re fighting it.”

“How am I supposed to know I’m fighting it?” you bit out, nails burrowing into your palm hard enough to draw blood. “If I don’t know where its source is then how can I control it?”

Hands clamped onto your forearms, dragging your palms to rest over the heart you knew beat for you—the organ he’d gladly rip out if you wished it. “Here,” he said, voice a soft rasp that rang in the back of your mind. “This right here is where its buried. In the very bottom. So deep you’d forget what you were fuckin’ looking for if you tried to search. You pull it from there and you got your control.”

That was the thing…how could you pull from a broken heart? How could you find anything amidst the shards of something that was once your sole purpose for living?

When he left he took the last pieces with him, ripping them directly from your chest. So how could you work with half a heart?

The anger still existed in the far reaches of a darkness you tried to ignore. Swallow the pain, place it somewhere unreachable, and perhaps you might find a semblance of the person from before. But finding them was like digging into a shallow grave with no body. How were you meant to crawl out? Find the easiest path to fixing what was beyond saving.

“And if I can’t?” you asked. “If…If that’s too much?”

“I’ll be right here honey,” he assured, thumbing the pulsating vein on your wrist. “I won’t let you fall alright?”

Easier said than done.

“Okay,” you sighed. “I’ll try again.”

“Good girl.”

You snapped to attention, eyes wide as his lips curled into something you replayed on a loop for weeks on end. A smirk that burned a hole in your chest, heat curling at the base of your rigid spine. He said it on purpose. This you were aware of. And it did exactly what he intended—dragged you back to the present moment, beyond the cloud of rage begging to escape.

He kept you centered.

Shaking loose the tension in your arms your eyes slid shut, mind opening like the blooms found on the edges of his property. A flower ready to welcome the sun. You fixated on the rhythm of your heart. Each beat pumping and flowing enough blood to keep you upright; you dug there. Pulled at the veins and muscles, cracked open your ribs to inspect the makeup of your most precious organ. A surgeon ripping yourself apart in an attempt to save what still remained.

Blue flared to life dimly, peeking between the aortas and tissue as you clawed at what stood in your way. So close to finally grasping hold of what refused to give itself over. So fucking near to the end of what pain sunk its teeth deep enough to scar.

So close…

A clock ticked in the back of your mind, unrelenting in its monotonous function. Each one louder than the last—drawing you to the edge of the unknown that called your name. You scrambled to silence it.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, decades, centuries-

All of it too much too soon. It wrapped tight around your throat, yanking you back hard enough to send you flying into the ground. Logan’s voice shouting barely broke the surface as you struggled to gasp for air—fingers tugging weakly at the whip that slid around your limbs.

Trapping you in the darkness, feeding what little strength you had left to the all consuming nature of what she left you. This was to be your future. Death by the time she allotted you, the expanse of a universe you would get to see grow and one day wither away—fading into existence like the man who stood before you now.

“Let me go!” you shrieked, waves of sapphire swarming your body, painting over your skin and sinking down to the bones that burned.

It wanted to consume you. Leave nothing behind for him. No parts of you left to bury in yet another grave. The image of that shovel standing upright flashing bright in your mind, dirt smearing along your cheek as you kicked out into the air—oxygen depleting quickly. Until your eyes were filled with black spots, the haze of blue cresting the edges of your once clear vision.

Hands wrenched you still, slamming them to the ground by your head as the familiar echo of his claws pushed to the forefront of your mind. Slicing through the whip with a shout, he felt the power seep into his body. Time stripping away his skin, peeling the flesh until blood steadily leaked down his arms. Your eyes were white—iris swallowed whole by the threat of what took hold inside you.

An anger he put there. A rage he should have stopped.

The last tendrils of the woman he never saved.

“Let her go,” he roared, pulling the whip free from your neck, feeling it dissipate into the air around him. “Let her live!”

Slowly at first and then all at once the hold released. Air burned your lungs rushing in, filling you with an eerie calm as Logan knelt over your body—his hand turning your face up to check the state of your eyes. Back to normal. Free of the milky white hue that haunted him in the middle of the night. You were safe from whatever existed in your heart—the power that held enough reluctance it could very well kill you.

This wasn’t new information. You both knew this might not work; keeping powers that were corrupted once before housed in your body would only lead down one path. Yet that was the reason you were here, laying beneath him as your mind finally settled—hand laying over his to keep him close.

Logan refused to let you succumb to the anger.

He wouldn’t stand there watching as you drowned beneath the weight of what he caused.

He wasn’t going to run from what felt so right. He’d dig his heels in, claw at the darkness that begged to keep you, and forever remain the man who kept you from falling over the edge. He would do for you what Charles did for him; what he never got the chance to do for her.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, thumb dragging along the length of your jaw. “You’re still with me.”

You swallowed, eyes fluttering at the warmth of his palm—turning your lips to the rough skin. “I don’t think that went too well.”

“No,” he chuckled and the sound lit your insides on fire. “No I think we still have some work to do.”

Thirty minutes passed before you found yourself alone in his bedroom. A towel held tightly closed against your chest as he rummaged in the living room. The scent of dinner wafted through the open door, pasta and wine shared at a table in the middle of nowhere—reminiscent of a past that you weren’t sure belonged to you anymore. That night happened so long ago, in a time where you held onto the certainty you could be happy with him.

That even as the world crashed around you, this would remain solitary.

A flannel lay in front of you. Tossed beside your bag as a peace offering you weren’t quite sure what to do with. Take it and open the door just a bit more to a love that continued to hang over your heads. A ghost buried in the walls of your apartment, painted over walls that could reflect your laughter back to you—a space tainted by the image of simple joys.

Leave it and allow yourself the time to heal—to figure out where you stood as someone merely trying to survive. You weren’t the same—Logan knew this. But ignoring the way your body came to life in his vicinity would be what killed you in the end.

Not time itself but the time you spent apart from him.

The door creaked loud enough to break the stilled water you sunk beneath, his shadow casting over the bed beside you. He stood in the doorway, eyes dragging down the length of a body he could picture behind closed eyes. Limbs he felt twine around his own, skin he sunk his teeth into. There was no denying he could barely handle being away from you, but being this fucking close without any barriers nearly drove him mad.

“Dinner is ready,” he throatily muttered, hazel eyes swallowed whole by a dark pupil.

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.” Breath came out in shaky exhales, hand barely able to hold the towel up after a day of straining yourself. “I don’t know how to repay-”

His growl was familiar, a rumble that came from the depths of his chest as he took the final two steps to press himself into your back. “Don’t finish that fuckin’ sentence honey.”

Sighing you clasped a hand over his along your stomach. “You keep saving me.”

“I’ll save you for the rest of our lives,” he admitted, complete certainty bleeding through the strength in his voice. At least that’s what you let yourself believe. “Even if after all this you make a different choice.”

You turned sharply, nose brushing his—lips desperate to seek out the ones that claimed you long before tonight. “It’s you. My choice will always be you.”

Maybe this was it. The point of finding him, the reason he came to this universe in the first place. Maybe it was all to stand here, pressed tight and breathing in the air you both exhaled, for as long as time would allow. He smiled against your cheek, fingers curling into the towel that hung loose at your hip, before he pulled away. Patting the spot with a hum—light shining in eyes that you would recognize even at the end of the world.

“Come and eat bub. Before it gets cold.”

Silence ate away at your mind in the darkness. The bed was too large for just yourself. A massive thing in the center of the room meant for comfort and peace of mind and a man who took up space. You could hear him shift on the couch every hour, the door left ajar as you fought to find sleep in this place.

Over the weeks you’d grown used to Laura on your couch. The shuffle of her boots as the night waned—always worried that something might happen. Now her father echoed the same sentiments. His feet padded along the floor as he moved to and fro, his shadow lingering just outside the door. Waiting for you to invite him in, give him the chance to cross that threshold.

You wondered if he would hold you if asked. Would he sleep with no nightmares?

Twisting into the covers, you watched a hand peek through the gap. The question hung in the air before it ever left your mouth—silence exchanged in the air between sleep hazed looks and longing hearts. He shut the door behind him gently with a click. Solidifying the line now fazed out of existence.

However much you tried to pretend this would remain a friendship the truth was far louder in contrast.

A love like this would never be diminished. Not even by your own hands.

“Can’t sleep?” he whispered, sliding beneath the comforter.

You hummed. “The bed’s too big.”

“Feels that way for me too.”

The words stuck to the back of your throat, daring you to finally take what was right in front of you. “Will you stay?”

His arm curled around your waist, lips finding your shoulder beneath the dark flannel you wore. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

This time without hesitation…you finally believed him.

ONE WEEK LATER

Frustration became a comforting ally in the days that followed. You were doomed to snap eventually. A time bomb ready to explode as the hours passed and failure became something you were accustomed to. Training your body to accept a power it couldn’t understand weighed on you—drawing the anger you swallowed down tight into the confines of your chest. It pleaded with you to be let out, to finally have a place to go.

“We’ll go again.”

You scrubbed a hand down your face. “This isn’t working.”

“It will.”

“When?” you snapped. “When I finally have no hold over my own fucking actions? When I kill someone?”

Logan caught it before you ever did. The flick of a switch, the door that needed to be opened. You were swallowing emotions down as he did liquor, shoving them back into the carcass of who you used to be. Trying to mold yourself back in the box of humanity wouldn’t work—he could already see the detrimental effects on your mind. The hatred you held for something you couldn’t control.

You were walking the edge of a thin line slowly sinking into the sand.

Perhaps you needed to drown.

“Go again,” he pressed, watching the anger surge to the surface.

The cruelty wasn’t ripping you open, forcing that rage to finally sputter out of existence. It was that he allowed you to keep it in for so long. Hiding what you struggled against, keeping him from seeing the pain—the grief. You were begging for help—gasping for air—and he just stood there.

Now things were different.

Bracing himself as your eyes closed, he watched the spark of power begin to emanate from your hands. The opening of that blistering hatred, the fury you needed to confront. You glowed in the last hints of the days sunlight, blue pouring off your body, settling above the ground in a cloud of your own making. Past, present, future. They met in the middle, twisting and tangling within your body.

The embodiment of something that rivaled Death.

“You’re not trying hard enough,” he barked out the words—eyes catching every minor shift you made.

“Let me do this my way-”

“Do it again.”

You sucked in a breath, chin raised in a defiance that never burned so strong. “You need to stop.”

Logan could practically hear the clock tick down, the wires and mechanics settling into place. “Start over and this time do it right.”

“Logan-”

“You said you wanted to learn. So we’re gonna learn.” His claws slid forth, body tensing as the blue burned white in the center of your chest—irises flashing gold. “First lesson. Listen to what I fuckin’ say.”

He went flying as the blast ripped from your body, slamming him into the side of Al’s car. The sound of metal crunching beneath his body made him wince—your form advancing quicker than he expected. He knew he would see a glimpse of her peeking out behind your power. He waited for it. So it surprised him when he saw nothing but you.

You finally wielding a power that belonged to no other. It submitted with ease, filling that void you could no longer ignore. Your hand pulled from the air, melding together the unfamiliar form of something he’d only seen once before. A blade—long and dripping gold—was clutched in your palm, the snarl along your face enough to have him bracing for the final blow.

The knife went in easier than expected, plunging into his stomach with enough strength to jolt him back. But the task was done. You sliced the final chord holding it all together and when blood poured over your hand, you finally came back.

“No!” you cried, hands flying to cup his already healed wound, the weapon nowhere to be found.

What was once apart of the universe would go back, falling into the rules of nature set long before you were born. You could borrow. But none of it was yours to keep.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t-”

“That was progress,” he smiled, getting back to his feet.

You gaped at him, tears spilling across cheeks smeared in his blood. “Progress?” you exclaimed.

“It had to happen-”

“What part of this is progress? I stabbed you. I lost control!” Your voice ricocheted off the trees, his heart twisting at the sight of you so brittle. So fucking broken.

Life was painful—this he was used to. He was comfortable with it, understood it. But watching you shatter is what brought every fucking agonizing thing back. He lived it all over again, all at once.

“Honey-”

“I wanted to hate you.”

Now it was his turn to feel the grief that clung to his body like a second skin. He knew he hurt you. Could see the anguish plain as day play across your face as you swallowed the choked sob that bubbled to the surface. You didn’t come here to be saved. Neither of you did. Logan wasn’t even sure it was possible…to be rescued from this hell.

“You left me,” you sobbed and hated yourself for it. “And I wanted to hate you for it. You just walked away from everything! From our life and what we planned. From…what did I do wrong? Was it so painful to see her in my face that you had to go?”

“I didn’t want to go,” he rasped. “Wade and Laura-”

“Bullshit!” The touch of him grasping for your hands set off exactly what you were afraid of parting with. Emotions that kept you alive, pain that you could count on. “I was thrown into this and you weren’t there! You weren’t there to help me, to keep me from death. You weren’t there Logan!”

“I know!” he roared. “And I fucking hate every goddamn second I spent away from you. I hated myself for leaving you!”

“Then why did you stay away?” The crack in your voice did him in. Loaded the adamantium bullet into a gun only you could hold.

When he spoke he barely recognized his own voice. Dull and empty and the lilt of a man from a different universe. The man who fucked it all up—again. “I don’t know.”

Nodding, you did what you could to create a chasm of space—fighting for breath as he all but punched it out of your lungs. “I went looking for you.”

His heart stopped.

“In the past,” you choked out through fresh tears. “It was an accident. I didn’t even know what was happening, but apparently even unconscious and out of control…I still want you.”

“You can hate me,” he offered. “If that’s what you need to get through this.”

“That’s just it Logan. I couldn’t hate you even when I tried.”

“Baby…” It was wrong to let hope linger. To stare at the mess he made, the person he swore to love and protect. He should have killed the flicker as it bled into his twisting heart and he nearly did.

“I love you too much to ever hate you.”

And everything stopped.

He saw your eyes widen as he rushed towards you, the hitch in your breath and falter of your heart at the unexpected. Logan couldn’t control his own actions. He didn’t want to. He’d gone weeks without your touch, eternity wondering if someone existed to match his imperfections. Until there you were, wounded and jaggedly scarred and flawlessly fitting into the gaps of his soul—the darkness he could see reflected in your own eyes.

He kissed you. Violently. A mash of teeth and tongues as you met him in the middle—hands clawing at his shoulders when he hauled you up his body. You clung to him, uncaring that you looked desperate because that’s what you were. Wretched and lost without the man who molded the shape of your heart in his hands.

A moan stuttered out from the back of your throat, throaty and loud. He swallowed it with one of his own. You could feel his hands everywhere, gripping your hips, along the back of your thighs, digging into your ass hard enough to hurt. But you held onto the pain. Welcomed it with a pleased sigh as he stumbled up the steps into the house—his tongue wet and demanding against your own.

“Fuckin’ thought about this,” he got out between a groan—your teeth scraping the vein along his neck. “Every night.”

You could picture him in bed alone, head pushed into the pillows far too soft for his own liking, rapidly stroking his leaking cock. All to the thought of you. The memories spent buried between your legs, lapping at a cunt he could practically taste.

It spurred you to drag him back to your lips, hips canting along the buckle of his belt. “Need you inside baby.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, licking along his bottom lip. “It hurts without you Logan. Need you to fuck me. Please.”

The wall was cold against your back—his hand slamming beside your head to keep himself steady. Your words dug right to the base of his spine, chest heaving as you whined into the kiss. Breath wasn’t important; focusing on anything other than the feel of your hands tugging at his shirt slipped his mind because you were here and you were pleading with him to touch you. Take what he’d been longing for.

Silver glinted in the darkness, metal wrapped around his neck, and you nearly missed the sight of familiar dog-tags resting right above his heart. A name etched into the metal you traced many times before.

“You kept them,” you breathed, dragging a finger along the tag.

He grinned. “They came from you.”

So easy to admit. So simple to say.

Suddenly it hit you that the Logan before you had changed. Healed in his time spent away. He did exactly what he promised he would when he scribbled it in that letter. He’d come back to you someday. Even if it wasn’t the way you expected.

“Take me Logan,” you pleaded. “I’m yours.”

His hands ripped at your top, teeth sinking down hard into the plush skin of your breast. Crying his name, you tugged at his hair—whether to pull him away or draw him in you didn’t know. All you could feel was the delicious flicker of pain curling tight around your stomach. Slick pooling into the pants he worked a hand into.

“You got no idea what you do to me.” Words were cut off at the feel of you dripping wet and hot along his palm.

“Fuck Logan.”

Muffling you with a kiss, he curled two fingers around your clit that practically begged for attention. He wanted to suck it into his mouth—taste you until you had no choice but to wrench him away from you. Time spent alone wouldn’t be what drove him over the edge. Sliding into your tight cunt as you cried for him would be.

His eyes rolled back when he pushed into you, the stretch of his fingers pulling a rasped moan from your throat. You pushed yourself into his touch—grasping at any part of his body you could reach when he found the spot that made you wither. This was how you wanted to die. Trapped in his hold as the burning pleasure shot up your spine, a haze clouding every other thought but him.

He possessed you from the very start. If only he understood how willing you were. How pliable you became at his touch along your body.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he growled, pumping into you fast enough for the squelch of his fingers to echo off each wall.

You drowned beneath the sound—gasping in his mouth when he fixed on that one spot and became unrelenting. “I’m gonna-baby I-I’m gonna cum.”

“That’s it. Be a good girl and make a fuckin’ mess on my hand.”

The final fraying piece holding you altogether finally snapped. Your sob was broken against his parted mouth, thighs trembling from the pleasure that nearly became painful. He held you close, hips grinding into your inner thigh as you gushed over his palm—the flutter of your walls sucking his fingers in even further.

Did you finally break beyond repair?

Your body sang a tune you couldn’t recognize, a glow emanating beneath the skin dim enough to remain unnoticed. But you felt it all the same. A warm soothing caress along every nerve and vein. Welcoming you in as your chest pressed to his—heart beating in time with his. Logan kissed you, messily licking into your mouth when he pulled you from the wall and made his way into the bedroom.

“You’re glowin’,” he mumbled, pride glimmering in his eyes.

“What?”

Focusing on anything beyond the touch of his hand along your bare waist, the burn of his gaze along your breasts, wasn’t possible in this moment. When the world came to a halt and time finally allowed you to meet one another in the middle. This time as two halves of one whole.

He closed his lips around your nipple, fingers pressing into the wet cavern of your mouth—spreading your taste on the flat of your tongue. Your hips jolted, fingers scrambling for the button of his jeans. A task he was more than happy to appease you with. Teeth scraped along your skin and your stomach leapt—heart blooming under his attention. His mouth met yours, teeth clacking together hard enough to hurt, but you never noticed.

A hold tugged on your chest, gold flaring to life in lidded eyes. Beneath the layers of lust and wanton need lay the power you’d been fighting. It floated to the surface, grabbed your hands tight enough to blister the skin, but Logan’s tongue along your stomach soothed the pain. You sighed and tipped your head back into the pillow, fingers carding through his hair.

“Prettiest fuckin’ pussy in the world,” he rasped yanking down your pants until they were a rumpled mess on the floor. “And all mine.”

You smiled, drawing him close enough to feel his lips brush along yours. “All yours Logan,” you purred.

“And this-” His hand clutched your own, dragging it over the straining bulge of his jeans, grinding up into your touch hard enough to pulled a gasp from lips still smeared in his spit. “‘S all yours honey. Every part of me.”

“I want it.”

He smiled, canines bright in the dim room. “Yeah? You want me to fuck you?”

You nodded. “I missed your cock baby. How you fill me.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep runnin’ your mouth like that bub.”

“Sorry,” you giggled. “I forget how old you are.”

“Old huh?”

“Can’t have you dying on me from it baby.”

Whatever he said next went unheard—something along the lines of I’ll show you fuckin’ old—because he stuffed you full of those same spit slicked fingers. His other hand busy on working himself out of his jeans. You melted into the bed with a cry of his name, fingers clawing at his wrist to pull him closer, to press against your throbbing clit. Until you felt the head of his cock slide through your dripping folds and tap right where you needed it most.

“That feel old to ya honey?” he cooed, lining himself up as he pushed your cum into your already parted mouth. “C’mon. Use that pretty brain of yours.”

A muffled shout was all he got in return, pressing into you slow enough to muddle every thought that could have entered your mind. The stretch felt like everything you’d been longing for. All those nights spent alone wandering the pitch black maw of your own head—every fucking morning waking up without him. They built in the base of your chest as he finally pushed right up to the base of his cock—filling your cunt to the brim.

You felt him in your chest, along the length of your throat, and even then it wasn’t deep enough. Another fractured piece of your heart sewed itself back together, the needle puncturing the thrumming organ as he groaned long and hoarse against your neck.

“So fuckin’ good,” he murmured. “Squeezin’ me just right.”

“L-Logan-”

“I know baby. I know.”

The first thrust sent your head back into the bed, your legs hitching up around his waist and nails digging into his shoulders. But Logan wasn’t looking to be kind. He couldn’t find it in himself to fuck you slow.

He broke you. Sliced through whatever bonds were tying you down to the Earth and yanked you up to be in heaven right by his side. A god among men—how could you not worship at his feet?

Claws slid free puncturing the mattress as he fucked into you without mercy. Plunging into your sopping pussy loud enough to pierce the grunts and moans echoing through the room. It was wet and raw and you clung to him tight enough to draw blood to the surface—the sticky mess between your bodies enough to shove you close to the edge.

“Gonna fuck you full honey. And this time it’s gonna fuckin’ stay there,” he bit out, hand sliding along your stomach.

You nodded dumbly, voice practically unrecognizable in the haze of lust you were lost to. “Please-”

The cold metal of his dog-tags bumped against your chin and without even registering, your teeth closed around them. Logan swore he died and went to the fucking afterlife at the sight of your mouth stuffed full of his name. Muffled moans and a mess of spit spilling free as his hips stuttered, body tensing to fight the impending release.

He wouldn’t finish without you. Not until he heard those sweetly whispered words—the vow that lived and breathed a life of its own.

“Tell me again,” he breathed against your lips, thumb pressing hard and fast to your clit. “Say it for me honey.”

“L-Love you Logan.”

He nearly collapsed over your body, cock pounding into your hard enough to send an ache through your hips. “Again.”

“I love you,” you sobbed.

Grinding deep he came with a shout, pulling you off that cliff right alongside him. You felt white flash behind your eyes, legs locking behind his back as his mouth crushed to yours, his spend filling you until it dripped down and around his balls. Pooling along your thigh. For whatever time remained you were outside of your own body, bliss restructuring the fragments of your darkest parts. Each part of you he broke.

Everything he swore to fix.

“I love you,” he breathed against your lips, running a thumb along the line of your throat. “‘M gonna love you for the rest of my life.”

A sharp prick punctured your heart, unraveling the ties that bound you to the body you’d known your whole life—pulling free each lock and barrier set in place the day you changed. You didn’t fight it, barely found enough strength to recognize what it was. But before you could grasp for the remnants of your old self, you found it pouring between your fingers like sand.

Logan sucked in a breath, eyes drinking in the sight of you glowing. Blue and gold and a the burning white he knew only came from the insides of stars—cosmic power stripped from the universe around you now pulsing in time with a heart he owned.

Warmth pooled over your head, spreading down to the tips of your toes as you lay beneath him—finally at ease with who you were. Time peeked out behind the curtains of your mind, settling along each bone, burning itself into your being. Solidifying itself into a soul that now shined in the glow of his love.

You sighed into its touch, eyes fluttering shut as Logan cupped your cheek. “I can feel it Logan. Time.”

“Where’s it comin’ from honey?” he whispered.

With a smile, you watched the centuries flash in your mind, time spent with friends with a family and daughter yet to play out in real life. Moments you’d revisit and cherish. A path you finally walked freely.

“My heart.”

a/n: i want to say so many things about this series and how much it has meant to me. but i will save that for the epilogue. thank you so fucking much for sticking around this long. i hope you love the small snippet to come.

[kaynothanks]

THE BARGAIN STORE

Pairing: Loki x goddess!reader

Summary: You, a goddess hiding on Earth, encounter Loki, who eons ago vowed to kill you. Loki never was one to keep his word.

Warnings: (18+ mdni) loki, what else? the smut just happened, i don’t even know how (yes, I do), oral (f receiving), loki has ulterior motives, mention of blood (lip), unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering

Word-Count: 6.5 k

Nobody suspected anything. Never had. For the past few decades, you had been the owner of your little shop, after spending many centuries on the run.

Throughout centuries, there had been wars and revolutions, plagues and remedies. You had stood witness to them all. Watched from the distance as civilizations went into ruin and new ones emerged. You had made sure not to get too involved. It wasn’t your place; not your planet and not your people. Still, you had been on earth for a big part of your lifespan. In your world, you weren’t anything special, a sheep in a broad herd. And you had had enough of it. So, you had left. Ran from your responsibilities, bid no goodbyes and settled for something less.

Centuries had woven themselves into the very fabric of your being, each era a thread in the intricate tapestry of your existence. You had been many things: a whisper in the wind, a shadow in the twilight, a force as ancient and unyielding as the stars themselves. Yet, for the last few decades, you had chosen a far simpler, more unassuming role—a shopkeeper, tending to a quaint little establishment nestled on a serene street, far removed from the cacophony of the bustling city that surrounded it.

Your shop was a sanctuary, not just for you, but for all who sought refuge within its walls. From the outside, it appeared no different from any other boutique that dealt in herbs, teas, and the occasional curious trinket. However, its essence was imbued with something far more ancient, a magic that hummed quietly beneath the surface, perceptible only to those who truly believed or those who, like you, were of another world entirely.

This little shop was your haven, a place where you could be both less and more than what you were. Here, you were not the goddess who had danced among the stars, who had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, who had fled from a war that threatened to consume her very soul. Here, you were simply the keeper of secrets, of remedies both mundane and magical, offering solace to the weary and the lost.

Your reasons for choosing this existence were manifold, but at their core lay a desire for peace, for a semblance of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. You had grown weary of the endless conflicts that had defined your existence, of the power struggles that had torn apart realms and ravaged worlds. Earth, with all its simplicity and complexity, offered a respite, a place where you could hide in plain sight among its inhabitants, who remained blissfully unaware of the greater cosmos that swirled around them.

The shop became a reflection of your desire for tranquility. Its walls were lined with shelves laden with jars and bottles, each containing herbs and potions that held whispers of your old world. You delighted in the mundane tasks of tending to your plants, mixing herbs, and brewing teas, finding a sense of purpose in the healing and comfort your creations provided. Your customers, none the wiser to the true nature of your being, were drawn to your shop by an inexplicable pull, leaving with remedies for their ailments and, sometimes, a lighter heart.

For years, this life had been enough. You had convinced yourself that you could forget, that you could move beyond the past and forge a new existence among the humans you had come to cherish. But the past, as it often does, refused to remain buried. It came for you on an unremarkable day, shattering the peace you had so carefully built with the ringing of the shop's bell and the entrance of a figure from a life you had tried to leave behind.

Loki's arrival was a storm on the horizon, a harbinger of chaos that threatened to upend the world you had created. The God of Mischief, with his piercing gaze and sly grin, embodied everything you had fled from: the power, the destruction, the endless machinations of gods and men. His presence in your shop, a place that had been untouched by the affairs of gods for so long, was a stark reminder that one could never truly escape their nature or their past.

The last time you had seen Loki, it was on the battlefield. You had been on opposing sides, and his last words to you were a vow of death. Yet, here he stood, looking around your shop with a curious gleam in his eyes, not having recognized you yet. Or had he? With Loki, one could never be too sure. You steadied yourself, the mask of the shopkeeper sliding effortlessly into place. "Can I help you find anything?" Your voice was calm, betraying none of the turmoil inside.

Loki turned his attention to you, his green eyes piercing. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "I'm looking for something unique," he declared, the silk of his voice wrapping around you like a familiar shroud. His steps were measured as he approached, the predator within barely leashed. "A gift for someone who values... rare items."

You couldn't help but wonder who Loki would consider worthy of a gift. Your curiosity, however, was a dangerous thing, especially around him. "I have a few rare herbs and special tea blends. If you're looking for something more unique, perhaps a potion or two? Depending on what you wish to achieve." You kept your tone neutral, professional.

It was a game of cat and mouse, and you both knew it. Loki's lips twitched into a smile, and he moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "And what would you recommend for someone seeking... forgiveness?"

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Loki was asking for forgiveness? From whom? The thought that it might be you crossed your mind, but you dismissed it just as quickly. "Forgiveness is not easily obtained by potions alone. It requires sincerity and action. But," you paused, turning to fetch a small, unassuming bottle from a shelf behind you, "this may aid in opening the heart to forgiveness, making it more receptive."

He took the bottle, examining it with a thoughtful expression. "And what do you seek, shopkeeper? What would you have me pay for this aid?"

"Peace," the word slipped out before you could stop it. It was the truth, however. Peace was all you had sought by coming to Earth, peace from your past, from the endless battles and politics of gods.

"A tall order," Loki mused, placing the bottle down and stepping closer, invading your personal space. "But perhaps not impossible."

The tension between you was palpable, a dance of curiosity, old grudges, and unspoken questions. "Why are you here, Loki?" you dared to ask, needing to know his purpose. Your heart raced, not just from surprise but from a resurgence of a darker thrill you thought you had buried deep within. The life you had led before, filled with power plays and destruction, beckoned with a seductive finger through Loki's emerald gaze. As Loki dared to step closer, crossing the invisible boundary you had mentally drawn around yourself, a surge of defiance ignited within you. Your heart raced, not solely with fear but with the resurgence of a power you had long kept dormant. With a thought as sharp as a whispered incantation, you summoned a dagger into existence. It materialized in your hand, its golden blade gleaming with a light that spoke of ancient magics and forgotten realms. This was no mere weapon but a relic of your divine heritage, a testament to the might you once wielded freely.

You didn't hesitate. The years had taught you caution, yes, but they had also honed your instincts, sharpened them into lethal points. As Loki advanced, a smile playing on his lips as if he were merely a predator toying with his prey, you struck. The movement was fluid, a dance you had performed countless times across the battlegrounds of the stars. The blade sliced through the air, aimed with deadly precision at the figure before you.

But the strike met no resistance. Instead, the dagger sliced through the illusion, the projection of Loki dissipating into nothingness, leaving behind only the faintest traces of his magic in the air. It was a trick, a mere sleight of hand from the God of Mischief, and you had fallen for it. A cold realization washed over you, a reminder of Loki's cunning, of the depths of his power which, it seemed, had only grown over the years.

Before you could recover, before you could even curse your own folly, arms enveloped you from behind. It was an embrace as familiar as it was unexpected, one that spoke of countless lifetimes and entwined destinies. His hand snaked around your waist, securing you against him with an intimacy that belied the years of separation and the shadow of past betrayals. The other hand, firm and unyielding, gripped hold of your wrist, effortlessly disarming you of the dagger you had conjured. Its golden light flickered and died, leaving you exposed, vulnerable in a way that went beyond the physical.

Loki's breath was warm against your neck, his presence a cloak of inevitability you found yourself powerless to resist. "How I have missed you, darling," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin, a mix of threat and endearment. In that moment, with Loki's arms around you and his voice weaving spells of its own, you were transported back across the aeons, to a time when love and war were intermingled, and your fate was inseparably tied to the whims of gods.

The realization that the figure you had attacked was but a projection, a mere echo of Loki's true self, sank in with a weight that was almost suffocating. It was a reminder of his mastery over illusions, over the realities he could weave with a mere thought. Yet, the arms that held you, the breath that teased the hairs at the nape of your neck, they were undeniably real. This was no illusion but the god himself, in flesh and blood, as tangible as the tumultuous history you shared.

The conflict within you, a storm of emotions and memories, raged with renewed intensity. Loki's proximity, his touch, it reignited flames you thought had long since turned to ash. But this was not the time for reminiscences, for getting lost in what had been. The immediate truth was that Loki, the very being who had once vowed your destruction, now held you within his grasp, not as an enemy, but with a possessiveness that spoke of deeper, more complex intentions.

As his hand released your wrist, letting the vanished dagger be forgotten, you were left to grapple with the reality of his return. His words, laden with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, echoed in the silence that followed. Was it a declaration, a manipulation, or something in between? With Loki, the lines were always blurred, the truth as shifting as the sands of time. The shop around you, once a sanctuary of peace, now felt like a stage set for a confrontation centuries in the making. The tranquility you had so carefully cultivated was shattered, replaced by the crackling energy of a storm about to break. Loki's presence, both familiar and foreboding, promised nothing and everything, a paradox that was his very essence.

Still ensnared in Loki's unexpected embrace, his words lingering in the air between you, a whirlwind of emotions battled within you. Anger, betrayal, and a flicker of something dangerously akin to longing. His presence, his closeness, was overwhelming, yet you found the clarity to make a choice. You would play his game, match his deceit with your own cunning, even as thoughts of vengeance danced just beneath the surface of your composed exterior.

Turning your head to face him, you allowed the moment to stretch, to teeter on the edge of something neither of you could fully grasp. Your lips hovered so close to his, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, a tantalizing promise of what could be. "Have you now, my love?" The words slipped from your lips, laced with a venom sweetened by the honeyed guise of affection. It was a challenge, a provocation, delivered with the precision of one who knew just how to stir the god of mischief.

Loki responded not with words, but with action. He hummed, a sound that vibrated with a multitude of unspoken thoughts and desires, before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. It was a bold move, one that sought to bridge centuries of separation and silence with the intimacy of a moment. The kiss was a fusion of past and present, a clash of wills and desires, as complex and enigmatic as Loki himself.

Yet, as his lips moved against yours, a part of you recoiled, a reminder of the chasm that lay between what was and what could never be. With a resolve as cold and sharp as a blade, your hand found its way into the silk of his dark locks. You allowed yourself a brief second, a heartbeat, to feel the warmth of him, to breathe in the scent that was undeniably Loki, before your fingers curled into a fist, gripping tightly.

With a swift, decisive motion, you pulled him away, breaking the kiss, severing the illusion of reconciliation and intimacy. "I don't believe you for a second," you hissed, the words dark and laden with all the unspoken truths and lies that had accumulated over the years. It was a declaration of war as much as it was a rejection, a line drawn in the sand that marked the boundary between past affections and present distrust.

Loki, taken aback by the suddenness of your rejection, the intensity of your grip, could only stare, the mask of charm and seduction slipping to reveal a glimpse of the genuine surprise and, perhaps, a flicker of a bruised ego beneath his mask. The god of mischief, so accustomed to being the orchestrator of deceit, found himself momentarily at a loss, caught in the web of his own making. The air between you crackled with tension, charged with the electricity of a storm on the horizon. In that moment, with the remnants of the kiss still lingering like a phantom touch upon your lips, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare. It was a tapestry woven with threads of love and hatred, betrayal and longing, each stitch a testament to the turbulent history you shared.

Your defiance, your refusal to succumb to the seduction of a momentary weakness, set the stage for what was to come. It was a declaration that you were no longer the deity who had fled, who had sought refuge in the shadows of anonymity. You were a force to be reckoned with, a player in the game of gods, and Loki would do well to remember that.

Loki's response to your defiance was as swift as it was unpredictable. His initial surprise at your resistance melted away into that all-too-familiar grin, a mischievous curve of his lips that had always heralded trouble. The atmosphere shifted palpably, charged with a tension that was as much about power as it was about the unresolved history simmering between you. He advanced, the godly aura that clung to him making the air around you thrum with energy. His approach was deliberate, each step calculated to intimidate and enthrall in equal measure. You found yourself retreating until the solid form of the front desk halted your escape, the mundane reality of your shop a stark contrast to the unfolding drama.

Loki's fingers, cool and assertive, found the hem of your clothes, tugging with a playful yet disapproving frown. "I must confess, I find myself at odds with your choice of attire," he remarked, his voice a low purr that vibrated with an undercurrent of something darker. "These... mundane garments do not suit you. I miss the dresses of old, the ones that whispered secrets against your skin, the ones I could remove with but a thought." His words were a deliberate provocation, designed to unnerve and reminisce a past intimacy that had once been.

Before you could muster a retort or push him away, he lifted you with an ease that spoke of his godly strength, sitting you atop the counter with a possessive certainty. The action was bold, an invasion of personal space that he seemed to relish, watching for your reaction, gauging how far he could push before you snapped. His behavior, this blend of familiarity and threat, placed you at a crossroads. Part of you, the part hardened by centuries of hiding and surviving, screamed for caution, for you to summon your powers and push him away, to reinforce the boundaries he so blatantly disregarded. Yet, another part, perhaps the part that had once known him more intimately, that remembered the complexity of his character, urged you to wait, to use this proximity to your advantage.

The realization dawned on you then, amid the tension and the charged air, that Loki's tactics had shifted because he needed something from you. His words, his actions, were part of a larger game, one that involved merely his goal, and by extension, you. It was a game of manipulation, of old affections twisted into new strategies, but it was also a game you could play.

"So, you miss the past," you found yourself saying, voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. Your eyes locked with his, a challenge laid bare. "But the past is a realm even you cannot return to, Loki. We are not who we once were, and desires... desires can be as fleeting as they are dangerous." It was a gamble, invoking both your shared history and the undeniable tension of the present. You sought to remind him that you were not the same deity he had once known, that you had grown and changed, just as he had. In this dance of words and wills, you were not just the prey he might have assumed you to be; you were a player in your own right, with your own cards yet to be revealed.

The next move was his, and the air between you crackled with the anticipation of it.

Loki's gaze, a maelstrom of green, held yours with an intensity that bordered on the palpable, each flicker of emotion a testament to the centuries that had shaped him. His response, when it came, was threaded with the weight of ages and the depth of a god's desires.

"My yearning for you," he began, his voice a low thrum that seemed to echo with the gravitas of eons passed, "has never been of the fleeting kind. It is as enduring as the stars that light our skies, as unyielding as the fabric of reality itself. To suggest otherwise is to misunderstand the very nature of my being."

With these words, he sank to his knees before you, an act so filled with symbolic surrender and yet charged with an undercurrent of strategy. In this position, Loki, the god of mischief, the architect of chaos, positioned himself in a posture of fealty—or so it seemed. Yet, you knew better than to take the gesture at face value. Loki was many things, but straightforward was not one of them. Every action, every word, was laced with layers of meaning, designed to manipulate and coax the desired response from those he engaged with.

His move was bold, a calculated risk meant to disarm and perhaps to remind you of the dynamics that had once defined your interactions. It was an acknowledgment of your power, your importance in this intricate game he was playing. Yet, it was also unmistakably a ploy, a way to close the distance between you, to weave a narrative of shared history and unresolved tension.

The air around you seemed charged, thick with the history and the palpable tension of the moment. Loki, on his knees, looking up at you with an intensity that spoke of genuine desire mixed with the ever-present calculation, presented a picture of vulnerability. Yet, you were not so easily swayed. You knew the depths of his cunning, the lengths he would go to achieve his ends. His admission, cloaked in the grandiosity of his age and station, left you with a choice. To engage, to allow yourself to be drawn back into the orbit of his world, his plans, or to hold firm, to remember the reasons for your distance, for the life you had chosen away from the machinations of gods and their games.

The moment stretched, a tableau of tension and possibility, as you weighed your response, acutely aware of the stakes, of the game that was afoot, and of Loki, who knelt before you, a god cloaked in the guise of a supplicant, yet undeniably dangerous, undeniably compelling.

As Loki knelt before you, the atmosphere thick with tension and unspoken words, you made a decision. Lifting your leg, the black of your heeled shoes catching the light and glinting ominously, you pushed against his shoulder. It was a gesture meant to distance, to assert your autonomy against his sudden show of vulnerability or manipulation—whichever it truly was. Your voice, when it came, was laced with a mixture of resolve and undeniable truth, a reflection of the complex dance that had always defined your interactions.

"Your desire for me," you began, your words deliberate, "could never hope to keep pace with your lust for your myriad schemes and machinations, my love." The term of endearment, spoken so, carried a weight of irony, a nod to the past entanglements and the understanding that, for Loki, the pursuit of his goals often overshadowed everything else.

Yet, instead of acquiescing to the push, of allowing himself to be dismissed so easily, Loki's reaction was to tighten his grasp on the situation—quite literally. His hands, those instruments of mischief and manipulation, found your leg, his touch bold as he held you in place. Then, with an audacity that was quintessentially Loki, he pressed his lips against your calf in a kiss that was as shocking as it was calculated. It was an act of defiance, a refusal to be pushed away, and a statement of his intent all at once.

This gesture, so intimate and yet so brazen, served multiple purposes. It was a challenge to your autonomy, a test of your boundaries, and an undeniable declaration of his continued interest. Yet, it was also unmistakably Loki—crossing lines, blurring boundaries, and always, always pushing for more than what was offered. The action left you momentarily stunned, grappling with the rush of emotions it elicited. Anger, irritation, an unwelcome surge of something more confusing, all mingled together. It was a reminder of the power he wielded, not just through his magic, but through his very presence, his ability to unnerve and to provoke.

In that moment, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare once more. It was a tangled web of attraction and repulsion, of history and the potential for future conflicts. His refusal to be dismissed, to be pushed aside, was both infuriating and intriguing. It was Loki in all his complexity, challenging you to respond, to engage, to once again become entangled in the endless cycle of push and pull that had always defined you.

The next move was yours to make, and the shop, once a place of mundane tranquility, had become a battleground of wills, a stage upon which the next act of your shared story would unfold. With a flick of your fingers, reality within the confines of your shop twisted and shifted, unfurling like the petals of a flower under the first light of dawn. The mundane guise that had cloaked the truth from prying eyes dissolved, revealing the hidden splendor that no ordinary human could perceive. The illusion you had meticulously maintained for years now peeled away, and the floor beneath your feet transformed, paths of gold unfurling like rivers through the space. Artifacts, their origins as ancient and varied as the stars themselves, now adorned the walls—each piece a testament to histories untold and powers unimaginable.

But the transformation did not stop with the shop. It enveloped you as well, the very essence of your being responding to the unspoken command. The simple, mundane dress that had draped your form vanished, replaced by attire that echoed Loki's wistful remembrance. What materialized was reminiscent of your homeland's attire, designed for the relentless heat and the unyielding brightness of your realm. It was barely more than a tunic, the silk woven in patterns that spoke of ancient craftsmanship and royal decree, clinging to your form in a way that left little to the imagination. The hem flirted with the very brink of decency, the rump of your body barely shielded by the delicate fabric, a bold declaration of your heritage and status.

In this transformation, you reclaimed a fragment of your past self, the visage you had donned before you sought refuge and anonymity amongst the mortals of Earth. The change was not merely physical but symbolic, a shedding of the facade you had adopted to navigate the complexities of a world not your own. Standing there, in the true appearance of your being, you confronted Loki not as the unassuming shopkeeper he had encountered moments before, but as the goddess you truly were—powerful, formidable, and undeniably yourself. You stood before him not as an adversary to be underestimated, but as an equal, a being of immense power and depth, whose true nature was as complex and as potent as his own.

The shop, now a reflection of truths long concealed, served as the perfect backdrop for the unfolding confrontation. The artifacts that lined the walls, each bearing witness to the ages and the stories they contained, stood as silent sentinels to the encounter between two beings who transcended the mundane, whose histories were intertwined with the very fabric of the cosmos.

In this moment, the illusion shattered, the truth laid bare, you awaited Loki's response, the air thick with anticipation and the weight of unspoken challenges. The game, it seemed, had shifted, and the rules were being rewritten with each passing second. As the golden light settled and the true form of your shop shimmered into existence around you, Loki's initial reaction was a momentary flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into an appreciative smirk. His gaze swept over the transformed space, taking in the ancient artifacts and the streams of gold that ran like rivers across the floor. But it was the change in you that held his attention captive. The way the silk of your tunic clung to your form, the bold declaration of your divine heritage—it was as if he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

Loki breathed, his voice a blend of admiration and something darker, more primal. "This," Loki's voice wove through the air with an echo of ancient power, "is the true essence of you that lingers in my memory.” His eyes, alight with a mischievous and predatory gleam, never left your form as he slowly circled you, taking in every detail. "Hiding in plain sight, were we?" he mused, his tone teasing yet laced with an edge that hinted at the complexity of your shared past.

Despite the tension crackling in the air between you, you stood your ground, your posture radiating confidence and power. "And what of it, Loki?" you countered, your voice steady and imbued with strength. "Did you expect to find me cowering? Diminished?"

Loki's circling came to a halt, and he faced you, the distance between you charged with an electric anticipation. "On the contrary," he replied, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable weight, as his fingers went forward, pulling at one of the strings keeping your body hidden from his gaze. "I've always known your strength, your... resilience. It's what makes this game so exhilarating."

The word 'game' hung between you, a reminder of the countless layers and facades both of you had navigated over the eons. This moment, however, stripped away those layers, revealing the raw essence beneath. It was a confrontation, yes, but also a recognition of the profound connection that had always existed between you—a connection fraught with complexity and contradictions.

"Are you certain you wish to engage in another game, Loki?" Your voice, steady and imbued with a quiet power, cut through the charged silence, even as you felt him unbuckle your shoes, his fingers deftly and slowly slipping them from your feet. "I seem to recall your rather... unfortunate defeat last time." The words hung in the air, a challenge and a reminder of past encounters where the balance of power had shifted, leaving Loki on the losing end.

Loki's hands stilled momentarily as he lifted his gaze to yours, a cunning glint sparkling within those deep green eyes. "Ah, but my dear, to dwell on a solitary defeat is to overlook the endless expanse of the game," he mused with a sly, almost serpentine smile. "The allure for me lies not in the victory or the loss, but in the exquisite complexity of the play itself. The interplay of strategy, the artful dance of minds. And," his voice dropped, a velvet caress against the tension hanging in the air, "the delicious possibility of reversing fortunes, which, I assure you, is a prospect I find most... exhilarating."

As he spoke, his fingers slid underneath your heel, leading your leg to rest over his shoulder with a care and precision that contradicted the levity in his voice. Loki laid another feathery touch to your thighs, gripping them tighter as he wedged his face between them, while you held fast to the edge of the counter. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your core.

There was no need to harbor affection for the man to appreciate the artistry his mouth provided. His tongue grazed the surface of your clit and you felt a tremor coursing through your very bones. He delved deeper, his taste encompassing the entirety of your core. As he did, your legs seemed to tighten inadvertently around him, though it posed no barrier to his indulgence. Your cunt clenched and you were swept away as his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs, pulling you closer onto his awaiting tongue. The surge of familiar emotions within you was overpowering, far too intense for your unprepared body. Your head fell back with a moan as you gave yourself to him in your entirety and Loki groaned, his tongue honing in on your bud as he chased your orgasm. He refused to relent until the heat had filled you whole, filled your soul. You writhed underneath him, hips helplessly buckling. Loki chuckled, a melodic blend of amusement and triumph, resonating with an undercurrent of sly cunning.

“That’s it, darling,” he coaxed as a surge of desire blossomed within you, enough to part your lips into a broken cry. His dark hair peeked between your fingers and his tongue snuck out to lick his lips while his gaze was set on you above him. His hand wandered to your tunic and yanked it away. His thumb grazed your nipple when he returned his mouth to your center, two of his fingers slowly dipping into your glistening heat.

“Loki,” you whimpered, tightening the hold on his hair—he matched your movements, arm securing you to him so forcefully no might on Earth and beyond could have parted you from his lips. He curled his fingers, rubbing that special spot inside of you and your stomach twitched. You felt him grin against your heat, teeth gracing over your sensitive bud, as a tremor ran through your body.

“My tempest darling,” he sighed when he finally pulled his fingers from you, leaving behind such an agonizing feeling of emptiness. You were about to retaliate, when he stood, bringing your body this his, hand running along the length of your thigh before he hoisted it against his hip. “Even if doubt shadows your heart, my dear, believe me, the absence of your taste on my tongue has been an ache most persistent,” Loki declared, his voice weaving together assurance and playful sincerity. One of his hands made quick work of undoing the dress pants of the black suit he was clad in, the other clutching your thigh close—so terribly tight you were certain even the skin of gods could be bruised by his hungry fingers. His lips found yours, softly at first, though through the looming desire burning within, Loki’s control appeared to stray when you bit into his lip, drawing blood. A groan tore from his throat, eyes darkening as he looked down at you, refusing to part from your gaze even as he entered you. Your mouth fell open against his, a silent moan slipping from your lips, his forehead dropping onto yours. He moved then, pulling out barely before he pushed back in so deeply it shook you. Loki had always been the embodiment of wickedness wrapped in the guise of charm; an enigma whose very presence stirred a vicious blend of temptation and sin, drawing all who encounter him into a dance with the devilishly divine.

“How I’ve missed you,” he whispered against the heated skin of your neck, traveling downward to softly kiss along your bared collarbones. His voice was a divinity, dark and rich and soaked with the sweetest of all sins. The emerald green within his eyes reflected the gold surrounding you. One of your hands cradled the back of his neck, fingers catching loose strands of raven hair that had grown so long in the centuries you hadn’t laid your sights on him. Loki held your thigh in a fierce grip, fingers digging further into your flesh with every stroke of his throbbing cock with your heat.

“You swore to kill me, my love,” you gasped as he delivered another harsh thrust, your head fell forward against his shoulder a searing pleasure built within you.

As his teeth grazed the delicate skin of your neck, savoring the salty essence of your being, Loki’s hand traveled from the curve of your thigh, securing you firmly against him at your waist, moving you against him in a refined rhythm. Against the warmth of your skin, he murmured, “To kill you, my little deity, would be akin to consigning a part of my own soul into the abyss.”

A gasp caught in your throat as he thrust into you deeper than before and you collapsed against him, coming with a cry of relief. He continued thrusting into you, arm keeping you secured against him as though you were about to vanish as you had done all those years ago. He lifted your chin, his mouth capturing yours when you felt him jerk inside of you. You felt his warmth spilling into you, his shameless groans filling your ears as he emptied himself within you. Breath mixing with his, you stayed there for a moment—in which the world seemed to narrow down to the space between the two of you, to the silent conversation spoken through glances and the slight tremors in your lungs.

Loki stole another kiss, then, as if breaking from a spell, his expression shifted, his early devotion to you giving way to a more serious, contemplative mien. “Business with you, my tempest darling, had always been a delight most exquisite,” Loki said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that bordered on violence. “I trust you’re familiar with the tales of the Celestial Compass, aren’t you?”  he continued, referring to an artifact of immense power and ancient origin, rumored to guide its holder to whatever they sought most in the universe. It was an object that you had kept hidden away, its location known only to you.

The mention of the compass sliced through the tension, a stark reminder of the stakes at play. Loki's presence in your shop, the transformation of your surroundings, the exchange of words—all were mere preludes to this moment.

"Why, Loki?" you asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and defiance as you fixed the tunic he had so carelessly pulled aside. "Why seek the compass now? What is it you desire so fervently to find?"

Loki's smile then was enigmatic, a mask that offered no clear answers. "Ah, but revealing one's desires so openly is a dangerous game, my dear. Let's just say... I seek something that has long eluded me." The ambiguity of his response left you wary, aware that Loki's desires were seldom straightforward and often entwined with greater schemes and hidden agendas. Yet, the acknowledgment of this quest, of his need for the compass, revealed a vulnerability in Loki—a crack in the armor he so carefully maintained.

As Loki awaited your response, the weight of centuries and the anticipation of what was to come hung heavily in the air. The next move was yours to make, in a game that was as much about uncovering truths as it was about concealing them. In response to his inquiry, your reply came not in words, but in the form of a serene smile, a silent echo of your shared past. With a casual flick of your fingers, you vanished into the ether, just as you had done countless centuries before, leaving Loki alone in the confines of what now appeared to be a decrepit shop. Its once vibrant essence faded, reflecting the sudden void your departure had created.

Loki, momentarily taken aback, quickly regained his composure. A laugh, rich with both amusement and a tinge of admiration, escaped him as he reached out to snatch a golden letter materializing out of thin air. The letter, simple yet profound in its message. The words, though brief, carried the weight of eons, a testament to the enduring dance between you two. Loki's gaze lingered on the golden script, a smirk playing on his lips, already plotting his next move in the timeless game between you.

“Farewell, my love.”

[tteokdoroki]

hi aali! my ideal valentines gift would be a dainty tennis bracelet that i’ve been wanting for a while <3 and i’d swipe sweet on sukuna ! (bonus: i buy him a silver chain since he’s been wanting a new one !)

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — RYOMEN SUKUNA. swipe sweet: simplicity.

about. boom, it’s a match! ryomen sukuna and yourself have come to an agreement. no gifts and no materialistic things for v-day… but he really can’t help it, especially because you’ve never received a gift out of love and not because someone is trying to buy it ( 0.7K )

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, established relationships, modern bf!sukuna, rich girl + fem!reader.

・:〃⤥ bumble date, swipe right event !

ryomen sukuna doesn’t come from money.

he’s an honest man who works an honest job and makes an honest living. he does what he can to support his family and keep his head above water — and that’s enough for him. sukuna wasn’t always this good nor this honest, the rough and troubled days of his youth have hardened his exterior and made him hard to love. 

to everyone except for you. 

you’re a girl that comes from money.

you’ve never worked a day in your life, but you do what you can to be there for siblings way too evil and ungrateful to care about the sacrifices you had made for them. you weren’t always this noble and you didn’t always care and maybe that made you hard to love. 

but you found each other, despite how difficult showing love may be. you found love for yourselves and each other in simplicity and comfortable quietness. in the way that you’re both so alike and yet so different. how you were raised and the backgrounds in which you came from don’t matter you or sukuna. as long as you’re content by one another’s sides. 

that’s why you had a rule. no gifts on valentine’s day — you would settle for one another’s company, perhaps a home cooked meal from sukuna’s skilful hands and some cheap chocolate you'd impulsive bought on the way home. you already owned everything money could buy thanks to your father and his fruitful lifestyle, there wasn’t anything more you could possibly want except for being with your boyfriend like it was any other day. it was simple, being together was simple. 

that’s why you frown as sukuna pushes a small, pink box tied with a little white ribbon across the smooth marble of island in your kitchen. it sits suspiciously between the glass of red wine your boyfriend had poured for you and the roses you had gotten for him (which he liked, he just wouldn’t admit to it.).

“i thought we said no gifts, ryo?” you drawl questioningly, tapping your nails against the counter as you lean over it. 

sukuna doesn’t turn from the stove, his muscled back rippling as he flips your steaks. “that didn’t stop ya from gettin’ me roses, did it, gorgeous?” the smirk he chucks you from over his shoulder stirs the butterflies in your tummy, ones that only react to his love and his touch. “open it up. wanna see the look on your face when you see it.” 

your frown quickly dissipates into an affectionate smile as you take the box between your fingers — fighting a swoon. “i really don’t need anything, ryo. you know that.” the ribbon falls apart in your hands and the lid on the box pops off easily. “i have everything money could buy…” 

but then, your voice dies in your throat just as your boyfriend dishes up your meal and you gift is finally revealed. “everything but somethin’ i’ve gotten you,” your boyfriend says gruffly, mirroring you as he throws a tea towel over his shoulder and leans over the island to take your delicate little gift between his thick, calloused fingers. a tennis bracelet made from the finest silver sits pretty in ryomen’s hands, it’s silver charms glint under the dim and romantic lighting set for tonight. there’s a little ‘s’ for his family nickname, and a heart as if to remind you that his is forever yours.

he reaches out, surprisingly tender for someone so hardened, and grasps your wrist — helping you with the clasp on the little bracelet. “i know you’re not materialistic, couldn't care less about money. but no one’s ever gotten you anythin’ because they care. not because they’re tryna buy your love.” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

as if loving you this much is the most normal thing in the world. 

“aww ryo,” pouting, you wrangle his hand into holding your own — looking across at your boyfriend with puppy dog eyes. “you love me? you’re not trying to buy my love?” 

“don’t need to,” he rolls his blood red eyes, but you don’t miss how they brim with love. “ain’t you whipped f’me?” sukuna sasses you, plays mean, but his lips against the inside of your wrist tell you otherwise. he’s just as whipped as you are. 

“kinda,” you respond. 

“only kinda?”

“yeah, sorta.” 

“just say you love me, brat.” 

“alright, ryomen sukuna. i love you.”

and you do, more than what glitter’s and more than what’s gold ( even if your bracelet is silver ). 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[elliottswaterlilies]

So what's Crystal's/Potato's backstory exactly? Like did Uzi and N come across her while hunting and collectively decided "our baby now"? Also I did notice she only seems to have one arm, did she lose the other one?

Potato's lore [which I'll just refer her as for simplicity sakes; also bc bouncing her diff names may get confusing] is actually kinda. Sad </3 so incoming for implied heavy themes;; also kinda long, I like to ramble soooo yeah :p

Potato was actually found by V first!

V was out finding drone parts for Nori [who has gotten a body at this point in this continuation. also the disassembly drones kinda?? (not entirely) work under Nori] when she stumbled upon a couple of murked drones, precisely a deceased couple & pod. It struck her as odd since she didn't recognize who the drones were or the fact there didn't seem like any of the disassemblers were behind it. Her attention was grabbed by a nearby, busted out car, & that's where she would find Potato; laying there, injured & scared, somehow surviving whatever had attacked the family.

Obvs first instinct was to bring the droneling [funny name ik] back & she was put under Nori's watch for awhile.. mostly bc V was unsure if she was qualified to take care of another kid, at least at the time [which in this continuation/au, she is paired up with Lizzy & those two already have a kid named Harley (owned by my bro @teddyberrii)].

That's really when Uzi & N step in, since at this point the two have been trying for a kid for awhile now to no avail; they didn't know Potato was in the Doorman residence/Nori's workshop until her little head poked out the doorway & they all stared at each other like deer in headlights. It is safe to say that Potato was already up Uzi's leg, clinging to her like a baby koala & she simply accepted the drone as her new kiddo [especially since it would a week or two & no additional family member of hers seemed to come pick up Potato... so she was officially a Doorman.]

Regarding some of Potato's scars [on her face, the lack of an arm, etc], they were inflicted. She's almost completely mute & doesn't really talk; essentially Potato's been through some.. hardy stuff & honestly it takes a long time to really come to terms with a lot of things [childhood trauma does wonders for you /sar.] However, pretty much after getting adopted by Uzi & N.. her life gets better! Despite now being in a family of, what everyone assumes, of mix-matched monsters & unimaginable eldritch horrors.. she is very happy! She gets to grow up with parents that love her dearly & recover from that past trauma.

Will I go into more Potato lore? Yeah, I plan to; not trying to be too secretive since I'm unsure if I'll ever make a story outta this but eh we'll see.. hope this answers something for you anon <3

..also if you, or anyone else, are curious; Potato's real name is Crystal. I just refer to her as Potato bc that was her placeholder name.. & I just never got rid of it! Thought it was funny.

[opbackgrounds]

The Romanticism of One Piece VI: Nature and the Sublime

AO3 Part I Part V

“Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils”

—William Wordsworth

Anyone making even a cursory reading of the Romantics, particularly the English Romantic poets, will soon find an obsession with nature. Even in the early 1800s, the scars of the Industrial Revolution were starting to be felt in the environment. Increased urbanization, a technological boom, and the capitalistic glut for increased output which in turn demanded the consummation of increased natural resources was destroying old orders one after the other in order to make room for the coming modern age. 

The advent of trains, steamboats, and the telegraph changed the way people traveled and communicated forever. The allure of the city drove people from the countryside to work long, dangerous hours in factories. It seemed like the traditional way of things was being lost, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Poets and artists looked back fondly on the simplicity of their youths, and went in search of the beautiful and the sublime. 

When reading these poems and looking at these pieces of art, you’ll also find that solitude was an important aspect of this search, the ability to get away from the neverending wheel of the rat race to be alone with one’s thoughts. Quoting from Walden, Thoreau said it best, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” There was so much about modern society and civilization that rang false to these men, and it was only when communing with the primordial forces of nature that these falsities could be stripped away to reveal something pure and true.

One Piece is a manga that delights in its environments. Oda has clearly done his research while lovingly rendering each location, particularly once the series hits the Grand Line. I’ve always been amazed about how even minor islands with little page time feel fully realized, and how even similar environments can be easily distinguished from one another at a glance. The jungle of Little Garden looks nothing like the jungle of Skypiea, which in turn is completely distinct from Green Bit. 

Similarly, Robin’s desire to preserve and protect ancient relics of the past is something the Romantics would have approved of, and with Luffy at the helm, the Straw Hat Pirates don’t just travel the wonders of the Grand Line, but embrace each and every island they come across, no matter what insanity lies in wait. While it’s not a central focus of the series, arcs like Wano and Egghead explore environmental themes and the dangers of pursuing technological advance at the cost of careful ethics.

Poet William Wordsworth famously fought against building a railway through the Lake District of England, where he lived and wrote much of his best-regarded work, so much so that he wrote a sonnet voicing his displeasure with the proposed project, as well as the thought of hundreds of unappreciative tourists destroying the peace and beauty of the area. 

So while nature was to be appreciated, it was to be appreciated in the right way. It wasn’t enough to take in the sights for the sight’s sake, but an experience to be savored. Nature was an essential part of these writers and artist’s creative muses, and while many Romantics weren’t orthodox in their religion, there was a spiritual aspect in their veneration of the created world, particularly in their search for the sublime.

One Piece and the Sublime

“I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense of sublime, of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting sun, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man” —William Wordsworth

While the concept of the sublime existed long before the Romantic period, it was the Romantics who really took the idea and ran with it. It must be said that the sublime as talked about here is quite different from how the word is typically thought of in the modern day. The sublime’s roots are found in philosophy, as a sub-branch of the study of aesthetics. In his essay A Philosophical Enquiry into the Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful, late Enlightenment/early Romantic writer Edmund Burke for the first time divided the ideas of the sublime and the beautiful into two distinct and separate categories. This essay was hugely influential to the Romantic movement going forward, particularly in England. 

According to Burke, “Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.” 

So, in short, the sublime is a powerful emotion. The most powerful emotion a person is capable of feeling. In typical English fashion, Burke thought the strongest negative emotions were more powerful than the strongest positive emotions, so it stood to reason that the sublime must in turn come from the negative. While this might initially read as a rather unpleasant experience, the sublime was something actively sought out by the Romantics, and according to Burke was a pain that caused delight. 

Attempting to define something as ineffable as the sublime is like trying to define love. No matter how many lines a poet inks or how many portraits an artist completes attempting to capture the feeling of lightning striking the soul, they will always be incomplete. It’s the feeling of going out to an open prairie and being crushed by the weight of the sky, or walking in the shadow of a mountain and feeling your own smallness. It’s looking up at the bright night sky and recognizing that you are one amongst billions, a speck of cosmic dust drifting aimlessly on an insignificant planet in the corner of an insignificant galaxy in a universe whose vastness you can’t begin to comprehend. 

It’s the finite’s attempt at grasping the infinite, a complete breakdown of the rigid walls of the Enlightenment thinkers, the embrace of irrationality and emotion over cold, calculated reason. To use one of Burke’s own examples, it's the peasant kneeling before the dread majesty of their king. For some it was a way to commune with God. For others it replaced God altogether.  

Take for example a painting like The Monk by the Sea by Caspar David Friedrich. The titular monk is tiny compared to the broad vastness of the sky and ocean, which seems about to swallow him whole. Whether the figure in the painting is contemplating the divine, or whether the sublimity of the moment is itself divine is open to interpretation, and like many figures in Friedrich’s works, the monk is turned away from the viewer so his face, his identity, is not visible, because who any individual person is when compared to this overwhelming force isn't important. 

While terror was important to Burke in searching out the sublime, it was equally important that there be a layer of distance between the perceived danger and the subject searching for it. After all, the sublime was something to be contemplated just much as it was experienced. A sailor caught in a storm is just fighting for their life. There’s no ability to allow themselves to reflect on the nature of eternity on a mortal soul when they’re trying not to drown. But a person contemplating a painting of a ship caught in a storm, or better yet watching a stormy sea from a high cliff, has that element of terror without actually placing a person in immediate danger. That distance allows the person to be subsumed in the moment, in the feeling, of the sublime.

As a manga, there is a natural distance between the reader and what goes on in One Piece. The wild, cartoonish, fantasy further separates it from the real world. This gap is perhaps too great for some to find the sublime within its pages. At the same time, it ticks many of Burke’s boxes: the vastness of its world, the displays of power from the characters within, the call to imagination, awe, wonder, and, yes, terror. While I very much doubt Oda had the idea of the sublime in mind when he came up with the idea with Conqueror’s Haki, overwhelming power causing the weak-willed to faint while foaming at the mouth very much fits the vibe Burke was going for in his essay.

If given a choice in the matter, Luffy will always take the more dangerous path forward. While he’s not nearly contemplative enough for the traditional Romantic mindset, the narrative rewards his desire to seek out experiences and adventure. The series’ focus on emotional truth over realism invokes powerful feelings in the reader. The wonder of the White White Sea is all the stronger because of the danger of the Knock-Up Stream. The descent to Fishman Island is made all the more grand by the fragility of the bubble that protects the crew. The vast majority of the East Blue Saga is spent hyping up the danger of the Grand Line, and wouldn’t you know it, the Straw Hats barely sail into its waters for five minutes and there’s already a dozen things trying to kill them.

Even places like Water 7, which the Romantic’s push against urbanization would not have seen as sublime, is elevated by the whimsy of the sea train and the danger of Agua Laguna. Oda takes inspiration from all over the world and elevates those inspirations into something greater than reality, injecting so much high fantasy creativity and verve into every location that the reader cannot help but be moved. And nowhere can this be better seen by how Oda portrays the sea.

To quote Burke one last time, “A level plain of a vast extent on land, is certainly no mean idea; the prospect of such a plain may be as extensive as a prospect of the ocean; but can it ever fill the mind with anything so great as the ocean itself? This is owing to several causes; but it is owing to none more than this, that the ocean is an object of no small terror.” 

[satocidal]

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ Consume All of Me — Gojo Satoru

Synopsis: He’s Satoru Gojo, he’s the strongest man— not in your embrace however, there he is no more a creature reduced to his carnal wants

— a/n: it was supposed to be so very short idk what I wrote but it’s meant to cannibalism symbolised with love idk idk ik not ok—tagging @draecys becauseee yes; the indented/highlighted parts are portions of the poem “The Cannibal’s Canción” by Gloria Anzaldua

— word count: 2.3k

— warnings: Smut!! MDNI!! AFAB! Reader x Gojo Satoru; cannibalistic themes; animalistic themes; mentions of blood; mentions of death (set during the time period when Yuuji “died”); sex used as a form of coping; unprotected sex; established relationship; p -> v; “god” used as a term to portray their ‘love’; not preordered bound to have mistakes

It is our custom to consume the person we love.

Satoru Gojo was meant to be.

An heir, the strongest, half a god, an admiration, an inspiration, a story—a tragedy.

To do and not to do, boundaries were placed clearly, on youth that was meant to be the revolution—each boundary broke in the essence of his wants.

The sheer simplicity of his life lay in the irony—Gojo, he carried the name well, all that extricated him from that which was humane.

He hated it, bound to—snatched from his hands was the toy most referred to a childhood, stolen from were partially his dreams, pulled from him was an innocence and thrust into him were responsibilities.

He carried himself well, he was the strongest, he had to.

But Satoru Gojo, despite the rumours that fell behind him, despite the prayers people would sing to him, he was no god.

Human.

Human.

Human.

Pity.

Those were the nights that he was truly yours—not the world, no, just yours. Those were nights he didn’t pretend—there wasn’t the joy in his voice, plain debauchered reality.

Those were nights when he didn’t hold you, rather, he let himself be held—those were nights when Satoru Gojo slipped away from that which was his tragedy.

Those nights he sunk into you, deep, a haven—Satoru Gojo was a god to many, you loved him as one too, and he often held you as his Goddess too—but those nights, those nights he loved like you were his possession.

And perhaps—no, factually, you were.

Taboo flesh; swollen genitalia—the nipples—the scrotum—the vulva—the soles of the feet—the palm of the hands—heart and liver taste best.

Yuuta Okkutsu, a planned execution.

The kid was 15, 16 at most, by the face of it.

Your room was quiet, save for the hefty, slow breaths that Satoru passed.

The sun was out still, your room was full and yet—even then it was ever present, his gaze, glowy- dark?

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him this way, he wasn’t panicky—though you’d seen that too, no, Satoru Gojo was livid.

Your room compares small to his, your world fell smaller too—but you were his world- he didn’t hold comparisons there.

“Satoru?” A voice held timid, Satoru yearned the quiet—“I want to kill them,”

A sigh, yours—a scoff, his.

“I know but…”

“You don’t. But that’s ok, it isn’t your fault,” these nights Satoru was hard to deal with, these nights Satoru was judgemental but he was accepting, these nights Satoru spoke like the ego he was sure to hold.

“He’s just a kid, what do they even…” you watched as he let his words trail off, one leg in the table, the other resting upon it, he sat opposite to you.

Most would sense the danger, the rage—you did too, which was why you were his.

Where most feared him, you extinguished it.

Satoru could deal everything on his own, he adored how you never let him though.

“Do you want time to think or…?”

Often, you felt shameless—raising the question—knowing all so well that everything that plagued his mind was all so concerning and yet, yet all you offered to him was sex, an escape.

He always accepted.

Vulgar—he craved it.

“Think about what,” his words seemed harsh—directed at you, sometime he did so, you didn’t mind it.

“About how even as the strongest I can’t do shit huh? That- that I- fuck,” another scoff, your heart sank.

“Come here Satoru,” a small beckon, he obeyed—he always did.

Almost crawled into you, large hands, the way they seemed to engulf you—it was almost unethical to him.

A kid was to be dead, he’d blame it upon his insolence when your embrace would be ripped from him again—and here he was, head jostling it’s way between your thighs, a burn he lett do behind.

But there you were, eyes focused onto his, a soft smile, you washed it away—his sorrows, his anxieties—to you, it was conceptually simple.

Good or evil, it did not concern your God.

“Are you ok?” A mumble, yours, his head bobbed in a yes—“are you?”

He didn’t care—he didn’t have to, not in this moment.

You paused, of course you were, always with him.

“Mhmm,” you offered a short smile, “always with you, just wanna see you ok.”

The process was always the same—your corruption, it began with his mouth, pressed against yours, desires lingered on the tongue and shared, the wanting, the need—the desperation to be whole.

He wanted to have you, you wanted him to have you.

Consumption.

Teeth sank in your flesh- often it hurt, it did this time too—Gojo loved you as a rotten dog, he was starved.

You wanted him to be satisfied, you didn’t question it—Satoru made up for it anyways—if he left three bites, he’d leave three thousand kisses on the same spot, he loved you.

He really did.

And he always was satisfied too, right after you both would lay on your bed heaving, he would be okay.

You would fall asleep on him, he loved just how tired you would get from him, you would hold him, he loved just how normal it was for you.

But all that was to be described a vex—you couldn’t help but add Satoru’s phone to the list.

A groan—his, and just like that, he slipped away.

Gone.

Chaste kisses gone, a wet touch longed for—the primal feeling remained.

Satoru was gone.

I’ll wear your jawbone round my neck, listen to your vertebrae, bone tapping bone in my wrist.

It’s been almost an year—the moment of compassion never arose again, you were glad—but you also weren’t.

Satoru was giddy, Satoru was loving—however, you could hear the stress, your ears perked up always, he showed nothing—a slow curtain drawn.

But fate as it lay—not in his hands, he was only a creature after all.

The strongest, but a creature.

It was the same as ever, he paced and paced walked right in front of you, the room was quiet—the call had just ended, Satoru had scoffed at the end of it.

“Toru’?”

No response.

You remained quiet, not afraid, you knew better than to approach him such.

1 round- then 3 and then 5 more, Satoru stopped in front of you, dropping to his knees, his fingers rubbed circles on your knee.

“The kid’s probably not comin’ back,”

You stared at the mess of his hair, it’s been a while since you last trimmed it, your hand grazed into it.

You knew who he was referring to, Yuuji Itadori, Satoru was the mentor—words acclaimed as of now insisted that he’d been found dead as the many you’d heard of over the years of your youth.

You didn’t bother asking the details, Satoru always vomited it out anyways, “those bastard- fuckin’ assigned the kids a mission like that- a special grade? Bloody fuckers,”

Your hand pulled at his hair softly, a tug here and there, then a kissed pressed.

“Will you go right now?”

The answer was obvious to be a ‘no’—proven right in the way he shook his head—“s’been a while- I need to— I, shit- need you.”

You gulped—aware of his guilt—his students were hurt, and here he was begging for a touch.

But, you heard the desperation evident in his voice, who could you even be to defy his request?

So slowly, surely you spread your knees, pushing yourself back—it was one of the nights when Satoru didn’t fuck to please you, no.

These nights, your body was made for him.

These nights he bared you no foreplay, there was no teasing, just sex.

Pure desire.

A small ‘umph’ slipped your lips as Satoru threw you on your bed, eyes stuck on your face as his hands pulled away your pants.

Shameless.

Neither cared.

It was always the same, his touch was feather light—trailing from from your feet to calves, a light massage offered to your inner thigh—he treated you as if you were fragile, for him, you were.

Your face grew hot, his eyes remained stuck on the wet patch on your panties—“were you touching yourself?”

Only animalistic—you had needs, Satoru wasn’t around to fulfil.

A nod you passed— a light smirk grew on his face—easy, he was on the higher pedestal.

“Show me,”

Show him—put in a performance—your fingers traversed your own body, it grew hotter, it burned, your own touch.

You were aware of his gaze, your fingers traced the lace, the wet patch—you pressed into the wetness- eyes closing in slight ecstasy, a performance.

“Did you miss me?” You dare not increase the pressure of your fingers on your cunt—slow circles drawn, a tease—“a lot,” you whispered back—“you?”

Both hands grasped in one of his—he pulled them away, mouth leaning in between your legs, to see what was his, to sniff, to smell—he loved it.

“Always.”

You paused, you knew he wouldn’t bother today—he never did, not in such cases.

Typical sex was different, it wasn’t heavy, it wasn’t so tense—it was Toru’ that you fucked those days.

But as of now, the man who twisted you about wasn’t Toru’, the man who’s calloused hands rubbed your spine, fingers lending in a shiver—it was Satoru Gojo.

“Do you need more prep? I can’t be bothered unless…”

You shook your head quick—it was once in forever of a moment, you wanted to feel him, raw.

And that was all the encouraging Satoru required—pulled away your lacy panties—he smiled softly as the silver of your wetness connected to the gusset of your soiled panties in a string—“how fuckin’ filthy,” he groaned, “got so wet at the thought of me?”

And like his possession, you nodded.

You let him move you, a heap of flesh and blood and emotions that lay scattered, you wanted to please— your breath hitched as he situated your legs over his shoulders—“shh,” he murmured, “you’ll be okay with me,”

You lay as the crimson to his pale—the blood lay splattered in the snow—“ready?” He needn’t wait for the response, half hardened dick already lined at your entrance, his tip teased you— a whine you passed to his amusement.

Satoru couldn’t care enough though, pushed in all the way, he didn’t give you time to settle in, mending your walls, stretching them to accustom his length—only to pull away all the way, you whimpered at the sudden loss, crying when he pushed in all the way again.

Pathetic moans you let out, your walls flattened about his size — nails digging deep into his biceps—deep enough to scratch, to mark—it wasn’t new, it was exhilarating all the same.

Satoru was merciless with his pace—he wanted to taste your pain, he wanted to feel the salt of your tears—lick them away, he wanted you spasming.

Sex, it wasn’t enough—he lusted for all of you.

Rapid, the way he pulled out and pushed in harder, each thrust left you gasping—it was an appetite being satisfied.

White hair dishevelled, slight sweat pressed to his forehead, every thrust accounted for a ditzy kiss pressed to your forehead.

“Y’er s’fucking tight angel,” your mouth hung open at his words—too far gone to pay attention—“you were built for this,” he added, panting, “this pussy, for me. You’re mine,” a low growl that he let out, he could feel you clench tighter at that.

You knew he was losing it, the control, primal in all senses—you moaned loudly as his hands cupped your face— a rough kiss tucked in, his tongue sliding over yours—filth.

Legs pressed to your sides now, you cried louder as he reached in deeper—so warm, you met him perfectly.

“Y-you’re close,” the stutters, you giggle slight as he does too—close, both of you, he could feel your climax building, so did you.

And just like that he leaned in further, your nails remained placed in his arms—blood oddly visible now—it dripped, beautiful.

You bit your lips as Satoru dragged his mouth—pressed upon your shoulder—teeth napping at the soft flesh.

I’ll string your fingers round my waist—what a rigorous embrace, over my heart I’ll wear a brooch with a lock of your hair.

“You’re mine,” a whisper—a demand, you nodded, “yours,” you related, mind blanking—“yours alone, all yours just yours,”

“How do I feel?” Another demand—“fucking perfect,” another moan- you could tell he was edging himself, not until you do — you were close still.

“Tell me you love me,” a finger pressed to your ignored clit, All stimuli away from your shoulder now—not an inch of pain anymore on either body, just marks, territorial— and pleasure.

Your pussy clamped down onto Hinckley his thumb focusing on the bundle of nerves down there—so ignored, so tenderly he rubbed it.

And that was it, the pleasure enough to cause you to break—enough to have your mind blanking—enough for your abused pussy to tighten around him, and that’s when he came right after.

“Can you take more,” a shake of your head, he nodded- he loved you.

He didn’t pull out yet—never did, basking in the warmth of your bodies pressed together, enjoying the marks he left, they’d hurt later, he’d kiss them better.

“Love you,” a murmur, yours—and you watched as he slipped out of the slow trance—no longer the man who just fucked you, back to being Toru’.

“Love you too,” he whispered back, finally pulling out—he lay on top of you, a heap—but even then you were sure, a growl that you heard.

Nights I’ll sleep cradling your skull, sharpening my grin on your toothless grin. Sundays there’s mass and communion and I’ll put your relics to rest.

And when all was said and done, a stress by gone for later, satoru lay pressed to your side, your fingers grazed his hair, tugging. A hand woven to hold you close, heavy, him and his slumber. And in your moments of solitude and awareness you realised easy—the man beside you wasn’t human entirely.

Not yet, not to be ever.

A beast- nevertheless, yours.

A beast- nevertheless, yours.

A beast- nevertheless, yours.

All of this work is original and entirely my own— please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

[ebodebo]

Cat and Mouse

NSFW CONTENT

—ghost is being chased by the police and just so happens to be sleeping with one of them. of course, she doesn't know that the man she's been sleeping with is also the man her department has been trying to find, but he does.

—ghost x f!reader

—2k+

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The night sky was aglow by the bright street lamps, showcasing the streets demure appearance. A blanket of stars coaxing the sky above and the occasional barking of a faraway dog broke the silence of the night. You should be asleep, but the all-too-familiar bench that you took refuge on in the night when you found yourself rustling in your sleep called your name. 

You held a cup of warm tea in your hand while the other grasped around a book you had brought out there. Though, you were too enamored with the simplicity of the streets to open it.

It was comforting to sit and just exist. It was a nice change of pace from the exhilaration and adrenaline that comes with your job. It was kind of expected of you to join the police force since your father had joined the force years ago, eventually getting himself promoted to chief of police, and your brother following suit. 

You didn't mind the expectations, though. You found pleasure in helping citizens and keeping the streets clean. You never really considered it a job; it was more of fulfilling your duty. However, about a month ago, it started to feel like a job.

Your brother was KIA while staking out a trafficking organization downtown. He died saving the life of a fellow officer. It was not only a grave, devasting loss to your family but for the whole city. A selfish part of you wished he wasn't so selfless. A selfish part of you resented the other officer for being able to leave the scene alive and not in a body bag. But, the thoughts subsided when you would see the officer with one of his little girls clinging to his leg and the other resting on his pregnant wife’s hip. You realized that your brother hadn't just saved a police officer that day; he saved an entire family. 

"It's a bit cold. No?" A gruff voice rang next to you, absolving you from your thoughts. You looked up at him, Simon. The man who you had been spending your nights with. But, make no mistake, he wasn't yours. He didn't belong to anyone. He said he couldn't.

"A little, but I have tea to warm me up." You smile up at him, taking a sip of your tea. He nods, then opens his door slightly to grab something hanging on the catch-all hooks, as you call them. 

"For when the tea gets cold." He steps in front of you to gently lay one of his jackets on your lap, engulfing your legs. You give him a smile and curl your legs under you. 

"Can I sit, or is two a crowd?" He questions, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. You'd think this was your first interaction with each other. But, ever since the death of your brother, he's been treading lightly. He doesn't want to upset you or be in your space without your permission.

"It's always been three, Simon." You lightly laugh, gently patting the seat next to you. He accepts the invitation and carefully sits on the wooden bench beside you, delicately laying his arm behind you and draping it over your shoulder.

"You know. I thought it would get easier." You pause, leaning closer, laying your head on his shoulder. "But, it's still hard." You breathe out, feeling a tear stream down your cheek. 

He hums, so you know he's listening, as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. Although most find comfort in people consoling them and telling them everything is going to be alright, you find comfort in knowing he's near you and hears you. Even if it's just a kiss or a lingering touch, knowing he's right there eases your mind.

"And on top of that, the guy I told you about is back." You groan out. Referring to the vigilante, who had recently made his revival after going dormant for the last month. Before he went inactive, he employed acts of murder, kidnapping, and threats of violence to rid all sorts of evil. A uniquely brutal band of justice, indeed. Traffickers, abusers, predators. He dealt with some of the most depraved, wicked souls. But, people nonetheless. Meaning the police couldn't turn a blind eye to this. It was murder after all. Doesn't matter if they had it coming. 

The police department tried to figure out his next move, but he somehow knew all their moves. It was almost like someone was feeding him all their information. They hoped there wasn't a snake in the grass—a person supplying him with all the necessary details he needed to stay untouched and have his getaway prepared. 

The guy in question was Simon, but you didn't need to know that. He also didn't need to tell you that his intel was unknowingly coming straight from the police chief's daughter, you.

"I just don't understand why he came back so out of the blue." You sigh, rubbing your tired eyes with the back of your hand. 

"I'm not sure." He supplied as he gently massaged your hip with his hand. 

"I mean, theoretically speaking, if he would have just laid low for the rest of the year and part of next, the captain would have told us that we needed to "start allocating our resources to other cases with activity and leads." You say, picking your hands up quickly to make quotation marks. "And the case would grow cold and start collecting dust. It would almost be like he'd be getting away scot-free." 

"Maybe it's not about that." He plainly stated, bringing his hand to pull his jacket that was lying in your lap, up around your chest.

"About what?" You questioned, looking up at him. 

"Not gettin' caught." You tilted your head. "Look." He started. "I know guys like him. I've worked with guys like him."

"Murderers?" You bluntly said. 

"Somethin' like that." He breathes out. "But, my point is that the guy isn't doin' this to stroke his ego or see how far he can go before he gets caught. I think it's because he wants justice."

"Justice?" You repeated. 

"Justice." He affirms, nodding his head. 

"How is murdering people justice?" You skeptically question.

"I'm not sayin' I agree with the guy. I'm just tellin' you what I think." He says.

Simon knows he shouldn't be going in-depth on the guy's thoughts, AKA him. It was stupid and reckless. You could get suspicious as to why he was being defensive of a murderer. But, he wasn't too concerned with you reading too much into what he was saying because, as of late, your mind has been consumed with your own thoughts.

"It's gettin' late. We should be headin' inside. Ya?" You nodded as he stood and extended his hand for you to grab. You reached your hand up, and his fingers tenderly wrapped around yours. 

Simon led you to his room. You made your way to his bed and fell onto it stomach first, letting out a deep sigh. Simon let out a laugh. "Comfortable. Huh?" He questioned, slipping his shirt off.

"It's always comfortable." You said as you breathed in the scent of the clean linen laundry detergent he used. "I'm glad. I'm just gonna' take a shower. You'll be okay?" He asked as he stripped himself of his sweatpants. 

"Simon, it's like one a.m." You turn over on your back, eyes wandering over Simon's abdomen. "Was sweatin' " He clarified as he ducked under the doorway to the bathroom, connecting to his room.

You stole glances into the bathroom since the son of a bitch left the door open. He peeled off his underwear, revealing his cock before stepping into the shower, obscuring your view.

You lay there for a whole five minutes before the scent of Simon's body wash lingered into his room, filling your nostrils. You stood up and stripped yourself of your clothes, until you were completely naked. 

Simon faced towards the showerhead, one hand on the wall, the other wiping away the water streaming onto his face. You stepped into the bathroom doorway and slowly opened the shower door, bringing your hands up to wrap around his abdomen.

"Finally decided to join me. Huh?" He turned to face you, letting his hand run up your back before threading it through your damp hair while the other slid down your back, landing just above your ass.

"Didn't want you to be lonely." You smirked, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his pec. 

"Is that what it was?" He titled his head, before bringing it down to your lips to engulf them with his. It started gentle and tender, but it became hungrier when you nipped his bottom lip with your teeth.

He pulled you closer before he lightly pinched your ass, making you yelp. He used the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. His hands roamed your body, eventually settling on your breast, giving it a gentle squeeze, electing another moan from you.

"Simon, I need you." You pant as you cling to his neck for stability.

"Where do you need me?" His voice was barely above a whisper. The roughness of it made you even wetter than you already were. His hand slid down the dip of your cleavage, slowly down to where you ached.

"Where, sweetheart?" Your voice went dry, as he slid his hand over your cunt, making you squirm. "Is this where you want me?" He teased, leaning into your neck, leaving sloppy wet kisses on it, as his hand rubbed soft circles on your clit.

"Right there!" You finally let out, voice hoarse. Simon picks one of your legs up to wrap around his waist so that he can see you more clearly. Your eyes are closed as he shoves his middle finger into you, grazing your sweet spot.

You open your eyes briefly to see Simon's staring into yours. Your face reddens, and you raise one arm to cover your eyes in embarrassment. "Don't go shy on me now." He gruffs as he pulls your arm down, covering your eyes.

"I wanna' see all of you." You stare back at him as he introduces another one of his fingers into you. You throw your head back at the contact and tightly grip his bicep. "Fuck, Simon." You moan.

"Feel good?" He seductively asks as he finds your clit again and rubs it. You swiftly nod your head as you feel a knot tightening in your lower stomach, signaling your climax is near. 

"You wanna come?" He pauses before bending down so his mouth is hovering over your ear. "Ask me nicely." 

"Please, Simon." You instantly say. "Let me come." You beg.

With that, Simon picks up his pace, and soon enough, you come all over his fingers, with his name on the tip of your tongue. He holds your body up as you steadily come off your high.

Simon and you end up washing up, with you helping him sud up his hair and him helping wash your back and ass, per his request. After washing up and having another quick makeout session, you both step out of the shower and put on fresh clothes.

"Where are you going?" You questioned as Simon slipped on his shoes. 

"Gotta' go check on Johnny's dog. Forgot to earlier." He said as he laced his shoes.

"Why do I always have to share you with him?" You joke as you settle into the bed. He laughs as he walks over to you and kisses you on the top of the head. "Be back in thirty." You nod, and he heads out the door. You end up almost immediately lulling off to sleep after he leaves.

You didn't question how odd it was that Simon forgot to check on Johnny's dog all day and waited until two a.m. No, because he never gave you a reason to question his whereabouts.

How unfortunate that you would be walking into the office tomorrow morning to see that yet another body was found, this time of a child predator, being reported on the small television you found your colleagues surrounding.

Must be a coincidence.

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[sissylittlefeather]

Hi there! I’m not exactly sure how to give links to songs, nor am I sure if I send this other places, but I do have a song I’d like to give for the event! “Your Love’s Been A Long Time Coming”, by Elvis, of course, and my only other request is that you have a good day/night! 💜

12 Days of Ficmas

Day 5: Your Love's Been a Long Time Coming

A/N: Aw thank you so much!!! I'm sorry this one is late. We're still dying of some kind of plague in my house and it's been rather distracting. But here it is!

(Also, as an aside, I have a whole fic series based on this song. If you're interested, find it here.)

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie

Word count: ~1.2k

You've had one bad relationship after another with men that hurt you over and over again. It's gotten so bad that you've sworn off dating altogether. It's just not worth the pain.

That's when Elvis collides with your life. No, really. He actually collides with you. He rear-ends your car in the middle of the night on your way home from work because you're too broke to get your tail lights fixed. He's ready to read you the riot act until you roll your window down and turn your tear-stained face up to him. When you realize who he is you stammer and apologize and cry even harder, but he's gentle and kind and he makes sure you and your car get home safely. Still, you're pretty sure you've seen the last of him.

But you haven't, not by a long shot. He turns up on your doorstep two days later with a bouquet of pink roses and the keys to a brand new station wagon. You sit on the porch and talk for a bit until he tries to persuade you to go to dinner with him. You're deep into telling him no when your son comes to the door to announce that whatever your mom is cooking is ready to eat. It's a veritable nightmare and you bury your blushing cheeks in your hands.

“What's for dinner, bud?” Elvis asks over you. Your 5 year old son, Benny, replies happily.

“Meatloaf!”

“I love meatloaf. Is there enough for me?” You sit up and shake your head. There's no way you're letting him come into the house you share with your aging mother and young son.

“We always have extra. Come on.” Benny pushes the screen door open and Elvis stands up before you can stop him. You want to sink into the floor as he stands in your tiny, messy living room, but Elvis continues to be gracious and sweet. He puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you in close to him, whispering in your ear.

“It's okay, honey. I like it. It's nice and homey.” He pulls back and smiles down at you. You're not sure how it happens, but somehow you end up with Elvis Presley at your small dinner table, laughing and chatting with your little family. He and your son bond instantly over cars and football. He even manages a talk with your mother about church music and she blushes and calls him a ‘nice young man’. The conversation is easy and you seem to get along in a way that he hasn't experienced in a while. There's something about you, a simplicity and authenticity, that he can't get enough of. When the night comes to an end, you walk him back out to the front porch and he kisses your cheek and tells you he'd like to see you again. How on earth are you supposed to say no?

After a few more weeks of spending an inordinate amount of time together, you find yourself in his bedroom at Graceland. You know he's married, but that doesn't seem to matter to either of you as he kisses you deeply, his hands on your hips. He starts to move down your neck, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin under your ear.

“Elvis?”

“Hm?” He doesn't stop kissing your neck.

“Why do you like me?” Now he pulls back and looks down at you.

“Honey, I've been dating beauty queens and movie stars for so long, I forgot what a regular woman is like. You're a real person and I like who you are. You make me laugh and you're kind and warm and you don't see dollar signs when you look at me. You're smart and beautiful and you're a good mom. I've been waiting for someone like you for a long time.” You look up at him, your eyes glassy with tears.

“I think I've been waiting for you too.” He smiles and dives into another deep kiss and neither of you looks back. You shed clothing left and right as you stumble to the bed, his hands running over your naked skin. He presses his lips anywhere he can get them and lays you on the bed gently. In a matter of seconds, he has you spread open for him, his tongue dipping into your pussy between hard licks over your clit. Your hand goes to his hair as you whimper and moan and get closer and closer to your climax. He's relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure and you've never had a man try this hard to get you off. He feels your walls flutter and tighten on his fingers and hums, the vibration making you see stars. It doesn't take much longer for you to cum, your pussy throbbing around him as the lightning bolts run in your veins.

“God, you're pretty when you cum.” He whispers as he sits back up, situating your ankles on his shoulders. You bite your bottom lip as he teases your sensitive entrance with the head of his cock. “You ready, baby?”

“Yes, oh yes please!” You whimper breathlessly as he starts to slowly push into you, giving you time to adjust to the size of him. It feels so good, being filled like this, and the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you. When he bottoms out, his whole cock inside you, he stops for a second and groans.

“You're so tight, baby. So fuckin’ tight. You're perfect.” You moan as he slowly pulls back and then thrusts forward, filling you again. “Does it feel good?”

“Feels so good! Oh!” He smiles down at you and kisses your ankle as he starts to pick up a steady rhythm of fucking into you.

“You got such pretty little sooties, baby.” He kisses your ankle again as his hand caresses your foot, his dick sliding in and out of you at an even pace.

“God, Elvis, this is amazing.” You moan as he rearranges your legs to be around his hips. He leans over on top of you and whispers in your ear.

“I want you to stay with me. Not just tonight.”

“But aren't you–”

“That's over. Has been for a while now. I want you, baby, for the long haul. Tell me you want me too.” He holds both of your wrists in one of his hands above your head and runs his fingertips down your body with the other.

“Yes, Elvis. Yes, I want you.” He grips your hip with his free hand and starts to pump into you faster and harder.

“Good. I'm gonna cum, baby.”

“Me too, oh god.” He slams into you hard and deep and you hit your climax simultaneously, both of you pulsing and panting and melting into each other. As your bodies relax and you come down from your shared high, he presses his sweaty forehead to yours.

“I love you, baby. I know it's quick, but I've loved you since I first saw you.”

“Oh, Elvis. It's not quick. This has been a long time comin’ for me. I love you too.” He smiles and rests his head on your chest.

“It has for me too, baby. It has for me too.”

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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[wadewnstonwilson]

echoes of death: part two;

summary: During Logan's early days with the X-Men, he struggles to adjust to the ideals of unity and trust that Xavier champions. Haunted by his violent past and accustomed to solitude, Logan often found himself confronting an even more enigmatic presence: you, death incarnate.

word count: 3.4k

fic rec: @pedroscurls

part one

Logan was new to the X-Men, still navigating the uncharted waters of Charles Xavier’s dream of harmony. Trust didn’t come easily to him. Peace felt foreign, almost dangerous in its fragility. He was used to the rough edges of life, the solitude of the wilderness, and the brutal clarity of battle. Joining a team, fighting for a cause bigger than himself—it was a balancing act that felt unnatural. Yet here he was, surrounded by people who believed in him more than he believed in himself.

It was a mission like any other. The X-Men had been sent to a small mutant settlement under siege by a militant anti-mutant group. The scene was chaos. Smoke clung to the air, acrid and stifling. The cries of the wounded blended with the sharp crack of gunfire. The scent of blood and fear hung heavy, overwhelming even to Logan’s dulled senses.

Logan tore through the attackers like a force of nature, his claws slicing through their ranks with brutal precision. His teammates’ voices crackled through his earpiece—commands, check-ins, warnings—but he barely registered them. His focus was singular: fight, survive, eliminate the threat.

Amidst the chaos, his attention snagged on a figure that didn’t belong.

You.

Logan’s claws retracted with a soft snikt as he slowed, his gaze locking onto you. You knelt beside a fallen man—a young mutant whose powers had failed to protect him. The boy was barely alive, his shallow breaths rattling in his chest. Logan watched, his own breath catching as you reached out, your hand hovering just above the boy’s chest.

You didn’t touch him—not quite. Your fingers lingered in the space between, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, far enough to seem ethereal. The boy’s expression began to change. The pain etched into his features melted away, replaced by something softer. Peaceful. Logan could feel it—the air around you shifted, as if the world itself had taken a long, steady breath.

“You’re here,” Logan said, his voice rough but certain. It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who you were.

You didn’t look up right away. When you did, your gaze met his with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Your eyes held no fear, no surprise. There was only quiet understanding, as if you had been expecting him.

“I am,” you replied simply. Your voice was soft, steady—like the first notes of a melody carried on the wind.

Logan took a step forward, his boots crunching against the charred ground. The space between you felt electric, charged and fragile. “It’s not my time,” he said, his tone low but resolute. He wasn’t asking. He didn’t need to.

“No,” you agreed, a faint curve of your lips suggesting the ghost of a smile. “Not yet.”

For a moment, the battlefield faded away. The chaos around you dulled, its sharp edges blunted by the weight of your presence. Logan’s senses narrowed, locking onto you entirely. He could feel the hum of energy in the space between you, as if the air itself trembled with the force of something unspoken.

Your gaze didn’t waver. You held him there, grounded and vulnerable in a way Logan hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t fear or even curiosity that kept him rooted—it was something deeper. Something inevitable.

“You don’t stay long,” Logan said, his voice quieter now. There was a hint of something in his tone that hadn’t been there before. Frustration? Longing? He couldn’t say.

“I stay as long as I’m needed,” you replied, your words carrying the weight of truth.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hand flexing at his side. “And when you’re not?”

“Then I wait.”

The simplicity of your answer struck him like a blow. There was no hesitation, no doubt in your voice. You spoke with a certainty that felt immutable. Logan took another step closer, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The space between you was almost nothing now. Logan could see every detail of your face—the faint shimmer of light in your eyes, the way your features softened as you looked at him. He swore he could feel the warmth of your presence, brushing against his skin like a whisper. His hand twitched, almost reaching for you, but he stopped himself.

“I’ll see you again,” Logan said, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t asking this time either.

“Yes,” you said, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “But not today.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with promise. Logan wanted to close the gap, to reach out and touch something real. But before he could, you stepped back. Your form began to blur at the edges, dissolving into the smoky air like a memory fading from view.

“Wait—” Logan began, but it was too late. You were gone.

Logan stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as though reaching for a ghost. The battlefield roared back to life around him, the cries of the wounded and the crackle of distant flames filling the void you left behind. But Logan barely registered it.

All he could think of was the way you’d looked at him, the quiet certainty in your voice, and the warmth he’d felt in the space between you—close, but never close enough.

And for the first time, Logan felt the weight of what he had always known: you were destined to be part of his story, but not quite yet.

------

The medbay was silent except for the faint hum of machinery and the occasional soft beep from the monitors, a sound that seemed painfully loud in the absence of life. The air was thick with the lingering tang of antiseptics and something heavier, something unspoken: the weight of failure. The young mutant on the table had fought valiantly, but even courage and resilience could only carry one so far. Beast had tried everything—every piece of medical knowledge, every ounce of his expertise—but it hadn’t been enough.

Logan stood in the corner of the room, a dark silhouette against the sterile brightness of the medbay lights. His fists were clenched tightly, the muscles in his forearms coiled and tense, as though sheer anger alone could change what had already happened. His jaw was set, teeth grinding against each other, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The frustration wasn’t new to him—he was no stranger to death. But this wasn’t a battlefield, wasn’t chaos or survival. This was loss, plain and unchangeable, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. What would be the point? Words wouldn’t bring the boy back. So he stood there, silent, watching as Hank gently placed a sheet over the boy’s face, his shoulders heavy with the burden of yet another life lost.

And then Logan saw you.

You stood at the foot of the bed, as calm and composed as ever. Logan didn’t need to glance around to know no one else in the room had noticed you. They never did. But you were unmistakable to him. He had seen you too many times to question your presence now. There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way the very air around you seemed to still, that demanded his attention.

You didn’t look at him right away. Your gaze was fixed on the lifeless body beneath the sheet, your expression soft but tinged with an almost imperceptible sorrow. It wasn’t pity—it was something quieter, deeper. Logan’s chest tightened at the sight of it. For all his time on battlefields and in the aftermath of violence, he had never quite seen an expression like yours. It was as though you bore the weight of every soul you touched, every life that slipped through your fingers, and yet you carried it with grace.

His breath hitched when your eyes finally met his. It was like the world around him fell away, leaving only the two of you. The hum of the medbay equipment, the sound of Hank quietly cleaning up his tools, even the steady rhythm of Logan’s own heartbeat—they all faded into nothing. Your gaze held him captive, steady and unwavering, as though you could see straight through the gruff exterior he wore like armor.

“You’re early,” Logan muttered, his voice low and rough, tinged with a frustration he couldn’t fully place. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way around you, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Your presence always left him unsettled, though he’d never admit it out loud.

You didn’t flinch at his words. If anything, they seemed to amuse you, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across your lips. “I’m always here when I’m needed,” you replied, your tone soft but carrying a quiet gravity that made his frustration twist into something else—something he couldn’t name.

Logan’s fists unclenched slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides as he took a step forward. The tension between you seemed to grow with every inch he closed, the air thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths. His voice was quieter now, almost accusing, as he asked, “And what about when you’re not?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. It wasn’t the kind of gaze that made him feel small or insignificant—it was the kind that made him feel seen. Truly, fully seen, in a way that both unnerved and grounded him.

“Then I wait,” you said simply, your tone as steady as ever, but there was something behind your words, a weight that hinted at more.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he tried to make sense of the emotions churning inside him. He wasn’t used to feeling this way—vulnerable, exposed, tethered to something he didn’t understand. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. There was a pull between you, an invisible thread that bound him to you in a way that felt inevitable.

The space between you was small now, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the softness of your features, the faint shimmer in your eyes, the way the light seemed to catch on something almost ethereal about you. Close enough that he could feel the heat of your presence, brushing against his skin like a whisper.

Logan’s hands twitched at his sides, his instincts warring against each other. Part of him wanted to reach out, to touch something solid and real, to prove to himself that you weren’t just some figment of his imagination. But the other part of him—the part that had learned to respect the quiet inevitability of your presence—held him back.

“You wait,” he said finally, his voice rough but quieter now, almost resigned. “For what?”

Your gaze softened, and for a moment, Logan thought you might answer. He thought you might close the remaining space between you, might let him feel something tangible in the charged air between you. But you didn’t move.

“For the right time,” you said simply, your voice carrying an unshakable certainty that made Logan’s chest tighten.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Logan wanted to press, to demand answers, to tear down the walls of mystery that surrounded you. But something in your gaze stopped him. There was a finality to your presence, a quiet assurance that no matter how many questions he asked, the answers wouldn’t come until you were ready to give them.

Before Logan could say anything more, the moment began to slip away. You stepped back, the tension between you easing as the distance grew. Your form seemed to blur at the edges, fading into the sterile light of the medbay like smoke dissipating into the air.

“Wait—” Logan began, his voice rough and strained, but it was too late. You were gone.

The hum of the medbay equipment returned, the sound of Hank’s movements grounding Logan back in the present. But he didn’t move. He stood there, his hands still flexing at his sides, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The air felt heavier in your absence, the silence deafening.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the lifeless form on the table, then back to the empty space where you had stood. He didn’t know what to make of what had just happened—what to make of you. All he knew was that you had left something behind, something intangible but undeniable.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan felt the weight of his own mortality, not as a curse, but as a promise. A promise that, when the time came, you would be there, waiting.

------

The village was a husk of what it had once been, consumed by fire and chaos. Smoke hung heavy in the air, curling into the ashen sky like ghostly fingers. The charred remains of buildings stood like jagged teeth, casting eerie shadows across the ruined ground. The stench of burnt wood, scorched metal, and something more human filled Logan’s lungs as he moved through the desolation. His boots crunched against debris, every step deliberate, every breath drawn through gritted teeth.

The team had split up hours ago to search for survivors, their voices crackling faintly through Logan’s comms, but he’d turned his radio down to nothing. He preferred the silence, the grim solitude of hunting through the wreckage. He’d followed a different trail, one that tugged at something deeper than instinct. He didn’t know what he was looking for—or rather, who.

And then he found you.

You were kneeling in the midst of the destruction, your presence impossibly still against the chaos around you. A woman lay motionless at your feet, her body crumpled in a way that spoke of pain and fear in her final moments. Logan paused, his breath catching as he watched you. Your hand hovered above the woman’s chest, close but never touching. The tension etched into her features began to fade, her expression softening into peace as if you’d taken the weight of her final agony and lifted it away.

The air around you felt different. It always did. Logan couldn’t explain it—couldn’t put words to the way the atmosphere seemed to hum, charged with something that was neither warmth nor cold, neither threatening nor comforting. It was simply you.

This time, Logan didn’t hesitate.

“You always show up,” he said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. It was rough, gravelly, but even. There was no fear in his tone, only a strange sense of certainty, as if he’d been expecting you all along.

Slowly, you rose, your movements deliberate and graceful, as though even the air around you obeyed your unspoken command. When your gaze finally met his, it was like the rest of the world fell away. The smoldering ruins, the acrid smoke, the distant cries of the wounded—they all faded into the periphery. In that moment, it was just the two of you.

“And you always notice,” you replied, your voice steady, carrying a quiet weight that settled into Logan’s chest like an anchor.

The space between you was thinner than it had ever been, the air charged with something unspoken. It wasn’t just the tension of two strangers crossing paths. It was deeper, heavier, as though every encounter before this had been building to this moment. Logan’s pulse quickened, a steady drumbeat in his ears that matched the rhythm of his shallow breaths.

“You’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was an edge of something—accusation, maybe, or a challenge. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you admitted without hesitation. There was no coyness in your tone, no deflection. You spoke the truth plainly, as if it had always been obvious.

Logan’s chest tightened. He could feel the heat of your presence, brushing against him like a whisper he couldn’t quite grasp. His claws itched to extend—not for violence, but for something solid, something real. “But not today,” you continued, your eyes holding his with an unyielding certainty.

“Why not today?” Logan asked, his voice rough but quieter now, the edge softened by something deeper.

You took a step closer, the movement slow and deliberate, as if you were giving him time to process each inch of space you closed. Logan didn’t move, his body frozen in place. His breath hitched as the distance between you dwindled to mere inches, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the way your features seemed both otherworldly and grounded, the faint shimmer in your eyes that caught the dim light, the way the air around you seemed to hum with something he couldn’t name.

“You’re not ready,” you said, your voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant only for him.

Logan’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face twitching as he processed your words. He leaned ever so slightly forward, his hands twitching at his sides, his claws threatening to extend. He hated how vulnerable he felt in that moment, exposed and tethered to something he couldn’t control.

“What if I am?” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper. The question wasn’t just for you—it was for himself, for whatever force had brought him here, for the universe that seemed to keep you just out of reach.

For a moment, it looked as though you might reach for him. Your hand lifted slightly, your fingers hovering near his arm, so close that he swore he could feel the warmth of your presence brushing against his skin. Logan’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven movements as he fought the urge to close the gap himself.

But you didn’t touch him.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” you said softly, your gaze steady, unwavering. There was no doubt in your tone, no hesitation. Just a quiet certainty that left Logan’s throat tight and his heart pounding.

The tension between you was unbearable, like a storm building on the horizon, waiting to break. Logan’s claws twitched again, not out of anger or fear, but because he needed to feel something tangible, something solid, to ground himself in the overwhelming weight of your presence.

But before he could act, you stepped back.

“Wait—” Logan began, his voice rough and strained, but the word caught in his throat as you began to fade. Your form blurred at the edges, dissolving into the smoky air like a memory slipping through his fingers.

And then you were gone.

Logan stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as though reaching for a ghost. The distant crackle of flames and the faint groans of the wounded filled the silence you left behind, but none of it registered. The warmth of your presence lingered in the air, brushing against his skin like the final notes of a song that ended too soon.

All he could think of was the way you had looked at him—calm, knowing, certain—and the weight of your words. “You’ll know when it’s time.” They echoed in his mind, heavy with a promise he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.

For the first time, Logan understood something he had always felt but never acknowledged: you weren’t just waiting for him. He was waiting for you, too. But the time wasn’t right.

Not yet.

[callmedaleelah]

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— don’t call me kid don’t call me baby ; like you were always the smaller fish being pushed into the larger, more hostile environments of life

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

You step into the cream-colored dress, feeling the soft fabric glide over your skin. The buttons along the side fasten easily, pulling the wrap-style bodice into place, snug but comfortable. The material flows down to just below your knees, moving gently with each shift of your body. Its simplicity feels effortless, yet the way it drapes along your frame gives you an air of quiet elegance. The short sleeves and subtle v-neckline make it perfect for a casual day out, but still refined enough to catch an admiring glance. It’s light, comfortable, but it feels more like your mother’s taste than your own—a reminder of her influence over every detail. You sigh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to gather yourself. Your birthday, yet somehow it feels like it’s about maintaining appearances rather than celebrating you.

The car ride is uneventful, save for your father’s quiet compliments. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he says, his eyes flickering back at you through the rearview mirror. His tone is gentle, as if he’s trying to connect despite the ever-present distance. You smile faintly in return, appreciating the gesture, though the weight of the evening presses on you. Your mom sits in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone, already anticipating the evening ahead with the precision of someone who controls every detail.

It was your birthday today, but instead of the home celebration you were hoping for, your parents decided to bring you to one of the best restaurants near your campus dorm for a birthday dinner. Your mom had insisted on visiting and having a “nice family dinner” rather than letting you come home for a small party. She made it clear that you couldn’t afford to miss classes tomorrow. Her practical reasoning always felt like the final say in every decision, even on a day meant to be special for you.

As you arrive at the restaurant, an upscale place with polished floors and a soft, ambient glow, the waiter approaches your family with a well-practiced greeting. Your parents exchange pleasantries as you're led to the table, but you can feel the knot in your stomach tightening. The crisp clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation fill the air as the waiter pulls out your chair. You’re just about to sit when a familiar voice interrupts.

“Oh, we meet here—” Yamaguchi’s voice had that warm, casual tone that instantly contrasted with the stiff elegance of the restaurant. He was dressed neatly, but his easygoing nature made the entire situation feel more bearable. His smile faltered slightly when he saw your parents, and with a quick, polite shift, he straightened and bowed, his cheeks flushed pink with sudden shyness.

Standing just behind him, Tsukishima, tall and composed, mirrored Yamaguchi’s bow, but his gaze flicked toward you for a brief moment before he resumed his usual, calm demeanor. His formality felt almost too perfect, a far cry from the casual, teasing remarks you’d grown used to.

Your mom’s sharp eyes caught the interaction immediately, a sweet but curious smile spreading across her face. “Oh, who are these, baby?” she asked, her tone sugary and pleasant, yet her eyes held that familiar intensity, always measuring, always calculating.

You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. “These are my friends, Mom,” you mumbled, your voice tight with discomfort. You could feel the awkwardness creeping in, but Yamaguchi, always quick to ease tension, stepped in.

“I’m Tadashi Yamaguchi,” he says with a friendly bow, his smile warm and reassuring. “It’s really nice to meet you.” He steps aside slightly, gesturing to Tsukishima. “And this is my friend, Kei Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima, standing tall and stiff, nods politely. His gaze meets yours for a brief moment, but his expression remains neutral, though there’s a subtle softness in his eyes that you’ve grown to notice in rare moments like these.

Your mother’s smile broadens, clearly pleased with their politeness. “What a pleasure to meet you both!” she says, her voice sweet, yet commanding. “Have you two ordered anything?”

Yamaguchi, ever polite, shakes his head. “No, we haven’t, we just got here,” he says, his voice carrying that friendly tone that’s always put you at ease.

Your mom’s eyes light up as she gestures toward the empty seats at the table. “Then why don’t you join us? We’re about to celebrate our daughter’s birthday.”

There’s a pause, a flicker of surprise in Yamaguchi’s expression as he looks to you for confirmation. Tsukishima remains unreadable, though there’s a faint furrow in his brow as his gaze shifts between you and your mother.

You want to disappear. The thought of them sitting here, with your parents—especially your mom, who is effortlessly charming on the outside but controls everything on the inside—makes your pulse quicken with anxiety. But you know better than to refuse her invitation. You manage a tight smile, nodding slightly as if to say it’s okay, even though it feels anything but.

Yamaguchi, sensing the tension, quickly agrees, his warm nature once again diffusing the awkwardness. “We’d be honored,” he says with a genuine smile. Then, realizing the occasion, he quickly added, “We didn’t know it was your birthday. We should’ve brought you a gift!”

Your mother waved her hand dismissively, her voice sweet but firm. “No, please. We’re happy enough to have you both celebrating with us tonight,” she said, her smile perfectly placed. She turned to your father, her voice laced with authority. “Isn’t that right?”

Your father, glanced up and nodded with a welcoming smile. “Please, take a seat,” he added, his voice kind but measured, a reflection of the calm confidence he always carried.

Yamaguchi hesitated for a moment, glancing at you as if seeking confirmation, but when he saw your awkward nod, he smiled again and accepted. “Well, if you insist,” he said lightly, easing into the situation with his usual warmth. Tsukishima, on the other hand, seemed a bit more reluctant, his eyes scanning the table before he finally took the seat next to you, his expression neutral but quietly observant.

As everyone settled into the table, the waiter returned to take your orders, but the knot in your stomach remained. This wasn’t how you had envisioned spending your birthday, and now with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi joining, the evening felt even more surreal.

The dinner conversation began smoothly, with your mom doing most of the talking, naturally guiding the conversation toward familiar territory. It wasn’t long before she turned the focus onto your dad’s accomplishments, her voice slipping into that familiar, prideful tone. “So, you boys are athletes at the university. That’s impressive!” she remarked. “My husband played softball when we met at university, though for him, it was more of a hobby. He pursued law school, of course.” She glanced at your father, a knowing smile on her lips. “He’s one of the top patent attorneys in the country now, you know.”

You winced slightly at her words, the way she effortlessly dropped in that fact, the way she always did when she wanted to make an impression.

Yamaguchi’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. “You played softball, sir?” he asked, grinning widely.

Your dad smiled, a touch of nostalgia in his eyes. “Yes, I did. But I ended up following in my father’s footsteps and becoming an attorney instead.”

The conversation continued smoothly, Yamaguchi nodding along, his curiosity keeping the exchange alive. Tsukishima, however, noticed your silence. He sat quietly beside you, his eyes occasionally flickering toward you as if sensing the growing tension beneath your calm exterior. You picked at your meal, feeling the weight of your mother’s words pulling you deeper into your thoughts.

“We’re both in our final year, though Tsukishima and I are on different major. I’m in sports science, planning to become a professional athletic trainer.” He beamed, the excitement for his future palpable in his tone.

Your mother’s eyebrow arched with interest. “Oh, that’s wonderful! A career with a lot of potential, I’m sure. Are you planning to work with any professional teams?”

Yamaguchi’s eyes lit up. “That’s the goal, yes. I’m hoping to start with local teams first, maybe even with our university’s teams after graduation. It’s all about building connections and experience.”

Your father, who had been quiet until now, chimed in with a smile. “That’s a solid plan. Athletics is a tough field, but it sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, young man.”

Yamaguchi chuckled humbly, scratching the back of his neck. “I appreciate that, sir. It’s been a lot of hard work, but I’m really passionate about it.”

Your mother, still wearing her perfect smile, turned her gaze toward Tsukishima, her curiosity clearly piqued. “And what about you, Tsukishima-san?” Her voice took on a slightly more formal tone as she used his first name. “What are you studying?”

Tsukishima nodded once, his expression neutral. “Biochemistry, like your daughter.”

Your mother’s eyes widened slightly, impressed. “Biochemistry? That’s quite a challenging field. You must be very bright to handle that workload.”

Tsukishima, ever modest, shrugged lightly. “It’s manageable with the right time management.”

But your mother wasn’t done. Her attention zeroed in on this new revelation like a hawk. “Wait—are you her senior as well?”

You could feel the weight of the conversation shifting, and you braced yourself. Tsukishima glanced at you briefly before nodding. “I am, yes. I was her teaching assistant last semester.”

Your mother’s eyes practically sparkled with newfound interest, the dots connecting rapidly in her mind. “You’re in the same major, and you were her TA? That’s incredible.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into that sugary tone she often used when she wanted something. “Tell me, Tsukishima-san, how do you manage it all? Senior year, biochemistry, TA responsibilities… I imagine it must be overwhelming at times.”

Tsukishima took a moment before answering, his expression thoughtful. “It can be, but I’ve been balancing it for a while now. I also play for the university’s volleyball team, so managing my time effectively is important. It’s all about setting priorities and staying disciplined.”

Your mother looked almost starstruck, her voice now filled with admiration. “That’s remarkable! You must come from a very disciplined family.”

Tsukishima’s expression remained unreadable, though he gave a polite nod. “My family values hard work.”

You noticed how smoothly Tsukishima navigated the conversation, always answering just enough to be respectful but never offering more than necessary. Your mother, however, seemed to hang on every word.

She turned to you then, her eyes narrowing slightly, the subtle shift in her tone becoming sharper. “See, dear? Your senior here has managed to balance academics, sports, and a TA position all while maintaining his responsibilities. Maybe you should take some notes on how to be more independent.”

The sharpness of her words hit you like a slap, even though she masked it with a tight smile. You felt a lump form in your throat, your hands clenching under the table. It was always like this—no matter what you did, you were never enough in her eyes.

Your father frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, honey, our daughter’s doing her best. She’s still adjusting—”

But your mother cut him off, her eyes still fixed on you. “Adjusting? She’s been in university for a while now, and yet she still seems to be dependent on others for help. It’s always an excuse, isn’t it? When will she learn to take responsibility and focus properly?”

The familiar sting of her criticism made your chest tighten. Without saying anything, Tsukishima reached under the table, his hand brushing against yours. His fingers wrapped around your hand gently, holding it tight enough to send you warmth, yet not so tight that anyone would notice. You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his. His gaze was steady, calm, almost unreadable, but there was an unspoken reassurance there, as if he understood how suffocating this all felt.

He gave your hand a small, reassuring squeeze, and for a brief moment, the knot in your stomach loosened. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind you that you weren’t alone in this.

“With all due respect, ma’am, your daughter works very hard.” His words cut through the tension like a knife, drawing everyone’s attention. “She may struggle at times, but that’s normal. Biochemistry isn’t an easy major, and it takes time to find your footing. But I’ve seen her put in the effort. She asks questions, she seeks help when she needs it, and she’s been improving.”

Your mother blinked, clearly taken aback by Tsukishima’s defense of you. She opened her mouth to respond, but Tsukishima continued, his gaze steady.

“It’s not easy balancing everything,” he added, his tone thoughtful. “And independence doesn’t come overnight. It’s a process. She’s doing the best she can, and that’s something worth recognizing.”

Your heart swelled with gratitude at his words, the weight on your chest lifting slightly. It wasn’t often that someone stood up for you like that, and hearing it from Tsukishima—someone who rarely spoke so openly—made it all the more meaningful.

Your mother, clearly caught off guard, hesitated for a moment before regaining her composure. Her smile returned, though there was a hint of tightness in it now. “Well, I suppose you would know better, given your position as her senior,” she said, her tone polite but no longer as sharp. “It’s just… as her parents, we want to see her succeed.

Your father, sensing the shift, quickly jumped in, his voice calm. “Of course, we do, but sometimes, honey, it’s important to let her find her own way.”

Yamaguchi, who had been quiet during the exchange, finally spoke up, his voice light and friendly, trying to ease the tension. “I think she’s doing great, honestly. And besides, university is all about figuring things out, right? No one has it all together from the start.”

Your mother glanced at him, her smile softening slightly at his easygoing nature. “I suppose that’s true,” she conceded, though her eyes flicked back to you with a lingering look.

The conversation gradually moved on, but Tsukishima’s words lingered in the air. You could feel his quiet presence beside you, a steady anchor in the midst of the storm.

Then, Tsukishima suddenly spoke, his voice low and direct, pulling you back into the moment. “So, I wonder,” he began, his tone thoughtful, “why didn’t you follow the same path as your father?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. It caught you off guard, especially coming from Tsukishima, who usually preferred not to engage in such personal topics. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, your mom jumped in, her voice carrying that usual air of authority.

“She’s always had a fascination with science,” your mother said, smiling fondly. “I remember when she was little, she got really upset when her pet fish died. She told me she wanted to learn how to help animals, so we always supported her interest in biology and science. That’s why I encouraged her to take up biochemistry in university—it seemed like a natural fit for her passion.”

There’s a pause as Tsukishima listens, his eyes flickering back to you, noticing the tension in your posture. The slight tilt of his head tells you he understands that wasn’t the answer you wanted to give.

Your gaze falls back to your plate as the memory resurfaces. “My fish died because you put it in the big aquarium in the living room,” you murmur, not looking up. “The other fish ate it while it was still adapting.”

There’s a sharp silence before your mother waves off your words with a dismissive, sweet laugh. A heavy pause lingered. Your mother chuckled lightly, waving it off. “Oh, sweetie, that’s not the point. I told you we’d get you a new one, but you were so upset. I remember you saying you’d become a vet to save more animals—such a sweet promise.”

As she speaks, your mind drifts to that moment years ago—a flashback of a younger you, standing before the large aquarium, your eyes wide with horror.

You were ten, standing in front of the enormous fish tank in the living room, clutching the small glass bowl that held your beloved pet fish. The shiny scales of the fish shimmered under the sunlight, its tiny body so fragile. You had begged your mother not to move it to the big tank, convinced that it was too small, too delicate to survive with the larger fish.

“Don’t worry,” your mom had said with a reassuring smile, lifting the fishbowl from your hands. “It will be happier in a bigger space.”

But the moment your fish was released into the tank, you knew something was wrong. The other fish circled it, their movements predatory and swift. In your panic, you had tried to stop it, your small hands banging against the glass, but it was too late. You watched helplessly as they tore into the tiny creature, your heart shattering as it disappeared into the jaws of the larger fish.

“Mom!” you had cried, tears streaming down your face as you stood frozen in place, horrified.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she had said calmly, brushing your hair away from your tear-streaked face. “We’ll get you another one. One that’s stronger.”

But no new fish had ever replaced the one that died that day. The sight of it being devoured haunted you for days. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the tank again, let alone keep any more pets. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t just about the fish—it was about the care, the attachment, the life you had tried to protect and failed. You had learned, painfully, that your feelings were insignificant, easily dismissed. Even now, as your mother laughed at the memory, your stomach knotted.

Back in the present, you sit silently, your mother’s cheerful recollection of the event feeling like a distant echo of the actual memory. You can feel Tsukishima’s hand tighten just a bit more around yours, grounding you. He doesn’t say anything, but in that brief squeeze, you feel understood—more than any words could offer. His thumb traces over your knuckles slowly, offering you a quiet, unspoken solace amidst the clamor of the dinner conversation that’s no longer yours.

The conversation continues around you, but you’re not really listening anymore. You’re just focused on the gentle pressure of Tsukishima’s hand, feeling just a little less invisible.

As the waiter clears the plates on your table, another one brings out the cake—birthday cake, your hands fidget slightly in your lap, the candles’—in number 20—warm light reflecting in your eyes. The staff’s singing feels loud in your ears, but Yamaguchi’s cheerful clapping makes you smile despite the awkwardness. When your father holds up the phone, you feel a flush of heat rise to your cheeks, especially as Yamaguchi’s enthusiasm brightens the moment. “Make a wish!” he calls, his voice cutting through your nerves.

Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply. The room quiets for a moment as you focus on the wish, your heart fluttering between uncertainty and hope. When you blow out the candles, everyone claps, but it’s Tsukishima’s soft, lingering gaze that catches your attention. His calm, almost imperceptible smile feels like a silent acknowledgment, one that reassures you more than words could.

You begin slicing the cake, your hands trembling slightly as you hand out each piece, smiling when you see Yamaguchi dive into his slice with delight. Just as you settle into your own piece, your mother’s soft voice cuts in, “Oh baby, you shouldn’t eat this at night, you’ll ruin your diet, and I don’t want to upset your nutritionist. You can save it for later, okay?”

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. The table goes quiet, and you feel the weight of their eyes on you, your mother’s disapproving gaze and the awkwardness that follows her comment settling heavily on your shoulders. The smile you had slips as you glance down at your plate. The sweet taste of the cake now feels hollow.

Your father tries to defend you, his voice softer than before. “Let her enjoy it, it’s her birthday.” His words attempt to lift the mood, but your mother’s insistence lingers, wrapping you in a suffocating sense of control you can’t quite shake.

“She’ll get sick if she eats too much sugar and processed flour. We don’t want that, do we?” Your father falls silent, his efforts to defend you fading. The once-lively atmosphere now feels strained, but as you take another look at your plate, you push the thoughts aside.

As the dinner winds down, your mom turns to Yamaguchi and Tsukishima. “Thank you for being here tonight,” she says warmly, “Now, how about sharing your birthday wishes?”

Yamaguchi’s face lights up as he leans forward. “I wish you all the best, good health, happiness, and that you stay gorgeous and slay every day!” His playful warmth eases the tension just a bit, drawing laughter from the table, but it’s Tsukishima’s quiet observation that follows which lingers longer.

He looks at you, his gaze steady, almost piercing. His lips part as he speaks, his voice softer but deliberate. “I hope you heal from the things you can’t talk about… and that you start doing what’s right for you.”

The words hang in the air, much deeper than the usual birthday pleasantries, touching something raw within you. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for a brief moment, you feel exposed, but also seen—understood in a way no one else at the table has managed. His calm demeanor doesn’t falter, but there’s a sincerity in the way he speaks that makes your chest tighten with emotion.

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