#꣖ ີ ��� writes.

[wchswift]

Jealous Logan ༉‧₊˚

Pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader Summary: Logan has a jealous episode during the holiday party at the X-Mansion, finally confessing his love for you. Warnings: none, but minors do not interact, please!! Word count: 1757 a/n: I was in the shower and I had this thought about Logan and Reader at a Christmas party at the X-mansion and Logan just going crazy with jealousy seeing Reader interact with anyone but him. This idea didn't leave my mind so I had to write it... This was supposed to be a drabble, but it ended up being a bit long and I don't know if I liked it :/

mdni 𖤐 18+

The X-mansion was bustling with mutants celebrating the Christmas season. Logan stood off to the side, nursing a beer as he observed the festive scene. His eyes, however, frequently darted to you as you laughed and chatted with Scott and some other mutants. A pang of jealousy flickered in his eyes each time Scott made you laugh or touched your arm. Logan tried to play it cool, but the irritation was becoming harder to hide. Despite his efforts to appear nonchalant, his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes betrayed his feelings.

By the time the night wore on, Logan’s patience was wearing thin. Each time Scott leaned in too close, it felt like a personal provocation. He drained his beer, hoping to douse the fire in his chest, but the ache only grew. He couldn’t shake the thought: it should be him making you laugh, standing at your side.

“Careful,” came Storm’s voice from behind, pulling him from his brooding thoughts. “If you keep glaring like that, people might think you’ve got something to say.”

Logan didn’t even look at her, his gaze still locked on you across the room. “What are you talking about?”

Storm followed his gaze, amused. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve been staring at her all night and look like you’re about to burst a vein. Got something on your mind?”

Logan scowled, still refusing to engage. His silence spoke volumes.

Storm’s tone softened, her playful edge giving way to sincerity. “You know, you could just tell her how you feel. She’s been glancing your way all night. But keep sulking, and you might regret it.”

Logan’s jaw clenched again at the thought, but he didn’t say anything. He muttered a curse under his breath and moved deeper into the party, his eyes scanning the crowd for you.

He pushed past a few groups of mutants, the noise and chatter growing louder as he tried to focus. The lively conversations, clinking glasses, and the upbeat Christmas music filled the air. He was aware of the conversations happening nearby, but none of them mattered. All he could think about was you. He had to find you.

Through the crowd, Logan finally caught sight of you. You were alone in a quiet corner of the room, standing before the large Christmas tree. The twinkling lights reflected in your eyes as you sipped your drink, lost in thought, your back turned to the noise of the party.

He slowly made his way through the crowd, his steps deliberate but uncertain. For a moment, he hesitated. There was something so peaceful about you standing there, almost as if you belonged in that quiet corner, untouched by the noise and chaos of the celebration. Logan took a step closer, and you sensed his presence behind you. You didn’t turn, but a smile spread across your face.

"Hi, Logan. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” you greet with a gentle voice, watching the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle.

Logan cleared his throat, the gruffness in his voice betraying his nerves. “Can we talk for a minute?”

You turned, curious about his tone. “Sure, what’s up?”

He stepped closer, his hands slipping into his pockets as he gathers his thoughts. His voice was hesitant but firm. “I noticed you’ve been... getting pretty close to Scott tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, the sudden change in his tone catching you off guard. “Oh, well yeah... you know how Scott is,” you said, giggling. “He likes to crack jokes even when no one finds them funny. He’s lucky my laugh comes easy.”

Logan gave you a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He nodded, trying to suppress the tightening feeling in his chest. “Right. You two seem to get along pretty well lately. Are you...?”

He stop, the question unfinished, but you could hear the uncertainty in his voice. His usual confidence wavered slightly, and it made you pause, confused by his sudden discomfort. You raise an eyebrow at his intense gaze, curious about his sudden upset. For a moment, your smile falters as you grasp the question Logan is hinting at. You tilted your head, sensing something deeper in his question. "Scott and I..." you trailed off, noticing his tense expression. “We’re friends, Logan. Why do you ask?”

"Just making sure.." He murmurs, his eyes fixed on your face, scanning your expression. He tries to hide it, but there's a hint of vulnerability in his usually stoic demeanor. His voice was quieter now, and as he stood a bit closer, you could feel the tension radiating off him. The space between you felt charged, like something unspoken was hanging in the air. You could see through him—his rough exterior couldn’t hide the vulnerability beneath.

Realization flickered across your face, and you tilted your head, studying him. “Logan, are you jealous?” you asked, half-teasing, half-genuine.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might deny it. Instead, he let out a heavy breath. “Maybe. Hell, probably.”

Your smile softened, and you took a small step toward him. “Scott’s my friend. That’s all. You don’t need to worry about him.”

The tension in Logan’s shoulders eased, but his gaze stayed locked on you. He hesitated again as if weighing his next words. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, almost vulnerable. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. Something I should’ve said a long time ago...” He falters, gathering his thoughts, but before he can continue, you can’t help but jump in.

You raised an eyebrow, teasing him, a smile dancing across your lips as realization dawns on you. "Oh my god, Logan! Are you trying to tell me you're in love with me, you big silly man?" You lean in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief, enjoying the sight of his awkward demeanor and surprised expression.

Logan's eyes widened at your words. He hadn't expected you to address his struggle to find the right words so bluntly. A mix of embarrassment and relief washed over his face as he looked at you. He sputtered, his usually confident demeanor faltering in the face of your teasing. "What?! I'm not—" His denial was half-hearted, his face betraying his true feelings.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion as a playful smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "You're not what? Not in love with me?" you asked innocently, tilting your head to one side in a teasing manner. The amusement in your voice danced through the air, and you relished the effect your words had on him. You could see the cracks beginning to form in his typically tough exterior, and it thrilled you. Biting your bottom lip, you felt a rush of excitement and nervousness, your heart pounding wildly in your chest as you eagerly awaited his response.

He opens his mouth to protest further, but the denial dies on his tongue as he looks at you. The sight of your playful expression, coupled with the knowledge that you've seen through his attempt to hide his feelings leaves him uncharacteristically flustered.

His eyes search yours, his usual guarded expression broken down. He struggles for words, his gruff exterior giving way to a vulnerability he rarely shows.

Logan clenched his jaw, trying to regain some control over the situation. But your teasing words and the amusement in your eyes made it difficult to suppress his feelings.

He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. "All right, damnit. You got me. Yes, I…" He looked directly into your eyes, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I'm in love with you. Have been for a while, if I'm being honest. I just couldn't figure out how to tell you."

Your eyes soften at his admission, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You step closer to him, eliminating the small distance between you. "Damn, Logan. It took you long enough to admit it. I was starting to think you had a thing for Scott instead of me." you teased, your tone affectionate.

Logan rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, but a small smirk tugged at his mouth. "Shut up," he mutters, his hands instinctively resting on your waist. "Don't even joke about that." His increasingly serious eyes roamed over your face, taking in every feature, as if committing them to memory.

You laughed, stepping closer, until there was barely any space between you. “For the record,” you said softly, “you’re the one I want. Not Scott, not anyone else.”

Relief washed over Logan’s face, softening his usual gruffness. “Yeah?” he murmured, his hands hesitating before resting on your waist.

“Yeah.” Your voice was steady, your gaze unwavering. “Just you.”

Logan's expression relaxed at your words, his forehead gently resting against yours. The proximity made your breathing hitch and your heart skip a beat. You leaned a little closer, your faces mere inches apart. The air was electric between you, filled with tension and desire. Logan's eyes flickered down to your lips, the craving for you visible in his gaze. He closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss. It was at the same time tender and intense, his passion for you finally spilling over.

The kiss deepened as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. The world around you faded away for a moment, leaving just the two of you. When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you panting slightly, Logan’s eyes searched your face as if he were afraid this was all just a dream. He let out a shaky exhale, his breath warm against your skin.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he murmured, his voice filled with both relief and awe.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw, your touch tender and loving. “I think I’ve got an idea,” you replied, tilting your head to look up at him. Logan wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you a little closer. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your scent and holding you tightly. The tension of the night finally melted away. The distant hum of the party faded into the background as the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s warmth.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ��harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

ଓ LAP OF (DIS)COMFORT

pairing: logan howlett x reader

summary: during movie night, the only available seat is on logan's lap.

word count: 727

ℒogan masterlist !

── english isn't my first language :)

mdni 𖤐 18+

Deadpool had a habit of... Well, once a thought settled in his mind, he wouldn't fucking drop it. And ever since Logan became a part of your lives, Deadpool has been obsessed with hosting a movie night every week.

Now each week, without exception, he would gather everyone in the living room to watch a movie and keep Logan up to date. Though the grumpy man would never openly admit it, there was a flicker of enjoyment in him.

Today, however, this crazy slacker had put you in charge of making the popcorn. Something you did after little complaint, but as you returned to the living room, balancing several buckets of freshly popped popcorn, your ungrateful friends had claimed every available seat, leaving you without a seat and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

You glance around, hands on your hips. “Okay, where the hell am I supposed to sit?”

“Lap dance roulette,” Wade announces, sprawled across half the couch like some kind of human starfish. “Winner gets Logan.”

Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your neck before you can shove it down. You’re not looking at Logan. But you feel his eyes on you like he already knows where this is going. You fucking hated Wade.

"Not happening," Logan grunts, beer in hand, shoulders tense where he sits in the only available armchair.

You fold your arms. "Alright, then where am I sitting?"

“Floor’s right there,”

You glare. “Yeah? Maybe I should make you sit on the floor.”

His lips twitch—almost a smirk—but he takes a long sip of beer instead like he’s enjoying your irritation.

“Oh for f—just sit in his lap,” Vanessa replies, impatient but with a mischievous smile appearing on her lips, throwing popcorn at Wade when he starts waggling his eyebrows. “We don’t have all night.” Great, everyone was against you today.

"Come on, guys! If you all sit down properly, I can easily sit on the couch too," You said, mainly to Wade, who was taking up practically half the couch by himself. When no one answered and carried on talking and complaining, you let out a sigh.

You run your hand over your face, your jaw clenched, but you weigh your options. One: stand for two hours. Two: sit on the floor uncomfortable like an outcast. Or three—

Logan exhales sharply, like he’s already regretting this. "Just sit, sweetheart. Get it over with."

Sweetheart.

Your pulse stutters for a fraction of a second. Logan rarely calls you that—not in that tone, not in front of other people.

But if he’s not making a big deal out of it, then neither are you.

So, ignoring the way your palms suddenly feel a little too warm, you lower yourself onto his lap.

His thighs are solid. That’s your first thought. The second is that you probably should’ve just picked the floor, because now you’re fully aware of everything. The way his chest moves when he breathes. The slow curl of his fingers against his beer bottle. The warmth of his body against yours.

You shift slightly, trying to find a comfortable spot—

A muscle in Logan’s jaw jumps. His hand finds your hip. “Jesus, would you quit moving?”

Your breath catches. His voice is low, rough—gravel and tension rolled into one. And his fingers? Just the barest bit possessive where they tighten against your side.

Wade whistles. "Well, someone’s having a great time. Logan, buddy, is that a blush?"

Logan flips him off but doesn't move his hand.

Doesn’t let go; he actually lets his hand settle loosely on your waist as if to keep you steady. To keep you there.

Your throat feels dry. This was supposed to be nothing—just a seat. But now? The air’s buzzing. Your heart’s drumming. And you swear, swear, that Logan’s grip lingers just a second too long to be innocent.

You don’t say anything about it.

Neither does he.

But as the movie plays, his hand moves to your hip and stays firm. And when you shift—just once—his fingers twitch, like he wants to pull you closer but won’t.

Tension crackles between you like a live wire.

Yeah. You’re definitely not paying attention to the movie tonight.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

taglist: @namikyento (if you want to be added let me know <3)

[wchswift]

ଓ All Their Fault

Pairing: worst!logan howlett x f!reader Summary: When you, Domino, Logan, Deadpool and Cable went on a chaotic mission and Cable accidentally hurt you, Logan’s protective fury comes out, escalating team tensions. Warnings: slightly violence, blood, injury, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 807 A/N: I just love worst wolverine and protective logan, so i had to write this.

mdni 𖤐 18+

The mission was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out—grab the stolen mutant teach and get out before anyone noticed. At least, that was the plan as Domino had explained it, her voice smooth and confident, as if working with the likes of Deadpool and Logan wasn’t a recipe for disaster.

You weren’t even halfway through the mission before it went to hell.

“Shit,” you gasped, clutching your ribs as the world swam around you.

You clutched your side, your fingers pressing against the deep gash left by Cable. The wound throbbed, and though you tried to breathe through the pain, every inhale felt like fire.

Logan stood in front of you, his claws dripping crimson, his body tense. Everything froze for a moment. Then Logan’s voice cut through the haze, low and dangerous. “What the hell did you just do?”

“It’s fine,” you rasped, trying to sound convincing even as blood trickled down your side. “I’m okay—”

“No, you’re not,” Logan snapped, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His eyes flicked to the blood staining your shirt, and his jaw tightened. “You’re injured, and it’s all their fault.”

With a feral snarl, he lunged at Cable, claws extended. Domino’s quick reflexes were the only thing that stopped him; she stepped between the two men, her hands raised. “Whoa, whoa! Cool it, Logan! It was an accident.”

“Accident?” Logan spat, his voice trembling with fury. “She’s bleeding because of him!”

Deadpool sauntered into view, his katanas already sheathed, his red-and-black suit splattered with evidence of his handiwork. “Yeesh, Wolvie, chill out. We all make mistakes! Even the big Cable guy here, right handsome?"

Logan ignored him, still focused on Cable. “Wade, shut up!” Domino snapped, throwing him a withering glare before turning back to Logan. “Logan, we need to finish the mission. Get her out of here. We’ll deal with this later.”

Logan hesitated, his claws still extended as he glared at Cable.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Cable said, his tone as calm as he could manage. “But if you want to waste time settling this now, go ahead. Meanwhile, reinforcements are on their way, and she’s losing blood.”

“Logan,” you started, your voice strained. "We’ve got the thing. Let’s just go." You said softly, stepping closer. “I’m okay. Really.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re bleeding all over the place. That’s not okay.”

“I’ll heal.”

“That’s not the point.” Logan turned back to you, his claws retracting with a snikt, though his hands remained clenched into fists.

He took another step forward, getting closer to the other man. “Next time, you think twice before touching her.” His voice was low and cold, a promise of violence barely held in check.

Deadpool clapped his hands together, breaking the tension with his usual flair. “Okay, great, let’s wrap this up before Wolvie loses what’s left of his brain cells. Dom, got the tech? Check. Pumpkin, still breathing? Check. Me, still incredibly handsome? Check. Let’s roll, people!”

With a final glare at Cable, he turned and knelt beside you, his movements careful as he slipped an arm around your shoulders. His hands were rough but surprisingly gentle. “Let’s get you out of here,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

“You didn’t have to fight him,” you muttered as he helped you to your feet.

Logan didn’t respond right away. His face was set in a grim scowl. “He shouldn’t have touched you,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. “If he wasn’t on our side, he’d be dead already.”

You let out a weak laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “You really know how to hold a grudge, don’t you?”

“Damn right I do,” Logan said, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Ahead of you, Deadpool turned back, walking backward with a theatrical flourish. “What did I say, huh? Logan’s basically a rabid guard dog when it comes to Pumpkin. I love this dynamic.”

Logan glared at him. “Wade, shut it before I lose my patience,” He growled.

Deadpool threw his hands up in mock surrender, but the grin under his mask was unmistakable.

By the time the team emerged into the night, the tension had started to fade, though Logan’s scowl remained firmly in place. He didn’t say much as he helped you onto the team’s getaway vehicle, but the way his hand lingered at your back told you everything you needed to know. He might’ve been rough around the edges, but in your eyes, he was exactly who you needed him to be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

Gossiping with Dean ༉‧₊˚ 

The other day my best friend and I were in a parking lot and a couple in the car next to us started arguing and it just made our afternoon even more interesting. Afterwards, all I could think about was Dean, because I'm sure he and I would gossip a lot together. So I just decided to write a drabble about it... This is my first drabble so apologies if it's not the best <3

mdni 𖤐 18+

The motel room was quiet except for the rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan. Dean leaned back on the bed, his boots crossed at the ankles, looking equal parts bored and restless. The flickering TV had finally given up, leaving the two of you with nothing but static and silence.

“This is boring,” you mumbled, poking Dean’s side. "Guess we'll have to entertain ourselves."

Dean smirked, glancing over at you. "I can think of a few ways—"

You cut him off with a playful shove, laughing. "Keep it in your pants, Winchester." Rising from the bed, you peeked through the curtains. “Why don’t you come over here? At least there’s people-watching.”

Dean groaned but pushed himself up, ambling over to stand behind you. He wrapped his arms loosely around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “What’s so riveting out there?”

Then movement caught your eye. In the far corner of the lot, a car rocked slightly as voices rose from within. A man and a woman were locked in a heated argument, their hands gesturing wildly through the windows.

“Oh, this is better than TV,” Dean said, grinning. “What’s the bet?” he asked. “He forgot their anniversary?”

“Or she found his burner phone,” you replied with a grin.

Dean chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Classic. Always check the glovebox.”

The two of you settled in, throwing theories back and forth like kids trading secrets. The drama unfolded below, oblivious to its peanut gallery. You leaned closer to Dean, and he tilted his head toward yours, the moment cozy despite the spectacle.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Sam walked in carrying a bag of takeout. He froze, eyebrows furrowing as he took in the sight of you and Dean cuddling together while pressed against the window like nosy neighbors.

"What are you two doing?" Sam asked, setting the bag on the table.

"Research," Dean said with a smirk, not bothering to move.

"On?"

"Human behavior," you chimed in, barely stifling a laugh. "Fascinating stuff, really."

Sam shook his head, grabbing a soda from the bag. "You two are ridiculous."

"Admit it, Sammy. You wanna know what happens next," Dean teased.

Sam rolled his eyes, but as he sat down to eat, you noticed him glance toward the window. Dean shot you a knowing grin, and the two of you silently agreed: sometimes, the best entertainment came free with the room.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

hii hii HEHEHEH this is so brain rot but i need a story where logan is a big time cuddler (i know he gives the best hug ever 😭) maybe he keeps that only to reader!!

ଓ IN HIS ARMS

pairing: logan howlett x reader

summary: logan is a big time cuddler, but he saves all his tender, comforting affection just for you.

word count: 1.3k

content: fluff, established relationship, implied sex, post-sex cuddles.

a/n: hiii, sorry it took me so long to write it �� I may have changed a little from what you asked, but I hope you like it <3

── english isn't my first language :)

Everyone around the mansion was well aware of Logan's grumpy reputation. He was the gruff one, all hard edges, and sharp looks, the not-friendly and indifferent expression to keep people not so close. To most, he's the Wolverine—reserved, intimidating, and always prefers little interaction. But of course, he had his exceptions, like you. You knew better.

Because behind closed doors, Logan was yours, and he’s the most touch-hungry man you've ever met. You know the man beneath the scowl who would hold you close until the rest of the world disappeared if he could. Deep down, he was the type who wouldn’t readily admit it, but he absolutely adored cuddling.

No one would believe it if you told them, but Logan is the best cuddler in the world. There’s something about the way he wraps his arms around you, how his broad chest and strong shoulders make you feel so small and completely safe. It’s like being surrounded by pure strength, and yet it’s soft, too—his touch careful, deliberate, filled with a tenderness that only you get to see. God this man knew how to hug.

Right now, his arms are wrapped around you as you settle against his chest, his warmth seeping into you like the coziest blanket. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of life outside and the sound of his steady breathing. Nights like this—peaceful, undisturbed—are your favorite.

You let out a contented sigh, your head resting against the solid strength of his chest. His heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear, soothing and grounding in a way only Logan can manage.

“You comfy, princess?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum softly, snuggling closer.

Logan’s hand drifts lazily up and down your back, tracing slow, soothing circles. He’s always touching you like this, his hands finding you almost instinctively, whether it’s to ground himself or to comfort you. Maybe it’s both.

“You’ve got the best hugs,” you murmur, your voice muffled against his chest.

Logan chuckles softly, the sound a deep, rumbling vibration against your cheek. “Yeah? Don’t tell anyone. Gotta keep my image intact.”

You laugh lightly, shifting to look up at him. His lips quirked in a rare smile, the kind only you ever see. Before you can say anything else, he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he’s savoring the moment.

Logan doesn’t say it, but you know this side of him—the warmth, the tenderness, the way he holds you like you’re the most important thing in the world—is something he reserves only for you. Around the others, he’s all scowls and clipped words, but in private, he’s the kind of man who craves touch like it’s air.

He didn’t always show it, though. Logan wasn’t the kind of man to give away pieces of himself so easily. It took a while to get that part of him. You vividly remember the first time he hugged you like this, back when he still had walls up, back when you weren’t sure what you meant to him.

You’d been having a rough day—a hard mission that made you doubt yourself, leaving you shaken and overwhelmed. You tried to hide it from everyone, retreating to the quiet safety of your room. But Logan noticed. He always noticed.

Without a word, he appeared in your doorway, his expression softer than usual but still guarded.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and gravelly.

At first, you nodded, trying to brush it off, but when he stepped closer and gently touched your arm, the dam broke. You let out a shaky breath, your eyes stinging, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him.

For a second, you thought he’d pull away—this was Logan, after all. But instead, his arms came around you, steady and sure, pulling you against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That was the first time you felt the magic of the Wolverine hug. His hold was strong but not overwhelming like he was shielding you from everything bad in the world. His hand ran soothingly up and down your back, his chin resting lightly on top of your head.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. From that moment on, you realized that Logan wasn’t just a good hugger—he was the best. There was something about the way he held you like he could take all your worries and crush them with his strength. He didn’t need to say much; his arms said it all.

Now, it’s second nature. He doesn’t wait for an excuse to hold you—he pulls you into his lap while you’re reading, tangles himself around you when you’re in bed, and presses his face into your hair after a long day. His hands are always on you, whether it’s a comforting palm against your back, his fingers laced with yours, or his arm slung around your waist like he needs to keep you close. And you dare to say he loves it more than you.

After the sex, he’s especially clingy—not that you mind. Pulling you into his arms as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear, he will wrap himself around you completely. His lips leave lazy, soft, lingering open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, hair, collarbone, cheek—anywhere he can reach. Each one feels like a promise, a reminder that you’re his. He let his hands roam lazily, tracing patterns on your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You feel so damn good, princess” he’ll whisper, his voice rough but tender. And the way he holds you in those moments like he never wants to let go, makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe.

And the way he looks at you in those moments? It’s enough to make your heart stop. His usual sharp, guarded gaze softens, filled with a quiet devotion he doesn’t show to anyone else.

Around the others, he’s all grumbles and scowls, pretending he’s not the same man who just kissed you senselessly an hour ago. He keeps his distance—at least, as much as he can.

Even in public, though, there are cracks in his armor. His hand will brush yours under the table or he’ll rest his palm on your thigh. Sometimes, when he thinks no one’s paying attention, you’ll catch him watching you with an intensity that makes your heart race.

The others might tease him for being overprotective, for always keeping an eye on you, but they don’t see the real Logan. They don’t see how he softens when he holds you or how he presses his forehead against yours like you’re the thing that saved him.

“Love you,” he murmurs now, his lips brushing against your hair. His voice is quiet like he’s not ready to say it too loudly, but the words hit you like a warm rush all the same.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, those dark, stormy eyes soft in the dim light. “Love you too,” you whisper, brushing a kiss against his jaw before settling back into his arms.

Logan presses another kiss to the top of your head, his hand slipping under the blanket to pull you closer. He holds you like you’re his anchor, his steady presence in a chaotic world.

And as you drift off in his arms, surrounded by his warmth and strength, the rest of the world feels small and far away—because with Logan, you’re home.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

hii!! i'm a big fan of your writingss!! they're all so amazinggg and the way you portray the emotions in the character is something i wish i could try :3

i saw your request is opened and i have this little idea: oldman logan tries to comfort his s/o (they're having a bad day at work and accidentally snaps at logan) IM SORRY IF THE IDEA IS LAME 😭

and HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Pairing: old man logan x reader Summary: You had a hard day at work and when Logan tries to take care of you, you just snap at him. Content: established relationship, angst, yelling, comfort, fluff, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 1.2k notes: heyy, zayn!! tysm for your request and for your words, you are so sweet, I'm glad you like what I write!! The idea is not lame at all, I loved the idea and I hope it did justice to what you imagined <3 Happy new year 😊

The low rumble of the limo engine died as Logan cut the ignition. The evening had settled into an uneasy silence, thick and heavy, the kind that crept in after a long, thankless day. A fine sheen of dust clung to the once-sleek black of the car, mirroring the grit beneath Logan’s nails and the wear etched into his features. He sighed, staying inside the car for a moment, enjoying that he was finally home. That he was finally back with you.

The house door creaked open under his heavy hand. He didn’t call out. Years of instinct had taught him the value of silence, though tonight, it wasn’t just habit. He could feel it—like a pulse in the air—the black cloud hovering.

Inside, the light over the small kitchen buzzed faintly, illuminating a lone glass on the counter. You sat slumped on the couch, head in your hands, the uniform from the bar rumpled and stained with traces of a shift too long and customers too careless.

Logan lingered in the doorway, taking you in. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too lost in thoughts, in an internal battle. The air smelled faintly of stale beer and cleaning solution, the scent of dish soap clinging to your skin. You were clearly tired—bone-tired in the way that made you hollow, made you sharp without meaning to be.

He stepped inside, boots scuffing against the floor, and shrugged off his jacket. “Hey,” he murmured. “You eaten yet?”

You flinched at the sound of his voice, head still resting in your hands. You just shook your head, jaw tightening.

“Not hungry,” you muttered, tone clipped.

Logan frowned, setting his jacket down. “You should eat somethin’. Gotta keep your strength up after a shift like that.”

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palms against your temples. “Logan, please.”

He stilled, brows knitting. "What? Rough night?” Logan’s voice was gravel, softened by an edge of concern.

Your voice rose, the frustration spilling out before you could stop it. “Yes! And I don't need you lecturing me.” You broke off, dragging your hands down your face. “I just need you to stop for a minute.” Your words were a knife: sharp, unintended, but cutting all the same. “Can’t you just let me have a minute?”

The words hung in the air. Logan stood there, unmoving, the weight of the day and your tone sinking into his chest like stones in a deep well. He wasn’t a man of many words, nor one prone to anger over things like this. But it hurt—because it was you.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “Sure.”

The anger was quicksand now, sucking her down even as she clawed at the surface. You didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t mean to, but the day’s weight pressed against your chest, leaving no room for patience or kindness.

He set his keys down with a muted clink and walked to the kitchen. The scuff of his boots against the floor was the only sound as he grabbed a glass and filled it with water. Logan wasn’t good at this. Words failed him more often than not.

The guilt came rushing in, fast and unrelenting, as you watched him lean against the counter, his shoulders hunched under the weight of more than just your words.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking the stillness.

He cut you off with a small shake of his head, stepping closer. “Don’t. We’ve all got days, darlin’. You don’t gotta explain.”

But you did, because that’s who you were. You reached for his hand, calloused and scarred, your grip tight.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Logan crouched in front of you, his presence solid and grounding, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch was rough but careful, like he was afraid of breaking something delicate.

“I get it,” he said simply. “The world’s got a way of piling on. You’re allowed to break sometimes.”

Your hand brushed his arm, tentative but seeking connection. “Yeah, but you don't deserve it,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just—work was hell tonight. And I...I took it out on you.”

Logan shook his head, getting up and sitting beside you on the couch, pulling you into a loose embrace. His arms were rough but steady, grounding. “You’re allowed to be mad, darlin’. You’re allowed to break sometimes.”

You pressed your face into his chest, the scent of sweat and earth and faint tobacco grounding you. “I just hate feeling like this.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, resting his chin atop your head. “I know the feelin’. But you don’t gotta carry it all by yourself. That’s what I’m here for, even if I ain’t great at it.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, your eyes searching his. “You’re better at it than you think.”

Logan sighed, kissing your head. “That’s what we do, yeah? You’re there when I’m all messed up, and I’m here when it’s you. That’s how it works.”

Your throat tightened, the simplicity of his words striking deeper than any grand gesture ever could. “I don’t deserve you.”

"Cut that out,” Logan muttered, his tone gravelly yet laced with an unexpected tenderness. His brow furrowed, the usual edge to his voice softening into something more vulnerable. “You deserve more than I can give. But this?” He gestured between you two. “This, I can do.”

"You give me everything I need," you practically whispered, the words coming out softly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.

Logan cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “C’mon. Let’s get you somethin’ to eat. Even if you don’t want it now, you’ll feel better with somethin’ in your stomach.”

You started to protest, but he raised an eyebrow, a look that was equal parts stern and amused. “Don’t argue. You’ll lose.”

You chuckled, letting him guide you toward the kitchen. “Fine. But only if you eat too.”

“Deal.” Logan opened the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread. “Scrambled okay? Don’t expect a five-star meal.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, leaning against the counter as you watched him move. His movements were deliberate, a mix of rough efficiency and surprising care.

As the eggs sizzled and the smell of toast filled the air, you felt the tension in your chest begin to ease. Logan’s presence, steady and unyielding, had a way of doing that.

When they finally sat down at the small table, the plates of simple food between them, Logan reached across to brush your hand with his fingers. It was a small gesture, fleeting but grounding.

“Tomorrow’ll be better,” he said, his voice low and sure.

You smiled, squeezing his hand before picking up your fork. “As long as you’re here... I'm sure it will be. Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

The quiet between them wasn’t heavy anymore—it was comforting. Enough to carry them through the night.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

ଓ Home for the Holidays

Pairing: Logan Howlett x latina!fem!reader Summary: you're finally dating Logan, and this year for Christmas, your family, not very mutant-friendly, invites you and Logan to the holiday. Content: fluff, a lot of feelings, slightly angst, established relationship, complicated parents but they redeem themselves, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 5k (I got a little carried away) A/N: like I said christmas prompts are all my head has been coming up with lately lol. This one is totally self indulgent... I'm sorry (not really). I really think Logan would get along great with my latin family so this is what I wrote! Merry Christmas to you all!!! 🎄

mdni 𖤐 18+

The world outside was muffled in white. Snow blanketed the grounds of the X-Mansion, smoothing over the jagged chaos that typically defined the lives of its residents. But here, in this room, everything felt still, warm, and safe.

You blinked awake slowly, your cheek resting against the solid plane of Logan’s chest. His steady breathing was a low hum beneath your ear, and the arm he’d slung across your waist anchored you in place, as if he thought you might disappear if he let go.

For a while, you stayed like that, letting the lazy warmth seep into your bones. Mornings like these were rare. Most of your days started with some crisis or other, but the mansion had gone blessedly quiet for the holidays. Even the younger mutants seemed to understand the sanctity of this lull, their usual chatter and chaos replaced with soft laughter and the occasional sound of Christmas music echoing faintly through the halls.

Logan shifted beneath you, his muscles flexing under your cheek as he adjusted his grip. The calloused pads of his fingers traced absentminded circles on your back, a tender gesture you’d come to treasure.

“You’re quiet this morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. “Something on your mind?”

You smiled, too comfortable to move. “Just appreciating this.” You turned your head slightly, nuzzling against him. “Don’t ruin it by talking too much.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Fair enough.”

The quiet stretched out again, the two of you wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and each other. You let your thoughts wander, enjoying the rare chance to simply exist without the weight of responsibility pressing down on you.

And then your phone buzzed.

You groaned, burying your face against Logan as the sound shattered the tranquility. “No,” you mumbled. “Not yet.”

Logan reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the offending device without letting you go. “You gonna answer this, or am I tossing it out the window?” he asked, holding it just out of your reach.

You sat up reluctantly, frowning at the screen. The familiar number made your stomach twist, a mix of excitement and apprehension knotting your insides.

“It’s my family,” you said softly.

Logan’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He just handed you the phone, his steady gaze enough to ground you.

You hesitated, then swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“¡Mija!” Your mother’s voice filled the line, bright and cheerful as ever. “You sound tired. Are you resting enough? Eating well?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Hi, mamá. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Good. Listen, I have some news.” Her tone turned conspiratorial, and you could almost picture her leaning closer, as if you weren’t miles away. “We want you to come home for Christmas. Your papá and I were talking, and it’s been too long since we’ve all been together.”

Your chest tightened. It had been too long. Ever since your powers had manifested, there had been tension, distance. But in recent months, your family had made an effort to mend things, to accept you for who you were. And now, this invitation felt like another step forward.

“I’d love to,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “I really would.”

“Good, good. And—” She hesitated, then plowed ahead, her excitement spilling over. “Bring your boyfriend. Logan, right? We want to meet him.”

You froze, your gaze flicking to Logan, who was watching you with mild curiosity. Your mother’s words echoed in your head, and suddenly, the cozy warmth of the room felt stifling.

“Mija? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you managed, your throat dry. “I’m here.”

“Well, bring him. And don’t worry—he’s family now, too. We’ll take care of him.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on you. After a few more pleasantries, you ended the call and set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly.

Logan tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing. “What was that about?”

“My family,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “They want me home for Christmas. They want us home for Christmas.”

His eyebrows lifted again, but there was no hesitation in his response. “All right.”

“All right?” You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re okay with going?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugged, his tone casual, but you could see the flicker of something deeper in his expression. “It’s your family. They’re important to you.”

You bit your lip, looking down at your hands. “I just… I don’t know how they’ll react. I mean, they’ve been better about accepting me, but this is different. And you…” You trailed off, struggling to find the words.

Logan reached for you, his hand warm and solid as it cupped your cheek. “Hey,” he said softly. “Stop overthinking it. If they’ve got a problem with me, that’s their issue, not yours. But if you want me there, I’m there.”

His certainty steadied you, and you leaned into his touch, releasing a shaky breath. “Of course I do! I do want you there. I just—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently. “Stop worrying. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Okay. Together.”

Logan leaned back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you were curled up against his side again. The knot of anxiety in your chest loosened slightly, replaced by a tentative sense of hope for having Logan by your side.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, and for a little while longer, the two of you stayed wrapped in the quiet, preparing for the journey ahead.

When it was no longer possible to extend the moment with Logan, you got up and started your day. Since it was close to Christmas, the mansion was quieter and less crowded, giving you a chance to relax alone for a while.

The snow seemed endless, a quiet ocean blanketing the world outside. From the wide windows of the X-Mansion’s common area, it stretched out in every direction, softening the edges of the landscape until it looked like something out of a dream.

You sat on the arm of the couch, watching the scene unfold with the same stillness it seemed to demand. Logan was a shadow in the corner of the room, leaning casually against the doorframe. His presence was like gravity—solid, constant, something you could always feel even when you weren’t looking.

But now, his gaze was fixed on you, sharp and unwavering.

“You’ve been quiet all morning,” he said, breaking the silence. There was no accusation in his tone, only a quiet observation. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You sighed, your breath fogging up the window for just a moment before it vanished. “It’s nothing.”

He let out a low hum, the kind that told you he didn’t believe a word of it. He crossed the room in a few steps, coming to stand beside you. His reflection joined yours in the glass, his dark eyes meeting yours in the faint, distorted version of the world.

“Try again,” he said, his voice softer now.

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s just… the idea of going home, after too long. And bringing you with me.”

His reflection didn’t waver. “You don’t want me to come?”

“No!” The word burst out of you too quickly, and you winced at the sharpness of it. “That’s not it. I already said, course I want you to come, Lo. It’s just—” You hesitated, your thoughts tripping over each other in their rush to the surface. “I don’t know how they’ll be. My family, I mean. They’ve gotten better about… about everything, but it’s still complicated. And you going too—”

You glanced at him, struggling to find the right words. “You’re not exactly… subtle, Logan. You literally have mutant written all over you. You’re like a storm—intense and impossible to ignore. And I love it so much, but my family, they’re…”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“They’re the kind of people who smile through awkward silences and sweep anything messy under the rug,” you finished weakly. “I just—I don’t know if they’ll know what to do with you. And I don’t want them to make you feel like you don’t belong. I don't want them to treat you differently.”

Logan was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, like the rumble of distant thunder.

“You think I care what they think?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand to stop you.

“They’re your family,” he said simply. “I’m not going for them. I’m going for you.”

There was something so unshakable about the way he said it, as if the answer was as obvious as the ground beneath his feet.

You let out a shaky laugh, your breath fogging up the glass again. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice made your chest ache. “They don’t have to like me. Hell, they don’t even have to understand me. But if they love you, then they’ll respect the choices you’ve made. And if they don’t—” His reflection smiled faintly, a wry twist of his lips. “Well, they’ll have to deal with me.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at your own lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “But I’m yours. That’s all that matters.”

Something in your chest unfurled at his words, the knot of anxiety loosening just enough for you to take a deep breath. You leaned against him, your forehead resting against his shoulder. He smelled faintly of pine and smoke, like the forest itself had come to life and taken human form. It was so comforting.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“For what?” he asked in a low voice, his hand coming up to rest on the back of your neck.

“For being you.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and you felt his lips brush against your hair. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now, sweetheart.”

You laughed, the sound lighter now, like the snowflakes falling outside. For the first time all morning, the weight in your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The road stretched ahead of you like an endless ribbon, winding through snow-draped trees and frozen lakes that glittered faintly in the pale winter sunlight. The hum of the car engine was the only sound for a while, a quiet rhythm that matched the pulse of your thoughts.

Logan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console where his fingers occasionally brushed against yours. It was a casual touch, almost absentminded, but it anchored you to him in a way words never could.

You watched his profile as he drove, the sharp lines of his face softened by the morning light. There was a quiet intensity about him, like a storm that seemed less threatening and more comforting. He was like a force of nature, capable of demolishing obstacles while also providing a protective haven —a force of nature that could tear down walls and shield you from the worst of the world all at once.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

You smiled faintly. “Are they worth that much?”

“Probably more,” he said, his lips twitching into the smallest of smirks. “But that’s all I’ve got on me.”

You laughed softly, the sound easing the tension in your chest. “I was just thinking about how far we’ve come. I mean, from where we started… to this.”

Logan glanced at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “This isn’t just ‘far.’ This is everything.”

His words were so simple, so unshakable, that they left you momentarily speechless. He had a way of doing that—cutting through your overthinking with a clarity that left no room for doubt.

You turned to look out the window, the snow-covered landscape blurring past. “You know, when my powers first showed up, I thought… I thought I’d never have this. A life. Someone like you.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but you felt his hand move, his fingers intertwining with yours on the console. “Guess I’m lucky you were wrong.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice. When you looked at him again, his eyes were fixed on the road, but there was something unguarded about his expression—a glimpse of the man behind the claws and the growl.

“Logan…”

He shook his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t go getting mushy on me now, sweetheart. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”

You snorted a laugh, leaning back in your seat. The warmth of his hand in yours stayed with you, a quiet reassurance that no matter what waited at the end of this journey, you wouldn’t face it alone.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Your family’s house was just as you remembered—warm, inviting, and alive with the kind of chaos that only the holidays could bring.

Lights twinkled along the roofline, and the faint sound of music spilled out into the crisp evening air. As Logan helped you with the bags, the front door swung open, and a wave of noise and warmth hit you like a tidal wave.

“¡Cariño! ¡Por fin!” Your mother was the first to greet you, wrapping you in a hug so tight it stole your breath. “I’ve been waiting all day!”

“Mamá,” you managed, laughing as she fussed over you.

And then her attention shifted to Logan. Her eyes softened, though her tone remained brisk. “And this must be Logan.”

He nodded, his posture relaxed but his expression carefully neutral. “Ma’am.”

Your mother’s lips twitched, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she turned to usher you both inside, chattering about the food, the decorations, and how your father was already working on his second plate.

The rest of the family followed in quick succession, a whirlwind of introductions, hugs, and rapid-fire questions. Logan handled it all with a quiet patience that surprised even you, his gruff demeanor softening just enough to put them at ease.

Your younger cousin tugged at his sleeve, wide-eyed. “Are you really Wolverine? Like, claws and everything?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, glancing at you as if to ask, 'Should I?'

You shrugged, trying not to laugh. “Might as well get it over with.”

With a sigh, he extended one hand, the metallic claws sliding out with a faint snikt. Your cousin’s eyes widened further, her jaw dropping.

“Whoa…”

The rest of the family crowded around, their curiosity breaking any lingering tension. Logan didn’t say much, but the faint smirk on his face told you he didn’t mind the attention nearly as much as he pretended to.

As the evening wore on, the chaos began to settle. The smell of food and cinnamon filled the air, and the house hummed with laughter and music. Logan had drifted to a corner of the room, where your father showed him an old photo album.

You watched them from across the room, your heart swelling at the sight of Logan fitting into this world you’d been so afraid to share with him.

“Mija,” your mother said, pulling you aside. Her voice was softer now, her eyes warm. “He’s good for you. I can see it.”

You smiled, your chest tightening with emotion. “He is. More than I ever thought I deserved.”

She cupped your face, her hands warm and familiar. “Don’t ever think that. You deserve everything, and more. I wish I had told you that more often. I'm sorry, nena.”

For the first time in a long while, you believed her.

Dinner had barely ended when the music started, a lively rhythm spilling from the speakers and filling every corner of the house. Chairs were pushed back, plates cleared away, and the living room became an impromptu dance floor.

You watched from the edge of the room, laughing as your cousins dragged reluctant uncles and aunts into the fray. The Christmas lights blinked in time with the beat, casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the scene.

And then you felt a hand on your wrist.

“C’mon,” Logan said, his voice low and warm.

You stared at him, incredulous. “You? Dance?”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I’ve been around long enough to pick up a thing or two. Don’t make me regret this.”

Before you could protest, he pulled you onto the floor. The music swelled, and for a moment, you forgot the chaos, the noise, everything but the warmth of his hand on yours and the steady strength of his other hand resting lightly on your waist.

He wasn’t perfect—his steps were a little stiff, and his timing faltered now and then—but his confidence made up for it. You couldn’t stop smiling, even as your family whooped and cheered around you.

“Not bad for a grumpy old man,” you teased, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music.

“Careful,” he warned, his smirk widening. “We are at your parents' house but if you keep this up, that won't stop me from punishing you." He whispered against your ear for only you to hear, his voice firm but with a hint of humor.

You laughed, the sound pure and unrestrained, and for the first time that night, the weight of your nerves began to lift.

Later, as the music faded into softer melodies and the crowd thinned out, you found yourself in the kitchen, refilling glasses and helping your mother plate desserts.

“That Logan,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “He’s different.”

You froze, unsure of where she was going with this. “Is that… bad?”

She shook her head, her hands deftly arranging cookies on a platter. “No. Just… surprising. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, you can tell he means every word. And the way he looks at you…” She paused, her gaze softening. “You deserve that kind of love, cariño. The kind that doesn’t waver.”

Your throat tightened, and you turned back to the counter, suddenly very interested in the stack of plates waiting to be carried out. “Thanks, mamá.”

But before you could continue, the sound of approaching footsteps drew your attention. Your aunt appeared in the doorway, her ever-present smile firmly in place.

“There you are!” she said brightly, stepping into the kitchen as though she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. Her gaze flicked between you and your mother, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “What are we talking about?”

“Logan,” your mother replied, her tone light but guarded.

“Ah,” your aunt said, her smile sharpening at the edges. “He’s… an interesting choice.”

You stiffened, the warmth from your mother’s words quickly fading. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” your aunt said breezily, but there was a calculated edge to her voice. She picked up a cookie, examining it as though it were the most fascinating thing in the room. “It’s just—well, a man like that doesn’t seem very… stable.”

Your mother frowned, "Paloma don't start…" she said with a warning tone, but even so, your aunt continued, her tone dripping with faux concern. “No, I just mean, he's a mutant! And with his background—and those claws… He seems a little aggressive too, It must be exhausting, keeping up with someone like him.”

The words hit like a slap, dredging up the old insecurities you’d worked so hard to bury. Your grip on the platter tightened as you struggled to steady your voice. “Don't you dare! You don't know anything about him. Logan is not aggressive, he is a good man, kind and caring.” you said evenly, refusing to rise to her bait.

“Of course, I’m sure he is,” your aunt said, her smile widening. “But he is still a mutant, don’t you think—”

"And my daughter is also a mutant, Paloma, so you better stop this, " your mother replied, her face completely serious now.

"I didn't mean to offend, I'm sorry," she said sarcastically. "But it's funny you should say that since you never were okay or wanted to deal with the fact that she was a mutant either."

Your breath caught your throat, chest tightening as you felt anger take over.

"You're right, I lost my relationship with my daughter just because I didn't understand her, and I was wrong. All I want most is to make up for it and change. So I won't accept any more of your prejudice, not with my daughter or with Logan." Your mother's voice was firm and steady, her posture confident and despite the moment I smiled to see the change in her. The way she defended you.

“Everything is fine? Anyone got something to say about me?”

Before your aunt could answer, the deep, gruff voice cut through the air like a blade, silencing the room. You turned to see Logan standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding.

Your aunt faltered, her confidence wavering under the weight of his gaze. “I—no, of course not,” she stammered, her smile faltering as she fidgeted with the cookie in her hand.

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver, and his voice was calm but firm as he added, “Good. We wouldn't want to cause a scene on Christmas, right?”

Your aunt nodded, muttered something about needing to check on the drinks, and scurried out of the kitchen, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

Logan crossed the room in a few strides, his hand finding yours. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, grounding you. “You okay?” he asked softly. “Need a hand?” This time he looked at your mother, his gaze light and tone gentle.

Your mother stepped aside with a knowing smile. “She’s all yours.”

You smiled, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Logan’s hand tightened around yours. “C’mon,” he said, his voice low and meant only for you. “Let’s get out of here for a minute.”

The night had settled into a comfortable lull by the time Logan led you outside. The snow had stopped falling, but the cold still bit at your cheeks and turned your breath into faint clouds in the air.

“Busy night,” he said, his tone dry but not unkind.

You laughed softly, the sound muted by the quiet of the world around you. “You handled it pretty well.”

He shrugged, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. “Your family’s all right. Loud, but all right.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence stretched out, not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “You were scared about bringing me here,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble.

You let out a breath, watching it curl into the night air. “I didn’t want it to go wrong—for you, or for them. I thought maybe… maybe I was asking too much.”

Logan stepped closer, his presence like a shield against the cold. “You never ask too much from me,” he said firmly. “But you’ve got to stop carrying all this by yourself. You’re not alone in this anymore.”

His hand found yours, the roughness of his fingers a contrast to the gentleness of his touch. “You don’t need to protect me. And you sure as hell don’t need to protect them from me. That’s not how this works.”

Your throat tightened, his words cutting through the tangled mess of your insecurities. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

He tipped your chin up, his eyes locking onto yours. “You won’t.” The certainty in his voice was unshakable, and it felt like he was holding more than just your gaze—it felt like he was holding you together.

"I can't lose you, Logan," you breathed, desperation lacing your words. "And sure as hell I wasn't going to lose you because of my family." As he leaned closer, the frigidness of the world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth radiating from him. His forehead grazed yours, a gentle touch that sent a shiver of connection coursing through you.

His breath was warm, his voice a whisper that carried only for you. “Whatever happens, it’s you and me. That’s not changing.”

The words wrapped around your heart, soft and unyielding all at once. “I love you,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it.

He smiled then, a rare, fleeting thing that lit his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I love you too,” he said, the rough edges of his voice softening with the weight of the truth.

And then he kissed you, slow and deliberate, like there was nothing in the world but this moment. His hands moved to your waist, grounding you, making you feel like everything would be okay.

Later that night, the house was quieting down. The children had been sent to bed, though the muffled sound of giggles hinted they weren’t asleep just yet. Most of the adults had retreated to the kitchen for coffee and one last helping of dessert. You sat with Logan on the couch, the glow of the Christmas tree casting soft shadows across the room.

The space felt smaller now, more intimate, as if the noise and chaos from earlier had wrapped itself around the house and left behind only warmth. Logan had his arm draped along the back of the couch, and you leaned against him, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice low, “I’ve been around a long time. Seen a lot of families. Never really… been part of one.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, surprised by the confession. “Not even before—?”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “Never had anything like this. The noise, the mess, the way they’re all in each other’s business.” He chuckled softly. “It’s good. Feels like life.”

You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing with his. “They’ve accepted you, you know. You might not think it, but they have.”

He looked down at you, his brow furrowed. “How can you tell?”

You smiled. “Because they’re treating you exactly the same way they treat me—asking too many questions, teasing you, shoving food at you like it’s the answer to everything. That’s how they show love.”

Logan was quiet for a moment, his eyes glued to your intertwined fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s nice. It’s… good to feel that. To feel like I’ve got a place.”

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, your heart swelling at the vulnerability he rarely let show. “You do. With them, and with me.”

The sun was barely rising when you woke the next morning, the soft glow of dawn spilling into the room. Logan was still asleep beside you, his breathing slow and even, one arm draped possessively over your waist. For a moment, you just watched him, marveling at the way the years seemed to fall away when he was at peace.

The sound of children’s laughter broke the stillness, followed by the creak of floorboards and the distant rustle of wrapping paper. Logan stirred, his eyes blinking open as he looked at you.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered, leaning down to brush a kiss against his lips.

He smiled against your mouth, his hand moving to the small of your back to pull you closer. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

The two of you made your way downstairs, where the living room had transformed into a chaotic wonderland of presents and decorations. The children were tearing into their gifts with wild abandon, while the adults watched with coffee cups in hand and fond smiles on their faces.

“¡Mija! ¡Logan! Ven acá!” Your father waved you over, a brightly wrapped package in his hands.

You sat on the floor beside Logan as your father handed you the gift. “This is for you two,” he said, his voice warm.

Inside was a framed photo of the family taken the night before, everyone crowded together under the Christmas lights. In the corner, Logan stood beside you, his expression reserved but his hand resting on your shoulder.

“We wanted you to have something to remember this Christmas by,” your father said. “So you’ll always know that you have a place here. Both of you.”

You glanced at Logan, your throat tight with emotion. He met your gaze, his arm coming to rest on your shoulders, gently pulling you against him as he gave you the smallest of nods.

By the time the car was packed and the goodbyes were said, the sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow. Your family stood on the porch, waving as Logan started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

The road stretched out ahead of you, the silence in the car a comfortable contrast to the noise of the past two days. You leaned back in your seat, watching the snow-covered trees blur past.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you said, glancing over at Logan.

He huffed a quiet laugh, his hands steady on the wheel. “Could’ve been worse. Your tío Pablo was about two shots of tequila away from a fight, though.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He’s always like that. But he liked you, you know. They all did.”

Logan didn’t respond right away, but the faint curve of his lips told you everything you needed to know.

As the miles stretched on, you found yourself reaching for his hand, your fingers lacing together over the console. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“You’re happy,” he said after a while.

You smiled, resting your head against the seat. “I am.”

He glanced at you, his expression soft. “Good. You deserve that.”

And as the car continued down the snow-dusted road, you realized that you finally felt completely at peace.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

As the World Caves In ༉‧₊˚ 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: The end of season 5 rewritten with you and Dean, inspired by the song As the World Caves in. Content: angst, apocalypse, spoilers for s5, canon violence, mention of blood, Lucifer, mentions of murders, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) this follows the canon plot line but some things might happen and be described differently Word count: 1036 A/N: I was listening to As the World Caves in from Matt Maltese and this song reminded me so much of the last episode of season 5 that I had to make a drabble of this scene inspired by the music.

mdni 𖤐 18+

The ground beneath Stull Cemetery trembled, cracks snaking through the earth like veins. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos in staccato flashes. Dean gripped your hand as you both stood in the Impala's shadow, the roar of thunder a cruel backdrop to the battle about to unfold.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Dean muttered, his voice rough, but the words were soft, almost pleading.

You snorted, tugging your hand free only to grab the lapels of his jacket. “You really think I’d let you face this alone? C’mon, Dean. You know me better than that.”

For a second, his green eyes searched yours, vulnerable in a way they rarely were. He sighed and nodded. “Just—stay close, okay?”

The fight that followed was a blur. You and Dean moved in sync, as if every step, every strike, had been choreographed in advance. Castiel’s grace flickered like a dying light, and Bobby’s shotgun boomed over the din. But it wasn’t enough.

When Lucifer turned his attention to Dean, you saw it coming a second too late. You didn’t think—you didn’t have to. As Lucifer raised his hand, you threw yourself in its path, your body colliding with Dean’s just as the blast struck. The impact hit like a freight train, ripping you off your feet and hurling you backward.

Pain exploded in your shoulder as you collided with the jagged edge of a broken gravestone. The sharp stone tore into your flesh, sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. The world spun, and for a moment, all you could hear was the ringing in your ears and Dean’s muffled shout.

A sting flared up suddenly, stealing the breath from your lungs as you hit the ground. Dean was there instantly, cradling you in his arms. His voice cracked as he called your name, his hands trembling as they pressed against your wounds. Blood soaked through your shirt, warm and sticky, and every breath was a struggle.

“Why the hell did you do that?” he rasped, his face inches from yours.

“Because I’m not losing you,” you whispered, forcing a smile despite the pain. “I promised, remember? ‘Til the end.”

His forehead pressed against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven. “You’re gonna be fine,” he said, though his eyes betrayed the fear he was trying so hard to hide. “I just need to—dammit, I need to stop the bleeding.”

You gripped his wrist weakly, forcing him to look at you. “Dean… go. Sam needs you.”

“No. Not until—”

“Go,” you insisted, your voice firmer than you felt. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

His jaw clenched, torn between staying and going. Finally, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering. “You’d better be. Just hold on. Don’t leave me.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his stubble jaw. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester.”

But there was no time to linger. The battle called him back, and with one last look—raw and desperate—he laid you gently against the Impala and charged back into the fray.

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

Sam's knuckles were covered with Dean's blood. Each blow landed with a sickening crunch, Lucifer—Sam’s face twisted in a cruel smirk.

“Sam!” Dean called out, his voice rough with emotion, mouth full of blood. “Sammy, please! I know you’re still in there, man! Fight him! You can beat this!”

Lucifer’s anger flared. He raised his fist, and in the next moment, Sam—under Lucifer’s control—struck Dean hard across the face. The punch sent Dean flying backward, crashing into the dirt with a sickening thud.

“Sam…” Dean gasped, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to lift himself up. “Please... don’t do this.”

But it was too late. The punch wasn’t enough to keep Dean down. Sam’s voice was barely audible now, but Dean heard it, the desperation in his brother’s words.

“Dean...” Sam whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry…”

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest. “No, Sammy. You’re still in there. I know you are. You’ve got to fight him.”

Sam’s eyes flickered with recognition, and a final surge of strength exploded from him. Lucifer’s grip on Sam’s body loosened for just a moment, and Sam—weak but determined—mustered every ounce of willpower he had left. He reached for the Cage.

Dean’s voice cracked, his hands outstretched as he ran toward Sam, desperate to stop him. “Sammy, no! Don’t do this!”

But Sam’s hand shot out, and with one final act of self-sacrifice, he threw himself into the Cage, dragging Lucifer and Michael with him.

“Sam!” Dean screamed, his voice shattering as the Cage slammed shut with a resounding finality.

The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, pale and hesitant, as if afraid to touch the wreckage left behind. You were leaning against the Impala’s crumpled hood, your wounds hastily bandaged with strips of Dean’s flannel.

He returned to you like a ghost, moving slowly, his face etched with exhaustion and grief. Without a word, he collapsed beside you, his head resting against your shoulder.

“It’s over,” he said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

You nodded, your fingers tangling with his. “Yeah. For now. We will get Sam back okay?”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything that had been lost and everything that might still be salvaged. Finally, Dean broke it.

“I thought I’d lost you back there,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned to him, your lips curving into a tired smile. “Takes more than the devil himself to get rid of me.”

A huff of laughter escaped him, and for a moment, the weight lifted. He pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as if grounding himself in your presence.

“𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘐 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩,

𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯”

As the sun climbed higher, you both sat there, bruised and battered, but together. And for the first time in what felt like forever, there was hope.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

pairing: eddie alden x f!reader

summary: you ask your boyfriend eddie to braid your hair. anon reqs: congratulations to the 125 followers! 🌺could i request eddie alden with the prompt: “could you help me [curl, straighten, braid, etc.] my hair?”

word count: 977

content: fluff, humor, established relationship, flirty

note: thank you sm anon!! sorry for accidentally deleting your request from my inbox, hope you see this <3 this is part of my 125 followers celebration! Join the celebration too!

── english isn't my first language :)

mdni 𖤐 18+

You huffed in frustration, staring at your reflection in the small mirror propped up on Eddie’s dresser. You and Eddie had arranged to go out tonight, like a date, something more romantic and intimate to spend time together.

The night out was supposed to be fun—a few drinks, some dancing, and a good night together after returning to the apartment. Maybe you’d even tease him a little if he got jealous of a guy looking at you. Lately, you and Eddie hadn’t been able to enjoy a good time outside of just the two of you, so you decided to dress up more than usual and even braid your hair—something different from your typical loose, wavy style

Behind you, Eddie lay sprawled out on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, watching your struggle with a lazy smirk.

“You know, I’m pretty sure you’ve been fighting with that thing longer than it’ll actually take us to get to the bar,” he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

You shot him a glare through the mirror. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you suddenly become a hair expert?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, grinning. “I mean, how hard can it be? Twist a little, loop a little, tie it up—bam. Done.”

A beat passed before you turned, eyes narrowing, analyzing him. “Think you could do better?”

Eddie raised a brow. “Are you seriously asking me to do your hair?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned, grabbing the brush and tossing it at him. He caught it with surprising ease. “Come on, babe... Seriously, could you please help me braid my hair?" you softly asked, pouting.

Eddie let out a dramatic sigh but swung his legs off the bed, patting the space between them. “Alright, sweetheart. Sit your pretty self down."

Rolling your eyes but secretly loving how easy this all was with him, you settled between his legs on the floor. His knees brushed your sides as he gathered your hair in his hands, fingers skimming the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver. He paused. “You okay?”

You scoffed. “It’s just… your hands are cold.”

“Uh-huh,” he hummed, smug as ever. “Thought maybe I had some kinda effect on you.”

You huffed a laugh. “Eddie, just focus.”

“Bossy,” he murmured, but there was warmth in his voice. “So… what exactly am I doing?” he asked, amusement still thick in his tone.

“A simple braid,” you said, “and don’t pull too hard, or I swear to God, Eddie—”

“I know, I know,” he chuckled. "Relax, baby, I'm not gonna hurt you, I'm gentle, huh?" he teased, and you just rolled your eyes.

His fingers threaded through your hair, working with more patience than you expected. You could feel him frowning slightly in concentration, his movements gentle, if a little unpracticed. Every now and then, he’d brush too close to your ear, or tilt your head slightly to the side, muttering, "Stay still, baby," like he was the one doing you a favor.

At one point, he clicked his tongue. “I should start charging for this.”

You snorted. “Yeah? What’s the price?”

Eddie leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin. “One kiss per braid.”

You grinned. “So if I ask for two?”

“Then I’m a very well-paid man,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

A soft chuckle left your lips, and for a moment, you let yourself just be in this—his hands in your hair, the quiet hum of a song playing from the radio, the warmth of his presence behind you.

“You smell nice,” he murmured absentmindedly.

You let out an amused huff, but a smile crept onto your lips. “You’re just saying that to distract me from whatever disaster you’re creating back there.”

“Mm, maybe,” he admitted, his tone teasing. He remained silent for a few seconds before he sat back with a satisfied noise. “Done.”

You reached back, fingers brushing over a surprisingly neat braid. Turning in his lap, you gave him an impressed look. “Okay, where the hell did you learn that?”

Eddie shrugged, smirking. “You pick up a thing or two when you’ve spent years charming women.”

You raised your eyebrows playfully. "Is that so, Alden? Hum, I was gonna kiss you for your services, but I don’t know now…” You stated, turning back toward the mirror.

Eddie wrapped his strong arms around your waist from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder. “Oh, c’mon, don’t get jealous.”

He let out an exaggerated gasp. “Don't be like that, baby. No tip? After all my hard work?”

You playfully jabbed him in the side, a teasing smile stretched across your face. “I don’t know if you deserve it...”

He just chuckled softly, pressing a gentle kiss against your shoulder. “Aw, baby, not even one?” he pleaded, his breath warm against your skin.

You pretended to think about it before turning to face him fully. “Fine. One.”

His grin was immediate. “I’ll take it.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was meant to be quick, but Eddie had other ideas—his fingers slid to your jaw, keeping you there just a second longer, deepening it just enough to leave you a little breathless.

When you pulled back, his smirk was nothing short of triumphant. “Guess that means I’m on permanent hair duty now, huh?”

You laughed, flicking his forehead. “Don’t push it, Alden.”

He grinned, reaching for his jacket. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me spoil you.”

As you stood, adjusting your outfit, you caught him glancing at your braid with something almost proud in his expression. And, okay—maybe you would let him do it again sometime.

Maybe.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

HABZHSBAH HIII LINAAA (it's me again 😭) gosh i don't want to appear as a desperate but it seems that you're the only who opens your request for leopold 😔😭

just a small request :3 from a prompt that i encountered "... sorry, i talked too much" "no no no not at all, keep talking. i love listening to you."

well, we all know what a gentleman leopold is HABSUSBSH (I NEED HIM SO BAD MY BABY), i don't have any plot in mind so maybe you could create yours based on the prompt?? thank you!! (i love your writings)

Every Word You Say

Pairing: Leopold Mountbatten x Reader Content: strangers to friends to lovers (kind of), yapping, fluff, reader is a bookworm, Leopold is head over heels, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 2.6k (maybe I got a little excited) a/n: HIII ZAYN BESTIE!! I'm so happy you're sending me requests yayy, thanks to you I could write to Leopold my baby again (pls keep going)! okay I have to admit that I loved this prompt and maybe I got a little carried away about the plot... Maybe I've strayed a little from what you wanted (I hope not), but I really hope you like it cause I really enjoyed writing it <3

It was a good afternoon. The store was quiet, as usual, with only a few customers coming and going and not much activity. Afternoons like that were nice—there wasn't much work to do, but sales were enough to keep the place from feeling forgotten. This allowed some time to relax behind the counter and arrange books on the shelves.

The faint jingling of the brass bell above the door broke the comforting silence of the shop. The sound made her look up from the stack of books on the counter, brushing a stray hair from her face as she spotted the man who had just entered.

He was tall and impeccably dressed, with an air of calm that seemed at odds with the frenetic city outside. His coat was neatly buttoned, his shoes polished, and he carried himself with a poise that made her pause. New Yorkers weren’t usually this... composed. It was weird. But most importantly, he was so beautiful.

“Hi, good afternoon,” she greeted, flashing him a polite smile. “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

The man hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes scanning the shelves. “Thank you,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, the kind of voice that made even the most mundane words sound elegant.

She went back to organizing her stack of books, sneaking a glance now and then as he browsed. He moved slowly, as though savoring the sight of each title, his fingers brushing over the spines like they were relics. Finally, he stopped at the classics section and pulled out a leather-bound book.

He turned to her, holding the book aloft. “This edition of The Odyssey... it’s rather splendid. Do you recommend it?”

She blinked, surprised at his formality. “Oh, definitely. It’s one of my favorites. That edition has some great commentary in the back, too. Though, fair warning, if you get me started on books, I might not shut up.” She confessed, her tone amusing but gentle.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I assure you, I regret nothing. Please, continue.”

She smiled genuinely at him, feeling a small flutter of surprise at his response. Most people gave a polite nod or chuckle when she rambled, but this man seemed really interested. Encouraged, she leaned against the counter, her hands gesturing animatedly as she began talking.

“You can’t go wrong with The Odyssey,” she said. “I mean, it’s a classic for a reason, right? Epic journeys, gods meddling in human affairs, monsters… And don’t get me started on Odysseus himself. Brilliant, but also kind of an idiot, if you ask me.” She laughed, then quickly added, “Oh, but you know... I mean that in the best way, of course.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Hm, Is that so? Fascinating perspective. You find fault with his decisions?”

“Oh, plenty,” she replied, warming to the topic. “Some of his problems are his own fault—like the whole Cyclops thing? That could’ve been avoided if he’d just kept his mouth shut. But that’s what makes him interesting. He’s flawed. Human. It makes the story feel timeless, even though it’s thousands of years old.”

As the words tumbled out of her, she noticed his expression soften. His gaze didn’t waver, his posture relaxed yet attentive, as though he were cataloging every word she said.

So she just kept talking, completely oblivious to him or how he was mesmerized watching her, the excitement and ease with which she lost herself in the topic. After a moment like that, it was like something hit her, realizing how much she’d been talking, she stopped abruptly, her cheeks heating. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go on like that. You came for the books and probably weren’t expecting an impromptu lecture on Greek mythology.”

He tilted his head slightly, his smile deepening. “Not at all. Your enthusiasm is... refreshing. Please, go on.”

Her lips twitched in a smile of her own. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Most people try to shut me up, but not you. You’re encouraging me.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would wish you to stop,” he replied earnestly.

The sincerity in his tone caught her off guard, leaving her momentarily speechless. She licked her lips, momentarily speechless and lost in him. After that, she just knew she would want to keep him in her life for as long as possible.

After that, it didn’t take long for him to return.

As she rearranged a display near the window the next afternoon, the bell above the door jingled again. She glanced up, half-expecting the usual flow of customers, only to see the same man from the day before.

He greeted her with the same polite nod and reserved smile, his gaze sweeping over the shop like he was committing every detail to memory.

“Back so soon?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.

He stopped near the counter, his posture impeccably straight. “I enjoyed our conversation yesterday. And I have a fondness for bookshops.”

“Well, then you’ve come to the right place,” she said, gesturing to the shelves around them. “Find anything interesting today?”

He paused, his gaze flicking to the classics section before returning to her. “Not yet, but I have no doubt you will recommend something.”

“Challenge accepted,” she said, already scanning the shelves in her mind for the perfect book. "Oh, sorry. What's your name again?"

As the days passed, Leopold's visits became routine. He would step into the shop with that same calm air, and they would talk—about books, history, the city, and whatever topic struck her fancy. He never seemed to mind when she rambled, always listening with the kind of focus that made her feel like the most fascinating person in the room. Something she wasn't even a little bit used to, by the way.

Their interaction was so easy and natural. When she talked to him, was always exciting and gave her a feeling of comfort. So it wasn't exactly a surprise when she quickly grew accustomed to his presence. It was strange how easily he fit into the rhythm of her days, even though she knew so little about him.

Each time he came in, she found herself lighting up in ways she hadn’t expected. She would recommend books, tease him about his formal speech, and talk about whatever was on her mind, and he never failed to listen with unwavering attention. She never, not once, felt uncomfortable or unseen in his presence. He was like a prince in a fairy tale.

One rainy afternoon, as she stacked a new shipment of books behind the counter, the man who wouldn't leave her thoughts walked in with droplets clinging to his coat and hair. She glanced up, smiling automatically.

“Caught in the rain, huh?” she asked, setting down the stack.

“Indeed,” he said, brushing water from his sleeves. “Though I find it a small price to pay for the solace this shop provides.” He complimented, in his usual formal way.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You always know how to make the place sound fancier than it is. It’s just a bookshop, you know.”

He tilted his head, a faint smile gracing his lips. “To you, perhaps. To me, it is quite extraordinary.”

The quiet sincerity in his voice made her breath catch for a moment. She quickly looked away, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.

“Well,” she said, her tone lighter, “if you’re going to keep flattering the place, I should at least give you a tour of the neighborhood. There are some other spots I think you’d like—if you’re interested.”

His eyebrows rose slightly, as though the suggestion surprised him. “I would be delighted,” he said, feeling his heart race.

This finally happened two days later.

The city bustled around them, cars honking and voices blending into a constant hum, but she took him down quieter streets, pointing out her favorite spots.

“This café has the best pastries,” she said, gesturing to a small storefront with a faded awning. “And the park a few blocks down is great if you need to get away from all this.”

He listened attentively, nodding at her words but occasionally glancing around with a furrowed brow, as though trying to make sense of his surroundings.

When they reached a crosswalk she stepped forward without thinking, only to realize he hadn’t moved. She turned back to see him standing on the curb, watching the cars zip by with a look of mild apprehension.

“Hey, you coming?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Is it always this... chaotic?” he asked, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated.

“Pretty much. You just have to commit to it.” She grabbed his arm lightly, tugging him forward as the light changed. “Come on—don’t think, just go.”

He followed reluctantly, muttering under his breath, “This city has no regard for decorum—or the sanctity of life.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, I swear you'll get used to it. Well, eventually.”

As they walked through the park, the noise of the streets faded behind them, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of joggers. She led him to a bench near a small fountain, sitting down and patting the spot next to her.

“See? Not so bad, right?” she said, leaning back with a contented sigh.

He settled beside her, his posture as upright as ever. “It is... quieter than I expected,” he admitted. “Rather pleasant, in fact.”

“I knew you’d like it,” she said, smiling. “You know, You're not as hard to please as you seem.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, his lips twitching in a faint smile. “Oh, I imagine this is good?”

She laughed softly, and for a moment they sat in comfortable silence, watching the fountain's water ripple in the breeze. They enjoyed being at peace, simply appreciating each other's company.

That evening, he returned to the bookshop. The streets were quieter now, the glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across the floor as she tidied up before closing.

He lingered by the counter as she talked, her words spilling out in an excited stream as she recounted a childhood memory sparked by a book she’d come across earlier that day.

“So when I was ten, I had this phase where I was obsessed with The Secret Garden,” she said, gesturing as she spoke. “I even convinced my dad to help me plant this tiny garden in our backyard. Except, I was an awful gardener—I kept forgetting to water it, and half the flowers were just weeds I thought looked cool.”

She laughed, shaking her head at the memory. “But I’d still sit out there for hours, waiting for my own magical door to appear. My dad always called it my ‘weed palace.’”

Leopold chuckled softly, his smile warm. “A ‘weed palace,’ you say? Peculiar, but at the same time charming.”

“Well, maybe to you,” she replied, grinning. “To everyone else, it was probably an eyesore.”

She paused, glancing at the clock and suddenly realizing how long she’d been talking. Her cheeks flushed as she glanced at him.

“Oh God... I’m sorry, I talked too much. I really need to learn when to stop.”

Leopold, who has been utterly captivated, loses the humor in his eyes, his expression shifting to something quieter, warmer as he tries to reassure her.

“No, no, not at all. Keep talking. I love listening to you.” he said softly.

Her breath caught at the earnestness in his voice, the way his gaze held hers as though he truly meant every word. For a few seconds, she could only stare, her usual quick wit failing her.

“Thanks,” she murmured finally, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

The warmth in his eyes didn’t waver, and in that quiet moment, the bustling world outside seemed to fade away entirely.

A comfortable silence settled in for a few minutes. Leaving them there, just staring at each other, observing each other. For a moment, she didn't know what else to say. People didn’t usually look at her the way he was now—like every word she said was worth hearing. It was flattering, a little unnerving, but mostly... nice. She blinked a few times, adjusting her posture while lightly playing with her hair, hoping to dispel the warmth creeping into her cheeks.

The quiet between them was the kind of silence that felt full, warm, and fascinating. She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, glancing at him as he remained by the counter, looking as though he had something more to say.

Finally, she cleared her throat and spoke, her voice soft. “You know, you’re a pretty good listener. Most people get bored with my stories halfway through.”

He shook his head slightly, his lips curving into that faint, knowing smile she was beginning to adore. “I find your stories enchanting. They are... a window into a world I often feel I’m only just discovering.”

Her brow furrowed at the odd phrasing, but before she could question it, he stepped a little closer, his hands gently resting on the counter. His gaze softened, the usual formality in his expression giving way to something more vulnerable.

“It’s rare,” he continued, his voice low, “to find someone who speaks with such passion. Most people... say so little of consequence. But you—your words, your thoughts—they breathe life into even the most mundane things.”

Her heart gave a tiny flutter, and she felt warmth creep up her neck again. “That’s... really sweet of you to say,” she murmured, looking down at her hands.

For a brief moment, uncertainty flickered across his face. He took a deep breath, then, with a soft, deliberate motion, tilted his head to meet her eyes. The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable as he declared, “I speak only the truth.”

The sincerity in his voice sent a spark of something unnameable through her chest, and she met his gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Well,” she said lightly, trying to steady her voice, “if you keep flattering me like that, I might start to think you enjoy my company.”

His smile deepened, feeling more real, with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I should hope that has been apparent for some time.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re kind of a mystery, you know that? But... I think I like that about you.”

“And you,” he said, his tone softening again, “are an open book. A rare and beautiful one.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away from him. The faint glow of the shop’s dim lighting reflected in his eyes, and the quiet hum of the world outside seemed to fade entirely. She momentarily dropped her gaze to his lips before his voice brought her back.

“Would you,” he began, his voice careful, almost hesitant, “permit me the honor of accompanying you on another of your walks? Perhaps tomorrow?”

She bit her lip, her heart racing in a way that felt new and thrilling, together with the urge to jump into his arms. “I think I’d like that,” she replied, her voice just above a whisper.

He straightened slightly, a look of quiet satisfaction crossing his face. “Then it’s settled.”

As the bell above the door jingled softly, signaling his departure, she stood there for a moment, watching him disappear into the night. She closed her eyes as a painful smile appeared on her face, she quickly did a happy dance before lightly resting her hands on the counter.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

ଓ Soundtrack of Us

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: basically a drabble about you and dean having different tastes in rock but still enjoying it together.

Word count: 778

a/n: I've been a bit inactive and busy because of work and life in general, so I haven't been able to write as much 😭 but I had this self-indulgent idea and I decided to write it :3 (and just a note: I know dean and his "restricted" taste for hair metal is more exclusive to the early seasons and you see his musical taste expand over time, but I wrote this with s1 dean in mind so... sorry if this is kind of out of character)

Dean’s hand rested easy on the steering wheel, his other arm stretched over the back of the seat. His fingers brushed your shoulder now and then, not like he was trying, but like he couldn’t help it. The Impala purred beneath you like a contented lion, the rumble vibrating through the soles of your boots.

Outside, the road stretched long and dark, a canvas painted in streaks of asphalt and moonlight. Inside, the car was alive with the unmistakable riff of AC/DC’s Back in Black.

“You seriously don’t get tired of this song?” you teased, shooting him a side glance.

Dean smirked, his green eyes glinting in the dim light of the dash. “Tired? Sweetheart, this is a classic. It’s practically a religious experience.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s good, I’ll give you that. But, you know, there’s more to rock than screaming guitars and pounding drums.”

“Oh, here we go,” Dean groaned playfully, leaning back in his seat. “Let me guess, you’re about to hit me with Livin’ on a Prayer again.”

You laughed, the sound bright and warm in the intimate space of the car. You rummaged through your bag, fishing out your MP3 player. “Don’t knock it! Bon Jovi knew how to tell a story. And don’t even get me started on Queen. Freddie Mercury was a genius.”

Dean grunted, mock-offended. “Yeah, yeah. Freddie was great. I can't exactly disagree... but where’s the grit? The soul? The blood, sweat, and beers?” He gestured to the stereo. “Metallica, Black Sabbath—they’re the heartbeat of rock.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” you said, scrolling through your playlist. “I like some grit. But music doesn’t always have to be about rebellion and rage. Sometimes, it’s about finding beauty in the chaos.”

Dean shot you a look, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Beauty in chaos, huh? That’s pretty deep for a Bon Jovi fan.”

You lightly punched his arm, and he chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Watch it, Winchester,” you warned, but there was no heat in your words.

As the AC/DC track came to an end, you grabbed his box of tapes under the dash rifling through them until you found some of your additions.

The familiar opening chords of Somebody to Love filled the Impala, and you turned the volume up. Dean groaned dramatically.

“Oh, come on,” he protested. “Not this one!”

“Yes, this one!” you countered, swaying in your seat to the rhythm. “Admit it, you love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too,” you shot back, grinning as you sang along with Freddie’s soaring vocals, tapping his knee in time with the beat. “Just give it a chance.”

Dean’s lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smile. He failed miserably. “Fine,” he relented, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in an almost reluctant rhythm. “It’s not the worst.”

You gasped in mock horror. “Not the worst? Dean Winchester, you’re practically a fan.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he said, but the affection in his tone was unmistakable.

The song swelled, filling the car with its operatic grandeur, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t just music anymore; it was a bridge between your two worlds, a shared heartbeat in the quiet night.

As the final notes faded, Dean reached over and took your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” he murmured, his voice soft.

You grinned, leaning into him. “And yet, you keep me around.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. “Damn right, I do.”

For the rest of the drive, the two of you traded songs—Metallica melting into The Smiths, Bon Jovi tangling with Led Zeppelin. By the time you pulled into the motel parking lot, the playlist had turned into something uniquely yours, a messy, beautiful mashup of everything you both loved.

Dean turned off the engine, and for a moment, the world went quiet. He leaned back in his seat and looked over at you, his face softer than you’d seen it all day.

“Guess it doesn’t matter what we listen to,” he said quietly. “As long as it’s with you.”

You felt something catch in your chest, something warm and good. Leaning across the seat, you kissed him, your hand brushing against the back of his neck. “Same here, Dean. Same here.”

He smiled against your lips, the kind of smile that didn’t need words.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

ଓ CABIN NIGHTS

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: to celebrate your first birthday with dean as a couple, you plan an romantic and quiet cabin getaway.

word count: 1.4k

notes: I'm actually pretty nervous about this because I don't know if I liked it... but since it's the love of my life birthday I had to post it anyway.

── english isn't my first language :)

You had known Dean for nearly six years, a connection that had blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances. It all started when you met the Winchesters through Bobby during a hell of a hunt, where you were almost killed. Ever since, they have always been a part of your life, just as you have been a part of theirs.

You’ve been through a lot together, but your bond with Dean was particularly special; it was electrifying, charged with a chemistry that seemed almost tangible. While Dean had a well-earned reputation for charming women with his easy smile and quick wit, the interactions you shared always felt distinctly different. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a sense of completing each other; you were alike in so many ways, you were like the same person in different fonts, intertwining in ways that felt both natural and exhilarating. Over the years, through hunts, heartbreaks, and near-death experiences, the bond between you only grew stronger.

After countless ups and downs—shared glances filled with unexpressed feelings, and being there for each other in the most unimaginable moments— everything shifted. Nearly a year ago, you both decided to take a leap of faith, surrendering to that undeniable connection and be together for real. It was the best decision of your life, actually.

Now, one of the most anticipated moments for you was finally here—Dean's birthday. After knowing him for six years, this would be the first birthday you would celebrate as a couple, and it felt like a significant milestone.

Well, to be fair, Dean never exactly celebrated birthdays.

In the past, birthdays had been overlooked amid the chaos of hunts, danger, and the never-ending weight of saving the world. It was rare for there to be a moment of peace, let alone a celebration. However, this year was different, this time things were surprisingly calm for once, and you were determined to make his day special.

So, you meticulously planned every detail, wanting to create a day that Dean would cherish. He never had the kind of birthday he truly deserved, and you were determined to make it unforgettable, ensuring that he would feel appreciated and celebrated. He deserved that much—and so much more.

That's why, after talking with Sam and asking him to take care of a recent hunt, you decided to plan a special trip to a beautiful, secluded cabin nestled deep in the woods, just for the two of you.

"Ramble On" played softly on the radio. Since it was his day, it was only fair that he got to choose all the songs for the trip. This also kept him from constantly asking where you were going. To be honest, it wasn't entirely effective, but it was enough to spare you from a nagging headache during the drive.

You stole a glance at Dean from the passenger seat of the Impala, your eyes tracing the outline of his profile as the golden rays of the setting sun illuminated his features. The sunlight painted him in warm hues, casting soft, flickering shadows over his rugged face. His hand rested casually on the steering wheel, fingers drumming lightly to the rhythm of the song, a habit of his that hinted at his playful nature. The low, steady hum of the engine blended with the calming music, creating an atmosphere of tranquility as the world outside rushed by, a blur of fleeting colors and shapes in the twilight.

After several minutes wrapped in the warmth of comfortable silence, Dean finally broke the spell with a teasing glint in his eye. He turned to you, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Alright,” he began, his voice laced with amusement as he cast a sidelong glance in your direction, “sweetheart, are you ever going to tell me where we’re going, or should I just keep driving until we reach the edge of the Earth?”

You let out a soft chuckle, enjoying his curiosity. “I told you, Winchester,” you replied, a hint of excitement bubbling in your voice. “It’s a birthday surprise! That’s why I insisted on driving—so you wouldn’t keep bugging me about it.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically at you, feigning annoyance but unable to hide the small smile playing on his lips.

A grin tugged at your lips. “Come on, hot stuff. Don’t you trust me?” you teased, your tone light and inviting.

"You’re lucky I think you’re sexy when you’re all mysterious like that,” he shot back, the smirk growing wider as he glanced at you, clearly charmed by your enigmatic nature.

You felt a flutter in your chest as you bit your lip, a soft giggle escaping your lips at the energy between you that crackled with lighthearted flirtation.

The drive stretched on, the trees growing taller and denser until the road opened to a secluded clearing. Nestled among the towering pines was a small cabin, warm light spilling from the windows and smoke curling lazily from the chimney. String lights framed the porch, giving the place an almost magical glow.

Dean parked the Impala and stepped out, his eyes scanning the scene. He let out a low whistle. “You did all this?”

You leaned against the car, trying to look casual despite your excitement. “Well, it's not as much as I think you deserve, but I figured you'd like it. It’s your birthday, Dean. You deserve it and more.”

He stood there for a moment, as if trying to take it all in, then turned to you with a look you couldn’t quite place—soft, maybe even vulnerable. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

You pushed off the car and closed the distance between you, resting a hand on his chest. “I wanted to. You should have a good day, especially on your birthday, Dean. For once, let me do this for you.”

Inside, the cabin was cozy and inviting, the kind of place that felt like it belonged in a dream. After you settled in and looked around, you lit the fire. The flames crackled in the stone fireplace, casting a warm golden light over the room. The table was set for two, with plates, a bottle of whiskey, and a pie you’d spent way too long perfecting.

"There's also a cake waiting in the fridge, but I know you prefer pie, so I made both just for tradition," you couldn't help but smile, knowing how much he would appreciate the effort you put in.

As he looked at you, his eyes sparkled with a mixture of surprise and genuine affection, as if he couldn't quite believe he was sharing this moment with you. A smile spread across his face, illuminating the room with its warmth.

"Sweetheart, you’re so fucking amazing," he said softly, almost reverently, as he pulled you into his arms, enveloping you in a hug that felt safe and full of love.

Dinner passed in a blur of laughter, playful banter, stolen kisses, and quiet moments where your eyes lingered on each other just a little too long. By the time you were curled up together on the couch, the pie tin empty, the cake half eaten and the whiskey bottle halfway gone, the mood had shifted into something softer, more intimate.

Dean had his arm around you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your shoulder. You leaned into his warmth, savoring the moment.

“What did you wish for?” you practically whispered, looking up at him.

He hesitated, his green eyes searching yours before he spoke. “You. To never let you go.”

Your breath caught, and your chest tightened with emotion. “Dean…”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice low and raw. “You’re… You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this before—someone like you.”

You tilted your head up and kissed him, slow and tender, pouring every ounce of love you felt into that moment.

When you pulled back, you smiled. “You know, maybe you're the best thing that ever happened to me too... So, good thing you’ve got me, then. Forever, if you want.”

“Forever sounds just about right,” he murmured, pulling you closer.

As the fire crackled and the stars twinkled outside the cabin window, you knew this was a birthday neither of you would ever forget. And you were so happy about it.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

taglist: @lyarr24 @chevroletdean @foolinthera1n @nochedie

a/n: heyy idk exactly how taglists works, im trying to make one, but I'm not sure so i just tagged some of my moots I hope would like loll. but please let me know if you want to be removed or not! (I might make a taglist on forms)

[wchswift]

Under the Lights ༉‧₊˚ 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: A sweet and peaceful Christmas with Dean. Content: fluff, mostly soft moments, family, first Christmas at the bunker, I hate Mary but she is mentioned briefly, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 2k A/N: almost christmas and im so excited!! I really love christmas and lately these are the only ideas I can think of to write lol. i just love soft and happy dean so I thought I'd write a cute one shot about him having a good christmas bc all i wanted was to spend these holidays with him

mdni 𖤐 18+

Dean leaned against the doorway, the faintest curve of a smile playing on his lips. The sight of you, utterly absorbed in decorating the tree, tugged at something deep in his chest. The soft glow of the twinkling lights painted your face in golds and silvers. You were on your toes, reaching for a high branch, determined to hang an ornament in its perfect place. From his vantage point, Dean couldn’t help but grin. The way your nose crinkled when something didn’t sit just right, the soft hum of Christmas music as you worked—it all made the bunker feel a little less like a fortress and a little more like home.

The table behind you bore the chaos of your efforts—ornaments arranged and rearranged, tinsel spilling onto the floor like silken threads of moonlight. It was chaos, yes, but it was yours, and Dean found it impossible to look away.

“Sweetheart,” he finally said, his voice warm and teasing, breaking through the soft hum of Let It Snow playing in the background. “Not to rush a masterpiece, but you’ve been at this tree longer than it takes Santa to finish his route.”

You turned, giving him a mock glare, your lips pressed into a pout that was as endearing as it was teasing. “It has to be perfect, Dean.”

“It already is,” he countered, stepping closer, his hands casually stuffed into his pockets. “Lights, ornaments, a star on top—what more does a tree need?”

“Your enthusiasm,” you shot back, turning back to adjust the ribbon for what must have been the hundredth time.

Dean chuckled, moving to your side, sliding an arm around your waist, and pulling you against him. “My enthusiasm’s here,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "I'm just more contained about it."

You let out a soft sigh, letting yourself lean deeper into his warm embrace as you closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the comfort he provided. "I know, Dean," you began, your voice gentle but filled with understanding. "But I also know how excited you get about these celebrations. Deep down, you wish for that typical family cliche, and you and Sam truly deserve it. I just want us to have a memorable time together… Could you please enjoy this too and get into the mood with me?"

You turned your face to meet his gaze, your eyes sparkling with hope and sincerity. Your tone was calm, and the warmth of your words seemed to hang in the air between you. Dean, ever the skeptic, tried to roll his eyes in playful defiance, but a smile broke through despite his efforts. The corners of his mouth lifted, and he leaned in, planting a quick, soft kiss on your lips before surrendering to your encouragement, as he usually did.

The sound of boots against metal echoed through the bunker as Sam descended the stairs. His voice rang out before he even reached the bottom. “Dean, what’s going on in here?”

Sam paused, his eyebrows shooting up as he took in the sight of his brother atop the map table, duct-taping garland to the ceiling beams.

"Decking the halls, Sammy. What’s it look like?” He replied, still focused on the lights.

“It looks like a fire hazard,” Sam deadpanned, crossing his arms as he took in the mess of lights, ornaments, and tinsel scattered across the room.

You emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cookies, just as Dean hopped down from the table. “Sam, you should’ve seen him earlier. He tried to hang stockings with fishing wire.”

Dean shrugged, unapologetic. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "So, this is your new thing now? Christmas?” He muttered though a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Oh, come on, Sam,” you chimed in, setting the cookies down on the table. “It's the best time of the year. Even hunters deserve a little holiday spirit.”

Dean grabbed a cookie, pointing it at Sam. “She’s right. Stop being a Grinch.”

Reluctantly, Sam joined in, helping you and Dean finish decorating the bunker. By the time you were done, the usually cold, utilitarian space looked warm and inviting. Lights draped across the walls, the centerpiece Sam had crafted out of pine branches and candles sat proudly on the map table, and the tree sparkled in the corner.

Dean stepped back, hands on his hips, surveying the scene. “Not bad for a bunch of hunters, huh?”

Later that evening, the bunker had settled into a cozy stillness. Sam had retreated to his room, leaving you and Dean sitting by the softly glowing tree. The faint crackle of a vinyl record Dean had unearthed earlier filled the air, Bing Crosby crooning about dreaming of a white Christmas.

You leaned back against the armchair, watching Dean as he entertained himself by drinking his hot chocolate. The moment felt right, so you reached beside you and pulled out a carefully wrapped box tied with red string.

“Okay,” you said, your voice tinged with both excitement and hesitation, “before you make a big deal out of this, I just want to say that it’s practical.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose as he took the box, his lips twitching into a grin. “Practical, huh? Not sure what that means coming from you.”

“Just open it,” you urged, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.

Dean unwrapped the box with care, his grin softening as he revealed a thick leather-bound journal. His fingers brushed over the cover, and for a moment, he was quiet, his thumb tracing the edges of the pages.

“It’s, uh…” you started, your voice softer now. “I noticed you don’t really have a place to write things down—your thoughts, memories, whatever. So I thought… maybe you could use it. For good stuff. Things you want to remember. Not like hunting stuff or anything like your dad's but something good? Or whatever you want I don't know...” you rambled, feeling anxious.

Dean opened the journal, flipping through the blank pages. Inside the front cover, you’d written a small inscription in your neat handwriting: For all the moments you want to hold on to.

He stared at the words for a long beat before letting out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You know me too well, sweetheart.”

“I just thought,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “after everything we’ve been through, it might be nice to have something that’s yours. Something that’s just… good.”

Dean closed the journal and set it carefully on the table beside him. Then he turned to you, his green eyes impossibly soft. “You always know what I need before I even know it myself.”

Before you could respond, he reached behind him and pulled something from his jacket pocket. “Okay, my turn.”

He held out a small box, its edges worn, like it had been carried around for some time. “It’s not new,” he said, almost apologetically. “But I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”

You opened the box slowly, revealing a simple yet beautiful silver bracelet. The charms hanging were clearly chosen by a hunter, it was small and subtle, but unmistakable.

“It was my mom’s,” Dean said quietly, his gaze dropping to the bracelet. “She always said it was for protection. I’ve kept it all these years, but… I think she’d want you to have it.”

Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your eyes as you looked at him. “Dean, I… I can’t take this. It’s too important.”

Dean shook his head, reaching out to take your hand. “You’re important,” he said simply. “And if anyone deserves to have it, it’s you.”

You stared at the bracelet, overwhelmed by the gesture. Then, without a word, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder. He held you tightly, his hand cradling the back of your head.

When you finally pulled away, you slipped the bracelet onto your wrist, smiling through the tears in your eyes. “Thank you, Dean. I’ll take good care of it.”

“I know you will,” he said softly, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft hum of the record player. And as you leaned back against him, the bracelet resting cool against your skin, you felt a sense of belonging that you hadn’t known you were missing.

The warm connection from the gift exchange flowed naturally into the next day, making every interaction lighter, and more meaningful.

The kitchen was a flurry of activity as the three of you prepared dinner. Dean insisted on taking charge of the main course, proudly presenting a vegetarian lasagna for Sam and you.

“See? I’m not just a pie guy,” he said, grinning.

Meanwhile, you and Sam teamed up to bake cookies. It started out innocent enough, but it quickly devolved into a flour fight when Sam accidentally knocked over the mixing bowl.

Dean walked in just as you lobbed a handful of flour at Sam, only to hit him square in the chest instead. He froze, staring down at his now-flour-covered shirt. “What the hell, guys?”

Dean just watched you and Sam burst into laughter, trying to stay mad.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, brushing flour off his jacket. “Real funny. Guess who’s cleaning this up?”

“Not me,” you and Sam said in unison, making you chuckle again.

Dean shook his head, a grin appearing on his face despite his attempt to remain irritated.

Later that night, the three of you gathered in the living room, your plates cleared and the remnants of the day’s chaos tucked away. Sam stretched out on the other armchair with a book, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he occasionally glanced at you and Dean by the tree, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders.

The bracelet he’d given you caught the soft glow of the lights, its charm resting lightly against your wrist. You found yourself absently touching it, grounding yourself in the weight of what it meant.

Sam finally closed his book, setting it aside as he stretched his long legs. “You know,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “You two actually did a pretty good job. I think this might be the first time the bunkers actually felt… normal. Like a real home.”

Dean snorted softly. “Took long enough, huh?”

Sam smiled, his expression soft. “Yeah. But I’m glad we got here.”

Dean raised his mug in a mock toast. “To surviving another year and not burning the place down with Christmas lights.”

Sam rolled his eyes but lifted his mug too. “Yeah, yeah... To family.”

You lifted your own mug, smiling as you echoed the sentiment. “To family.”

The three of you sat quietly for a while, watching the lights twinkle on the tree. Eventually, Sam excused himself, muttering something about research, leaving you and Dean alone again.

Dean nudged you gently, drawing your attention. “Come with me for a sec,” he said, his voice low but insistent.

Curious, you followed him as he grabbed a thick blanket from the couch and led you up the large stairs of the bunker. He stopped at one of the heavy iron doors, twisting the wheel to unlock it before pulling it open to reveal the wide, open expanse of the night sky.

The cold air hit you first, crisp and biting, but the sight of the stars made you forget it almost instantly. Dean draped the blanket over your shoulders and pulled you close, his warmth a welcome contrast to the chill.

“Figured we could use some fresh air,” he said simply, his voice quiet.

You leaned into him, your head resting against his shoulder as you gazed up at the stars. They glittered against the inky blackness, impossibly bright and infinite, like tiny promises of hope scattered across the sky.

“We really did it huh?” Dean murmured, his voice low and warm.

“Did what?” you asked, tilting your head to look up at him.

“This,” he said simply, gesturing back to the bunker. “Christmas. The whole thing. It’s not half bad.”

“It’s perfect,” you said softly, resting your head back against his shoulder.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world felt distant here, the weight of hunting, loss, and responsibility held at bay by the vastness of the universe.

Dean’s voice broke the silence, soft but sure. “You know, I never thought I’d get something like this.”

You turned to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Something like what?”

He gestured toward the stars, the blanket, the faint glow of the bunker behind you. “All this. A night where everything’s quiet. Where it feels like we’re not just surviving.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “You deserve this, Dean. You deserve nights like this and so much more.”

He looked at you then, his green eyes shimmering in the soft glow of the starlight above. A gentle smile played on his lips as he spoke, “So do you,” his voice barely above a whisper. His thumb grazed over your knuckles, sending a warm thrill through you. "Thank you." With a tender sincerity, he leaned in and pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was soft and lingering, filled with a depth of love and unspoken emotions that seemed to wrap around you like a cozy blanket, leaving you breathless in the stillness of the night.

The two of you stayed there, wrapped in the quiet and each other, until the cold became too much to ignore.

As you made your way back inside, Dean caught your hand, stopping you just before you reached the main hallway.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough around the edges. “Merry Christmas.”

You smiled, leaning up to give him a peck on the lips, your heart full. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

And in that moment, with the warmth of his hand in yours and the quiet hum of life around you, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time: hope. This was home—messy, chaotic, and imperfect. And it was everything you needed.

a/n: oh my god, I had so much fun writing this :) I don't know if I liked how it turned out that much, but I thought it was cute enough to post...

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

hiii, it's me again 😭 oh God i'm sorry, i feel a bit pathetic here 😭 but i have another request :3

can you do modern day leopold (HE'S SO BAE I LOVE HIM SM) picking out flowers for his s/o cause he noticed his s/o is a bit down lately? (i took this idea from your prompt!) hope you don't minddd hehe

Petals for a Heavy Heart

Pairing: Leopold Mountbatten x Reader Summary: When Leopold notices that you haven't been looking well lately, he decides to pick out a bouquet of flowers to make you feel better and loved. Content: established relationship, feeling down, comfort, fluff, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 932 notes: hello!! whatt no need to apologize I'm glad you sent me another request! And omg I'm so so happy it's for Leopold, I've been wanting to write something for him so much :3 I loved that you choosed the idea of the prompts, I ended up following your request more than the prompt itself, I hope I wrote it as you expected <3

The delicate chime of the flower shop bell rang as Leopold Mountbatten pushed open the glass door. A faint blush of winter lingered in the air outside, but the shop was warm, bathed in sunlight streaming through the large windows, illuminating rows upon rows of vibrant blooms. The soft fragrance of roses, daisies, and lavender mingled together, wrapping around Leopold like a comforting embrace.

His brows furrowed slightly as he scanned the room. He hadn’t stepped into a flower shop since his days of royal ceremonies—occasions when arrangements were chosen for him, not by him. But this time was different. This time, it was for you.

You’d been quieter than usual the past few days. The sparkle in your eyes had dimmed, and your usual wit had softened into something wistful. Leopold had noticed—how could he not? And while he wasn’t the type to smother with concern, he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

Flowers, he thought. Flowers could bring a little light back into your day.

“Good morning,” a cheery voice broke through his thoughts. A petite florist with a warm smile stood behind the counter, hands dusted with pollen. “Looking for something special?”

Leopold adjusted the collar of his cashmere coat. “Yes, actually. For… someone important to me.” He paused, feeling oddly self-conscious. “They’ve been feeling a bit down lately.”

The florist’s smile softened knowingly. “Ah, I see. Let’s find something that speaks to them. Do they have a favorite flower?”

Leopold’s lips curved into a small smile. “Orchids, I think. They’ve always had a fondness for them. Which symbolize purity, prosperity, and good health… So I guess might be appropriate.”

Her eyes lit up. “You know your flowers.”

Leopold’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I do. They’ve always been a subject of interest." Stepping closer to the flowers, he added smoothly, "We could also add some peonies. Symbolic of healing and happiness., an apt choice for the occasion.”

“Good choice,” the florist said, leading him toward a vibrant display of blush-pink blooms. “How about colors? Warm tones are uplifting, while softer hues can be calming.”

He considered this, his gaze lingering on the rich reds and delicate whites. He thought of how your laughter once filled their apartment, how it now felt like something fragile and fleeting. “Something warm but soft,” he decided, pointing toward the pink and coral-colored peonies. “They’re understated but still… hopeful.”

As the florist began assembling the bouquet, Leopold found himself wandering through the aisles, his fingers grazing petals and leaves. Each bloom seemed to hold its own personality—vibrant sunflowers, gentle baby’s breath, elegant lilies. He plucked a sprig of lavender from a nearby basket, its scent reminding him of the evenings you spent curled up on the couch, a lavender-scented candle flickering nearby. Lavender is also for tranquility. He hummed and added it to the mix.

Back at the counter, the florist held up the arrangement. “What do you think?”

It was perfect—beautiful orchids with peonies in soft shades of coral and blush, accented with sprigs of lavender and tiny white asters. The bouquet was cheerful yet gentle, a reflection of everything he wanted to say without words.

Leopold nodded. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

As he handed over his card to pay, the florist wrapped the bouquet in delicate paper and tied it with a ribbon. “I hope they feel better soon,” she said warmly.

Leopold smiled faintly. “I think this will help.”

When he arrived home, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders. The soft glow of the afternoon sun painted your features, but your eyes were distant, lost in thought.

“Darling,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet. You glanced up, a flicker of surprise crossing your face as you noticed the bouquet in his hands.

“What’s this?” you asked, sitting up as he approached.

“For you,” he said simply, handing you the flowers. “I noticed you’ve been feeling… off. I thought these might help.”

Your eyes widened as you took the bouquet, fingers brushing over the soft petals. The fragrance enveloped you, a gentle blend of peony and lavender. A smile, small but genuine, tugged at your lips. “Leopold, this is… really thoughtful.”

He sat down beside you, his posture casual, but his eyes intent on your face. “I'm not the best at expressing what I want through words,” he admitted. “But I wanted you to know I’m here. Whatever’s on your mind, you don't have to go through it alone.”

Your gaze softened, and for the first time in days, the weight on your chest felt just a little lighter. “Thank you,” you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

He smirked, Leopold’s hand rested lightly on yours, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin. “It’s hardly a grand gesture,” he said, his tone lightly self-deprecating. “But if it brings even a fraction of your smile back, then it has served its purpose.”

But as he felt you relax beside him, your breath evening out, he knew it wasn’t about being amazing. It was about being there for you—in every small, quiet way that mattered.

And at that moment, surrounded by the soft glow of the afternoon and the delicate fragrance of flowers, he was content with the room feeling a little warmer, a little brighter—a reflection of the unspoken love between you.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[wchswift]

[this fic takes place before and during season one.]

There was a pause, and then she laughed softly. “Dean Winchester. I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

“Not a chance,” he said, leaning back against the seat. “You busy right now?”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆. 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

summary: during a hunt with john, dean meets you in a bar. What was meant to be just one night together ends up meaning more than he expected—he just can't get you out of his mind. Unable to resist, he seeks you out again, only to find himself pulled even deeper when something supernatural happens to you. And when john suddenly disappears, you decide to join him as he goes after sam for help.

content ! canon divergent, supernatural rewrite, canon-typical violence, angst, fluff, dean and his commitment issues, 18+ mdni (I will add more tags in the chapters)

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆. chapters:

⛦ 01 ާ the night we met

⛦02 ާ hey little brother

(𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 <𝟑)