#(i love my lines. ignore me whenever i say lining is a pain)

[humanmorph]

15 Days of FatT - BRANCH

KEITH: Phrygian tells [Saffron] that when people are war-weary, they go home.

when "Once the War’s Over" got introduced I got really excited about the possibility of hearing about Phrygian's home - the Golden Branch, the places and people they cared about... I really love what we got instead, but I do still think about it sometimes.

(Branched ideas crowdsourced from @podcastingpineapple, @violentandmagnificent and @banneduser-on-cohost)

(+ just the lines)

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[totalswag]

worthy of love — RAFE CAMERON

authors note something short and cute for you guys. also, rafe deserves to be treated with the love that he desires. he just wants to be understood yall.

paring mean!rafe x soft!reader

summary soft!reader wants to show mean!rafe that he's worthy of love but he pushes reader away until one day he finally knows what love truly feel like.

warnings neglect, feeling unworthy of love, ward being a shitty father, and a lovely happy ending.

Rafe Cameron believed he would never be capable of love in his life.

Raised in a family where love was a rare commodity, Rafe grew up believing that affection, vulnerability was a weakness that should be avoided at all costs. But little did he know that someone was about to turn his life upside down and teach him the true meaning of love.

You.

His father, Ward Cameron, is part of the reason Rafe is the way he is. Ward tells him to man up rather than express his feelings and be vulnerable. Overall, his father has never treated him with the proper care compared to his two younger sisters. This sent Rafe into a downward spiral, leading to a darker path in his life. Rafe held his guard up.

You entered his world like a breath of fresh air, bringing with you a warmth and tenderness he had never felt before. Rafe first rejected your presence, pushing you away with his harsh remarks and cold demeanor. But you saw through his strong facade, understanding the agony and vulnerability that lay underneath the surface.

"Why do you treat me like this? I’m not someone that deserves to be loved." 

Rafe was initially perplexed as to why, of all the people on the island, someone as kind and gentle as you would want to be with him. 

One of the many things Rafe would tell you when you tried to show him that he’s capable of being loved by someone, he would shut you out immediately when you tried showing him.

People said you were crazy for pursuing Rafe Cameron. His reputation in Kildare is immense. You just chose to ignore what other people had to say because you felt Rafe deserved love.

The first time you heard those words come out of his mouth, your heart broke into a million pieces. Behind all of the roughness, coldness, and unpredictable behavior, he is someone who wants to be loved.

Rafe continued to push you away for the longest time, hoping you would get the hint. Finally, giving in after protracted arguments. For far too long, he had kept his guard up to protect himself. He did not want to feel weak for expressing himself. Rafe noticed how long you stayed by his side.

You gradually began to break down the walls Rafe had placed around his heart. You showed patience and understanding by refusing to give up on him, even when he tried to push you away. Rafe became increasingly drawn to you as time passed, yearning for the love and acceptance that had always escaped him.

Rafe started to trust again as your relationship deepened. He progressively exposed a gentler, softer side of himself, something he had never seen before. He realized there are individuals out there, like you, who care passionately and will be by his side through thick and thin.

All he ever wanted was to feel fully understood and seen. You came into his life when he was in the deepest pain and saved him. You showed he’s worthy of love, compassion, gratitude, and vulnerability are truly like, and there is nothing wrong with it. He transformed into a very different person than anyone could have predicted.

"You're the most amazing person I've ever laid eyes on, baby," Rafe said with a lovely smile on his lips, sliding the front strand of your hair behind your ear as you moved your body closer to his and closed your eyes.

“I love you so much rafey” kissing his bare shoulder a few times.

“And I love you more,”

my taglist!

✰ if you would like to be added to my taglist and be notified whenever i post please let me know in the comments or in my ask box. if there's a line across your name that means i couldn't find your account.

@chenslucy @winterrrnight @rosezza @solanathascientst @runningfrom2am @brooklynscherry-z @johannelis2302nely

[matan4il]

Ahead of Eurovision 2024

I was listening to Eden Golan's song, Hurricane.

At first, it didn't seem to me like it stands out. I'm one of the people who prefers my Eurovision song less on the power ballad side of things, so this being in that genre...

But then I found myself haunted by the lyrics. By specific lines. Singing them to myself quietly, over and over again. I had to listen to the song again.

And it got to me, it really did, I haven't stopped listening to or singing it since, so I guess I needed to share a bit.

There's more than one hint that this is a song about mourning and survival. Lines like, "someone stole the moon tonight, took my light" can be interpreted in more than one way. But they become less ambiguous when combined with ones like, "holding on in this mysterious ride," when the mysterious ride we're all on is life itself. It makes it clearer that this isn't just a break up song. Then it becomes even more explicit with, "we shall pass, but love will never die."

The imagery in the videoclip is also telling, that ending when Eden is looking up, much like many do when talking to or thinking about a loved one that we have lost.

But the line that gets to me the most, the first one that took over my brain? "I'm still broken from this hurricane."

We all get what this song is about, in the wake of what happened here in October 2023, and since. And I am broken. So many Jews and Israelis are. As one survivor said (his words have haunted me first, then I heard them echoed in this song): "We are broken, but strong." That's exactly what the song is about, deeply feeling the pain and the tragedy, the loss, this impossible to accept grief, and still trying to find a way to live with it, to survive not just the horrors of a massacre, but the trauma that follows it as well.

The other line that affects me the most is directly related to this, "baby, promise me you'll hold me again." Because I have spent the last 5 months watching the news, seeing the funerals, and hearing people breaking down, as they say a variation of this to their loved ones, who are gone. Asking for a promise that can't be made, or fulfilled, and knowing that it can't, even as the request is being uttered. I hear their voices breaking around their words, whenever I listen to or sing this line.

The videoclip is also infused with imagery that's related to the massacre of over 360 people at the Nova music festival (and the kidnapping of 40 more from that scene), which is in a way very apt for music lovers. The images show dancers in what looks a lot like a nature party, just like Nova, and since the massacre happened when the music festival was meant to reach its peak, a long night of music and dancing climaxing around sunrise, that's exactly what we see, a move from the "moon light" throughout most of the videoclip, to the "sunrise" at the end.

But in the case of this "sunrise," Eden can smile, she can find comfort, she can sing a few words in Hebrew that reflect hope, about that little light that's left even when the moon's been stolen.

She's bringing the song to a beautiful, emotional closure.

Obviously, it can't be ignored that this is a re-write. The original song (which was called October Rain) was disqualified as "political."

You can read the original lyrics here. They're almost identical. I heard an interview with the song writers, who said they weren't even told what got their song disqualified, so they had to guess what the Eurovision Broadcasting Union had in mind, when they called an expression of our pain, and our strength at the face of that, "political."

I admit, I find it very hard to accept this disqualification. It's not like there isn't precendent for countries at the Eurovision expressing pain (including the kind originating from political circumstances) through their songs.

If you take the wildly popular Ukraine 2007 entry, the singer was quite obviously singing "Russia goodbye," with allusions to Russian interference in Ukrainian elections while wearing outfits reminiscent of Soviet uniforms. And that wasn't called political, because "Russia goodbye" was changed into gibberish that still sounds like it (and in recent performances, it was blatantly sang like that).

If you take the much talked about Croatia 2023 entry, it was about the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, and also criticized Belarus' tyrant kissing Russia's tyrant's ass, by referencing the tractor that Lukashenko bought for Putin, while the band members played with military weapons and uniforms on stage. And that wasn't disqualified for being political.

If you take the Ukraine 2016 entry, that was explicitly singing about their pain over what the Russians did to the Tatar population in Crimea in 1944, with clear allusions to what Russians did when they invaded Ukraine's Crimean peninsula in 2014. And that wasn't called "political" either.

Even this year, we have the entry from The Netherlands being political, with both the lyrics and videoclip referencing the borderless Europe (which IS a political issue, as Brexit, if nothing else, had made clear). I've seen people pointing out online that the song isn't political, because the whole borderless Europe thing is a metaphor for the singer's grief for his father/parents. I have no problem with that reading, but let's acknowledge that there could have been many metaphors for that, and he chose a political one.

So why is Jewish pain treated differently? Why is our pain labeled "political," when the metaphors for it in the songs aren't that, there are no specific political mentions of people or organizations in the song (unlike the Georgia 2009 entry, which slipped Putin's name into the song's title) in either version, when there are no political statements being made in the song, there's just expressing our pain, and trying to find a way to cope with it?

This WAS the biggest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, and expecting Jews not to write about it, not to sing about it, not to try to process it through art... Our pain is not political. It's human. When Ukraine won in 2022 with a song that wasn't originally political, but became one, as it was adopted by Ukrainians suffering from a war that they did not choose, but had to fight, singing it wherever they were displaced (I remember the winners, Kalush Orchestra, coming to Israel to sing it for and with Ukrainian refugees who found shelter here), I thought it was quite obvious, even for people who don't like politics at Eurovision, why the song won, and why everyone overlooked the fact that it was only partly based on its qualities as a Eurovision song. I don't expect Israel to win, I very much expect that, even as Israelis embrace this song about our pain during a war, that we didn't choose, but have to fight, and while hundreds of thousands of us are still displaced, we will get a lot of hatred, instead of understanding and sympathy. But I still have to speak up. I still have to point out that treating Israeli or Jewish pain differently is wrong.

(as a footnote, I wanna get ahead of the usual, "Why is Israel allowed to participate in Eurovision to begin with? It's not in Europe!" comments, while I haven't come across the same ritual for certain other Eurovision participants, like North African Morocco, just-as-Asian-as-Israel Lebanon, transcontinental {despite some of these countries only being considered European culturally, while geographically speaking, they're fully Asian} Georgia, Russia, Cyprus, Turkey, Azerbaijan and Armenia, and the one that's a continent all on its own, Australia. They all have the right to participate, because they all belong to the European Broadcasting Union. Just like Israel)

[ki-yomii]

careful | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.2k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dom!jk, sub!reader, dirty talk, mild dom/sub dynamics, orgasm control/edging, slight brat kink, slight brat tamer!jk, pet names, degradation kink, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, finger fucking, sub drop, pussy smacking, wet & messy ➥ summary | you should always be careful what you ask for ➥ notes | what's that - posting a fic that isn't any of my wips/requests? more likely than you think 🥲

i started writing today with the intent to work on my vampire jk fic cuz spooky season. instead, i found myself here... i'm sorry 💀

also i’ve seen enough run episodes to know you don’t want jk’s hands smacking you anywhere 😬

🩷 masterlist | inbox | AO3 🩷

“Look at me, baby.”

The low warning cuts through your muffled whines, Jungkook’s weight pinning you to the wall. Thick fingers grind deep inside your cunt, digging into your g-spot mercilessly.

Pressure builds behind your hips, borderline painful as you shift around in a vain attempt to dislodge him.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, “You know better.”

Whenever Jungkook speaks, his voice scrapes down your spine, low and whiskey rough. His chest is a long line of heat, plastered to your front from stem to stern.

The rapid gallop of his heartbeat echoes your own rabbit-fast rhythm, the scent of his cologne clogging your nose and clouding your thoughts.

He bites out your name, the palm shackling your hands above your head squeezing your wrist. Blunt nails dig into the delicate skin of your pulse point.

A silent prompt you know better than to ignore. And yet, the temptation to do so is almost too much.

Keen awareness roots low in your belly, dripping down between your thighs like candle wax. Your thighs tense with the strain of controlling the involuntary drop of your hips; the urge to rock down into his touch choking the breath from your lungs.

“I…”

The instinct to comply is almost Pavlovian. After all, you’re Jungkook’s good girl, aren’t you? Loved and fucked and trained to his liking.

(But how can you be good when he looks at you like that? It’s just not fair.)

Being good all the time is boring.

No. Your mouth snaps shut, and any response you have turns to ash on your tongue. The words catch on the backs of your teeth like candy. Not this time.

“Why are you being like this, huh?” Jungkook’s brows shoot towards his hairline, his dark head ducking to try and catch your eye. “I know I taught you better.”

How could you ever forget the rules when he’s fucked them into you so thoroughly? Took you apart piece by piece only to stitch you back together in his image - his precious little darling made to take his cock and swallow his cum.

“You really don’t wanna play this game with me right now. Trust me.”

Breath lodging somewhere in the middle of your throat, and tasting suspiciously of regret, you shake your head and dig your heels in. Resist the urge to crumble at his feet, beg for forgiveness with your mouth, your hands.

It’s already too late to back out - it’ll just be worse for you if you do.

Jungkook might hide his less… savory traits better than most, but you’ve experienced his greedy kisses firsthand, felt the tug of his teeth and tasted the salt of his skin. Heard his ragged moans honey sweet in your ear, felt the harsh grind of his body along yours.

When he smiles, it’s wicked, "Last chance. Show me those pretty eyes of yours, baby.”

Anticipation hooks behind your navel, stomach swooping as heat curls up in the valley of your hips. Blood rushes in your ears, starting as a slow thrum that crescendos into a rapid drum. Your heart tattoos itself into your ribs.

Licking your lips, your refusal shudders from you in a throaty rush, “No.”

A low hum fills the following silence, noncommittal. The mounting tension threatens to strangle you, sets your teeth on edge. Sparse hairs at the nape of your neck prickle.

And then, before you have time to consider taking it all back, plush lips ghost over the hollow below your ear. Whisps of dark hair whisper over your skin, soft and ticklish. Shivers race down your spine, spread through your fingers and toes.

“Alright, have it your way,” Jungkook smothers his words in the tender slope of your neck, “but remember: you asked for it. Don’t come crying to me afterward.”

Readjusting, Jungkook’s broad shoulders curve forward and the slackened hand on your wrists renews its grip. The cold tip of his nose traces along your jaw, inhaling the perfume of your silken skin.

An exhale shudders from him in a vulgar husk of breath. When you clench around his fingers still buried inside you, he laughs low and mocking.

“Damn, baby, your pussy’s just sucking me in. You really wanna cum that bad?” Kisses pepper up the side of your face, skirting the side of your mouth. “Heh, yeah, I know you do - such a dirty little slut.”

“Oh!” You sigh, sparks sizzling through your limbs, as Jungkook flexes his fingertips playfully against your swollen g-spot. Your hips tilt into the touch. “Hah…”

“That feel good, huh?”

A low keen escapes when he draws your earlobe into the moist heat of his mouth, his lips clamping down while the sharp points of his canines roll the tender fat. Little kisses of pain burn, brighten the arousal blooming deep within you.

“Yeah, of course it does,” Jungkook breathes, his voice low and husky in your ear as he strokes at your fluttering walls. “Just look at you.”

Unable to swallow the broken gasp of his name when he hits your favourite spot at the right angle, you tremble against his chest from where you’re pinned and squeeze your eyes shut, “J-Jung--!”

Holding up your own weight on weak knees is an endurance sport - one you’re losing as they bow and shake, threaten to give out. At the same time, your arms feel like lead, going numb from having them suspended over your head for so long.

Head light and floaty, your nails bite into the backs of his hands as a sharp spike of pleasure slices through you. “I’m--”

“Gonna cum soon?” Jungkook asks, the devilish grin tugging at the corners of his sculpted mouth more a baring of teeth. “Don’t lie to me.”

At your frantic nod, he tugs his fingers free from the tight clutch of your body with a sloppy squelch. Slick oozes from your cunt in a sticky rush that wets your inner thighs, your gut clenching hard with hollow satisfaction as he rips the ebbing flow of your orgasm away without warning.

“Shit!” 

The noise you make at their loss is low and wounded, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. Your body locks up so hard your stomach aches, walls fluttering as a cramp knots up behind your hips.

Your swollen clit throbs with angry sparks of pain that make you whine and wince, orgasm thoroughly ruined.

“W-Why did you…” Voice cracking around a hiccupping sob, you pitch forward into his powerful chest. “Jungkook--”

“You know why.” His reply cuts you off, chilly and brusque, while he stares at you without remorse, “I gave you a chance to change your mind.”

“But I -”

“Stop.”

Sniffling, you peer at him from beneath damp lashes.

Breathless and feral, Jungkook stands before you a vengeful god, robed in shade and shadow. It’s criminally unfair how good he looks; jaw clenched, eyes twin black holes that threaten to pull you in.

Harsh, hooded, hungry as they trace over the tear tracks cutting lines down your cheeks, the quiver of your lips. In moments like this, he’s as beautiful as Belladonna and twice as deadly.

“I don’t know why you’re even trying to sweet talk your way out of this.” 

If his glare alone wasn’t enough to curb your tongue, then the shuttered expression carved into the planes of his regal face would.

Displeasure sits heavy on his brow, tucked into the corners of his mouth like an ill-fitting mask. Then his hand is slipping between your shaking thighs once more, the backs of his knuckles dragging over your abused, messy folds.

Jungkook hums when you sigh, jolt at the touch, and says, “Now, shut up and be a good girl for me.”

It’s deliciously painful, like blowing on numb fingertips in winter. Your legs spread wider to accommodate him on instinct alone.

Head rolling back to rest against the wall, the cool stone heaven on your sweaty neck.

And then a strike, viper quick, lands on your exposed pussy. Your reprieve ripped away and smashed at your feet as the wet, sloppy sound of an open palm making contact with tender flesh almost drowns out your wounded cry.

“A-Ah!”

You flinch away from the touch, flickers of pain pulsing through your sensitive clit. Nerve endings burn with sensation. Tiny cavities pepper your field of vision, the world a blurry kaleidoscope of color through pooling tears.

It’s hard to think, harder to breathe through the lingering throb and mounting shock.

Jungkook didn’t hit you too hard (he knows your limits), though he may as well have with how hypersensitive your pussy is. And still, amid prickles of pain, fresh arousal gushes from you to soak the length of his palm.

Cooing, he says your name, his lips cradling the syllables like a precious secret as his hand rubs circles over your mound. “Are you finally going to listen to me?”

Air hisses through your teeth as his fingers dip into your entrance, and it’s all suddenly too much. You drop too far, too fast. Lost and left adrift. Small. Fragile.

Heart lurching in your chest, the bitter ache throbbing in time with your pulse. Reminding you of how empty you are.

Sobs drip from your lips like dew drops, unintelligible words frantic as they break through the great, heaving gasps, “J-Jungkook, I can’t… Please, ‘m sorr- I can’t.”

“Oh, baby. You look so pretty when you’re such a fucking mess.”

Your breath hitches.

It feels like your skin’s too small, stretched tight over your bones until you’re bursting at the seams. The slightest touch will make you shatter to pieces, scattered across the floor like shards of fine china. 

Before you spiral too far beyond his reach, Jungkook guides you back, keeping his voice low and gentle in your ear while he shushes your warbling sniffles. Affection softens his smile, his eyes dark with perverse pride.

“Stop crying,” he chides tenderly, circling your clit with a ginger thumb. “You’re fine, promise. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Kisses wick away the last of your tears, sweep over the delicate skin of your undereye.

“You did this to yourself.” Jungkook searches your eyes for confirmation, his brows furrowed and lips pursed. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nod, albeit stiltedly.

There are always consequences when you try to give him a taste of his own medicine - some worse than others. This time, you took things a little too far.

Now your cunt’s going to suffer the consequences of your stubbornness, but maybe if you butter him up beforehand…

The bob of his Adam’s apple captures your attention, your eyes tracing over the slope of his jaw, the tick of muscle as he grits his teeth.

Gnawing on your lip, you weigh your options.

You both know you hoped this would happen when you started acting bratty. Jungkook knows your dirty thoughts and filthy fantasies, how soaked you get from the thought of being pinned down, helpless.

Forced to take everything he gives.

… It isn’t even a question worth asking.

“Didn’t catch that.” Jungkook’s lips twitch with amusement, his fingers biting into the soft fat of your hip. “Come on, you’ve gotta use your words.”

The despair gripping your throat in a vice loosens with his lighthearted tone. Wetting your lips, you take the first step towards sparring yourself a brutal punishment by apologizing.

“I know it’s my fault - and I,” you swallow the flood of saliva pooling under your tongue, “I’m sorry.” 

"Mm, apology accepted." Jungkook hums, tracing the seam of your puffy pussy. “I’m so lucky I’ve got such a good fucking girl all to myself.”

Heat sinks into the apples of your cheeks, your thighs clamping closed around his wrist. There’s no denying the needy twitch of your hips at his words. A pleased rumble vibrates through his chest and into yours.

“Yeah, you like when I call you a good girl, baby?”

You whine, your eyes rolling back and your lashes fluttering.

Heat pulses through your belly in rhythmic waves, the residual pleasure from your interrupted orgasm kindling to light with little effort. You’d been so close, your body still desperate for relief. Thoughts slow and syrupy, cunt soaked and sloppy.

“Jungkook, please - lemme cum.” You try to rock down on his fingers only for his hand to restrain your hips. ”Fuck! Promise I’ll be good this time - jus’ need to…”

He tsks, saying, “Shh, you can cum all you want.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank-”

“If,” his smile is knife sharp, his eyes full of mischief, his words honey sweet, “you keep your eyes open and on me the whole time.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You’ll be dumb and drooling, starry-eyed and stupid once he stuffs you full. The burning stretch of his fat cock buried balls deep in your gummy walls while the spongy head slams into your g-spot without mercy, your cunt milking his shaft with every gushing orgasm fucked out of you. His name a holy prayer on your tongue.

There’s no fucking way.

Jungkook knows you barely remember to breathe once he’s on top of you, let alone maintain eye contact. Your inevitable failure will taste all the sweeter when it fizzles, pops, bursts under the bite of his teeth.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

“Good luck, baby.”

Panic grips you by the throat, your eyes wide and pleading. “Jungkook-”

“You’re gonna need it.”

Well, shit.

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

The Foundations of Decay (My Chemical Romance)

The guiltiness is yours/You must fix your heart/And you must build an altar where it swells/When the storm decays/And the sky it rains/Let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away/And as we stumble through our last crusade

And if by his own hand his spirit flies/take his body as a relic to be canonised/and so he gets to die a saint /while she will always be the whore

Let our bodies lay where our hearts will stay/Let our blood on vacation, you'll find God in pain/And if by his own hand his spirit flies/Take his body as a relic to be canonized/And so he gets to die a saint but she will always be the whore

"Every single lyric is so fucking powerful. the instrumentals hit every time. it’s such a powerful and moving and motivational song like yeah, everything is fucked up and ruined and will never be the same again. but keep moving. get up (coward). fix your heart. god it’s so good."

“Aside from being MCRs return song after 10 years. There's so much pain, and rage, and just deeply felt emotion. When I saw them live, screaming GET UP COWARD at the end is the single loudest sound I have ever made in my life."

"It's just... a spiritual feeling that washes over me whenever I listen to this song. I feel like I die and am reborn thousands of times throughout its six minute duration. The lyrics are poetry. A battle between giving up and letting the decay take over you or overcoming it and getting up no matter the consequences. But it's not like a gym song to work out to. It's a battle song to make it though the dark cave that is depression and suicidal thoughts and trauma. It's a song that brings you back from the dead."

I/Me/Myself (Will Wood)

I wish I could be a girl, and that way/You'd wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend/Am I pretty enough to love back?/No not yet/I wish I could be a girl, and really/I'd prefer it if you would use I/Me/Myself/Am I pretty enough, am I pretty enough to fucking die?

"Do you KNOW what the line “I am quantum physics, my witness brings me into existence” has DONE to me. to my psyche. because it’s like. okay so I’m so sorry if you know all of this already but in quantum physics theres something called the observer effect, where if you you measure something, it affects it. Like by checking tyre pressure, you have to let some air out, so you can’t physically measure it without changing what you’re measuring. in normal day to day life (like the tyre) this doesn’t really matter, because the effect is so small that you can basically ignore it. but quantum physics deals with really REALLY small shit so every single effect matters. Basically. observation of an object changes it’s state. this line is about acceptance. the euphoria of someone calling you by your preferred pronouns or chosen name. observation changing your state. It might seem small to others- someone who’s never been misgendered in their life it’s not even something that would occur to them, but to a trans/nb person who’s being observed, being SEEN? it’s everything. AND THE SHEER PUNCH OF “say my name like a slur, but I’ve been called worse” like. FUCK. oaky I think I’ve rambled enough about One Entire Line so lemme just wrap this up by saying that Will Wood is a cis man who ID’ as genderqueer for a while before realising that he wasn’t, he just had some internalised shit about being gnc and not traditionally masculine to work through, so he wrote this song about his frustrations with gender in general and about how clinging to an identity that didn’t fit him can hurt you"

[theonevoice]

Aziraphale doesn't drink coffee

My friends, it feels obvious now, but I finally managed to put my fingers on what was bothering me about this specific exchange of lines:

If you think about it, this exchange doesn't make sense. Aziraphale says:

"But I… I don't want to go back to Heaven. Where would I get my coffee?"

and the Metatron answers:

"You know, as Supreme Archangel, you would be able to decide who to work with."

What does being able to decide who to work with have anything to do with coffee?

At first, like many of us, I had interpreted the scene as Aziraphale using the coffee as a metaphor for expressing his love for Earth and earthly pleasures, and the Metatron slyly throwing the Crowley's restored angelic status card on the table to force him to change his mind, as if Crowley was the one important thing that could make Aziraphale forget all other things on Earth.

But here's the thing - and I don't know why I never noticed it before: as far as we know, Aziraphale doesn't drink coffee.

If I am not mistaken, there are only three explicit coffee references in the two seasons: the "six shots of espresso," the espresso cup that sits in front of Crowley on the table at the Ritz in s1ep1, and the two mugs in s1ep2 when Aziraphale and Crowley stops at a sort of dining place to discuss how to find the lost Antichrist. Now, unlike with the expresso cup at the Ritz, where we have an above shot that clearly shows traces of coffee, we don't see what's inside the two mugs here. But I don't think Aziraphale's one contains coffe: he's not even aware that caffeine is definitely does not "calm people down," it's very clearly not his thing.

Furthermore, we do know what his things are: little restaurants, sushi, classical music, old bookshops, tea, crepes, French wine… not coffee.

When the Metatron asks him to become Supreme Archangel, he could say "where would I get my sushi?" or "where would I get my books" or "where would I get my records" which is an actual line that he pronounced earlier while talking to Maggie.

Instead he says "coffee."

And then it struck me: Aziraphale is never associated with coffee. But Crowley is.

That's what he's saying, probably unconsciously: when he says "where would I get my coffee?" he's not expressing his love for Earth, he's expressing his love for Crowley.

He could even be doing this without realizing it, as a form of involuntary codification (codification like in Freud's or Matte Blanco's theories of unconscious mind: where something seated deep inside you hooks onto some minor detail outside and starts speaking through your words as if on its own accord). After all, this particular morning, after the emotional strain of the ball, the demonic attack during the night, and the unexpected revelation of Gabriel and Beelzebub relationship, seems to me like the sort of moment in which some amount of brain fog is to be expected, even for an angel.

But the Metatron sees straight through him, possibly even more clearly than he sees through himself, and gives an answer that ignores the superficial codification and address directly the deep meaning. He doesn't say: "as Supreme Archangel you would be able to pop down here whenever you want and have as much coffee as you like." He immediately sees that "where would I get my coffee?" means "how could I be together with Crowley?" and makes his dirty move of dangling the idea of restoring Crowley to his former angelic status in front of Aziraphale's face because he knows that this is the one and only point.

And now I really, really, really hope that in s3 we will see Supreme Archangel Aziraphale sending someone on Earth to get him some coffee - maybe a big cup with six shots of espresso in it and nothing else - and then grabbing the paper cup with a pain, strenght, and desperation that nobody else would understand.

[ender-cloud]

!!SPOILERS FOR THE ITHICA SAGA!!

it will be under the cut

-The Challenge-

Anyone else hear Anna’s voice and immediately start tearing up, I think it’s because of the journey that lead up to this and hearing her voice at the start of the saga… it’s just so beautiful.

And it’s different from the Sirens too, in the challenge her voice is filled with Grief and then hope, her instruments are strings, and it pulls more of a sad emotion.

But with the siren’s, her voice is energetic, the instruments are synths, it’s very digatalized.

This makes hearing the challenge hit straight to the gut right away, it’s different, this is the Real Penelope, how much she’s been taken iver by the grief for Ody.

Up till now we have been hearing what ody thought/last heard of his wife. A happy, confident voice, its such a stark contrast

(Also its a shame they couldn’t get the stream working last night, but I know Jorge Will make sure we get something)

-Hold them down-

Also in the Challenge Penelope says “Her husbands OLD bow” while the suitors say “The OLD kings bow” showing how she knows Odysseus is still alive while the suitors could care less of his life

Brooooo why is antonius’s voice so good ON HOLD THEM DOWN LIKE

-Odysseus-

ODYSSEUS (The song) HAVING THE BOSS BATTLE MOTIF????

Also it brings back the villians he has fought as he becomes the monster, “i’ve been hurt enough” similar to Polythemus’s “You’ve hurt me enough”

He trapped them in his palace, just like Circe. And, an obvious one, aimed for the torches, just like Scylla

He’s ruthless, no longer even attempting to reason with the suitors, no, he’s done doing that, he knows that the only true way they will stop if if He makes them!

Even when some of the Suitors try to reason with Odysseus, one even using THE line “Let’s have OPEN ARMS instead” Odysseus still says no, even if Antonius is dead, they went through with his plans.

Odysseus has held onto the line Open arms since the beginning of the show, hearing the Echo of it whenever in hard times, and now he’s pushing it aside, perhaps not liking hearing a suitor say something so close to his heart, but mostly because he has fully embraced Ruthlessness

Also!! THIS IS TELEMACHUS’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF ODY BTW, you can hear his legendary Motif before he appears.

Telemachus Trying be the one who reason’s the suitors, trying to get them to stop and maybe his dad would spare them (not knowing the truth) and then, just like his father, is met by it not working and him getting captured instead

ODY’S VOICE IS SO DIFFERENT??? JORGE???? “You’ve filled my heart with hate” IM NOT OKAY

Also im glad Jorge didnt just ignore that the suitors were trying to 🍇 penelope and brought it up, instead of just letting it be in one song like some other musicians might do

Cant wait to see animations where Telemachus has to watch All of this brutality:D haha…

-CANT HELP BUT WONDER-

LIKE THE CHALLEGE JUST IMMEDIATELY PAIN

ODY???? “Used to say id capture wind and sky for you” Which he did to see his son again,

This song breaks me, the way the music is orchestrated, its just, I cant explain it

ATHENA PLEASE I CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE

BRINGING BACK THE “Show yourself, I know you’re watching me show yourself” TOO WHICH HAPPENED WHEN HE WAS A BOY OH MY GOD

Also she’s still alive, thank god!, Jorge scared me

-Would you fall in love with me again-

“I am not your kind and Gentle husband” ODY

As soon I heard the bridge I immediately started sobbing

Penelope proving that ody is still him with the bed is so clever not even he caught ut, a man taught by the goddess of wisdom himself

DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE ENDING FOR NOT ONLY WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE BUT ALSO THE ENTIRE SHOW

ITS SO BEAUTIFUL, COMPLETING ODYSSEUS GOAL HE HAS HAD SINCE HIS JOURNEY STARTED, HE IS HOME WITH HIS FAMILY

Also i imagined the beats in the song as flashes to Ody’s journey up to now, as a way to honor the actors and the other sagas, I don’t know if thats what Jay attended but its what I believed

[queerespresso]

💭 Ep. 2 | Bison

Mostly thoughts on his perspective of the relationship + some new thoughts on him.

He’s definitely an artist or has an artistic soul. Who has a sketch book of their brothers daily life in that level of detail? The digital design tool downloaded on his tablet + the style of drawing he did for the tattoo + the gorgeous end result of the tattoo he drew screams artists or desire to be an artists in some way. This could be partly what attracts him to Kant.

In my perspective, he does have romantic feelings for Kant but they’re more similar to a crush and the beginning. I wouldn’t say it’s purely for attention. He did seem genuinely concerned about Kant’s fear of the sea last episode and is worried about Kant’s safety when it’s concerning his brother. Now the amount of feelings he has doesn’t match his words though.

When he says to Fadel “Kant wants me for my body and my heart.” I think he’s being dramatic there. But he means it when he says “we’re taking it slow” and later lays on the couch with a soft smile. While he questions Kant’s feelings multiple times throughout the episode but was defending him to Fadel so he could continue to see where his and Kant’s relationship leads.

Regarding his perspective on the legitimacy of Kant’s feelings. Every time Kant uses a pickup line, asks for s*x or a relationship, it seems like Bison cringes a bit and pulls away. Whenever Kant does something vulnerable like reveal something about himself, visiting him in disguise, dancing with him despite being shy to dance, he starts to *feel* for him. I mean this is usual, people who are vulnerable with you make you feel comfortable bringing out your own vulnerabilities thus increases intimacy. Bison is a bit of a romantic and is into this potentially working out. He offers a casual relationship to Kant but seems happy when Kant pushes for a more solid relationship and cheekily says “you have a lot to prove”. He wants Kant to prove it.

On Bison with Fadel, he has expressed multiple times he wants his brother to enjoy life more. While he does have some desire to be free, largely I think his desire to set up Fadel and Style is so Fadel can experience love. He seemed really affected by Kant’s assurance of “You did this because you’re worried about him. You just want him to enjoy life, don’t you?”

When Fadel laughed and said “you call your mom mother? What are you, young master?” Bison seemed hurt or confused(?). His mother or family dynamic is a sore point in my opinion (c’mon man..what’s with Khaotung and parent trauma 🥲).

♨️💭 In my head, he’s a full brat and maybe switch. He loves the tease of it all. Like that cat grin he has and genuine enjoyment after leaving Kant with the ending of his tease (a vibe 🙂‍↕️). But him expressing he also likes pain and “I like cats because they’re unpredictable. Sometimes they act like they love you and want you, and then ago ahead and ignore you. Treat you like a total stranger. It’s challenging.” Then Kant says: “so you love a challenge .” Not sure if Kant is fully accurate there. I think Bison likes *being* a challenge…or maybe he likes both. We’ll see.

* My perspective is true for me at this moment and may evolve. I respect that it’s not true for everyone else.

[mariel-g]

Chemistry Homework?

Very self indulgent switch fem reader <3

MINORS U SILLY GALS, DO NOT INTERACT

You sigh as you stare at Jotaro Kujo’s profile, silently fanning yourself with your hand while the idle chatter of your chemistry teacher fades into the background. Jotaro Kujo is...well, he’s not the friendliest of people. Whenever you have tried to talk to him he blatantly ignored you, so you quickly learned to stop trying. 

As your thoughts drift away, his elegant side profile turned, revealing his full face in it’s glory. Startled, you jerk away and accidentally knock over a bottle of HCL with your elbow. 

“Oh! I am so sorry, here.” You mutter, frantically grabbing at a stack of tissues nearby and patting it over Jotaro’s thigh “Um, are you alright? Like, it didnt burn or anything, right?” 

You briefly close your eyes in disbelief, why the fuck did you say that? 

His large palm suddenly engulfs your hand, ceasing the frantic drying of his leg. “The dosage of true hydrochloric acid in the bottle would be too low to burn me, I’d think you’d know that already if you take this class.” 

Despite the harsh words, it was truly the first time you’d ever heard his voice. It was deep and velvety and honestly quite a turn on. Although his tone was biting and full of contempt, it sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. 

The noise of irritation he makes at the back of his throat makes your eyes fly up from his leg, settling on tracing the lines of his adams apple and defined neck before slowly meeting his eyes. When you meet them, the glare he pins you with makes you shrink back, only stopped by his hand that is still tightly clasped over yours. 

“Yes I know, I just was overly concerned, forgot the basics of chemistry haha...my apologies” you say weakly. 

“Get off me” he snarls. 

His leg starts to shake, from anger no doubt, and a sick sense of satisfaction runs through you, letting such an inconsiqentuial accident affect his mood so much is ridiculous. But then again, he always acts like a bandit pisses in his coffee each morning. 

“You’re still holding my hand” 

At that his thigh seemed to flex and harden underneath your finger tips and your fingers gave an involuntary squeeze back. His whole body goes completely rigid and he bites his lip as if in pain. Oh my god...was that his dick...? No, right?

Both of you sat completely still when the teacher suddenly addressed the both of you. “Jotaro and y/n, please clean up the mess, you should’ve told me if you wanted more tissues.” 

Jotaro’s eyes bore into you and he gives you a look of pure disgust before snatching his hand away from yours as if burnt. Despite of the rollercoaster of things that just happened you still had some scraps of your pride left, and you gave him the nastiest look you could muster before abruptly standing up. 

“Miss, may I please go clean the acid off?” 

“Yes you may y/n, I’ll clean the table myself dont worry” The teacher then glanced at Jotaro “You should go clean the HCL off yourself as well Jotaro, the dosage is low but it could still burn if left on the skin for too long.” 

You gave Jotaro a smug ‘I told you so’ look before traipsing out of class. Fervently trying to forget the heat emenating from the shape that was pressed against your hand as you cleaned. 

Ever since that day, you and Jotaro would bicker and annoy eachother to no end. You were fairly sure he hated you and the hatred is definitely mutual. After seeing him more often you realised that around everyone else he was generally pleasant if not quiet, it seemed that it was only around you where another side was brought out of him. You huffed a small laugh, you tend to have that effect on people. 

“What are you laughing at?” 

“Nothing really” you sighed. You tilted your head back and moaned softly. God, the feel of his pouty lips making love to your neck was heaven. 

He was on his knees in front of you as you sat on the side of the library’s setee, your leg on either side of him as his face nestled in your collarbone. (Mate, look he’s 6′5 just imagine that the setee is really low)

His tongue lazily swept across your pulse before suckling on it. “We should finish our chemistry homework.” 

You nodded airily in agreement. “We should.” 

Slowly, you brought one of your legs to rest between his thighs, allowing the base of your shin to softly rub against his hardened cock. He groaned softly, moving his hands braced on either side of the setee to wrap around the small of your back. 

“Don’t tell me you got hard just from kissing my neck?” You asked incredulously, stilling the languid movement of your shin against his dick. 

“I get hard just from looking at you” He said in a whisper “Keep rubbing my cock.”

At his crass wording your cheeks burst aflame with embarrassment, but you continued to pleasure him, delighting in the soft moans and groans that escaped from his mouth when you put more pressure on his member. 

“You should say please” 

“Why should I?”

“Because,” you completely stopped your ministrations on his dick “otherwise I’ll do this.” 

His jaw clenched in irritation and his full lips silently formed the word “bitch.” 

“If you still want to finish our homework it’s fine” you said breezily, making a show of repositoning the collar of your shirt and rebuttoning a few buttons.

“Wait,” He visibly swallowed a ball of irritation “keep rubbing my cock...please.” His adams apple bobbed. “And let me see you, all of you, please.” 

Satisfaction and a heady rush of power filled you. You’re able to make this proud man beg. 

“I enjoy having you on your knees in front of me” you whisper, heeding his request as you slowly unbutton enough buttons for your bra to be completely exposed to him. 

His hand cups your breast and squeezes hard, his thumb roughly rubbing over the nipple through the fabric of the bra. You let out a small yelp and narrow your eyes at him when he smirks. Payback I guess. 

He leans forward and nips your ear “And i enjoy being on my knees for you as well, let me make you cum.” 

Fuck. An ache setlles between your legs as your pussy desperately tries to clench around nothing. “Yes,” you say breathlessly “But we need to be quiet.”

The corner of the library you guys are in is uninhabited, but the whole establishment is not completely void of people. 

He kissed the tops of your breasts and slowly took off your bra, savouring every inch of naked skin that was revealed to him. When your chest was fully exposed, he moaned in satisfaction. 

“y/n, they’re perfect.” 

His lips instantly descended upon your nipple as the other hand massaged and played with your breast. You gasped at the feeling of his tongue circling around one of your nipples while his hand pinched and rubbed and squeezed the other. 

“Oh fuck” you panted, feeling euphoria wash over you as he continued to lavish equal attention upon both of your breasts before releasing them with a pop.

“Spread your legs”

You rose your eyebrow at his demanding tone, but complied, cautiously spreading your legs as he flipped up your skirt. 

“Fuck princess, is that spiderman underwear?” The side of his mouth was twitching as if he was trying painfully hard not to burst out laughing. 

You glared at him, “Do you want to see my pussy or not?” 

In response he pulled your knickers to the side and began rubbing your clit with his thumb in a smooth circular motion, his mouth parted in a moan when he saw how wet you became from his light touch against your clit.

“Your pussy is so beautiful” he murmured. “Can I put my fingers inside?” 

In response your loins clenched and you bucked your hips. “Fuck yes, and press harder on my clit.” 

“Your wish is my command mistress” he said sardonically, increasing the pressure on your clit to the point it nearly hurt. 

Slowly, he pressed one of his fingers into your opening and your toes curled. His thick finger stretched you out so good it made you moan, and your head lolled down to watch him as he watched his finger disappear inside of you till the hilt. 

Heat crawled up his neck as he bit his lip. “You’re so tight...and wet” he curled his finger slightly and you gasped as the tip of his finger rubbed against your most sensitive space. “And warm,” he slowly started to thrust his finger in and out. “All for me.” 

You moaned, “Jotaro, faster.”

“Yes.” 

“Another finger please” 

“Yes m’lady.” 

The volume of your moans nearly reached a pornographic level. The way his thumb circled your clit as his fingers stroked and pressed into your walls made your mind go numb.

“Please let me taste you,” he begged, the look in his eye wild as he bit your inner thigh.

In response you moved your hand to the back of his head and gave him what he desired, surrendering to the pleasure as he immediately started lapping at your cunt. He licked and sucked and expertly toyed with your clit with his large fingers still ramming inside of you.

“Baby, I’m going to cum” you whimpered

“Please cum on my fingers,” he said hoarsely around your clit, “Need you to cum on my fingers baby.” 

The vibrations from him speaking and his filthy words push you over the edge, and per his request you cum all over his fingers. Your eyes rolled back as your cunt convulsed around him. You had to throw a hand over your mouth so that you didnt scream.

He milked you through the orgasm, thrusting his fingers in languid strokes and lazily sucked on your clit with his eyes intensely watching your face.

“Jotaro please” you started to shy away from his attentions as the orgasm subsided.

Using his body weight, he pressed you down onto the setee. “I’m not finished yet.” Gingerly he started to eat at the honey your pussy produced, groaning in satisfaction while you meweled and bucked under his hold. 

“You taste so fucking good.” 

Eventually he released you from his taste testing and sat back on his haunches, admiring how pretty and fucked out you looked. 

“Maybe now that you’ve been satisfied like this you’ll stop being such a bitch” He commented mildly while he flipped your skirt back into place and straightened your shirt. 

“Yeah you’re right, I suppose I should have a weekly round of this, maybe next week should be Kakyoin.” You said lamely, to deep into post-orgasmic euphoria to conjure up a wittier response.

He frowned up at you. “Only me.” 

You snorted. “I suppose you’ll have to be my subservient sex slave for the rest of your life then” you said jokingly. 

For a second, when you looked into the teal of his eyes you thought you saw a look of reverence. He quickly put on his hat that was strewn haphazardly on the same desk your unfinished chemistry homework was on. 

“So I guess we aren’t enemies anymore,” you said absent-mindedly. “Having an enemy that’s...yknow done that to me would be kind of embarrassing.” 

He cleared his throat loudly as he stuffed the chemistry textbooks into his bag. 

“A truce?”

“Good grief, fine.” 

“It’s a shame we couldnt get our chemistry homework done.” 

An ironic smile touched his lips. “No, I’d say it’s pretty completed.” 

You looked at him quizzically but said nothing, instead opting to rising onto your toes to give him a soft kiss. It was brief but it left him speechless and flushed. 

He watched you, face distraught as you walked ahead of him towards the library exit.

“Let’s go,” you said when you realised he wasn’t following “do you reckon anyone heard me?” 

“Nah.”

[smoooothoperator]

What A Shame

01: Red

Driver! Charles Leclerc x Singer! OC (Juliette Morelli)

Exes to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Childhood Sweathearts

Summary: two once lovers see each other again after ten years. Will things go well?

Words: 2.3k

a/n: hello and welcome to my newest fic!!! I really hope everyone enjoys this story since it's the first one I write after a long time!

Every interaction is very welcomed!!!!

Masterlist

next part

Just to get some things clear:

this fic happens on 2030 and there will be some flashbacks of previous years, making Charles be 32 years old

most of the songs I'll be using or make references are from Taylor Swift, and if you want to I could post the playlist I'm listening while I write

🎤

Maid of honor. The most important woman of the bridesmaids, the person that will be there for the bride whenever she needs her. Historically, the maid of honor was the attendant of the a queen in royal households or the most important woman of the house; she was a maiden that never have been married and a virgin. A woman that could be there for someone superior or more important for her.

When you have years of experience being the maid of honor, supporting and helping your friends on their most important day, you get used to the term. It's easy to joke and laugh about it, to ignore the ache on the chest when friends ask one more time to be their maid of honor.

"You should work as a wedding planner" the parents of the bride use to tell me, patting my back and congratulating me for my great job.

"Too bad I'm a singer, huh?" I use to answer them with a smile, hiding the pain of their words.

They never ask why I'm always the maid of honor. Why I'm always there for their daughters, making sure everything is perfect and ready for them, telling always the same line after my speech.

"With love, Juliette: always the maid of honor but never the bride" I use to say, turning off the mic and smiling at my friends, hearing laughs and people clapping, not knowing that it hurts admitting to myself that I'll never be on that spot of the table wearing a dress that makes me look like a princess.

So, when Valerie didn't ask me to be her maid of honor, it took me for surprise. Valerie was always by my side when he left me, giving me her shoulder to cry and her spare room to stay when I needed it. Valerie was like a sister for me, someone I would say yes no matter what she asked me to do.

"I know you hate it" she sighed. "I won't torture you, I know you always joke about that but deep inside you are in pain. I won't put you on that position ever again. But I want you to be there on my wedding"

How could I say no? She's my best friend and actually the first person that took that tag of the maid of honor off of me.

"I want you to be happy, Juliette" she sighed.

"You know I can't " I sighed looking at my hands. "He hurt me and there's no way I can get out of that whole"

"You can, you know you can and you will" she said sure if herself, like making a promise. "I heard Pierre will invite some of his friends, I bet you'll find someone out there"

Pierre Gasly, Valerie's boyfriend for many years and nod her fiance. He's a known racing driver for some years now, being famous and all it comes with that. The wedding will be an important event, media wants to know every small detail of it and share it to the world. Now it makes sense why Valerie didn't ask me to be the maid of honor.

But I was with her all the time, dreaming, looking at her trying all those white dresses and wishing it was me for once, trying the cakes with her on our sleepovers and wishing to have someone cutting the cake with me, looking at the pictures she sent me of the flowers and imagining myself holding them when walking to the aisle.

I wished, again, that I was the bride.

The wedding was coming, looking now at the calendar it was closer than I thought it was going to be, making me search for a dress desperately, not wanting to use of of those dresses I used as a maid of honor.

"Wear something simple" Valerie said sitting on my bed. "Maybe one of those satin dresses you like"

"But that's too simple" I frowned. "It's your wedding, Val"

"I don't care, Juliette" she said smiling, shaking her head. "Plus, you look amazing on those dresses. The red one you wore on that charity gala last month was amazing, you could wear it on the rehearsal dinner"

"But what about the actual wedding!"

Finding a dress was harder than I thought. As the maid of honor I had to wear the dress the bride wanted, but now I could choose whatever I wanted to wear.

"Hey, hey, relax. Just... Relax, okay? Just wear something you feel comfortable with" she said trying to calm me.

So yeah, I did what she asked. I bought a dress on a random shop, something I could wear with the most comfortable heels I had on the wardrobe, and put everything I needed on a suitcase.

Valerie and Pierre were going to do their wedding on a nice villa, with vineyards and all the luxury you can imagine when both of them have lots of money, and since his family is religious they will do the wedding on the cozy church of the village with a small group of close friends and family.

The dinner rehearsal will be there on the villa, making sure that the next day everything will be ready and will work smoothly.

The red dress was hanging on the door of the closet, brighter than ever. I used to like red, he made me love it. It was his dream since he was a child, watching the red cars drive under his balcony around the streets of Monaco, and imagining that once he was older he would drive one of those.

"I'll be your Michael and you'll be my Corinna!" he used to say while we sat next to each other on the floor as kids, watching the TV and how Michael Schumacher won those races with his red Ferrari.

Using red after him felt like a punishment, a self torture. How can I be so stupid? So weak to not move on and we drowned on self pity?

I took a deep breath, taking off the silk robe and getting dressed while looking at myself on the mirror.

"Come on, why can't you be with someone?" I said to the reflection of myself. "You are freaking Juliette Morelli, a well known singer! You fucked with freaking Shawn Mendes and the Sebastian Stan flirted with you! You can do better than him"

At this point I was too desperate to forget him. I needed to stop thinking about him, it happened nearly ten years ago. How can I be so stupid and still not move out?

But still... It feels like if that happened yesterday.

"I'm sorry, Juliette" he said suddenly after he sat on the couch of the livingroom. "This isn't working anymore, I need to focus on my job and you are distracting me. It was funny while it lasted. I wish your career goes good as well"

I can do better than him, a stupid driver.

When I walked out of the room, with the purse hanging on my shoulder, the hair down and the red dress hugging my body, I felt confident. I knew I can get over him.

"Wow, Juliette!" Valerie gasped when she saw me walk inside the big room with some of the important guests. "I told you that dress looked amazing on you. Red has always been your color"

"You are right" I smile, somehow sure of myself, believing my own words. "It looks better on me"

🏎️

The moment Pierre asked me to be his best man I didn't waste any second to say yes. Even if I knew that he wanted another person to be his best man, someone that is not longer with us, I said yes immediately.

"I know what you are thinking" Pierre sighed patting my back. "He'll be with me there, but I need my best friend right now and I need it that day too. Tonio would be so glad that you'll be there for me"

"I know, but..." I sighed, taking a deep breath. "I'll go, I promise you I'll be there. But right now I just realized that it's only you and I that's left from that group of innocent kids that only wanted to drive and have fun"

"Come on dude, don't talk like if Esteban is dead!" Pierre laughed. "We have arguments, we're no longer friends... but he was on the pictures too and he's still in this world"

"You idiot" I laughed rolling my eyes.

My best friend is going to get married. He's still with the girl he met when he finished high school and now they will spend the rest of their lives together, form a family.

I promised that to someone long time ago. I promised that I would be there for her and that I'll let her be there for me.

"You know, Valerie asked her to sing" Pierre sighed iling weakly at me.

"Huh? Who?" I frown, being taken out of my thoughts.

"You know who" he sighed.

"Oh... That's cool" I nodded. "Cool, cool, cool, cool... Yeah, all cool"

"When was the last time you saw her?" he sighed closing his eyes.

"You know the answer of that" I said looking down at my lap.

The last time I saw her I tried to not look at her. I walked inside her apartment and stayed there for less than five minutes, hearing her heart break and walking out of it before she talked. I had to be heartless, leave for her and my own good.

"You are so coward, dude" he sighed shaking his head in disapproval.

"I did what I had to do" I frowned looking at him. "Plus, her own career was starting to grow and I couldn't be distracted because of her"

I saw Pierre shaking his head disappointed, patting my back and walking away. I already know what he's thinking, that I shouldn't let her go.

I still remember how I felt when I walked out of her apartment, how the tears were blurrying my eyes and I had to take a deep breath and wait an hour to start driving to my own apartment. I still remember how I felt when I heard the song that made her fame grow, those three letters of the title laughing at me knowing damn well that she wrote that song pouring all her heard on it.

The next months of preparations of Pierre's wedding were intense. The season was still going on, since he planned getting married on our summer break in August, so we had to plan everything on the time we had free, making it easy for us since we spent most of the time together.

It was only the week before his wedding when her name came to my mind.

Juliette Morelli. Valerie's best friend. And my ex.

Pierre told me she was going to sing on their first dance, that she was going to be at the dinner rehearsal and that she was going to stay in the villa the whole weekend.

"You just have to not go on her way" I said talking to myself in the mirror on my own room of the villa. "Try to ignore her. Maybe after all this years she won't recognize me, right? Yeah, yeah, she won't recognize me"

I have to focus on the rehearsal. I need to work along side with Valerie's sister to coordinate everything and make sure that the flower girl is comfortable and I have to make sure that I don't lose the rings. Easy peasy.

But that focus slipped away from my mind the moment I walked inside the big room, with a small group of guests, and I saw a red dress.

But what unfocused me wasn't the dress. Was who was wearing it.

"Oh, I finally found you" Pierre said and looked at me, then who I was looking at. "And you found her"

"Does she know I'm here?" I asked, not taking my eyes off of her.

She's so much more beautiful than before. More mature. Oh God, how much I missed her laugh, how she played with her hair when she was feeling comfortable and relaxed.

"Earth to Charles" Pierre said nervous. "Come on dude, this is about to start and you are just staring to your ex. That's creepy, by the way"

"Shut up, mate!" I exclaimed, shutting him up covering his mouth with my hand. "Don't you dare to tell her I'm here. I'll make sure that she never sees me and in that way none of us will know about the other this whole weekend. Okay?"

Pierre nodded and then I let him go, looking at him carefully.

Juliette can't know that I'm here, I'm not ready to talk with her. After all those years I'm not ready to face her and even hear her voice, even if all this time I have heard her songs.

"Come on, everything is going to start" Valerie's sister came towards me, taking me out of my thoughts.

I nodded and took a deep breath, standing in my position and looking at the door, ignoring the need of searching that red dress between the people that was there. I can't look at her, I really can't.

But then I heard it. A gasp. And not of Pierre looking how Valerie walked towards him practicing how she will do it tomorrow, not the parents of the flower girl walking in with her little basket and doing like if she threw petals.

No. The person that gasped was the person I wanted to avoid. The one I hurt the most in this room. The one that right now is standing and walking out of the room, the red dress walking out of the room.

"Good job trying to avoid her, Leclerc" Pierre whispered looking back at me. "Another one of your plans working perfectly bad"

[chairofchaos]

The Worst Love Letter Ever Written | Nyxlin

A/N: guys I did a writing sprint and chaos happened. I don't even know what to say. It's been too long. Enjoy whatever the fuck this is.

Dear Nyx,

I would imagine this strikes you as a little unsettling. The family history is admittedly less than ideal. In fact, I would argue it is entirely inadvisable for us to court, regardless of the Mother’s decision to mate us. 

Against all reason, I must say I desire to see you again. I failed in my courtship with your mother, it is true. And the failure was, in part, hers. But the failure was also mine. I failed to see how she needed me to be present. I failed to see where I was failing. For lack of a better word, failure abounds. 

Against my better judgement, I desire you. Carnally, even. Though I would shudder to know how you would feel, assuming you are familiar with my courtship with your mother. 

This is a terrible idea, isn’t it?

Despite these things, despite my unending anger at your parents, your mother especially for her treatment of my court, and your father for being… himself… I must say I cannot see a life as enjoyable as one with you by my side.

Perhaps my hatred of them will one day be overshadowed by the love we can share. For it is, in fact, love that I have for you. You must see how eloquent we could be together: the prince of night and the lord of spring, united in splendor. As horrified as I was at the realization of our mating bond, I think our courts’ history shows that you cannot argue with fate. It is a horrid fact that we must not ignore: ignoring one another would only lead to pain. For example, I assume you could look to your aunt. That was a terrible situation.

We shouldn’t ignore what fate designates, no matter how distasteful it may seem. I have to say, I can’t be displeased by your attractive qualities: wit, a symmetrical face, a terribly good sense of political intelligence, and a charm which rivals Helion’s smile. You are by far my favorite person to hate. And it is said by some that love and hate are separated only by a thin line. Perhaps we will find that to be the case. Regardless, I must propose.

Will you join me in Spring? At least until your parents have passed, I can imagine you would find it safer here. Should they disown you, I can provide stability and support. Should they not, well, you wouldn’t need their support anyways. Your mother’s actions before your birth did not harm my court so much as cause an opportunity for growth. It has been rather fortuitous, as we have grown more than we would have otherwise, and now find ourselves a primary trading partner of Monteserre. 

You would find benefit to being in residence here for the duration of our courtship. I would say to expect a spring wedding, but as it is always spring, perhaps a calendar date should best be set. (You do enjoy jokes, don’t you?)

When you arrive in spring, please don’t hesitate to explore. Your presence is expected, whenever you choose to arrive.

From now until you inevitably abandon me out of misguided love,

Tamlin

[x0x0josephinex0x0]

svt reaction: the one who got away | part 1 hyung line version

this v angsty request is from @f4iryjjosh and IT HURT MY SOUL TO WRITE hahahaha thank you so much for the request angel <3 i hope it fulfills all ur desires! (part 2 coming soon :))

the idea is that SVT breaks up with y/n after meeting someone else and falling for them, and then realizing they made a huge mistake, but you've moved on and there's nothing they can really do about it. it is all angst and pain. there is no relief.

seungcheol. he hated hearing his full name from anyone's lips, and he should've hated it even more coming from the lips that he'd be dreaming about for ages. but for some reason, in your voice, it made him smile. even after all this time.

and that smile, the one where he looked at you with his big shining eyes like you'd saved his life or restored his family honor, was almost enough to make you forget everything that had happened between you.

almost.

as it was, you gave him a soft smile back. "hey," you said. "you okay?"

a thousand thoughts pass through his mind at once -- you in his arms, you sighing his name, you breaking down in tears in your best dress in the restaurant where he broke your heart, you you you. god knows all the ways he’s thought about you, in spite of himself, with an alcohol burn to the back of his throat or stone-cold sober. some mistakes stick around, and what he said to you that night is undoubtedly the clingiest one he’s ever made. he knew it then, and he knows it now — seeing your face, however hesitant or worried you might look, is enough for him to know he’s still dead gone over you.

he shakes himself back to reality. "yeah," he says. "i'm okay. you look...great. happy."

"i am," you reply, and he notices, like a knife to his chest, you playing with a glittering ring on your finger, a nervous habit.

"is that --" he says, pointing, "what i think it is?"

you look down at your hand. "oh, yeah!" you exclaim, and despite yourself you smile broadly. "yeah, it is. um, it's pretty new, though. just happened last week."

"does he treat you right?" seungcheol asks, his eyes serious, his tone sharper than he intended. he'll know if you're lying, he always does.

so when you nod, thinking about the man you'll marry, about how he's sweet and gentle and knows how to pull a smile out of you on your very worst days, seungcheol's heart breaks a little more. because he knows it’s true, which means it’s all really over. the fire that kept your relationship with him alive has burned out, and he's the only one with any ashes left to spare.

he musters a smile as well. "good. i'm happy for you. well, it was good seeing you again," he says, turning away. and he curses his eyes for stinging, because he knew if you saw him cry you'd feel guilty, but after everything he put you through, you deserve to just be happy -- happy and nothing else -- for once.

jeonghan it was gradual for him, but it could be traced back to a very specific moment: when he found that letter from you, the one you’d written in class before you’d ever decided to mean anything to each other:

“date me?” it read, with two checkboxes, yes or no. jeonghan remembers how he checked the box labeled “yes” with a crisp black pen to hand back to you, and the look in your eyes when you unfolded it, and the smiles on both of your faces after you’d made out in the boys’ bathroom on the second floor like a couple of love-drunk highschoolers.

that note had heralded feelings jeonghan was desperate to ignore. he had ended it with you. his life was a carefully orchestrated set of advantageous events. he was always the one in control, and he never, ever lost.

so why did he feel like the world’s most pathetic loser whenever he saw that stupid note?

in the end, he’d had to do some serious soul-searching to determine why he even cared so much. he’d been bored, he determined — bored because you were so easy to be around, bored because you never made him feel unsafe or unloved, bored because loving you wasn’t a game he could play to win.

even now, as he stared at the note in his hands, crumpled with the years, jeonghan fought off the urge to call you. he lurked on social media and saw you traveling, eating, living like you’d always wanted to live. just a week prior he’d nearly cried at a picture of you in front of a castle somewhere in Germany, your arms outstretched like you were ready to hug the whole world. it was so you — the castle, the pose, the huge smile in the photo, even the windswept hair. and it hurt so much to see how beautiful you still were.

and a part of him knew that if he called, you would come back for him. because that was who you were.

so he never called, even as he burned with a thousand regrets for all the things he’d done wrong. selfish as he might be, he wasn’t monstrous enough to rob you of a life that was fuller without him in it.

joshua. you really never could be mad at joshua. not even when your relationship was staggering to its painful end, not even when you both knew that it wasn't working, not even when he broke up with you and started dating someone he'd told you not to worry about.

and not now, when you've run into him at a restaurant, right around the two-year mark of the breakup. you weren't in a great place when you'd started dating joshua, and the relationship had brought out the very worst in you, prompting a long period of self-improvement following the breakup.

now, you're in an amazing place, so much so that you're actually happy to see joshua here -- still with the girl he left you for, but looking preoccupied until you called his name and he met your eyes.

his eyes light up. "hi!" he says. "wow, it's you!"

"it is," you say, smiling. "how are things?"

he hesitates, and your heart sinks. you can tell that he hasn't done as well post-breakup as you have, and where the past you would've been a little smug about that, now you just feel compassionate. "things are crazy," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

because in truth, joshua's looking at you, and though his hand is on the knee of the woman he thought would be better for him than you were, he's wishing he could stand up and hug you. here you are, just like in his memories but better, because your eyes are bright with life and your brows aren't knit together in worry like they always seemed to be when you were together.

joshua knew the relationship you'd had with him had been really hard on you. and he understood the reasons why it didn't work. you had been so insecure you couldn't see your own appeal, and joshua had been burnt out trying to prove it to you. and he could see that he'd made the right choice -- for you, at least.

because for him, every time he looked into the eyes of the woman he was with now, he wished they were yours.

this was an admission he couldn't make to himself until you were there in front of him, in a way he'd only let himself imagine after his lover was asleep next to him and he was drifting off himself.

and oh, it burns.

he doesn't say anything about it now -- that's going to have to wait for later, at home, where things are going to need to be said. but for now, he greets you politely, watching you leave after a bout of small talk that taught him nothing at all about where you ended up after he broke your heart. and he wonders vaguely if he'll ever, ever, ever forgive himself.

the odds aren't good.

junhui. "hey stranger," he says, and even after all the time and everything that has passed between the two of you, it still makes you ache a little.

but you muster a smile, a little wave. "hey jun."

"you're here for work?" it's not really a question he's asking, because you know he already knows that that's why you're on this particular street.

"yeah," you say anyway. "and you? what brings you here?"

he smiles to himself. "just needed some fresh air."

he'll never tell you that it's because he's been religiously coming here since you blocked his number two years ago, hoping this very thing would happen.

"how have you been?" you ask him, and he fights back memories of the times he spent without you, with someone else, knowing that if he remembers them it'll show on his face.

"good," he lies. never mind that at the back of his closet is a hoodie he let you borrow, and it's hidden back there because it still smells like you. never mind that he's been spending day after day in this same stupid alley where you film those same videos for your job, hoping that you'll show up so he can see you. "and you?"

"i'm happier than ever," you tell him.

and you look it. you look happy. happier than you were with him.

with a funny feeling in his stomach, jun turns away from you with a little wave. "well, it was good to see you again. i'm glad you're happy."

he'll never come back to this street again.

soongyoung. "what are you doing here?" asks soonyoung with wide eyes.

you gesture to the man at your side. "i'm here on a date, actually," you say. and oh, thank goodness you look good, and your date (who is your longtime boyfriend, actually) looks good, because, well, soonyoung also looks good. and you're glad you've run into him at an opportune moment for you.

"oh," he says, looking at the man beside you. "uh, you must be..."

"my boyfriend," you finish for him. "this is soonyoung," you say to your boyfriend.

your boyfriend gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. he's heard all about the man who broke your heart into a thousand pieces, leaving him to pick up all the pieces and put them back together again. he doesn't mind doing it, but because of how badly you were hurt, he has spent more time than he'd like to admit wishing you'd never met the man in front of him right now. "hi," he says, shaking soonyoung's hand.

"hi," soonyoung says breathlessly. "wow, uh...nice to meet you. i'm, well..."

"my ex," you say with a smile. "it's okay. he knows."

of course he knows, soonyoung thinks to himself. of course you had to have had the discussion about how your previous boyfriend fell out of love with you.

or thought he had.

"how's ... um... i don't remember their name," you admit, trying to recall the person soonyoung had left you for.

"it didn't work out between us," he says quickly. "we broke up six months ago."

"oh," you say. "i'm sorry."

it's awkward now, the three of you standing there staring at each other, so you grab your boyfriend's hand. "well, it was good seeing you," you say as you pull him away.

you have a nice dinner with your boyfriend and even laugh over the encounter later. but soonyoung is haunted for months. because he noticed how safe and easy it was between you and your boyfriend, and it reminded him of how you used to act with him before he messed everything up.

wonwoo. as cautious and careful as wonwoo always was about everything, regret was not a common experience for him. so it was quite the shock when he found himself filled with it night after night following his split from the person he left you for.

when he'd broken up with you, you'd sincerely wished him well, and promised he'd never see you again if he didn't want to. and two years later, you'd kept that promise, never reaching out to him, never begging him for an explanation he didn't want to give, never worrying him with memories of the two of you when you'd been happy.

and this had been part of the reason why he'd broken up with his new girlfriend -- he kept remembering how unobtrusive you were. the way you fit into his life like a puzzle piece made for him. and even now, as he rereads all the passionately hateful texts his now-ex spams his phone with, he remembers you.

it's been forever since he unfollowed you on social media, but he looks you up all the same. he almost follows you again, almost likes your most recent post of you out with some friends, but thinks better of it.

you were so fair to him, so up-front and honest about everything. how unkind it would be, he thinks, to dredge up the past when you look so happy. how unpleasant for you, to be reminded of someone who hurt you so deeply.

so he shuts off his phone and sinks into bed, allowing the regret to wash over him like a wave.

jihoon. explaining that he'd fallen out of love with you was the second most exhausting task of jihoon's entire life. the most exhausting one, it turns out, was staying in a relationship with the person he'd left you for while pesky reminders of you kept flooding his brain.

after yet-another fight with his current partner, jihoon lies awake in bed, his jaw clenched, as he remembers how you'd make up with him after a fight, crawling into bed beside him and kissing his cheeks and whispering "i'm sorry", sometimes through tears, until he'd turn and embrace you back.

his current partner never apologizes or even admits any responsibility at all. as he lays there remembering how it felt to have your face buried in his neck, he comes to the shocking realization that he wishes it was you beside him still.

because with you, he knew he could always tap you on the shoulder and beat you to an apology, and it would be immediately forgiven. the guilt of having broken a heart like that is too overwhelming for him, and he suddenly needs to talk to you like he needs air in his lungs to live.

so he silently slides from bed, picks up his cell phone, and leaves the room. he dials your number from memory, having deleted it from his phone.

"your call cannot be completed as dialed," the voice says. he blinks and tries again. same response. it occurs to him that you may have blocked him for your own sanity, and the guilt intensifies, turning into tears he hates almost as much as he hates himself.

he spends the rest of the night with his phone in his hand, looking for any traces of you that may be left in the photos and memories there.

[sabo-has-my-heart]

Hi. How are you? Can you please do a Sabo x Female Reader Fluff with a little angst. The reader is Ace’s widow (and childhood sweetheart) and Sabo goes to find her and protect her but falls in love like when he was a kid again.

Hey, so... this turned out a bit angstier than I intended, but it still had a happy ending, I promise!

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending

Word Count: 1340

    Staring out at the water, you let your mind wander. You missed him so much, you wished he was still here, still with you. Part of you, part of you, understood why he died. He was saving his little brother. But you couldn’t help but be mad at him too. If he’d just kept running, if he’d just ignored Akainu. Tears ran down your cheeks as you continued to stare out at the water, only to be startled out of your thoughts when one gloved hand rested on your shoulder, and another began wiping away tears. 

     “I know you miss him, I do too, but he wouldn’t want you to dwell on what happened like this.” Sabo said softly, giving you a soft, comforting smile.

     “I… I know, but I just… from the moment… after you… he was always there for me. He held me as I cried, made me laugh when I was down, protected me even if I didn’t need it. Sabo, he… he was my everything.” you said, more tears beginning to stream down your face, Sabo pulling you close, one hand on the back of your head, the other around your waist as he let you cry into his chest. It reminded you so much of Ace. Ace, who would wrap one arm around your waist and one around your shoulders as you cried into his bare chest. Ace, who would say ‘hey, watch this!’ before doing something reckless, dangerous, and stupid but always helped your mood. Ace, who would beg Thatch to cook your favorite for no other reason than to make you smile. Clinging to Sabo’s clothing, you let yourself cry, let yourself mourn. Looking out at the ocean that you had just been staring at, Sabo made a silent promise to himself and his brother. He would protect you from now on. He would protect you, care for you, bring the smile back to your lips, he would never take Ace’s place, but he would be there for you like Ace had been.

     It didn’t take long for Sabo to remember his old feelings for you. Despite how you’d changed over the years, despite your grief over Ace, you were still you. You were still the same girl he and Ace fought over as kids. Not that you knew they were fighting over you, but they did. Part of him wished he could have been there, growing up with the two of you. Continuing his rivalry with Ace to win your heart, watching Luffy grow up, hunting, training, everything. He didn’t regret joining the RA, but he also wished he could have been there for his brothers, been there for you. His only solace was that he could be there for you now, that he could do something for you now. The two of you spent a lot of time talking, reminiscing, telling him stories. You told him about everything that had happened between his ‘death’ and Ace’s death. Told him about setting sail with his brother and joining Ace’s crew, about how you started dating and how you got married. It was so good to hear about Ace. Robin had told him about Luffy, but no one had told him about Ace and hearing about his brother felt so good, if not simultaneously painful. True to his silent vow, he did everything in his power to take care of you. He made you smile, gave you a shoulder to cry on, and always looked out for you. Whenever he had to leave on a mission, you were nearby; perhaps not in the direct line of fire like he was, but close enough that you wouldn’t have to spend weeks and weeks without him. 

     Sabo couldn’t help but stare at you, smiling dreamily, his head in his hand. He knew you had been his brother’s girl, that falling for you probably wasn’t the best idea in the world, but how could he help himself when you were just so… you? Okay, yes, he felt terrible for falling for his dead brother’s girl, and yes, he’d tried not to, but just like when you were kids, you’d wormed your way into his heart, seemingly without effort. Despite his attraction to you, he continued to tell himself not to do anything. No making moves, no flirting, no touching outside of comfort and friendly hugs, absolutely not! Granted, everyone saw it, or at least, everyone who wasn’t you saw it. They saw the looks, the barely restrained affection, the hidden frustration. He never let you see it though, if you saw the way he looked at you, at his brother’s girl, all he could think was that you’d be furious with him. Angry at him for loving you when his brother, the love of your life, was gone. Shaking himself out of his thoughts and daydreams, he looked away. Besides, he had other things he needed to worry about right now. He’d gotten a lead on Ace’s devil fruit, something he wouldn’t let anyone else have. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to you.

     “Hey, I uh, I’ve got a mission coming up, you’re free to come with  if you’d like, but I was gonna… I was gonna visit Ace so I thought, if you’re not ready-” “I want to come with. I… I haven’t seen him in… a while.” you said, cutting the boy off. The last time you’d been there was when he was buried, when you placed a bouquet of hibiscus flowers on his grave. 

     Looking down at Ace’s grave marker, you couldn’t help but fidget nervously. You’d asked Sabo for a moment alone. 

     “Hey Sweetheart. It’s… it’s me. I’m still here, uh, sort of. I know I’m not here a lot, but Sabo’s been taking care of me…. I miss you so much.” you took a deep breath, rubbing some tears away, “I… I feel bad, my love. When we were younger, I knew about how you both felt about me. You thought you hid it, but I knew about your rivalry…. I… I never chose because I didn’t know who to choose. You were both so great in your own ways. Both energetic, both strong, brave, and protective. Whether or not you’d admit it, you both cared a great deal and it showed. Yet so different at the same time. You were impulsive, brash, angry, and, well… a little violent. Sabo was intelligent, sweet, thoughtful, and charismatic. When we thought Sabo died, my decision was sort of made for me. I liked you both but Sabo was gone. Don’t… don’t hate me, please. Wherever you are, please don’t hate me for falling for him. All the feelings I had when we were young… I’m so sorry.” you put your hand over your mouth, muffling a small sob. You’d fallen for the blond, “I still love you so, so much, that’ll never change. But I love him too.” a warm breeze tousled your hair and caressed your cheek, making you smile, “I’ll try and visit more often, I promise and I’ll make sure Sabo takes good care of your devil fruit.” you said, kissing your fingers before pressing them against the top of the gravestone. With that, you turned around, joining Sabo as you headed back to the ship, slowly, gently taking his hand in yours. From his spot, crouched on top of the stone, Ace smiled as he watched you and Sabo walk away. Sabo would take good care of you, he’d love you just like Ace had, there was no one he trusted more with your heart than his brother. 

     “Take care of her for me, Sabo. I’m trusting you to love her just as much as I did.” the black haired boy said as he watched you look out at the sea with Sabo, your head resting on his shoulder. Sabo would take good care of you just as Ace had, because he loved you just as much as Ace had and you loved them. You loved both of them.

[neverchecking]

Oh my godddd I love your writing sm

And I also love @welcometothefairgrounds , I am her 🧚‍♀️ anon. May is a lovely person

If you’re doing requests, could I get yandere time? My daddy issues are calling lmao

If not feel free to ignore, I got too excited and forgot to read lmao

- @fairly-linked-buffet (don’t want this on my sfw acc and tumblr is being dumb so here)

I love her sm! She is honestly a gem. I'm glad to have someone from her page here with us! And don't worry! Requests are currently open so you're all good!

Some Father Time to bless your day, Darling~

I really liked how this one came out so I hope you do too! Personally, one line in this- Idk, it hit me and I wrote it and I still am just :O everytime I read it.

(IDK if I got his sword right??? I think I did, but idk-)

CW: Just some disturbing imagery, but it is Yandere!

Anything

Warrior's Hyrule was just as nice as it was last time he was here. The people still bustled as they always did, calling out demands, or bargaining for a better price, maybe haggling over a trade. It kept the streets busy and full, foot traffic flowing in every which way. Exactly why Time needed to keep an eye on you at all times. Not only an eye, but a hand. Your fingers, delicate and slim, were kept interwoven with his own, feeling so soft against his calloused digits.

Every bit of you was so soft when compared to him. From your gentle movements as you walked, with the sway of your hips and head, to the calculated movements of your hands whenever you patched him up, not that he ever wished for any blood, let alone his, to sully your perfect skin. It always pained him whenever you had to see him injured in any capacity. The pinch in your browns and the furrow of your lips, all of it enough to make him internally panic before trying to fix it. Having you upset in any capacity was enough to poison his mood. He was built and formed to be a weapon of destruction, unbeatable and a figure invincible to anything thrown at him. A weapon fit to protect only the finest of jewels bestowed upon humanity. You. He was convinced he was put on this wretched world for you. To protect and love and cherish someone as soft as you. Till his dying breath and even then he would be hard-fought to not crawl out of his grave to ensure your safety.

All of that to say, he kept your hand clasped tightly in his with no intention of letting go. Not when the risk of you getting lost, or run over or goddess forbid hurt was too high. While he was more than happy to escort you wherever your heart desired, he was not willing to risk your wellbeing in any way, shape or form. That was too far beyond what he could allow. At least when he was with you while you went from stall to stall, he could watch over you. He could use his stature and his attitude to ensure your safety.

Time knew he was tall. And Built. And looking every bit a soldier the other knights of this time wished they could be. And he knew how to use it. He knew how to angle himself in a way to shadow over anyone who thought they could fool you into spending three times what the object was worth. He knew how to set his jaw and level his brows to...dissuade any possible passerby's from leering at you. He knew how to be intimidating to anyone but you.

Sweet, perfect you who saw through all of his defenses and touched him like he was a porcelain figure. Like he was capable of laying down his weapons and being a regular civilian. Like he was nothing more than the man you proclaimed him to be.

Like he was not a pagan of war but rather a child of peace.

It's what made you so perfect for him. Someone so akin to a saint saw something worthy of loving in him and clung to it. And he'd be damned before letting your love go to waste. Why waste it when he could use it to live? Live for someone, something, other than himself and that damned duty bestowed upon him. That destiny he was cursed with by that fraud of a Goddess. Why waste his time and feelings on hating the circumstances placed around him by a fake, when he could devote his being to his real goddess?

That's not to say everyone else saw you the same way he did though. He saw you as an otherworldly being worthy of his respect above all else.

Apparently that went above other pests comprehension though.

Time had been keeping an eye on him the whole time, with his greasy, clicked back hair and sunken eyes. Looking every bit a rat Time thought him as. He slithered about like a worm as well, watching you and your every step. Nothing seemed to deter him. Not any of the glare's Time shot him, not any of the ways he stepped as to cut off his view from you, not the Biggoron sword clunking against his hip in an unsaid, but no less serious, threat.

He just wouldn't let up.

He even looked brave enough to consider approaching you, one foot stepping past the shadows of the stalls and alleyways.

Kill him.

He need to take care of him. Take him away from you before he could sully your divine form. He could feel the power of the unspeakable buzz beneath his skin as he stepped closer.

KiLl HiM.

He could do it. He could easily do it. Take care of the pest. Drag him behind one of alleyways after finding one of the boys to look after you for the time while he took care of this degenerate.

KILL HIM.

It would be elementary. He had probably faced Bokoblins that put up more of a fight than he would. He was short and stout, something Time's own broad form shadowed at least twice over.

KILL HIM

His sword would just slice right through his flimsy flesh, painting his surroundings a dark red as his worthless body slumped to the ground, before being left to the wolves to pick apart. He doubted even those feral beasts would touch such a slimy creature such as this merchant, who was still inching closer.

KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMHESGETTINGTOOCLOSEKILLHIM

Just as his hand raised to the hilt of his sword, your hand, perfect and soft and light and grounding, settled on his forearm. "Ooh, look, Time!" Your eyes, gorgeous pools of every color he saw in his dreams, were alight with excitement as you remained completely oblivious to the stray in the background. "There's a bakery! Can we go, please?" You then turned your pout to him, melting his fiery rage into a simmering pool.

It wouldn't disappear, oh no, but it would be lowered from a boiling rage, full of livid restlessness and cold turmoil, to a stewing annoyance. Something he would nurture and let grow into a full fledged plan to dispose of this creature. It no longer had to be quick, not anymore, now it could be a slow and painful demise worthy of daring to creep on his Goddess.

He smiled, that special smile just for you, as he used his free hand to gently angle your chin upward to meet his eye just a little more. "Of course, darling, your wish is my command." If only you knew what you could wish from him. What he would do to ensure it came true.

Anything to see you smile.

(Anything. Including sneaking off in the late of night, nodding to Wars and Twilight, who were on watch, and disappearing into the night.)

(Anything. Including breaking into a non-assuming house, full of dust and mold, vines crawling up the sides. Doing so practically silently.)

(Anything. Including pulling out the Biggoron sword and holding it high enough the moonlight reflected off of it just enough to gently light up his target. )

(Anything. Including plunging the tip of his blade into their shoulder to pin them to their stack of hay and blankets, holding a hand over their screaming mouth as they shot to the conscious world.)

(Anything. Including spending the late hours making sure this filth understood exactly where he went wrong. Exactly why this was happening. Making him think he had a chance at life. Making him believe that Time would let him go. Only to snuff that pathetic life away with just enough time to clean up and get back to you.)

(Anything. You just had to wish it.)

[heartstringsduet]

Hi there! If you don't mind me coming to TK's defense in the fight, and specifically the issue of how he seemed so harsh. And I agree that there's a bit of an assumption on TK's part thatCarlos would support his decision. So from what I saw TK didn't really get mad until Carlos brought up his father and the search for his killer. And I think also a better way to approach him doing that would have been to try and reason with him that he has to be able to see an end to things that might not be him catching the killer, most people do because they aren't cops. But I can see how TK has already been here for a year and a half with Carlos. And he has been supportive, he only asked for therapy when it started affecting their marriage and even then he didn't ask Carlos to give up the case. So now he's the one in crisis (not the same of course) and he's looking for that support and its not there. Instead Carlos seems to be insisting TK live with him in that grief of Gabriel's death until he's ready to move on, the "and it always will be" line, and that's not fair either. Sadly crisis rarely line up so that one person has fully processed everything when the next one hits. And for TK's POV it looks like Carlos is willing to let his little brother, a living person, be shipped off to be raised an ocean away, in the name of Carlos getting closure on a dead person, the whole future versus the past thing. And I could see why this would set him off so strongly. I don't think he's ignoring this painful subject in Carlos's life, he hasn't for the past year and a half, but he is saying in this instance he has his own needs and he's putting them first. This is just me imagining TK's POV, I don't think that's what Carlos was saying really but maybe he didn't think what he said through to the end very well. Does that make sense??

Also I totally agree with you on the Wyatt and "doing right by Julio" nonsense. I really hate when this show goes all out on the copaganda to justify questionable behavior. And if it wasn't for the specific "make things right" line used I might be able to see what Carlos did in a more favorable light. But Wyatt didn't do anything wrong, he actually did a really amazing job under pressure, and he shouldn't be made to feel this is something he owes the cops, or Julio, or anyone. I do know the show tends to do this and its why I always have to brace for episodes like this. And yeah, killing a bunch of people shouldn't be viewed as "making things right", I don't care who they are.

Hi <3 This is gonna be an ESSAY. I apologize in advance. Whoever has time to read all this...wow 😂 First of all, I don't mind anyone writing me with an opinion as long as it isn't racist/queerphobic/etc. So all good. I think it's super fair to want to talk about an issue and I will reply whenever I have the bandwidth 💕 Also, as someone who's not a native English speaker, I will not try to nail you down on word choices. But I think if you meant it literally, coming to 'Tk's defense' at least with me isn't necessary at all. My criticisms toward him or Carlos are never an attack on them and having a different opinion or coming at something from another angle is just that. No defense necessary. If that makes sense??? I hope that doesn't come off as condescending I'm just hoping that the implication of people criticising or stating opinions is taken less and less as an attack in general. Because fandom often falls in such a binary. Good vs. Bad. And I don't prescribe to that in life or fiction. All of this to say, I think you make really valid points for why TK feels that way. I agree to certain extends. TK for sure has had to struggle with watching his husband be consumed with work and his father's death. And even if Gabriel had died of natural courses, it is TOUGH supporting a partner. It surely was tough for Carlos to support TK in season 3. And that is a struggle you are willing to take when you love someone but it takes a toll nonetheless. BUT: narratively, what Lone Star gave us was this: therapy - resolution through a compromise with the box - Carlos helping with the barn - gigantic birthday party Carlos seemed to have organized or at least was heavily involved in and present for and THEEEEN - TK not communicating well. In real life, issues like that are so messy and take forever to be resolved. Ngl, I've been hurt about some things a lot less severe for yearrrs. And I go to therapy too lol. But Lone Star's short season and pacing and cramming all of this in one now leads to this narrative to feel so jumbles because we as viewers can guess that the issue wasn't resolved for TK. How could it be?

But to give us two episodes of only seeing them happy and united again and then have TK not talk about adopting Jonah with Carlos first? THAT for me is the issue. Not TK being snappy and being upset when Carlos brings up Gabriel. Despite not seeing the on-screen struggle of it continue, that still made sense to me. I don't see that to be the reason why TK sprung the Jonah thing on Carlos like that. And he DID spring it on Carlos. That is human and again, don't mind him not finding the perfect words. But S4 established Carlos as someone who said he might not want kids. That's where we left things off. Jonah challenges that. That is super fair. I honestly have a case like that in my family I won't go into details for, but when I was 20, I was very briefly considering taking care of a toddler despite the circumstances being very very bad. It resolved in another way, but still, I have an idea what it's like to have family crisis and beign forced into making that tough decision. TK is so valid in wanting to take care of Jonah. And not thinking through logistics like Carlos would have. He is a very heart-first person. I was still surprised why they made the dialogue as it is because TK gives NO room for Carlos to weigh in. Yes, it could be clear to TK that he won't allow his brother to be raised by an institution and Carlos would likely agree. But to not even consider asking Carlos if he is okay with it? To take that agency from him? I don't think that's right and maybe we will disagree on that. It's a HUMAN BEING. And Jonah would deserve better than to have one of the men raising him not be in it 100%. That's the reason I don't want kids. I don't think it's fair t be wishy-washy about a child. "and he's looking for that support and its not there. Instead Carlos seems to be insisting TK live with him in that grief of Gabriel's death until he's ready to move on, the "and it always will be" line, and that's not fair either." -I don't think Carlos is insisting anything. I think the scene was too brief even to get into what Carlos wants more than it showed us what Carlos FEARS. He fears he wouldn't be able to raise a kid right now. And I think that has only partially to do with Gabriel's murder. Again, even in s4 he doesn't think he's ready. Give that man a minute to come to terms with maybe having to adopt, or lose TK. That's what it boils down to. Being in a crisis, dealing with trauma, and your life changing basically forever. You can logically support TK 100% but you can't deny how someone saying: "Hi babe we'll be dads now" isn't going to make you panic. Hell, someone dropping a dog in front of my door would make me panic. A full on child. AH. And TK didn't go about asking for support. He demanded it. He didn't allow another path. And Carlos in turn said: I don't know if I can cross that line for my own needs and sanity. Controversial opinion but even the best relationship would not make me cross certain boundaries and I don't think that should be the norm. TK said he accepted Carlos not wanting to be a father. The circumstances are so out of norm that he now brings it back up and has to be insistent. I just wish he would acknowledge that this is not something Carlos can do easily. I texted Mar that TK starting the dialogue off differently would have changed the entire thing for me. Like something similar to. ""I'm looking at adoption lawyers because Enzo wants to send him to a boarding school and I don't think I can watch that happen."" - Shows that TK is struggling with that himself at least. Still disregarding what Carlos would say but it leaves the door open just a little more to show a conflict and Carlos might have not felt as bulldozed. Others would surely write it even better. This is already so fucking long .... Feel like I would all get this out a lot better if I wrote a fic about it ngl. I'm so sorry if this is jumbled and messy. I promise you I take your words in good faith.