#I’ve been trying to be patient with myself the last few days

[floral-hex]

I just get so tired of waking up every day and having to claw my way up to some emotional baseline

[rosegolden13]

Hardware store owner!John Price drabble <3

He’s on his smoke break in his office in the back, window open to let in the cool evening breeze and let out the stink of cigar. Store’s been slow today, but that’s no surprise for a random weekday.

Gaz and Soap are messing around out front, their voices carrying into his office from the cracked open door. No doubt they’re playing their makeshift version of floor hockey with a roll of duct tape as a puck and the yard sticks as sticks. Normally, he’d tell them off, but with no customers in, he let them have their fun. It would be closing time soon anyways.

The mechanical ring signalling the arrival of a customer is familiar enough that he tunes it out entirely. It isn’t until that sweet chirping filters through his door that he finds the need to immediately tap out his barely finished cigar, despite the fact that both Gaz and Soap are free to help you. Those muppets don’t know about the leaky sink you’ve been struggling with or the marigolds you’re desperate to help bloom. He needs to be there. It’s only reasonable.

His pace quickens a bit when he hears how your voice seems to be laced with anxiety, words spilling into one another. By the time he gets to the front, Soap has got his palms up, clearly trying to placate you like you’re a spooked horse. 

“Poison?! I-I don’t want to kill them!” You’re wringing your hands, stress palpable, as your bracelets clash against one another on your wrist. And this is what he’s been waiting for since you last came in, another chance to help his favorite girl.

Gaz is moving towards you as if to reach out a hand to place on your arm, but before he can, John’s heavy hand is on your shoulder, standing just behind you. “I’ve got this one, boys. Start cleaning up for me, will ya?”

Gaz and Soap exchange knowing smirks as they head off with a simple “sure thing, cap’n” and a “you got it, Price”. You’re looking up at him and he has to fight back the rush of pride that flows through him when he catches the relief in your expression. 

His thumb absently runs over the fabric of your flowy pink top, feeling your warmth through the thin fabric. “What’s the problem, doll? Never seen ya worked up like this.”

“John, oh, thank God. There’s mice in my attic- a whole family of them. I really wouldn’t mind, but there’s droppings everywhere. Animal control told me to call the exterminator. But I couldn’t live with myself if I had to- They’re only looking for a warm place to stay!” The words are a rush from your glossed lips, his hand rubbing over your shoulder the whole time and then squeezing gently once you’re done. 

God, you’re adorable. This passionate over the lives of a few woodland critters. He’s never flinched at bloodshed, but he’s not one for needless killing either, especially of anything as small and helpless as some mice.

His smile is patient as he looks down at you. “No exterminator necessary. I’ll handle ‘em for ya, lovie. Got a few humane traps I can set up for ya, free of charge. Wouldn’t want ya to get your finger trapped in ‘em.”

Your trust in him is all the payment he needs. Oh, and that sweet smile you give him as you babble happily about how he always knows just what to do. 

—

He follows you back to your place in his pick-up truck.

As you lead him inside, murmuring sheepishly about how it’s a bit of a mess inside, he’s focusing on how your smaller form squeezes in next to his in the tiny entryway, how you put your keys away with a gentle metal clatter, the movements unconscious because you’ve no doubt done them day after day. The intimacy of being in your space gets to his head, filling his mind with thoughts of placing his keys over yours on the little hook. 

You’re leading him upstairs to the attic soon enough. While he busies himself with setting up the traps, you sweep up mouse droppings. Settling into the work, a comfortable silence lingers over you both. John’s taking note of the christmas decorations, old books, and various bins you have stored up here, making a mental reminder to offer to come over if you ever need help getting the boxes down from here. He wouldn’t want you tripping down that rickety ladder leading up here. 

He’s setting down one of the last traps, placing it by a crack between the wall and floor that he wants to offer to fill for you, when you shriek, the sound loud enough to cover up the scurrying claws of the mouse that had just ran right by your sneakers. In an instant, your hands are digging into his hairy arm, clinging to him. 

It takes him a moment, looking between your hands and then your scared expression, before he’s springing into action. “Shh, darl’. It was jus’ a mouse. Can’t hurt ya. I won’t let it.”

He lets you hug his arm, using his free hand to gently rub your other shoulder. There’s a slight heat in his cheeks that he hasn’t felt since he was a teen, that small thrill of being alone in the dark, tucked close to another warm body. One touch from a pretty little thing and the seasoned captain is falling apart.

The moment is broken when you pull away with a sheepish smile. You’re apologizing again and again for getting spooked like that but John’s just watching you with a smile, sneaking glimpses at the crescent shaped divots your manicure left in his arm. He doesn’t want them to fade, mind wandering to how you could tear up his back with those claws.

Once the job is done, you say goodnight to him at the door, the yellow porch light casting a halo over his hair. He promises to come back once any of the traps are filled to bring the mice to a field so they don’t end up back in your attic again. 

And, no, doll, you don’t need to repay him but, how could he ever say no to a homecooked meal sometime?

[daydreaming-nerd]

You Want a Baby? (Bat Boys x Female! Reader)

Based off of multiple resquests... and by all means request more of this shit. My Ruhn asks have been kind dry. Would hate for the frat pack to run a train on the reader...

AN: You guys I spent so much time on this I hope it lives up to expectation because this is my kind of thing.

Summary: It's the perfect storm, you're ovulating, all your mates happen to be home and they all want to see you pregnant with their child.

Warnings: Double penetration, breeding kink, size kink, possessive mates, Over stim, literally so many things I'm probably forgetting

Word count: 3738

It was that time of the month, well not THAT time. 

Fae periods were a bitch, that much was true. But fae ovulating? It was a whole different thing. The need to be touched, to be filled, was excruciating. Ever since I had found my mates, three of them to be exact, it was like all those sensations had been heightened. Every time I ovulated, all three of my mates couldn't be present. 

The first time Rhysand was meeting with Tarquin leaving only Cassian and Azriel to fuck me senseless. The next time around it was just Azriel to keep me sated. One of the most memorable times was last year when it was just Rhys and Cassian to help. However, I patiently waited for a day when all three mates would be here to take care of me, a day I secretly hoped would be today. 

I woke up this morning to an empty bed and a note that said they had all gone to Windhaven to check on the Illyrian camps. I didn’t mind their absence too much until later that afternoon when I felt my body start to sweat with need. I went to the bathroom to strip off my clothes, leaving me only in the black lingerie that Azriel had bought me for solstice last year. I couldn’t help but admire myself, running my hands down my body. It wasn’t until then that I realized what was going on, I was ovulating. 

The boys were in Windhaven which meant there was a possibility that they could all be here by tonight. But with the tensions in the Illyrian camps high, I knew it was most likely a long shot. So I spent the day dancing around the townhouse in nothing but my lingerie, loving the feeling of the fresh air on my skin. As the sky got darker I realized my mates weren’t likely to come home. 

I made my way upstairs to our oversized bed and tossed myself on top of the covers. I tried to sleep and push all thoughts of Rhysand’s hands, Azriel’s tongue and, Cassian’s cock from my mind. I was unsuccessful, and ended up finding myself writing all over our shared bed, begging for any kind of friction the sheets offer me. That’s how the boys found me, squirming around our bed in nothing but my lingerie. 

“Well, what do we have here?” Cassian drawled, leaning against the doorway.

I sat up straight, trying to act like I wasn’t about to reach a hand down my panties just seconds ago. 

“I told you both,” Azriel said smugly, walking into the room with Rhysand in tow. 

“Told them what?” I ask bringing my knees to my chest in a lame attempt to cover myself.

“I told them that you were ovulating today,” Azriel smirked. “I’ve been tracking your cycle since I got left out last time,” he looked to Cass and Rhys with a death glare. 

“We got back from Windhaven a few hours and decided to get a drink at Rita’s,” Rhysand explained, stalling towards where I sat on the bed. “We were talking about you.”

“You were?” I ask, sensing the seriousness in Rhysand’s voice. 

“Oh yes we were little one,” Cassian laughs. 

“We were talking about how amazing you would look pregnant,” Rhysand explained, his voice like liquid sex. 

“R-Really?” I say, not trusting my own voice. 

“Yeah,” Cassain answered, taking a step toward me.  “We think we're ready for a baby.” 

“Only if you’re ready though,” Rhys assured me. 

My heart skipped at their words. The idea of carrying any one of their children excited me. I couldn’t lie, I had been thinking about it since my last cycle. 

“What do you think, little one? Gonna let us put a baby in you tonight?” Azriel drawled, leaving a kiss on the shell of my ear. 

I couldn’t even speak, all the intelligent words leaving my brain. All I could think about was how feral the fae were when trying to conceive. My legs would’ve fallen apart if it wasn’t for my arms holding them together. I nodded my head, still unable to think. 

A collective growl filled the room as Azriel grabbed my arms and stood me up in the center of the room, leaving me on display for each of my mates. They closed in on me instantly and I had to crane my neck up to meet each of their gazes. Cassian’s hand slid under the strap of my bra inspecting me thoroughly. 

“Which one of you bought her this little set?” Cassian said, slipping the strap of my bra off my shoulder while Rhysand worked on the opposite strap. 

“I did,” Azriel said, rubbing circles into my hips as he left open mouth kisses on my shoulders. 

“Well thank you Az,” Rhys smirked, unclasping my bra. 

My body felt like it was on fire from three sets of hands roaming up and down it. Even if I closed my eyes I could easily tell who touched me where. The sensation of it all had me tossing my head back on Azriel’s chest, trusting him to support my body. He grasped my hips tightly to keep my knees from buckling as Cassian and Rhys stared at my breasts now free of the tight black lingerie.

“Look at those perfect tits Az,” Rhysand drawled. 

I felt Azriel’s large hand drift up my torso and to my neck pulling me against his body even more so I could feel his hard cock pressed up against my back. His hand on my throat gently pushed my head to look at him as he said back to Rhysand

“They are perfect,” he smirked, craning his neck down to capture my lips in his. 

“And soon they’ll be full of milk,” Cassian pointed out with a smirk, swiping a calloused thumb over my nipple.

Rhysand bends his head down to take one of my aching nipples into his mouth sucking it taut. The gesture catches Cassian’s attention and he leans down to give the same treatment to the other side. The sensation has me arching my back aching to be closer to them. I feel Azriel’s hands grip my hips and yank me against his body again. His hand comes to grip my throat once more as he sticks his tongue down my throat earning a moan from me. I feel Cassian’s lips pull off my tit with a pop as he watches me and Azriel. 

“Gods sometimes I forget how tiny she is,” Cassian drawls running his hands up and down my sides. “Look at her with Az she’s like half his size.” 

Rhys stops his menstrations on my other breast to see what Cassian is talking about, “She’s practically half all our sizes Cass,” Rhys chuckles. 

“Gods I just wanna toss her around like a little doll,” Cassian curses. 

“Do it,” Azriel smirks, pulling his lips from mine. “You know how much she loves it.” 

Cassian says nothing before picking me up by my hips effortlessly and tossing me onto the bed earning an excited squeal from me. 

“Told you,” Azriel beamed with male pride. 

Cassian stalked towards me with Rhys and Azriel hot on his heels and I started moving up the oversized bed towards the headboard. 

“Oh no you don’t,” he smirks, grabbing my ankles and yanking me down the bed. I wait patiently watching Cassian untie the leathers of his pants, my mouth nearly falling open as his large cock springs out. “Come here baby,” he smiles and I eagerly sit up and lick the tip of his cock. 

I looked up at him through my lashes donning my most innocent expression as I took as much of him as I could in my mouth. The rest I pumped with my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Azriel and Rhys fisting their cocks at the sight of me sucking Cassian off. 

“Good fucking girl y/n,” Cassain moaned tossing his head back in ecstasy. 

I reveled in the salty taste of him, the feeling of every single vein in his cock massaging my tongue. I would never get tired of this, of pleasing my mates.  Cassian pulled me off him and pushed my upper half down on the mattress. My panties are ripped off and discarded somewhere in the room. There goes that set. 

“Stop Cass, make sure she’s ready, I don’t want to tear her,” Rhysand tells Cassian, the voice of a High Lord making its appearance. 

Cassian bends down to inspect my pussy, running a finger through my folds to find me absolutely drenched. “Oh she’s ready alright,” he smiles. “God baby your pussy is so fucking tiny. It’s a miracle you can take us so well.” 

“Cass please,” I whine, nearly coming undone at his words.

Cassian starts pushing his cock in me and the stretch has me backing away from him subconsciously. He grabs my hips and pulls me back towards him, pinning me to the mattress. I had been their mate for a while now but every time they entered me I still felt the stretch. Cassian was right, I was half their size, was a miracle I could take them. 

Cassian started trusting in me at a fast pace and the sound of our skin slapping filled the room. To my right and left Azriel and Rhys continued to stroke their cocks and as much as I longed to put them both in my mouth, Cassian had me in such a state of pleasure I couldn’t focus on anything else. 

“Fuck Cass look at her belly,” Azriel practically moaned. Cassian’s eyes snapped to my stomach where he could see the bulge from his cock thrusting into me. I moaned at the sight. 

“Yeah, you like that baby?” He smirks, leaning over to capture my lips in his. His pace speeds up and within seconds he’s cumming inside of me. 

Cassian pushes his cock in me a couple of times, his attempt at burying his seed deep inside me. He pulls out soon after and I whine at the sudden emptiness. 

“That’s the one that’s gonna get her pregnant,” Cassian beams with male pride, his cock already hardening. 

“Pfft, you wish General.” Azriel scoffs positioning himself between my legs. 

He pushes in slowly and I cry out at the stretch once more. Each glorious inch of him brings immense pain and pleasure. 

“Shhh be a good girl and take it all,” Azriel coos until his hips are flush with mine. “That’s a girl.” he moans as he begins fucking me hard. 

My mind goes to mush almost instantly and the moans coming out of my mouth are damn near feral. The need to be fucked and filled by each of my mates runs so deep in my veins. My hands claw and scrape and find Azriel’s forearms as he slams his hips into me, seeking out his own pleasure. 

“Az please let me cum, I-I’m so c-close,” I mewl, each word hard to get out. 

“Not yet baby, you don’t get to cum until we all have a load in that little pussy,” Rhysand drawls, pumping his cock. “Speaking of, step aside Az I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

“No, I’m not done with her yet,” Azriel growls, his possessive side coming out. 

“You think I can fit in there with you then?” Rhysand asks. 

“Now this I gotta see,” Cassian jests. 

The thought of two cocks fucking my pussy at once has my eyes glazing over and my mouth falling open like I’m in some sort of subspace. 

“I can take it,” I choke out between Azriel’s thrusts. 

“Pick her up Az,” Rhys says, his voice practically dripping with lust. 

Azriel doesn’t stop his minstations as he wraps one of his arms around me, lifting me off the bed. My arms wrap around his neck as my forehead bumps his and he stares me down as he fucks me mid-air.  

“Good girl,” he rasps, proud of how well I’m taking him.

The next thing I know he’s lying me down again, Rhysand’s warm chest replacing the mattress. His hands wander up and down my sides trying to soothe my nerves as Azriel stops moving. 

“Alright little one take a deep breath for me,” Rhys instructs and I can feel him lining his cock up at my entrance. 

I do as I’m told, taking the deepest gulp of air possible, excited for what comes next. The second I let my breath go I feel Rhys pushing his cock into me aside Azriel’s. The stretch is more than any I’ve ever felt before but the sounds escaping Rhys and Azriel’s mouths make it so worth it. Once Rhys is brushing my cervix along with Azriel tears prick my eyes and Cassian is kneeling before me in an instant. 

“Shhh breathe baby,” Cassian coos, glancing down to where both his brothers' cocks are seated inside my pussy. “Fuck, you’re being such a good girl. Just gotta take two more loads and then we’ll let you cum alright?” 

All I  can muster is a shallow nod as Rhys and Azriel begin thrusting in tandem. The constant feeling of fullness has me feeling numb while feeling everything all at once. I arch my back further and Rhys runs a hand down my hip to hold me in place so that he doesn’t slip out. My eyes glance to Azriel who has his eyes fixated on the bulge in my stomach being made by both his and his High Lord’s cock. All the while, Cassian brushes the sweat and hair away from my brow whispering praises to me. 

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” Rhys groans, the vibrations of his chest skittering down my back. 

“Me too,” Azriel moans and within seconds I feel his sperm coating my walls just like Cassian’s. 

Azriel cumming triggers Rhys to cum as well and even though I can still feel Azriel, the load my High Lord put in me is equally as distinct. 

“Holy fuck,” Azriel groans pulling out of me inspecting his work. My breaths are so ragged and my vision so blurred that I can barely make out Rhysand’s voice. 

“Take her Cass,” he mutters, or so I think. My assumptions are proven right when I feel Cassian’s arms snake around me, pulling me off of Rhys’ cock.

 I whimper at the loss of the fullness as Cassian lays me on top of his chest stroking my hair and kissing my brow. My body vibrates and my heart pounds with the need to cum. 

“Poor baby, you wanna cum don’t you?” Cassian coos tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. My eyes are glassed over and my face looks fucked out but I’m still able to nod. 

“Make her cum Cass, I want us each to get one more load in her before we’re done,” Rhysand says, already fisting his cock. 

“Rhys I’m not sure, look at her. I don’t think she can take much more.” Cassian warns, placing me against the pillows and moving down my body. 

“Do you want her pregnant or not?” Rhys snaps.

“Of course I do,” Cassian says. “Can you take three more loads baby?” he asks me. 

“Of course she can,” Azriel says, his cock already at attention from seeing his fucked out mate. 

“I-okay,” I sputter, still vibrating at the need to be touched. At this point, I was practically bucking my hips into Cassian’s face. 

“You want me to lick your pretty clit?” Cassian smirks using one arm to pin my hips to the mattress and the other to spread my folds. 

“Y-yes,” I beg. 

Cassian chuckles, his eyes fixed on my cunt, “Looks like we made quite the mess of her little cunt,” he muses and both Rhysand and Azirel peer down to investigate. 

“Shit Cass it’s spilling out,” Azriel curses. 

“Don’t worry brother,” Cassian assures him, as he presses two fingers inside me, pushing the cum deep inside me. “She won’t waste it. Will you baby?” He smiles at me. 

“No, I w-won’t,” I say, meaning every word my body still shaking. 

“Cass lick her little clit or I will, the poor thing is shaking,” Rhys orders Cassian. 

Cassian doesn’t waste a moment before lowering his mouth to my pussy  and attacking my clit. It only took five kitten licks for me to orgasm harder than ever before. My back arches off the bed and the tension from my body pushes more of my mate’s cum out of my aching hole. 

“Ah ah ah,” Cassian says, pushing two fingers into me again. “What did we say about wasting?” 

“Cass it’s your turn,” Azriel bites close to spilling his load. 

“Spread em’ baby,” Cassian smirks, spreading my legs for me anyway before burying himself inside of me. 

“Oh gods Cass!” I cry out as he starts fucking me relentlessly chasing his own release.

“Fuck I love seeing that little bulge,” Cassian grins, placing a hand over where his cock hit my belly.

 Seconds later he’s spilling his load into me, a sound coming from his mouth that I’ve never heard before.  My vision nearly goes black, the only thing keeping me grounded is Cassian gripping my throat and pulling me up to kiss me as his second orgasm coats my walls. 

“Who’s next?” Cassian asks, pulling out of me. 

“Me,” Both Rhysand and Azriel say at the same time. 

“Back off Az, you got to have her first last time,” Rhys growls. 

Whenever I told people I had three mates they would usually joke about how territorial they would get over me. The irony was that my mates almost  never had a problem sharing me, but tonight? Well, tonight was just one of those nights. When mates were trying to conceive they were practically feral, I was honestly surprised things had gone so smoothly till now. 

“Yeah, and I literally had to share her pussy with you!” Azriel roars. 

Cassain drags me up to lay my upper half on his chest so he can run a hand through my hair and whisper praises to me.

“I’m pulling rank, as your High Lord I’m going first,” Rhysand orders, nudging my entrance. 

“Fuck off Rhys,” Azriel says continuing to fist his cock. 

Rhys pushes his cock inside me with a groan as he bottoms out. My body shudders and on instinct, I move away from him but he grips my hips and brings me down his cock again fucking into me hard. 

In my haze my head falls to the side, my cheek grazing Cassian’s abs, the very ones he let me rut on to get off a few weeks ago, and I meet Azriel. He looks glorious, pumping his cock while watching Rhysand fuck my hole. On instinct, I reach my tongue out and lap at the head of his cock catching his immediate attention. 

“You wanna suck it baby?” He muses brushing his cock against my lips. I open my mouth wide, sticking my tongue out in response.

 I know I’m so fucked out I can barely wrap my lips around him but Rhys pulling rank seemed like a dick move and I wanted to remedy it in any way I could. Azriel pushes his cock into my mouth letting out a guttural moan in the process. 

“Good fucking girl,” Azriel moans and it spurs me on to suck him even harder as he fucks my mouth. 

“Oh fuck,” Rhys roars cumming into me for the second time tonight. He knows better than to stay seated in me longer than necessary and pulls out as soon as possible. Azriel’s cock follows, his cock leaving my mouth with a bead of saliva dripping from it.  

“Are you fucked out my love?” Azriel croons, grabbing my jaw to face him. It’s evident from my hazy eyes that I am.

“One more load sweetheart,” Rhys whispers, pressing a kiss to my brow. “You want a baby in your belly don’t you?” 

“Uh huh,” I rasp still unable to form actual words. 

“Open,” Azriel orders his grip on my jaw tightening.  

Of all my mates Azriel was always the most dominant. I loved to test Rhys and Cassian, but when it came to Az? I knew it was in my best interest to be a good girl. 

So just like I had a million times before I opened my mouth nice and wide for him. His hand gripped my jaw, keeping it open before he spit in my mouth. 

“Now swallow,” he growled and I followed his orders once again. I opened my mouth to show him I had been a good girl and he rewarded me by pushing his cock inside me. 

“What was that about Az?” Cassian laughed stroking my hair. 

“Grounding her, if I’m gonna pump a load in her I want her to feel it,” Azriel groans. “We’ve done it before, haven't we baby?” he asks me and I nod enthusiastically. 

Rhys wipes the sweat from my brow as Cassian presses a hand down where Azriel’s cock makes a bulge in my belly. 

“She’s gonna cum Az,” Cassian informs his brother. 

“Fuck I can feel it. Her tiny cunt is squeezing me so tight I can barely fuck her.” Azriel groans. “Ready baby?” Azriel asks me and I nod once more. “1…2…3…Fuckkk,” Azriel moans, spilling his seed into me.

Despite the haze that fills my head I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment knowing I did it.  I gave each of my mates two orgasms the evidence dripping from my sore cunt, wait fuck. 

“Waste!” is the only word I can get out as I feel all six loads of cum spilling out of me. 

“Shh, it’s okay mate,” Azriel coos, pressing a kiss to my brow laying down on the side that wasn’t occupied by Rhys. “Cass plug her up,” Azriel continues. 

 Without warning, two of Cassian’s fingers slide into my pussy keeping their combined cum from leaking out. 

“Get comfortable mate,” Cassian chuckles. “We’re gonna have to sleep like this.” 

And sleep I do. With Cassian behind me, my head on Rhys’ chest, and Azriel using my stomach as a pillow I’m out within minutes. I don’t know what the future holds as far as children go, but I’d say this was a good first attempt at conceiving.

pregnant! Reader x bat boys Drabble

Masterlist

[nondelphic]

nondelphic status update: december 8th 2024

hey everyone (,,>﹏<,,). it’s been over a week since i last posted, and i wanted to explain why i’ve been gone. i’ve been dealing with some really tough mental health stuff, and honestly, it’s been a struggle just to get through the days.

i know most of you don’t follow this blog for this kind of post, and i promise i’m not trying to bring anyone down. you’re probably here because you, like me, enjoy a little self-deprecating humor as a coping mechanism (we love to see it lol (╥﹏╥)ゞ). but i didn’t want to come back without acknowledging why i’ve been so quiet.

the truth is, i’m really not doing well irl. it’s easy to seem like you have it all together online, but i don’t. i feel like it’s important to say that because we all need to care for ourselves, even when (or especially when) we feel like we’re falling apart. if you’re reading this and struggling too, just know you’re not alone. we’re all just little gremlins doing our best out here (｡•́︿•̀｡).

that being said, this blog is something i genuinely love working on, and stepping away made me realize how much joy it brings me. it’s honestly one of the few things that feels right to me right now. and i’m not just doing it for you guys, it’s also for me. it’s a nice distraction and gives me something to focus on other than, y’know, rotting in bed all day. (very fun, very slay •́︵•̀)

i think in the long run, making myself get up and do something i actually enjoy, like working on this blog, will probably serve me better than wallowing. and it’s comforting to know that there are people here who enjoy what i post, even when i’m not feeling my best.

thank you for being patient with me while i figure things out (´｡• ᵕ •｡`). i don’t have it all together, but i’m trying. and i’ll be back to posting silly writer nonsense sooner than you think ♡.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ my girl, my man

chapter summary: You and Logan plan for your wedding.

word count: 9.9k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i could've dragged out them getting engaged (i couldn't help myself) and i could've dragged out them finally getting married (i just couldn't help it😭).

also, i meant to post this a few hours ago, but i had a dentist appointment and the roads here in texas are awful. so, if you live in california, stay safe! and if you are in texas, stay warm! xoxo

(you can imagine whatever ring you'd like, but i got bored one day and searched around for a vintage ring so here's what it looks like)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, summer break, wedding, honeymoon

series masterlist - chapter 1 �� chapter 3

“Do you think we’re missin’ something?” Jean wondered aloud.

Scott didn’t look up from his book, “about what?”

“About Y/N and—”

“Oh, yes. I thought I was the only one,” Ororo said, her tone carrying the faintest hint of amusement as she looked up from her book. She exchanged a knowing glance with Jean, who sat cross-legged on the couch across the room.

“Wait,” Jean said, closing the folder she’d been reviewing. “You’ve noticed it too?”

“Of course,” Ororo replied, leaning back in her chair with a small smirk. “It’s hard not to, the way Logan’s been acting.”

Scott finally looked up from his own book, his brow furrowed. “What are you two going on about?”

Jean rolled her eyes affectionately, setting the folder aside. “Come on, Scott. You must’ve noticed how Logan is with Y/N.”

“Not really,” Scott said with a shrug, earning an incredulous laugh from Jean.

“Men,” Ororo muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “He’s softer around her, more patient. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at her? It’s... different.”

Jean nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not just that. It’s different than before. When me and Scott went to the store yesterday Logan asked for mango juice and yogurt-covered pretzels. Now who’s the only person we know who even likes those things?”

Ororo’s smirk grew. “Y/N.”

“Exactly,” Jean said, leaning forward. “I’m telling you, something’s shifted. They’ve always been close, but now? It’s like… there’s an extra layer to it.”

Ororo set her book aside, her tone teasing. “I’ve noticed other things too. She asked me for a bunch of yeast and some other ingredients last week—odd things for the lab. Then, two days later, she came by looking flustered, mumbling something about brewing beer. My guess? She’s making it for him.”

Jean grinned. “That sounds like her. She’s so shy about doing anything big, but she puts so much thought into the little things.”

Scott, still sitting with his arms crossed, frowned. “So, what? They’re dating. We all know that.”

“Yes, but this is different,” Jean insisted. “Logan’s been... softer, more relaxed. And Y/N? She’s been letting herself open up more. They’ve always had a connection, but this feels… more serious.”

Ororo nodded. “And the PDA. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not exactly hanging off each other in public, but it’s there. A little more than usual.”

Scott still didn’t look convinced. “I think you’re reading too much into this. Logan’s always been protective of her, and she’s been trying to come out of her shell. That doesn’t mean anything’s changed.”

Jean sighed, exchanging a look with Ororo. “You can be so dense sometimes, Scott.”

“Hey, I’m just saying! Logan’s Logan. He doesn’t strike me as the type to do anything halfway, but I’m not seeing what you two are apparently seeing.”

Ororo shrugged. “Give it time. You’ll notice eventually.”

---

Scott was heading down the main hall when he caught sight of Logan walking toward him. Logan had his usual brisk stride, but the large stack of magazines in his arms gave Scott pause.

“Logan,” Scott called, stepping into his path. “What’s with the reading material?”

Logan slowed to a stop, glancing down at the stack in his arms. Bridal magazines, at least half a dozen of them, with glossy covers featuring elaborate white dresses and floral arrangements.

He barely missed a beat. “For the fire,” Logan said gruffly, his tone so deadpan it took Scott a moment to respond.

“For the fire?” Scott echoed, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah. Fireplace needs kindling,” Logan replied, his expression unreadable as he shifted the magazines under one arm.

Before Scott could press further, Jean approached, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the magazines. “Logan, is that…?”

“Magazines,” Logan cut in, his voice low. “For the fire. Don’t read into it.”

Jean’s lips twitched, barely holding back a smile. “Uh-huh.”

Logan let out a low grunt, clearly uninterested in continuing the conversation, and walked off without another word, leaving Jean and Scott standing in the hall.

Jean turned to Scott, her eyebrows raised. “Still think we’re imagining things?”

Scott glanced back at Logan’s retreating figure, the bridal magazines tucked under his arm. “…Okay, maybe something is going on.”

Jean smirked. “Told you.”

---

You rolled out from under the Blackbird with wire cutters laying on your stomach and an electric screwdriver in your hand. “Alright, fixed it. Still don’t know why you couldn’t ask Scott.”

Jean rolled her eyes, “I did. And he said ‘later’. It’s been 4 days.”

You gave her a small smile. “Figures.”

Sliding the wire cutters onto the small tool tray beside you, you sat up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. Jean crouched down next to you, handing over a clean rag.

“Thanks,” you said, taking it to wipe the faint smudge of grease off your arms.

“Not bad for a physics professor,” Jean teased, her tone warm.

You shrugged, pulling off the gloves with a small tug. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there.”

Ororo, perched nearby with her arms crossed and a bemused expression, added, “If you weren’t so dedicated to teaching, I’d say you might have a future in mechanics.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “I’ll leave the big repairs to Hank. I just know enough to get by.”

As you spoke, you folded the gloves neatly and set them on the tray. That’s when Jean’s eyes caught something—a glint of light on your left hand.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she tilted her head. “Y/N… is that—?”

You glanced at her, confused for a moment, before realizing what had caught her attention. Your engagement ring, a delicate band with an antique setting, was visible now that the gloves were off.

“Oh,” you said softly, instinctively touching the ring with your thumb. A shy smile tugged at your lips.

Jean’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and delight flashing across her face. “Wait a second. When did this happen?”

Ororo stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What’s she talking about?”

Jean pointed at your hand. “Look at her ring finger.”

Ororo’s gaze followed, and her eyebrows lifted. “Well, well, well. I didn’t realize we had a bride-to-be among us.”

Your cheeks warmed under their scrutiny. “It’s… recent,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jean’s grin grew as she leaned in, her tone playful. “And by ‘recent,’ you mean…?”

“Two… maybe three weeks,” you said, trying not to squirm under her gaze.

Ororo let out a low whistle. “And you didn’t tell us?”

You looked between the two of them, your fingers fiddling with the ring. “We weren’t keeping it a secret. It just… hasn’t come up.”

Jean crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced. “Hasn’t come up? You’ve been engaged for weeks, and none of us noticed?”

You bit your lip, feeling a mix of nervousness and amusement. “Well… Logan and I aren’t exactly the ‘big announcement’ type.”

Ororo chuckled. “That, I believe. But still, congratulations are in order. It’s beautiful, Y/N.”

Jean nodded, her eyes softening as she looked at you. “It really is. And it suits you.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, glancing at the ring again. Despite the attention, there was a quiet happiness bubbling inside you.

Jean gave you a knowing look. “So… when were you planning on telling the rest of us? Or were we just supposed to figure it out on our own?”

“I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And Logan—well, you know how he is.”

Jean laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine his reaction to a big group toast.” She put on a gruff voice, imitating him. “‘No need to make a fuss.’”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Exactly.”

Ororo smiled warmly, her teasing tone softening. “Well, fuss or no fuss, we’re happy for you. And you better let us know if there’s a wedding date.”

“Of course,” you promised, the warmth in their voices making you feel more at ease.

Jean reached over, giving your hand a quick squeeze. “Congratulations, Y/N. You two deserve this.”

“Thanks,” you said again, this time with more confidence.

Before the conversation could go any further, Logan’s voice carried down the hall. “Darlin’? You done with the jet?”

You turned toward the sound, seeing him leaning casually in the doorway. His usual gruff expression softened as his eyes met yours.

“Yeah, all set,” you called back, standing and brushing off your jeans.

Logan gave a small nod but didn’t move, his gaze lingering on you in that way that made your heart flutter.

Jean smirked, glancing at Ororo. “And there he is.”

“Don’t,” you muttered under your breath, feeling your cheeks flush again.

Ororo laughed softly, but neither she nor Jean said anything more. As you walked toward Logan, you caught the amused glances they exchanged, but you didn’t mind.

Logan met you halfway, his hand resting briefly on your lower back as you joined him. “Ready to head in?”

“Yeah,” you said, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

As the two of you walked away, you could still hear Jean and Ororo chuckling behind you, but Logan didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer an explanation. Some things were just better left between the two of you.

---

“Please?” you said, drawing the word out with an exaggerated pout as you held up the scissors, comb, and spray bottle. Your tone was teasing, but your eyes carried a hopeful glint.

Logan crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “Darlin’, I’m tellin’ ya, it’s fine. It doesn’t need fixin’.”

You arched a brow, stepping closer. “Logan, it’s summer, and your hair’s gettin’ way too long in the back. I’m not saying you need a whole new look, just a trim.”

He gave a low grunt, clearly unconvinced, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve been dealin’ with this hair longer than you’ve been alive. It’s manageable.”

“Sure it is,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “But wouldn’t it be more manageable if it wasn’t sticking out at weird angles?”

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you said sweetly.

He stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head. “Alright, fine. But on one condition.”

Your eyes lit up. “Name it.”

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “We do it outside, and you sit on my lap while you’re at it.”

Your cheeks immediately warmed, and you stared at him, wide-eyed. “Logan,” you began, your voice dropping in embarrassment.

“What?” he said with a smirk. “You wanted this, didn’t ya? Gotta make it worth my while.”

You huffed, but your lips quirked up in a small smile despite your best efforts. “Fine,” you said, trying to sound exasperated. “But don’t blame me if you end up with a lopsided cut.”

Logan chuckled, his hand settling on your lower back as he guided you toward the back patio. The warm summer air greeted you as the two of you stepped outside. The mansion’s sprawling yard stretched out around you, the sun casting a golden glow over the lawn and the distant trees.

Logan grabbed one of the sturdy wooden chairs from the patio table and plopped down, spreading his legs slightly as he leaned back with a lazy grin. He patted his thigh. “Hop on.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing around to make sure no one else was nearby. Though Logan wasn’t shy about showing affection, you were still getting used to moments like this. When the coast was clear, you let out a breath and moved to sit sideways on his lap. He shook his head, catching your waist and turning you so you straddled him instead.

“There,” he said, his voice low and pleased. “Much better.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips as you picked up the spray bottle and gave his hair a quick spritz. He leaned back, his hands resting casually on your hips while you combed through his damp locks.

“You know,” you said, keeping your tone light as you snipped at the ends, “this is kind of nice. Just us, the fresh air…”

Logan’s lips quirked. “Don’t get too used to it, darlin’. This is a one-time deal.”

“Sure it is,” you teased, snipping another section. “I’ll remind you of that next time your hair gets out of control.”

He gave a low chuckle, and you felt his thumb brush lightly against your side. It was such a small, unconscious gesture, but it sent a warm flutter through your chest. You leaned in a little closer, focusing on your task.

“Y/N!” Jean’s voice rang out from somewhere near the house, and your head whipped up in alarm. “Have you seen—oh.”

Jean rounded the corner, her steps slowing as she took in the sight of you perched on Logan’s lap, scissors in hand. Her lips twitched, clearly fighting a grin. “Am I interrupting something?”

You felt your cheeks flame, and you tried to slide off Logan’s lap, but his hands on your hips held you firmly in place. “Jean,” you said, your voice higher-pitched than usual. “I was just… cutting Logan’s hair.”

“Right,” Jean said, crossing her arms and giving you a knowing look. “Because clearly, that’s the only thing happening here.”

Logan, unbothered, smirked up at her. “You need somethin’, Red?”

Jean waved a hand dismissively. “Nope, nothing that can’t wait. Carry on.” She turned to leave but not before shooting you a wink over her shoulder. “Nice technique, Y/N.”

“Jean!” you called after her, but she was already walking away, laughing softly to herself.

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. Logan’s chest rumbled with laughter beneath you.

“Relax, darlin’. Let her have her fun.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a grin, his hands squeezing your waist gently. “But hey, you wanted to do this, remember?”

You sighed, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips as you went back to trimming. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Logan said, his voice warm and full of affection.

---

Logan reached his hand out haphazardly to close the bedroom door, the motion almost careless in his urgency. His other hand remained firmly planted on your lower back, guiding you with surprising gentleness as your lips stayed locked.

The click of the door shutting barely registered before he backed you into the wall, his movements smooth and deliberate. You gasped softly against his mouth, one of your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair while the other found its way to the back of his neck.

“Logan,” you murmured breathlessly, breaking the kiss for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

“What?” His voice was low, a rough edge of amusement to it as his lips sought yours again. “You’re the one who started this, sweetheart.”

Your laughter bubbled up, light and almost involuntary. “I did not—”

“Oh, you absolutely did,” he teased, his hands settling more firmly on your hips. He nipped at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you, his grin mischievous. “You looked at me like that, darlin’. Don’t blame me for followin’ through.”

A flush spread across your cheeks, but you couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped you as he leaned in again, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one was slower, softer, but still filled with the same electric energy that seemed to hum between the two of you whenever you were close.

You tightened your arms around his shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into his skin. He grunted softly, the sound half amusement, half approval, before his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs.

“C’mere,” he muttered, his voice husky as he gripped you firmly and lifted you effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and he pinned you against the wall more securely, his body pressed warm and solid against yours.

“Logan!” you squeaked, a mix of laughter and surprise in your tone. “You’re gonna drop me.”

He smirked, his lips brushing along your jaw before he kissed the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you,” he said, his tone low but teasing. “When are you gonna figure that out, huh?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, the lights in the room flickered and then went out completely, plunging everything into sudden darkness.

You gasped softly, instinctively tightening your hold on Logan. “What just—?”

“Power’s out,” he muttered, his tone shifting to mild annoyance. He pulled back just enough for you to feel his breath against your skin. “Perfect timing.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, the absurdity of the situation cutting through the moment’s intensity. “Guess the mansion’s old wiring isn’t built for summer storms.”

“Guess not,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, smiling despite yourself. “But we might want to move before someone walks in on this.”

He chuckled, his hands still steady beneath you as he adjusted his grip. “I don’t care who walks in. Let ‘em.”

“Logan,” you groaned, but you couldn’t hide the grin in your voice. “Don’t even joke about that.”

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before pulling back with a smirk. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you down.”

He set you on your feet gently, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment longer before stepping back. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the playful glint in his eyes.

“Maybe we finish this later,” he said, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress another smile. “Maybe.”

As you both moved to find a flashlight, the sound of voices and footsteps echoed faintly down the hall. The chaos of the power outage was clearly drawing everyone out of their rooms, and you shot Logan a knowing look.

“See?” you whispered, smirking. “Someone was bound to walk in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but the small, satisfied smile on his face told you he wasn’t too worried about it.

---

You might’ve gotten a bit carried away looking at magazines instead of working on your research. The lab was quiet, save for the soft hum of equipment, and you’d tucked yourself into a corner with a stack of physics journals. But one wedding magazine Logan had given you sat on top of your pile, its glossy pages begging to be flipped through. Before you knew it, you were lost in images of lace trains and intricate veils, your fingers idly twisting a strand of hair.

“Hmm, wedding dresses?”

Jean’s teasing voice pulled you from your daydream. You jumped, snapping the magazine shut and turning red. “Jean! I—uh, it’s not what it looks like. I was just…taking a break.”

Jean smirked, plucking the magazine from your hands. She flipped it open to a page you’d dog-eared. “Sure, just a break,” she said, her tone laced with playful skepticism. “You’ve already got a few favorites marked. This one’s beautiful,” she added, pointing to a gown with delicate floral embroidery.

You pushed your glasses up nervously. “I mean, yeah, but it’s too soon, right? Logan and I haven’t even set a date yet…”

Jean ignored your protests, holding up the magazine like it was her life’s mission. “Nonsense. Come on, let’s go into town and try some on.”

Your eyes widened. “Try them on? Jean, no—I couldn’t! What if someone sees? What if—”

“Relax,” she said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “It’s summer break, most of the students are gone, and you deserve a little fun. Besides,” her lips quirked in a knowing smile, “Logan gave you this magazine for a reason. You think he’d mind?”

You hesitated, torn between your shy instincts and Jean’s infectious enthusiasm. Finally, you relented. “Fine. But just for fun.”

---

The bridal boutique was a cozy, sunlit space tucked away on a quiet street. Jean wasted no time pulling dresses from the racks while you lingered nervously near the dressing rooms.

“This one,” Jean said, holding up a sleek satin gown, “or this one?” She gestured to a gown with layers of delicate tulle.

“They’re both gorgeous,” you said, shifting on your feet, “but maybe too much for me…”

Jean rolled her eyes. “You’re the bride! There’s no such thing as ‘too much.’ Now, go try these on.”

The first dress was beautiful but too heavy, and the second didn’t quite feel like you. By the third, you found yourself laughing at Jean’s exaggerated commentary.

“Okay, but look at this!” she said, adjusting the train. “You could glide down the aisle like a queen.”

“Jean,” you giggled, shaking your head, “I think I’d trip over this and take Logan down with me.”

After an hour, you still hadn’t found ‘the one,’ but the experience left you feeling lighter. “Thank you,” you said as the two of you walked back to the car. “That was actually…fun.”

Jean grinned. “Told you. And now we know what styles you like. We’ll find it when the time’s right.”

---

Back at the mansion, Logan was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a beer, when you walked in. He raised an eyebrow at your slightly disheveled appearance. “Where’d you two run off to?”

Jean, smirking, answered before you could. “Tried on wedding dresses.” Logan’s gaze immediately snapped to you, and his lips twitched into a small smile. Jean patted your arm. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, disappearing down the hall.

You shifted nervously, tugging at your sleeves. “It was her idea,” you blurted out, feeling the need to explain. “I wasn’t—well, I mean, we didn’t find anything. And it’s probably too soon anyway, right? We don’t have a date or a venue or—”

“Darlin’.” Logan’s deep voice cut through your rambling. He stepped closer, his hands gently settling on your arms. “You don’t have to plan every detail right now.”

You looked up at him, your cheeks warm. “But—”

He shook his head, a rare softness in his expression. “I don’t care what you wear or where it happens. Hell, we could go to a courthouse tomorrow and sign the damn papers for all I care.” His voice dipped, quiet and rough with emotion. “I’m just happy I finally get to marry you.”

His words hit you like a wave, their weight sinking in as you stared at him. “Logan…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He cupped your cheek, brushing his thumb gently over your skin. “What matters is you, sweetheart. That’s it.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of overwhelming love and relief bubbling up. You leaned into his touch, a small, teary smile breaking through. “Okay,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his. “I guess I can live with that.”

“Good,” he said, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Because you’re already perfect to me.”

---

This was a mistake.

One big, grand mistake.

Your chest heaved as you bent down with your hands on your knees, sweat dripping down your back. The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the mansion’s gym, but it offered no comfort. You were a mess—hair sticking to your face, glasses fogged up, and your lungs protesting every second of this so-called ‘workout.’

“This,” you panted, glaring at Logan, “was a mistake.”

Logan smirked, unbothered as he stood nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was barely sweating, his usual tank top clinging just enough to show off his ridiculous muscles. “You’re the one who said you wanted to get stronger.”

“I didn’t know you’d try to kill me,” you shot back, collapsing onto a nearby mat. Your legs were jelly, your pride in shambles, and Logan looked way too amused.

He sauntered over, grabbing a towel from the bench. “You’re not dead,” he said casually. “You’re just outta shape.”

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. “You’ve been alive for 100-something-years or whatever. Cut me some slack.”

“That’s not how it works, darlin’.” His voice was teasing, but there was a hint of warmth beneath it. He crouched next to you, the scent of his woodsy cologne mixed with sweat making your stomach flutter. “You gotta keep at it.”

You peeked out from under your arm, watching as he leaned closer. Logan reached out with the towel, gently wiping your forehead. “Thanks,” you mumbled, your cheeks heating from more than just exertion.

He didn’t stop there. The towel traveled down to your neck, then lower, dabbing at the sweat gathering at your collarbone. You tried not to squirm, but when he moved to the beginnings of your cleavage with a cheeky smirk, you slapped his hand away.

“Logan!” you hissed, sitting up abruptly, your face now definitely on fire.

“What?” he asked, his expression the picture of innocence. “Just helpin’ out.”

You glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugged, tossing the towel over his shoulder and standing up. “Yeah, but you love me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t argue with that. “I’m never working out with you again,” you grumbled as you stood, wobbling slightly.

“Sure you are.” Logan’s hand shot out to steady you, his grip firm but gentle. “You just need the right motivation.”

“And what’s that supposed to be?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that always made your heart skip. “Maybe I’ll tell ya if you survive the next session.”

You groaned, pushing past him toward the water cooler. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he called after you, his laughter echoing in the gym. “You love me, remember?”

You muttered something under your breath that made him chuckle even harder, but despite your protests, you couldn’t stop the small smile from forming as you took a long sip of water. Maybe—just maybe—you’d let him drag you back here again. But next time, you were bringing Jean for backup.

---

“How did venue hunting go?” Jean asked, walking into the foyer where you and Logan just entered.

You let out a huff as you took off your jacket, your purse and notebook in Logan’s hands. He responded for you, “none of ‘em fit her standards.”

The jacket was draped over your arm as you snatched the notebook out of Logan’s hands. “They’re not high standards,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

Logan shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “Looked like every venue had a list of what they didn’t have instead of what they did.”

“That’s not true!” You flipped open the notebook, pages filled with scribbles, sticky notes, and circled bullet points. “I just want a place that works for everyone. Is that too much to ask?”

Jean smirked from where she leaned against the foyer wall. “Define ‘works for everyone.’”

You gestured with the notebook, tapping on your list. “It has to be wheelchair accessible for Charles. Child-friendly because the students will want to attend. Not too stuffy, so Logan doesn’t feel out of place—”

“Darlin’, I’m out of place everywhere,” Logan cut in with a smirk.

You ignored him, continuing, “And not too far from the mansion so the team can help in case of emergencies. Oh, and it has to have enough space for dancing, good acoustics, a separate area for food—”

“You’re planning a wedding or a state summit?” Logan teased.

Jean stifled a laugh, clearly enjoying the exchange. “She’s just thorough, Logan. You should’ve seen her face when one venue didn’t have a backup generator.”

“Backup generator? For a wedding?” Logan raised an eyebrow at you.

“Have you met us?” you shot back. “I’m not risking a power outage in the middle of the first dance.”

Jean laughed outright this time, shaking her head. “I think you’ve got your work cut out for you, Logan.”

“I always do,” Logan muttered under his breath, smirking when you swatted his arm.

“Don’t act like you’re suffering,” you said, rolling your eyes as you headed toward the living room. Logan followed, still grinning. Jean waved you off with a knowing smile before disappearing toward the kitchen.

---

A few days later, you sat cross-legged on the couch in the mansion’s common area, surrounded by more open notebooks and wedding magazines. The team buzzed around you as usual, some heading out for training while others settled in for their break. Logan strolled in, a beer in hand, and plopped down beside you.

“Still at it?” he asked, glancing at the scattered mess.

You sighed, closing one of the notebooks with a soft thud. “We’re not getting anywhere. Nothing feels right.”

Logan leaned back, taking a swig of his beer. “Then stop lookin’ so hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered. “You’re not the one trying to make sure everyone’s happy.”

“Darlin’, nobody cares where it happens. They care about you.” His tone softened as he reached over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Hell, we could do it right here, and it’d still be perfect.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Here? At the mansion?”

“Why not?” he said with a shrug. “Big lawn, plenty of space, and it’s already home for most of us.”

You hesitated, glancing around the room. “It’s… not the worst idea.”

“‘Not the worst’ is high praise coming from you,” Logan teased, earning him a half-hearted glare.

“I just mean…” You bit your lip, considering it. “Who would even decorate?”

At that moment, Rogue walked by, arms full of laundry. Logan raised his voice without missing a beat. “Hey, Rogue! You feel like decorating for a wedding?”

Rogue paused, glancing between the two of you. “Uh… sure? What kinda wedding?”

Logan smirked, gesturing toward you. “Ours.”

Her face lit up. “Oh my God! Yeah, totally! I’ll get Kitty and Jubilee to help. We’ll make it look amazing.”

You blinked, overwhelmed by how quickly she agreed. “Wait—are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure!” Rogue said, beaming. “This is gonna be fun.”

As she hurried off, Logan leaned closer, his smirk widening. “See? Problem solved.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” he said, pulling you into his side.

You didn’t bother arguing. Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder, letting yourself imagine it: the mansion’s lawn, your friends and family, and Logan waiting for you at the end of the aisle. For the first time in weeks, the thought of your wedding didn’t feel overwhelming—it felt like home.

---

This was officially your third time going wedding dress shopping, and this time Ororo had tagged along with Jean, who had practically dragged you out of the mansion with a determined look in her eyes. The three of you entered the boutique, greeted by racks of pristine white fabric, sparkling embellishments, and soft lighting that screamed bridal fantasy.

You adjusted your glasses nervously, clutching your notebook against your chest as Jean grinned at you. “This is it,” she said confidently. “Third time’s the charm.”

Ororo gave you a calm, reassuring smile. “No pressure, Y/N. Let’s just have fun with it.”

You exhaled a little laugh. “Easier said than done. Every dress I’ve tried on feels…wrong.”

Jean looped her arm through yours. “That’s because you’re overthinking it. Trust me, when you find the one, you’ll just know.”

The three of you wandered through the racks, pulling out dresses and debating the merits of lace versus satin, mermaid cuts versus A-line. Jean’s enthusiasm was contagious, and even Ororo—usually so composed—couldn’t resist chiming in with the occasional suggestion.

“I think Logan would like something simple,” Ororo said, holding up a sleek gown with minimal embellishments.

Jean snorted. “Logan would think she’s perfect in anything. He’d probably prefer she showed up in her lab coat.”

You flushed at the thought, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He’s… not that bad.”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Y/N, he kissed you in front of half the team last week just because you brought him a sandwich.”

“That was not—it was just a kiss on the cheek!” you protested, but your voice wavered.

Ororo chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “A lingering kiss on the cheek. We all saw it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “I’m going to die of embarrassment before this wedding even happens.”

Jean patted your shoulder. “If you survive Logan’s public displays of affection, you’ll survive anything.”

The teasing made you relax a little, and you found yourself smiling as the three of you continued browsing. Eventually, the shop assistant approached, her cheerful demeanor instantly putting you at ease.

“Looking for something specific?” she asked.

You hesitated. “Not really. I just…want something that feels like me.”

She nodded knowingly and began pulling a few options. One by one, you tried them on, stepping out to show Jean and Ororo each time. They offered their opinions—Jean was quick with compliments, while Ororo provided thoughtful feedback—but none of the dresses felt quite right.

Until the assistant brought out a gown you hadn’t noticed before.

It was displayed at the back of the boutique, almost tucked away as if it were waiting for someone to find it. The assistant carefully removed it from the rack and carried it over to you with a soft smile.

“This one just came in,” she explained, holding it up. The gown was breathtaking: an off-shoulder silhouette with intricate lace detailing across the bodice and delicate long sleeves. The fabric flowed into a soft, sheer train, giving it an ethereal, timeless feel.

Your breath hitched. “It’s beautiful.”

Jean’s eyes widened as she took in the dress. “Y/N, you have to try that on.”

Even Ororo, usually more reserved with her reactions, gave an approving nod. “It’s stunning. I think it might be the one.”

You hesitated, running your fingers over the delicate lace. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

Jean rolled her eyes, grabbing your shoulders and steering you toward the dressing room. “That’s what fittings are for. Go try it on. Now.”

The assistant ushered you into the dressing room, helping you into the gown. The fabric was soft against your skin, and as she adjusted the zipper, you caught your reflection in the mirror. For the first time, you felt… right.

“Ready?” the assistant asked with a knowing smile.

You nodded, stepping out tentatively. Jean and Ororo were mid-conversation but stopped as soon as they saw you.

“Oh. My. God,” Jean whispered, standing up. “Y/N, you look—wow.”

Ororo smiled warmly. “It’s perfect.”

You turned toward the mirror at the end of the room, your heart racing as you took in the sight. The dress hugged you in all the right places, the off-shoulder design framing your collarbones elegantly. The lace sleeves felt delicate but strong, and the train flowed behind you like a whisper.

“Do you think Logan will like it?” you asked softly, fidgeting with the edge of the lace.

Jean laughed, stepping beside you. “Y/N, Logan would probably think you look perfect in a potato sack. But this? He’s going to lose his mind.”

Ororo tilted her head, considering. “It suits you. It’s elegant but understated. Timeless.”

You blinked back the sudden sting of tears, overwhelmed by how right it felt. “I think… this is it.”

Jean grinned, squeezing your hand. “Finally! I told you third time’s the charm.”

The assistant beamed. “I’ll get the paperwork started and schedule a fitting to tailor it to perfection.”

As she walked away, Jean leaned closer, a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, how long do you think it’ll take Logan to rip this off you after the wedding?”

“Jean!” you squeaked, your cheeks flushing.

Ororo chuckled, shaking her head. “Some things never change.”

You buried your face in your hands, muttering, “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love us,” Jean teased, looping her arm through yours. “And because you knew we’d find you the perfect dress. Which we did.”

You couldn’t argue with that. For the first time since you’d started planning the wedding, you felt a sense of peace. This was happening. This was real. And you couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle and see Logan’s face when he saw you in this dress.

---

Later that evening, you were back at the mansion, lounging on the couch in the common room with a cup of tea. The dress was safely tucked away, but the memory of it lingered, making you smile softly to yourself.

Logan strolled in, fresh from a workout, a towel slung over his shoulder. He spotted you immediately, his brow quirking at your dreamy expression.

“What’s got you smilin’ like that, sweetheart?” he asked, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

You shook your head, trying to hide your grin. “Nothing.”

He gave you a look, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Nothin’, huh? That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

You rolled your eyes, but your blush gave you away. “Fine. I found the dress.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back, taking a long look at you. “Yeah? You happy with it?”

You nodded, the smile returning. “I think so. It feels… perfect.”

His expression softened, and he reached over, brushing a thumb along your cheek. “Good. That’s all that matters.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the hum of the mansion in the background. Logan’s hand found yours, his rough fingers threading through yours gently.

“You’re sure you’re okay with the mansion for the wedding?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He chuckled. “Darlin’, as long as you’re the one walkin’ toward me, I don’t care if it’s in a field, a church, or a damn parking lot.”

You laughed softly, leaning into his side. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Hold me to whatever you want,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

And in that moment, surrounded by the comfort of Logan’s presence and the thought of your future together, you couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.

---

It was three weeks away from the start of the new school year when the wedding took place. At first, you were checking on everyone—Rogue to make sure that her, Kitty, and Jubilee were making progress with the decorations outside, and on Scott and Hank who were somehow tasked with food.

At least, until Logan noticed and locked you in the makeshift bridal suite.

Jean was laughing as she turned the key in the lock, leaning against the door while you protested from the other side. “This is for your own good, Y/N! You need to relax. Everything’s under control.”

“Jean!” you called, rattling the doorknob, though your voice lacked any real anger. “I just want to check on the decorations one more time!”

“Nope,” Jean replied cheerfully through the door. “Logan’s orders. He said, and I quote, ‘she’s gonna drive herself crazy. Lock her in if you have to.’”

You groaned, leaning your forehead against the door. “I’m not crazy.”

Jean’s voice softened. “Y/N, everything’s perfect. Trust us, okay? You’ve done enough. Now let us take care of the rest.”

Ororo’s calm voice chimed in from somewhere in the room. “She’s right, you know. The decorations look beautiful. Jubilee and Kitty outdid themselves. And Scott and Hank are handling the food just fine.”

You sighed, finally stepping away from the door. “Fine. But only because I’m outnumbered.”

Jean unlocked the door and peeked her head in, grinning. “That’s the spirit.” She stepped inside, followed by Ororo, who carried a garment bag carefully over her arm. “Now, let’s focus on the fun part: getting you ready.”

You couldn’t help but smile as Ororo unzipped the bag, revealing your wedding dress. The sight of it still took your breath away. The off-shoulder gown with intricate lace detailing and long sleeves was everything you’d dreamed of, and you felt a little thrill of excitement knowing you’d soon be wearing it.

Jean gestured for you to sit down in front of the vanity, where she had already laid out an array of makeup and hair tools. “Okay, here’s the plan: Ororo’s on hair, and I’ll handle your makeup. By the time we’re done, Logan’s gonna lose his mind.”

You laughed softly, settling into the chair. “He’d better not. I don’t want him passing out before the ceremony.”

Ororo chuckled as she began gently brushing through your hair. “I think Logan’s been ready for this day since the moment he met you.”

Jean smiled warmly, her hands deftly organizing the makeup. “He really has. It’s sweet, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.”

Your cheeks flushed at their words, but you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through your chest. Logan had been a constant in your life, his gruff exterior hiding a heart that had always been devoted to you. The thought of him waiting for you at the end of the aisle made your nerves fade, replaced by anticipation.

“Okay, close your eyes,” Jean instructed, and you obeyed, letting her work her magic. The soft strokes of the brush and the hum of conversation between her and Ororo were soothing, and for the first time all day, you felt yourself relaxing.

By the time they were finished, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Your hair was styled in soft waves, pinned delicately to one side with small, sparkling clips. Jean’s makeup was subtle but elegant, enhancing your features without overwhelming them. You looked… radiant.

“Wow,” you breathed, turning your head slightly to take it all in. “You two are amazing.”

Jean grinned, squeezing your shoulder. “We aim to please.”

Ororo helped you into your dress, carefully fastening the buttons along the back. Once the gown was in place, she stepped back, her smile warm and approving. “You’re ready, Y/N.”

You turned to face the full-length mirror, your breath catching at the sight. The dress fit perfectly, the lace shimmering softly in the light. It was everything you’d hoped for and more.

Jean wiped at the corner of her eye dramatically. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Thank you, both of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ororo placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “That’s what friends are for.”

There was a knock at the door, and Rogue’s voice called out. “Y/N? It’s time.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Jean and Ororo exchanged excited smiles. Ororo grabbed your bouquet, a beautiful arrangement of white roses and greenery, and handed it to you. “Let’s get you married.”

The three of you made your way downstairs, the sound of soft music drifting through the mansion. The transformation of the lawn was breathtaking. Rows of chairs lined the grass, adorned with white ribbons and small floral arrangements. An archway covered in more roses stood at the end of the aisle, with Charles waiting beneath it, his wheelchair positioned just so.

And there, standing at the end of the aisle, was Logan. Dressed in a sharp black suit, he looked both rugged and unbearably handsome, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He looked as though nothing else in the world existed but you.

Jean gave your hand a squeeze before stepping aside to join Scott, and Ororo took her place with the other bridesmaids. Rogue beamed at you as she adjusted your train one last time. “Go get him, girl.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening around your bouquet, and then you began to walk. The world seemed to blur around you, the murmurs of the guests fading into the background as Logan’s gaze held yours. Every step brought you closer to him, to the life you were about to begin together.

When you reached the end of the aisle, Logan took your hand, his grip warm and steady. He leaned in slightly, his voice low but filled with emotion. “You’re beautiful, darlin’.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Logan’s mouth quirked into a soft smirk, but there was an unmistakable warmth in his eyes. “Didn’t want to embarrass you, darlin’. Figured I’d at least try to look the part.”

You chuckled softly, feeling the nerves melt away now that you were standing in front of him. “You look perfect.”

Logan reached up, his hand brushing lightly over yours where you gripped the bouquet. “Not as perfect as you.”

Before you could respond, Charles cleared his throat gently, his voice calm but filled with quiet authority. “Shall we begin?”

Logan’s hand tightened just slightly on yours as you both turned toward Charles, who was seated in his wheelchair beneath the archway. Behind him, the soft rustling of leaves and the faint hum of summer added a serene backdrop to the moment.

Charles’s expression was serene as he looked between you and Logan. “Today is a celebration—not only of love but of the journey that brought these two together. A journey that, I suspect, was not without its share of challenges.” His eyes twinkled with a hint of knowing, though he didn’t elaborate. “Yet here you stand, hand in hand, ready to face the future together.”

Logan’s thumb rubbed gently over the back of your hand, a quiet reassurance. You glanced up at him and found his gaze still fixed on you, steady and unshakable. It was as if the entire world could collapse around you, and Logan wouldn’t notice or care as long as you were by his side.

Charles continued, his tone gentle and deliberate. “Marriage is not just a bond but a partnership. It is built on trust, respect, and an unyielding commitment to each other. And, knowing the two of you as I do, I have no doubt that your bond is as strong as the adamantium in Logan’s skeleton.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from the guests, even Logan’s lips twitching into a smirk. You felt the corners of your mouth lift too, though your heart was pounding in your chest. Charles’s words resonated deeply, a reminder of everything you and Logan had been through to reach this moment.

Charles’s gaze softened as he addressed Logan. “Logan, do you take Y/N to be your wife? To stand by her side through every challenge, to share in her joys, and to love her fiercely for as long as you live?”

Logan didn’t hesitate for a second. “I do.”

The firmness in his voice sent a shiver through you. There was no doubt, no reservation—just pure, unwavering certainty.

Charles turned his attention to you, his expression kind. “And Y/N, do you take Logan to be your husband? To stand by his side through every challenge, to share in his joys, and to love him fiercely for as long as you live?”

Your voice came out soft but steady, the words carrying every ounce of truth you felt. “I do.”

Charles nodded, his hands resting on the arms of his wheelchair. “By the power vested in me and with the love and support of everyone here, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Logan, you may kiss the bride.”

Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and filled with passion. The cheers and applause from the guests barely registered as you melted into him, the world fading away until it was just the two of you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice low and gruff but filled with emotion. “We did it, sweetheart.”

You smiled, your fingers brushing over the lapels of his suit jacket. “We did.”

The applause grew louder as Logan took your hand, turning to face the guests. You caught sight of Jean wiping her eyes dramatically, grinning as Scott shook his head in amusement. Ororo and Rogue both looked radiant, their smiles wide as they joined the applause.

As the two of you made your way down the aisle, Logan’s hand never left yours, his grip steady and reassuring. The world felt brighter, lighter, as if every piece had finally fallen into place. You were married.

---

You walked with your eyes closed, your fingers intertwined with Logan's as he guided you through the bustling streets of Paris. The sounds of the city surrounded you—the distant hum of cars, the chatter of people, and the occasional soft clink of a café cup—but it all felt muffled, as if the world was holding its breath for the moment you’d finally open your eyes.

Logan’s grip on your hand was steady, comforting. It was an anchor, reminding you that this moment, this moment with him, was real. His voice, gruff yet affectionate, came from just above you. “Just a little bit further, darlin’,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

“Logan, this better not be some kind of elaborate prank,” you joked, trying to suppress your smile. “You know how easily I get nervous when I don’t know what’s going on.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm in your chest. “No pranks. Just wait, you’ll see. You’re gonna love it.”

You had no idea where you were going or what he had planned. It was just you and him, alone in the magic of Paris. You’d never been this far from the mansion before, and the city felt like a whole new world, full of promise and adventure.

The air smelled different here, cleaner somehow, and there was a faint coolness to the evening breeze. You could hear the distant sounds of tourists and Parisians going about their evening, but it all felt so far away as Logan led you further down the sidewalk.

Finally, Logan stopped walking. You could sense the change in his posture, a subtle shift in how he held you.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice lowering to a more serious tone. “Open your eyes.”

You hesitated for a moment before slowly lifting your eyelids, the city’s lights momentarily blinding you as you adjusted. And then—there it was.

The Eiffel Tower. Towering before you, it glittered with thousands of lights, shining bright against the darkening sky. But it wasn’t just the Eiffel Tower that took your breath away. Above it, the sky was painted with the vivid greens, purples, and blues of the Northern Lights.

You gasped, your eyes darting between the two spectacular sights before landing on Logan. “Logan… how… how did you know this was happening? The Northern Lights don’t usually appear in the summer…”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Guess I know a few things about the world you don’t, darlin’.” He paused, taking in your stunned expression. “I might’ve had a little help, but I wanted tonight to be perfect for you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “This… this is perfect,” you whispered, unable to tear your eyes away from the sky. “I can’t believe you knew this was going to happen.”

Logan shrugged casually, though his expression softened as he took a step closer. “I don’t know about the stars aligning, but I know how much you love the idea of things being right when they happen. Couldn’t let you miss this.” He reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wanted you to see this. To know that, no matter what, there’s beauty in this world that’s meant for you.”

You stood there in stunned silence, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You had never imagined a moment like this—not with Logan, not in a city like this. He had this way of surprising you, of pulling something beautiful out of thin air when you least expected it. The man who had been your constant across so many lifetimes, always there, always remembering you when you had no memory of your past lives… and now, here he was, giving you a memory of your own.

You finally looked up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

Logan’s lips quirked up, the corners of his mouth softening. “You deserve everything, sweetheart,” he said, his hand finding yours again. “Everything and more.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep through your skin. The world around you seemed to slow, as though the Northern Lights had wrapped the two of you in a blanket of time. Here, in Paris, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower with Logan beside you, you felt like maybe—just maybe—this life would be different. Maybe this time, there would be no goodbyes.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words feeling lighter than they ever had before.

Logan’s expression softened even more, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I love you, too. More than anything.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and steady. “You’re my everything, darlin’.”

The stars twinkled above you, and the Northern Lights danced in the sky, but in that moment, all you could see was Logan. His warmth. His presence. His unwavering certainty that you were meant to be together.

---

You scrunched your nose at the sky, the rain falling steadily as it soaked into the streets of Paris. The rhythm of the downpour created a gentle symphony against the canopy above you, and though the evening had been filled with so much warmth, the weather had shifted unexpectedly. But, despite the rain, Logan’s hand remained steady in yours, and the storm outside couldn’t quite dampen the mood between you.

Logan turned toward you, a hint of mischief playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Want to run through the rain, sweetheart?” he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Run through the rain?”

Logan's smile spread, and he raised an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, sweetheart. What’s the worst that could happen? We get a little wet? Besides, you look great when you’re soaked.” His voice was playful, and there was a lightness to it that made you laugh again.

You glanced at the rain, the droplets now beginning to fall harder, streaking down the cobblestones of the Parisian street. It wasn’t the kind of weather you had imagined, but somehow, with Logan beside you, it felt like the perfect opportunity to break from the ordinary.

You shrugged, a smile creeping onto your face. “I guess if you can handle it, then I can too.” You squeezed his hand, trying to act more confident than you felt. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got to be in Paris, on your honeymoon, with Logan by your side.

Logan’s grin turned into something softer, and his fingers tightened around yours as he pulled you closer. “You sure about that? We can always head back to the hotel,” he said, his voice low, the warmth of it settling around you.

“No way,” you replied quickly, your tone more playful now. “Let’s do it. Just try to keep up.”

Logan chuckled under his breath and nodded, his eyes lighting up with that mischievous spark that had always drawn you in. “Alright, sweetheart. Here we go.”

Before you could take a step, he tugged you gently toward him, and in one swift motion, he was off, pulling you with him. You laughed, the sound mingling with the soft patter of rain against the street, as you ran beside him through the warm summer rain. The water splashed at your feet, your clothes quickly soaking through, but it felt like freedom—like this moment was just for the two of you.

Logan’s laughter echoed in your ears as you both sprinted down the street, the Parisian cityscape around you a blur. You felt lighter than you had in weeks, months, maybe even years. Everything was perfect. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about the past or what the future might bring. You only had the here and now, and Logan, the one constant in your life.

Eventually, you both slowed to a stop, your breathing heavy but your hearts light. You couldn’t help but smile at Logan, who was grinning, his hair slightly damp and his shirt clinging to his chest in the most endearing way.

“That was... definitely worth it,” you said, breathless, your voice filled with amusement.

Logan caught his breath too and wiped the water from his forehead. “Told you you’d love it,” he replied, his voice softer now. He stepped toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and before you could say anything else, he cupped your face with one hand, pulling you toward him.

His kiss was slow, tender, a contrast to the spontaneity of your run. The world seemed to stop in that moment, the sounds of the rain, the city, all fading away as you kissed him back, feeling the warmth of his lips against yours. There was something magical about it—about how he always knew how to make you feel special, even in the most unexpected moments.

When you finally pulled back, you both stood there, laughing quietly, your fingers still interlaced. “Okay, now I’m soaked,” you said, your smile never fading.

Logan chuckled, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “Doesn’t matter. You look beautiful either way,” he said, his voice gruff but affectionate.

You shook your head, but the smile on your face grew wider. “You’re impossible,” you teased, though the warmth of his words made your heart swell. “But I guess I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk never leaving his lips. “Good. I’ve got a few more surprises up my sleeve, darlin’. Just wait.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be worried.”

Logan pulled you closer again, his hand resting on the small of your back, his thumb gently tracing circles. “Trust me, sweetheart. No need to worry about anything. It’s just you and me. Always.” His words, soft and certain, settled in your chest like a promise.

For a moment, you closed your eyes, letting the sound of the rain and his steady presence wash over you. The night had become everything you’d dreamed of and more. There would be no worries, no regrets—not as long as Logan was by your side.

Finally, Logan broke the silence with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what do you say? You wanna keep running through the rain, or should we head back to the hotel and dry off?”

You glanced at him, your heart racing from both the run and the way he made you feel. “I think I’m ready for a change of pace,” you said, your voice soft, almost teasing. “But don’t think I’ll forget this.”

He chuckled again, his hand slipping into yours as he led the way back toward the hotel, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as the two of you walked together, side by side, under the Parisian night sky.

if you want to know what year it is, it is 2005!

(also, again, you can imagine whatever wedding dress you want, but i based it off of this one i found when i was, once again, bored)

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Thirteen

Series Masterlist

Thanks for being patient and supportive, guys. I am going to try to get two out on top of this, as this is technically last weeks chapter, but I am doing my best. I had some really awesome people reach out and check-in on me this week and honestly, I needed it. I put a lot of pressure on myself with every chapter- i feel like it's been so good up to this point so with each chapter I am pressuring myself to keep the quality up and sometimes it's just a lot. Your guys' support means everything to me.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car’s quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper from the back seat. Just a daytrip- a quick jaunt to London for a sim technology conference. A few presentations, more than a few handouts, a mediocre lunch service. A stop-in before Brazil. Necessary evil. For RedBull. For Redline. Just business.

Christian drives with one hand on the wheel and a tired sort of ease, eyes focused on the dark stretch of motorway that cut back toward Milton Keynes. Max sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, cheek propped against his knuckles, watching the world smear by through the window- headlights, hedges, the vague shape of trees pressed up flat against the night.

In the back seat, you’ve turned the quiet into something else. Not noise, exactly. But motion. Intent. Working- of course you’re working- your laptop balanced between your knees, a mess of pamphlets and printouts spread across the leather seat like a dealer laying down cards. Brows drawn, your mouth slightly parted in concentration as you thumb through the stack, cross-reference a spec sheet from another, then type something with sharp, purposeful taps.

Every so often, you pause- chewing at your thumb, the nail already raw from a day’s worth of absent-minded worry- before returning to the keys with renewed precision. Max can hear it: the rhythm of you cataloguing, organizing, making sense of all of it. Like it wasn’t enough to have gone to the presentations, shaken hands, taken the obligatory photos- no, you needed to digest it. To dissect it. To turn just business into something useful before the car even hit the roundabouts.

Max doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the energy coming off you like static- tired, but alive. Like you’d spent all day holding yourself still and were only now allowed to exhale, alone in the backseat with your chaos.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight. It was easier when you weren’t in motion. Easier when he could convince himself you were a moment. A blip. Not someone with velocity.

Christian’s phone buzzes against the dash, screen lighting up with a name. Max’s eyes flick to the center display: Franz Tost. Christian exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. More... contemplative.

Max feels it immediately- whatever this is, it’s not for public consumption. Not immediately. Not without decision. Christian reaches for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen a beat too long. "Should I- " he mutters, mostly to himself, then glances in the rearview mirror.

Whatever he sees must make up his mind. He hits accept and toggles it to Bluetooth with a practiced flick of his thumb. "Franz," he says, slow and even. "You’re on speaker. I’ve got company."

A pause. Static. Then Franz’s voice comes through the speakers- faintly German-accented, clipped, all business. "Ah. I see." Christian doesn’t reply. Just keeps driving, one hand steady on the wheel.

"I’ve looked through the numbers," Franz says finally. "Not exactly standard."

"It’s what was offered," Christian replies.

"That’s clear. Still surprising."

Christian lets out a soft huff of breath. "It’s lean."

"Very."

Behind them, the rhythm of keystrokes falters. Then stops. Max hears the soft click of a laptop being closed. Paper shifts. Something about the silence feels intentional- weighted. Max can feel it. The way you’re listening now. Still as stone. Like even the creak of leather beneath you might give something away.

“Do you think… the dynamics of the workplace will be an issue?” Franz says, voice low, deliberate.

Christian shrugs like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t all spent months navigating politics sharp enough to draw blood. “I have yet to be concerned. Besides, if we were worried about workplace dynamics we’d start letting robots drive the cars.”

There’s a pause- thin, wire-tight. “Pipeline?” Franz asks.

Christian doesn’t even blink. “Not an option. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“And Helmut?”

Christian’s fingers shift against the leather steering wheel. “Aligned.” That one lands hard. Max feels it settle in his chest like cold water, the kind that bites deep, spreads slow. The shape of it starts forming before he can name it. Something real. Something decided. Like he can feel what’s coming before he knows it.

Franz exhales, measured. “So we’re settled, then.”

Christian glances briefly toward the passenger window, then back at the road ahead. The lights of the motorway slide past in rhythmic blurs, gold and white and rain-slick. “We’re settled,” he says.

In the backseat, you don’t move. You’re leaning forward now, just slightly- one hand braced against the center console like it might pull you closer, the other curled in your lap, knuckles pale.

You don’t say a word.

You just listen.

Christian adjusts his grip on the wheel, his tone suddenly lighter. “She’s in the car,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want to say it yourself.”

A beat of static follows. The sound of breath caught somewhere in the ether. Then Franz, as calm as ever, as clinical as a scalpel: “Welcome to Alpha Tauri.”

You freeze.

No sound. No movement. Just a single breath drawn too sharply through your nose. One hand lifts, slow and instinctive, pressing against your mouth like you can catch the words before they settle. Like you can hold them inside a moment longer, keep them suspended.

Christian smiles, not unkind. “We’ll let it sink,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be calling you shortly.”

The line clicks off.

Silence rushes in- not gentle, not still, but dense, like a pressure front collapsing inward. It doesn’t settle so much as press, heavy against Max’s chest, coiling in the space between words that never arrive.

Christian says nothing. His hands stay steady on the wheel. Max doesn’t move. Even the road quiets. The tires hum low beneath them, more suggestion than sound, a soft whisper across wet asphalt.

It hangs there. The weight of it. The finality.

You’re on the grid.

Max is still chewing on the words when he hears it.

A sharp crack- plastic slapping leather- your laptop shoved aside with zero ceremony, skidding half off the seat before your bag catches it. Papers follow in a loose explosion, fluttering across the backseat like confetti fired from a gun. Handouts, notes, color-coded madness- gone, scattered.

And then- 

You scream.

Not a yell. Not a cheer. A full-throated, spine-snapping howl as you slam the window control. The glass barely halfway down before you’re already half out of it, one arm braced on the door frame, the other thrown back like you’re summoning gods.

“FUCK YEAH!” you roar into the night. “I’M ON THE FUCKING GRID!”

Christian twitches behind the wheel, startled. Max blinks. Then you’re laughing- wild and sharp and goddamn unstoppable- as the wind slaps your hair across your face in tangled streaks. Your voice rips through the air outside the car.

“SEE YOU IN BAHRAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS!” you shout, head tipped back like the stars are listening. “I’M ON THE GRID, ASSHOLES! YOU HEAR THAT?!”

Your joy carves itself across the motorway. A minivan swerves slightly in the next lane. A lorry honks, long and confused. Someone flashes their brights from behind. You don’t care.

You’re laughing too hard to breathe, shoulders shaking, half-out the window and fully alive, clinging to the door like the car can’t hold you anymore. Like you might just launch.

Max stares straight ahead. Jaw slack. Heart pounding. Vision tight. Christian chuckles, low and amazed. “Guess it’s sunk in.”

You make a sound- something between a gasp and a growl, half-feral, wholly triumphant. “Fucking- yes.” Then you fall back into your seat, limp with joy, breath hitching, face flushed and lit from somewhere deep. Your hair’s a wreck, your papers are gone, your voice is probably halfway to hoarse- 

But Max has never seen anyone look more alive.

He was still angled toward you- barely- just enough to see you in the mirror’s corner. And God, it was like looking directly into the sun.

He’d seen you a lot of ways. Snapping. Spitting. Glaring at him across conference tables with a heat that made engineers forget their talking points.

He’d pressed you, more than once, just to make you crack. Just to see if you would. He liked the fury. Liked knowing it was in you. Liked proving to himself you were human. Mortal. That the clean professionalism and perfect posture was just a veneer. Poking, needling, pressing on every bruise until something bled. 

And you had snapped- sometimes with anger, sometimes with ice. You’d lashed back at him, sharp and venomous, and every time he’d told himself good. That’s what she is. That’s all she is.

But this?

This was the first time he’d seen you raw with joy.

You look alive in a way that almost hurts to witness. Like if Max blinks, you might burn out entirely. Like he’s seeing something he was never meant to. Not in the wild. Not without armor.

In the driver’s seat, Christian chuckles, low and warm. “You get it all out?”

You don’t lift your head- just groan through a smile, breathless and giddy. “For now.”

Christian glances back, a casual flick of the eyes that still carries weight. It’s not mocking, not patronizing. Just... paternal. The kind of look that says you’re still a kid to me, no matter how many contracts you’ve signed or late nights you’ve spent grinding data until your hands cramped. The kind of look older men give young people when they forget, for a moment, that the person in front of them is already pulling weight like someone twice their age. “You should call your friends,” he says. “Go out. Get a beer. Raise hell.”

You blink up at the ceiling of the car, dazed and glowing. “God,” you rasp, voice still wrecked from screaming, “a beer sounds incredible.”

Then you turn your head, just slightly, and aim it at Christian with a deadpan delivery so dry it nearly evaporates in the air. “But Christian… my only friend is a thirty-seven-year-old man who’s probably eating dinner with his wife and children right now.” Your words are casual. Inevitable. Like you’ve already made peace with it.

Christian laughs- but there’s a stutter in it, like it catches halfway through.

Max doesn’t laugh at all.

The silence after your sentence lands just a little too sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. The kind of silence that fills a room when everyone realizes they knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to feel it.

Christian recovers first, though his voice is a shade softer now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling again, but less brightly. “That’s right. I forgot.” He looks forward again. “Eighty-hour weeks don’t leave much room for socializing.”

“Shocking, I know,” you mumble, dragging a hand over your face.

You don’t sound bitter. You don’t look like someone who got lucky. You look like someone who fought. Who scrapped. Who bled. Who won. For the first time all night, Max turns. Really turns. He looks at you. And doesn’t say a thing.

Because it hits him- not as thought, but as truth:

You’re not going anywhere.

You’re not fading. Not flinching. Not folding under the weight of it all like he used to tell himself you would- had to, eventually. That the system would grind you down the way it does to everyone who shows up too bright, too earnest, too unwilling to play the long game.

But you haven’t gone quiet. You haven’t disappeared. You’re not dissolving under pressure like a sugar cube in rain.

You’re here. 

And not just physically, not just taking up space in the backseat of a car you didn’t drive, but here, in the way that matters. Unshakable. Bright. Absolutely alive. Max feels it settle- not like a punch, but like something heavier. Slower. A recognition that doesn’t ask for permission.

For the first time, Max knows- really knows- that whatever he believed would happen to you, isn’t going to happen. Whatever he wanted to believe- whatever petty, bitter hope he might have nursed- that somehow this would be temporary, a half-season-long disruption, a footnote… that you would do- or not do- something to send you packing and out of Redbull, out of Formula, out of Jos’s fucking mouth… he knows better now.

You’re not going to get overwhelmed and disappear.

You’re not going to say the wrong thing in a meeting and lose your shot.

You’re not going to flame out under pressure, or back down when the paddock sharpens its teeth, or get so disillusioned you hand back your badge and walk away quietly like a shadow that never mattered.

No.

You’re going to fight. You’re going to stay. You’re not passing through.

You’re arriving.

And it’s happening right in front of him.

He watches you, sprawled in the backseat with your hair still tangled and your smile too big for your face, like you’ve cracked open and joy is leaking out in every direction. Your papers are a mess. Your laugh is too loud. Your voice is still hoarse from screaming at the motorway.

And he can’t be mad about it.

Not right now.

Because it’s hard to be bitter when you’re watching someone’s dream wrap itself around them in real time- hard to resent the way your eyes keep slipping closed like you’re trying to hold it all in, to stretch the moment before it passes.

It makes something ache in him. Nostalgia, maybe. A memory long buried.  And God- he remembers what that felt like. 

The first time the call came. When he got his call. When everything he ever wanted was suddenly, actually his- and nothing had gone wrong yet. 

When someone outside the walls of home- outside the garage, the track, the echo chamber of expectations- just said it, plain and certain: You’re good enough. No stopwatch. No lecture. No icy silence after a second-place finish. Just a voice on the other end of the line saying, You belong here. You, yes you. 

When for one, fragile moment, it wasn’t about consequences. Wasn’t about slammed doors or missed dinners. Wasn’t about endless laps in the cold, and the rain, and the dark until his fingers felt closer to shattered glass than part of his hands. Wasn’t about waking up too early and going to sleep too late, body humming with exhaustion and nerves because he couldn’t afford to mess it up again. 

When it wasn’t about making up for the weekend before. Or the one before that. It wasn’t about hearing that voice- sharp, cold, disappointed- repeating the same five words on loop: You should’ve done better. 

When all the pressure hadn’t calcified into armor. When his name hadn’t yet become a shield. Before the PR machine. Before the politics. Before the paddock turned love into leverage and every podium into proof he deserved to be there.

It didn’t matter that it took Jos all of forty-five seconds to get on the phone and start planning his promotion from Toro Rosso. 

Because that one single moment was his. And you’re standing on the edge of that moment right now, drunk on it- without even needing the beer.

And Max- 

Max feels something sharp twist in his gut. It’s not hatred. It’s not even resentment.

It’s longing.

Melancholic. Jealous, if he’s honest. Not of your talent, or your seat, or even your rise- he has his own throne, his own empire. But of the feeling. That raw, high-voltage, maybe this is really happening kind of magic that only happens once. Maybe twice, if you’re lucky.

He didn’t realize how long it’s been since he felt it. How much he misses it.

And now here you are, soaking in it like it’s sunlight, and he can’t look away.

He remembers that version of himself. Bright-eyed. Hopeful. New. A kid that joked with Carlos and followed Danny around like the ground he walked on held secrets worth learning. 

And somehow, that’s what he sees in you. Even now. Even after everything. And for the first time in a long time, Max doesn’t can’t bring himself to resent you for it. Maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow. That’s okay.

But not tonight. You can have this one. He’ll allow it. 

The car settles again. But the silence isn’t heavy now. It’s expansive. Open. Like someone cracked the seal on a room that had been airless for too long. Only the rhythmic click of the blinker breaks it when Christian changes lanes. The faint drag of tires. And every so often, your laughter- quieter now, but still alive, still glowing. It’s a small sound. Crooked. Half-choked, like it sneaks up on you before you’ve decided to let it out.

Like the disbelief keeps reappearing in your chest, uninvited, and all you can do is laugh it off.

Max doesn’t turn back again. Not directly. But every time it happens, every time that sound breaks through the quiet- low, giddy, almost disbelieving- his eyes flick to the mirror. Just once. Just long enough to catch the outline of your shoulders trembling with it. Then he shifts back to the window, like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t land.

It does. It lands hard. That laugh- it gets under his skin, sure, but deeper than that. Under everything. Under the detachment, under the static, under the thick layer of contempt he’s wrapped around you for months. He doesn’t know how to describe it. Only that it sounds like something he’s never been allowed to feel.

Freedom.

They drive like that for ten more minutes. No one speaks. Christian hums softly under his breath, barely audible, the sound light and tuneless. You’re still stretched across the back seat like gravity let go of you. One boot perched against the center console, your head tilted just so against the cool window, your body loose with joy.

Max doesn’t check the mirror again- eyes forward- and that’s when he clocks it. The exit they always take- the familiar loops that gives way to the roundabouts toward the factory- slides past on the left, untouched. Christian doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance. Just keeps driving, calm and unhurried, like this is exactly the plan.

Max straightens a little. Frowns. “You missed- ”

“Got anywhere to be?” Christian asks, voice casual- too casual to be innocent. Max glances at the clock. It’s late. But not late enough to matter. Not like he’s missing anything.

There’s no warm meal waiting for him at home. No one checking the time, waiting for the plane to land, watching the door, asking him how the event went, if he learned anything useful at the presentations. He’s not getting texts. Not really. There’s always someone to talk to, sure. Always someone to entertain the idea. But no one waiting.

And that’s what it comes down to. There’s no one waiting for Max Verstappen. So he shrugs, voice even. “No.” And it’s the truth. He has nowhere to be.

No one to be there for.

Christian just nods once. Says nothing else. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.

He flicks the indicator, turns onto a narrower road without hesitation. The headlights carve through a tight lane lined with old brick, terrace house fronts with trimmed hedges, and lampposts glowing, warm. It’s not unfamiliar, exactly. It looks like any other suburban stretch near Milton Keynes. Just unexpected.

From the back seat, you must notice- slow and half-alert- blinking off your daze like it’s something you can set aside. Max can hear your diagram confetti rustle as you sit up. “Where are we going?” Christian doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s enjoying whatever surprise he has planned. And then the car slows. 

A small pub sits ahead- not some posh gastropub or dimly lit cocktail den- but a squat, weathered building tucked just off a residential bend. The paint on the wooden sign is chipped, peeled in layers down to bare grain. Warm light glows behind the glass, spilling across the wet pavement in patches that flicker against the cooler silver of streetlamps. Each time the door opens, muffled music and laughter leak into the air, caught and swallowed again when it slams shut. It’s not dingy, but it’s old- dated in the way that means history. Too lived-in to be a tourist spot, but too loved to be a complete shithole. Everything about the place looks aged and uneven- the kind of pub that’s been there longer than the people inside it. 

Christian pulls into a small space right outside. The engine goes quiet. For a moment, no one speaks. Max flicks his eyes toward the pub, then toward the rearview mirror.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, voice hesitant, caught somewhere between confusion and quiet amusement as you lean up between the front seats and look out the windshield- like maybe the side windows had tricked you- like you maybe weren’t parked in front of a neighborhood pub.

Max watches you from the corner of his eye- your gaze flicking between Christian and the battered old pub with a strange mix of suspicion and something softer. You sound like you want to laugh, but you’re not sure yet if it’s safe.

Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re getting a beer.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything. But Max knows it does. Small as it is, this- this- is Christian giving a damn. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not in words. But enough to drive off-course. Enough to stop here.

You just blink at first. Max can see it- how the words take a second to sink in, like your brain needs time to register the gesture for what it is. You look out at the pub again- at the weathered door, the faded signage, the people slipping out of it, hunched against the cold, heads ducked low in the kind of wet that soaks you before you feel it.

Then your mouth tugs upward. Slow. Like you’re not used to smiling for no reason.

“This place is…” your voice trails as you scan it again, and Max sees the way your shoulders twitch- something uncoiling, piece by piece, not quite sure if it’s allowed. “...perfect.”

You don’t bounce out of the car. Don’t flash your teeth or strut toward the door like a woman who owns the world.

But you do move with purpose. Like maybe the world is giving you something tonight, and you're not going to waste time questioning it. You step out into the night, trailing behind the glow leaking from the pub’s front door like you’re trying to catch up with warmth before it changes its mind.

Christian follows a beat later, stretching like an old dog before straightening his jacket. He gives the place a once-over with that strange brand of affection older men save for even older bars. Like a decent pint is something personal. 

Max stays where he is. Hands resting in his lap. Still. Watching. Hesitating.

He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He doesn’t hate pubs. He’s been to plenty. But this place… this moment… it feels like it wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Like he’s accidentally stumbled into someone else’s memory being made.

And you look so happy.

Not in the way he’s seen before- not the polished post-race smiles, not the forced cheer of sponsor events. This is different. Bare. Quietly radiant. You’re not floating just out of orbit of this world anymore. You’re walking right into it, like it finally has space for you.

Max breathes out through his nose. Slowly. Then he moves.

Deliberate. Grounded. Shoulders drawn tight under the weight of something he won’t name. He climbs out of the car, planting his feet on slick pavement, the cold nipping at any exposed bits of skin- his face, his ears, the sliver of skin where his pants are tailored just so to the tops of his shoes. His hands slide into his coat pockets, fingers curling into the seams.

Not because he’s cold. But because he doesn’t quite know what to do with them when a night starts to feel this gentle.

“This place looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection since the ‘80s,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Flat. Observational. No real teeth.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a flicker of a second. Your mouth quirks. “It’s personality.” It’s teasing, it’s just two words- but it might be the first time you’ve ever said anything that borders on being friendly to him- not professional, not heated, not frustrated. Not what he makes you to be. Just… what you are. Warm. Kind. Like you’ve forgotten what a pain in your ass he is.

Christian just laughs, the sound low and amused, and claps Max on the shoulder with a firm pat that borders on a shove. “One beer. You’ll live.”

Inside, the air smells like fryer grease and varnished wood, like carpets that have soaked up too many rainy shoes and Sunday pints. A tapestry-patterned grid of carpet stretches out beneath scuffed tables and mismatched chairs. There’s a low hum of conversation, football playing on two TVs mounted high in the corners, sound just under the level of speech. One chalkboard lists drink specials in smudged white chalk; another advertises upcoming game coverage on SkySports and a Sunday poker night in barely-crooked block letters.

It’s not a shithole.

It’s just... used. The way good things are.

Max pauses just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he’s trying to map out exits. There’s a stiffness in his spine, a quiet discomfort that doesn’t read as fear- just unfamiliarity. The place is too normal, too small, too honest. Nothing here needs polishing. A dozen patrons, maybe fewer. Mostly older men, coats still on, eyes half-lidded as they nurse their drinks like they’re waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

No one looks up. No one gives a shit who just walked in. This place doesn’t want anything from him. And for reasons he doesn’t understand, that feels... almost comforting. Max exhales through his nose. Something tight uncoils in his chest, just barely.

“This,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, “is my kind of place.”

Christian beelines for the bar the second they’re inside, already tossing a half-wave at the barkeep like he’s a regular, or just pretending to be one. His voice disappears into the low hum of the room- easy, warm, familiar.

And just like that, Max is left trailing behind you.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. It just sort of happens. One step after the other, unthinking. The carpet firm underfoot. The air too warm against his face. He watches the way your head tilts slightly as you scan the room, the subtle pause in your step when you realize he’s following you- not like a bodyguard or a shadow, but like someone who didn’t make a decision fast enough and now doesn’t know how to back out.

You don’t say anything.

But your shoulders pull a little tighter for half a second, the way people do when they’re trying to decide if they’re being hunted or accompanied. Then, with a misdirected kind of purpose, you veer toward the left. Max follows.

The side room is empty. Blessedly, perfectly empty.

Same worn tapestry carpet, same faint scent of beer and furniture polish, but quieter. Detached. A few scattered tables and chairs. A dart board. One pool table- it doesn’t match either of the ones out front. And a jukebox against the wall- an actual jukebox. Old-fashioned. And mechanical. Not touchscreen, not curated. The kind that requires real coins and real commitment.

You hover near the doorway for a second, then walk in, slow and casual, pretending you’re assessing options but already choosing. You pick a table in the back- half-tucked near a radiator that clicks softly under the window. You don’t look at Max, but you know he’s there. You can feel him behind you.

He hesitates in the doorway again, just for a beat, before stepping inside. His steps are slower now. Intentional. He slides into the chair across from you, because like fuck is he going to sit next to you. And then it happens.

That terrible, silent, brutal minute where neither of you says a word.

Because no one made you sit here, together. There’s no team debrief. No overbearing fathers. No media duty. No camera crew waiting to catch the dynamic. No podium to share. Just... a table. A chair. And the awful weight of silence.

Thick. Ugly. The kind that knows it’s silence. The kind that grows louder the longer it stretches.

You glance toward the main bar, then back at Max, your expression flickering into something a little too neutral. Your voice is light but strained, like you’re trying to casually toss something into the void to break the tension.

“Do you think Christian’s ordering for all three of us or… do you think I should- ?” You gesture vaguely toward the door, a half-lifted hand that immediately regrets existing.

Max blinks at you. “He’ll get three.”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah. Right. That makes sense.” And that’s it. Nothing else. Just those sad, wrinkled words sitting in the air like a damp napkin no one wants to pick up. 

Silence again.

It’s impossible to tell if the talking or the not talking is more awkward.

Neither of you looks at each other.

Christian returns- mercifully- carrying three pints with the kind of practiced balance that says this isn’t his first pub trip. The tray is plastic, probably older than all of them, and each glass is filled to the brim with a different shade of gold.

He doesn’t say much. Just slides the drinks onto the table like he’s delivering a verdict and claims the seat beside you, sighing as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Here we are,” he says. “The best thing I’ve done for either of you all week.”

Your hands are already around the glass before he finishes talking.

Pilsner, probably. Crisp. Cold. Head still holding. You stare down at it like it’s a religious experience.

Max watches as your fingers tighten around the glass. Your shoulders are still a little hunched from the lingering discomfort of whatever the hell that silence was, but now there’s something else bubbling up behind your eyes. Energy. Relief. Joy.

You lift the pint slightly, almost toasting with yourself, and then just laugh- a short, breathless thing as you shake your head. “I’m trying to think of something to cheers to,” you say, voice warm and hoarse. “But all I can think about is how fucking good this is going to be.”

You grin down at the glass. “I haven’t had a beer since I moved here. I- God.” You cut yourself off with another soft laugh, this one less strained. “It just looks so good.”

You say it like it’s more than beer. Max watches you. You’re entirely infatuated with your glass, which makes it easier to do.

He hasn’t seen you like this. Not really. Not happy, not glowing, not vibrating with the kind of low-key anticipation people usually outgrow once the world teaches them better.

He shifts in his seat and picks up his own pint. Ale. Bitter. Familiar.

Christian raises his glass and taps it gently against yours with a knowing grin. “Then stop thinking and drink it.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You lift the glass with both hands and knock back a third of it like you’ve just been pulled out of the desert. It’s aggressive, almost theatrical, except it’s not. You don’t even seem aware of how intense it looks- just drink until the foam’s down your throat and the glass is heavy again on the table.

“Fuck,” you breathe, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. “That was exactly as good as I knew it was going to be.”

You sit back in your chair with a soft thump, spine loose, mouth curling like the weight of the day finally slipped off your shoulders. Max watches it all with a kind of passive disbelief. Not judgment, not exactly. Just… surprise.

You don’t look like yourself.

At least, not the version of you he knows. The one clipped and coiled, always tucked neatly into meetings, simulator data, tight-lipped PR nods. This is different. This is you opened up, like someone’s unzipped your skin and let something feral crawl out.

And it’s… weird.

Not bad. Not good. Just wrong somehow. Off-kilter. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store in sweatpants, or hearing someone usually stiff and composed let loose a bark of laughter that doesn’t belong in their mouth.

“Best beer I’ve ever had,” you say into the foam, laughing softly to yourself. “Not even close.”

Christian’s grinning, already halfway into his own pint. “That’s because this is your first proper pint.”

“Hm. Probably.” You nod, like he’s just confirmed something sacred, then shift your attention toward the jukebox across the room. “Wonder if that thing still works.”

Christian cranes his neck, squinting toward the machine. “Not unless you’ve got change.”

Without missing a beat, you grab your purse off the floor and haul it into your lap, already unzipping a side pocket. “I’ve probably got a few twenty-pence pieces in here. My order at the work vending machine always gives me 20p back.”

You dig around, knuckles disappearing into the depths- keys, old receipts, some rogue stick of gum. Then the jingle of metal.

Max watches, eyes flicking from your hands to your face and back again. You’re buzzing. Not just from the beer. From something else. Movement. Relief. The sheer absurdity of the moment. 

And he can’t figure out if it’s entertaining or uncomfortable. He doesn’t like you. Not really. But seeing you like this- unguarded, messy, alive- it feels like catching a stranger undressing in a room you weren’t supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look away.

But it doesn’t sit right, either.

A scatter of coins clatter into your palm. Mostly 10ps and 20ps, one suspiciously sticky quid. Then, with a pleased hum, you stand and cross toward the jukebox, slotting the first coin in with a satisfying clink.

Max follows, slow and curious, hovering beside you, scanning the vinyl list for something that he’d like to listen to. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He just assumes.

Of course you’ll hand him one. Why wouldn’t you? That’s what you do. If he asks for a file at the factory, you get it. If he shows up late to a meeting, you fill the gaps. You’re polite. Accommodating. Always willing to smooth over his edges, like that’s part of your job description.

So he holds out a hand. Expectant. Waiting.

You turn. See his outstretched palm. And for a moment you just blink at it. Then you burst out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a bitter exhale. Laughter. Full-bodied, surprised, involuntary.

“Oh my God,” you choke out, grinning wide. “You really just assumed I was gonna give you one. Like, full faith.”

Max blinks. Hand still out, suspended in the air like a loose wire. You just shake your head, still laughing, and tuck the rest of the coins into the back pocket of your pants. “What?” he says, flatly.

“What?” you echo, eyes wide and tone syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache. “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. You must’ve forgotten- we’re not at the office. I don’t have to kiss your ass here.”

Max freezes, not because the words sting, but because they don’t. And your tone- it’s like creamed sugar. It’s too gentle. Too soft. Like there’s a knife slipped under the lace of your reply.

And he doesn’t know exactly what just happened.

But he’s pretty sure you made fun of him.

He stares at you like you’d just malfunctioned. Max leans in, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone is measured, almost too calm- because the idea that you wouldn’t hasn’t even occurred to him. “Just pass me one.” he says.

You don’t even bother to lift your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

He blinks, as if surprised by his own impulse. Like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to ask. “Because I want to pick a song?”

You finally meet his eyes, and in them you catch something warm- a glimmer that isn’t full mockery, but rather a spark of amusement, light and unexpected. “And I want to own oceanfront property in Arizona. Guess we both have dreams.”

Max blinks.

You're serious.

He stares at you, genuinely gobsmacked- more from the unexpected tilt of the moment than from your words- because it’s not just that you’re refusing, it’s that you’re enjoying it. That the second you’re off Red Bull property, the second you're not in your work clothes and obligated to keep things diplomatic, you put your foot down. 

Over a twenty pence coin.

For months, you’d always given in to him, you’d always played the part as best you could, no matter how he acted: polite, professional, bending just enough so he could assume it was his idea.

But now?

Now you laugh- loud, unreserved laughter that rings out clear as you fish a single coin out of your pocket and hold it up like a prize. It’s the kind of laugh that feels raw and real, and it cracks the weight of the past wide open. The idea that you might hand him a twenty-pence piece simply because he wants one is absurd- so absurdly funny that it seems the universe itself has tipped the scale.

Max’s mouth parts in a tentative “You’re serious?”

“Oh, deadly,” you reply, your tone light but edged with challenge.

And it’s not just a boundary- it’s a message.

I don't owe you anything.

He narrows his eyes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Come on.”

With a casual flourish, you hold the coin between two fingers, letting it catch the light- a tiny sun in your grasp. “If you want a song that bad,” you say, your voice sweet and teasing, “I’ll give you one. But you have to get on your knees, right here, and tell me I’m the best support driver you’ve ever had.”

The room between you shrinks in that moment. It’s more than the clink of coins or a request- it’s a defiant echo of balance, a playful wager that recasts every past slight into something strangely equal. And in the soft glow of the jukebox’s failing neon tubes- Max, for a brief, unguarded moment- is wrestling with that truth.

He lets out a breath through his nose- almost a laugh. Almost. No chance. Max Verstappen is not going to beg.

That’s the one thread he clings to, even as the night starts to loosen around the edges- warm light, cheap beer, and the comforting weight of anonymity settling over the room like a blanket no one asked for but doesn’t mind.

But asking again doesn’t really count as begging, right? It’s not like he’s on his knees or anything. He’s mulling it over when ‘just one beer’ unanimously becomes ‘just one more.’ He doesn’t remember saying he’d stay this long. But he doesn’t remember not saying it either. He also doesn’t remember asking for a second round, but one shows up anyways- probably Christian’s gesture of good will or penance or plain old morbid curiosity, but either way, Max doesn’t argue. He takes the pint and lets the chill hit his hand, then his throat, and plans his next move through half-lidded eyes.

It’s not that you’re being mean. Not really. You’re just… unbothered. Casual. Infuriatingly in control of this very stupid, very small situation.

He waits until you’re halfway through your second beer to try again.

Max hovers just behind you with his mug, arms crossed loosely, watching as you slot another twenty-pence piece into the old machine, your fingers dancing along the laminated list like you’re selecting fine wine instead of vintage trash-pop. He’s scowling, hovering just close enough to keep asking. Needling. Pestering. Because now it’s a matter of principle. 

“You can’t possibly need all of those.”

“Probably not,” you hum. “Think I’ll hang onto them just in case. Unless?”

When two locals approach the edge of the room- one in a Saints jersey, the other nursing a cider- and ask if you and Max want to team up for doubles on the lopsided pool table, you glance at him for just long enough that he thinks his respectable performance might have bought him some leverage. Wrong. Denied. Kneel. He scoffs. 

“I’m Max Verstappen.”

You shoot him a look so full of icy amusement that it could be a patented cooling system. “Kind of embarrassing if you can’t afford 20p then, you think?” There’s something so pleased in your voice, like you can’t believe he’s gift wrapped you a third opportunity to tell him no in the same night. Like you’ve already collected the return on your little shenanigans, and now Max is shoveling over interest for free. 

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. You’ve always been accommodating. Tolerant. Even when he was an asshole- especially then- you still handed him things without making it a fight. You played the part. Took the hits. Smiled through clenched teeth.

Every appeal he makes, you swat down without lifting your voice, without raising an eyebrow. Just that same calm, clipped response- get on your knees. It becomes a rhythm. A bit. A game that neither of you acknowledges as a game, but plays to win.

You make your next selection, humming under your breath again, and Max stares at your hands- at the last few coins still gleaming in the half-light. They might as well be orbiting stars. Unattainable.

The worst part is that now he really wants to play a song. Not even to win. Not even to prove anything. He just wants the satisfaction. The hit of dopamine. The petty victory of hearing his music next.

And you’ve made it a hostage negotiation.

He paces. He sighs. He sits down on a barstool for thirty seconds, then stands back up. Sighs again. Another drink. Maybe his third. Or fourth. Time gets weird in warm places with sticky floors. Fuck, he wants to play a song.

And then it happens. Something cracks.

He groans- loudly, dramatically- and drops down to one knee right there in front of the jukebox, his jeans collecting samples of whatever filth settles on the floor of a place like this. “Fine,” he spits. “You’re the best support driver I’ve ever had.”

His voice drips with so much sarcasm it practically coats the walls. “Truly. Couldn’t have done a single thing without you.” You stare down at him like he’s a sewer rat that’s learned to tap dance. Amused. A little revolted. Deeply entertained.

And then you grin. It’s not cruel. It’s not even smug. It’s pure, unfiltered delight.

Then, without fanfare, you flick a twenty-pence coin toward the floor. It falls soft on the carpet. Rolls. Spins to a stop just out of his reach. You don’t say a word. But the look on your face- God- you don’t have to.

You’re glowing. Not in the clean, polished way people look when they’ve just won something shiny and official. No, this is something messier. Deeper. Satisfaction pulled from the pit of your stomach, slow and earned.

Max stares at the coin.

Then at you.

Then back at the coin.

And fuck- it’s humiliating. Which might be why it’s perfect. After everything he’s put you through- the weeks of sabotage, the debrief interruptions, the psychological bruising dressed up as excellence- you get to watch him bend.

He reaches down and picks it up.

You laugh. Low and loose and entirely unbothered. Like the idea of him groveling for your spare change is the funniest thing you’ve seen all week.

And maybe it is.

Because he feels it. In his spine. In the back of his throat. The shift. The tilt. This isn’t just a joke anymore. This is power. Yours. 

And for a moment- a long, stretching second longer than either of you probably intends- he holds your gaze. That coin is still cold in his palm. Small. Silly. Heavy in ways it shouldn’t be. Then he turns to the jukebox. Scrolls deliberately. Finds the most obnoxious ABBA song in the catalog. Hits play.

Out of spite. Out of principle. Out of sheer, fucking petty survival.

Your laughter follows him as he walks back toward the table- bright and alive and echoing like it’s chasing him down. And God help him- 

Max doesn’t even mind.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car hums low beneath them, dark outside now- later than it feels. Streetlights streak through the windshield in rhythmic bursts, washing Christian’s hands on the wheel in gold every few seconds. The roads are mostly empty, quiet, tucked in.

The silence in the car isn’t awkward.

It’s something else.

Max slumps slightly in the passenger seat, just enough for his spine to ease off the tension that’s been riding him all day. He’s not drunk, not entirely. But there’s a looseness in him now- beer-soft and slow, like someone’s untied a knot in the center of his chest without asking his permission.

His gaze drifts, half-lidded, unfocused- then catches the rearview mirror.

There you are.

Sprawled back in the seat again, just like you were earlier, but this time you’re warm with victory and booze and something that looks dangerously close to peace. Your head’s tilted toward the window, eyes half-closed. One sneaker up on the seat, your jacket unzipped, your fingers idly fiddling with a keychain that had come in your convention bag. 

Max forces his eyes forward. Then a beat later, they drift again.

Back to the mirror. Back to you.

He keeps doing it. Keeps catching himself. Keeps looking. And every time he does, the image plays again in his head like someone queued it up and hit repeat:

That coin.

The way you held it between your fingers like a king holding court. That smirk. That casual little toss to the floor, like the indignity of him crawling after it might scratch the surface of what he actually deserved. And fuck- maybe it did scratch the surface.

Maybe that’s what’s been clawing at him all night.

Because in that moment, on the grimy floor of some shitty pub, he had deserved it. And you’d known it. Had looked at him like yeah, fucker, I’ve got you. Like pulling him down to the floor made up for every interruption, every data sabotage, every small, cruel, calculated erosion.

And the worst part?

It worked.

He hadn’t felt humiliated. He’d felt- God, he doesn't even know. Exposed? Levelled? Something so real it almost hurt.

You’d leveled the field with one coin.

He rubs at his jaw, tilts his head like it might shake the feeling off. His eyes flick back to the mirror.

You're still there. You’re always fucking there. Soft now, somehow. Not unguarded, not entirely, but less braced. Like the night gave you something back. Like you won something that didn’t come in a contract or a race result.

Max shifts in his seat again. Clears his throat. Doesn’t say anything.

But he looks.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re folded into the backseat, the hum of the road under you and a pub buzz still warm in your veins. Not drunk, not really. Just soft around the edges. Floaty. Like your body hasn’t caught up with your life yet.

You’re going to be in Formula One.

You say it again in your head- quietly, like a secret. Not because it is a secret anymore, but because something about the shape of it still feels fragile. Like saying it too loud might undo it. Pop the balloon.

Formula One.

God, you can’t wait to tell your mom.

The thought hits you hard enough you blink at the window, like the reflection might steady you. You picture her face. The way her eyes will go wide, her mouth open just a second before the joy breaks loose. You can already hear the way she’ll say your name- half disbelief, half vindication, all pride.

You feel it rise in your chest, tight and hot. You would cry, probably. If you were capable of that sort of thing- of happy tears. So you settle for smiling into the dark window instead.

And then- eyes.

You catch them by accident. Just a flicker in the rearview mirror. A flash of blue. Max. It’s not a look. Not really. Not loaded. Just… brief. The ghost of eye contact. But the second it happens, both of you look away. Like it burned.

You turn your head, pretend you were adjusting your jacket. He shifts in the front seat like something itched. And that should be it. Should’ve passed. But you don’t mean to- you swear you don’t- but your eyes flick back up to the mirror, just once, just to check if he’s still-  He is.

Staring.

Not in that cold, calculating way you’ve come to expect. Not annoyed. Not unreadable. Just... watching. Quiet. Caught.

So you stare right back. You don’t know why. Pride, maybe. Challenge, probably.

Fuck, why is it electric? It’s not charged with romance. There’s no tenderness to it. It’s something else entirely. Like striking flint. The glint of blade against blade. 

He doesn’t look away. Neither do you. You don’t move. And in that breathless little standoff- somewhere between the motorway and the factory- you realize something terrifying. 

He might see you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

[andhumanslovedstories]

I’ve been struggling lately with the feeling that my job is pointless. Intellectually I know it is not—nursing is one of those professions where you get to be real smug about knowing the value of your work. But it’s still felt very pointless. Like I’ll start a shift thinking, “what am I even doing here,” and end it thinking, “what have I actually even done.” It’s been a ROUGH couple months.

But I had a really good shift last time I worked, which was good for the soul and also a very useful data point. I got to do pain management advocacy and symptom management, met a bunch of cool patients, did education for new nurses, and had several long heart to hearts, which the kind of midnight heart to hearts that I think are the most important part of night shift, all of that while being well staffed with very pleasant and appreciative patients and coworkers, and I was still like. Pretty depressed. I had a sense of satisfaction and moments of joy and meaning, but it turns out that one good shift did not cure the depression that has been latched on to me for the last few months like some kind of fucked up mental health leech. As I realized I was still depressed and that it was still interfering with my life even when everything was going well, the sense of peace washed over me was the best I’d felt in a while. Because I was like, okay! None of my usual stuff as worked! I have no excuse not to try something new to get my brain out of the shit ditch it’s slipped into.

So I’m applying for short-term disability. I’m worried I won’t get it, and I’m not sure what the next step is if I get rejected, but I feel so much better having decided to pursue it. It’s so much fuckin paperwork for sure, to a degree that’s overwhelming except that that the form could be a checkbox that says, “you want money?” and I’d be like “THIS IS TOO MUCH.” I’m totally not writing this post instead of finishing an email to my manager. I’m definitely not writing this post to avoid dealing with coordinating all my various care providers. I’m certainly not at every moment worried that I’m secretly faking all this so I can get three to nine weeks of a cool summer vacation.

I was thinking about how I almost flunked nursing school in my final semester because I turned in assignments late for a class with a “no late homework” policy. The professor said that this was reflective of real life, where if you miss deadlines you’re just fucked. I ended up appealing my grade and passing, because frankly it was a weak reason for making me repeat a final semester when there was no issues with my actual work or knowledge. During my appeal, I was like “I also think this policy is ableist. Harsh penalties for late work hurt students with health problems, especially chronic health problems when you aren’t asking for one week off due to the flu but instead for a general and never ending flexibility. I’m not trying to make an excuse but explain why this policy is a bad one. Disabled healthcare workers are an asset to healthcare.” I’m trying to remember my own argument as I pursue help. My depression and ADHD and eating disorder do help me be a better nurse, not because like depression gives you superpowers, but because I manage my chronic illnesses every day, in ways that range from hardly noticeable to life or death. Being kind to patients means being kind to myself, and vice versa.

I’m rambling. I really do not want to do this paperwork or send these emails. And I’m not sure if I deserve the leave I’m trying to take. But I miss being love with my job. I miss enjoying it. I wouldn’t judge someone else for going on medical leave, and my job doesn’t want me to burn out or quit. It almost feels like I have to be skeptical of applying for leave because no one else is. Everyone I’ve spoken to has been very supportive, including my manager. And considering how many unpaid days off I’ve had to take lately, disability leave would be an improvement over some of my recent paychecks. All in all, short-term disability makes sense and seems like a reasonable response to circumstances. But FUCK. I wish it required like 90 percent less documentation.

[novashelby]

The Storm That Heals Us~ Tommy Shelby x Cancer patient!Reader: Angst

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: Triggering topic such as cancer

Word Count: 1,223

Summary: Tommy's wife is diagnosed with cancer and tries to hide it from him because they have a rocky marriage

This was requested by anon a while back. I hope it is okay. I don't do well with the topic of cancer

We’ve only been married a year. They say three is a lucky number. I was supposed to be the lucky number. But truth be told, nothing about our marriage had been lucky. In the midst of all his darkness, I was convinced he married me for emotional convenience. But when Tommy Shelby found out I wasn’t going to be walked on or over, we started fighting more. A hot head and one who hates to be wrong. It’s a bit tricky to figure out which one of us is which. Perhaps we are the same person and that is why we suck together. 

But that is not why it’s unlucky number three. Just last month I was bathing, feeling the warm soapy water encasing my body. When I dragged the sponge over my right breast, something seemed off. Something seemed tender and bruised. Quickly, I threw the sponge in water and felt around with my hand. There was a small lump, but nonetheless a lump. If I was anyone else, I would have assumed a pimple or swollen hair follicle, but I’m not anyone else. It’s the family curse. My great grandmother, my grandmother, my two aunts, and my mother have all found the lump. Thankfully for my mother, she was able to get it treated. But I am doomed for bad luck. That’s what Tommy tells me everytime something happens. “You have that fookin’ luck…that bad luck.” 

As soon I found that fucking lump, I went to the doctor only to get confirmation of what I already knew. I hate to say that the first thing that left my mouth was, “how long?” But the doctor sighed. They always sigh. 

He told me, “Well, it’s small. We’ll remove it and do some radiation treatment-”

“And lose my hair?” I also hate to say that was the second question, but Tommy loves my hair. Sometimes I think what he loves about me is thinning with each day.  

I never told Tommy about the procedure, and one night, when he went to run his hand over my body, I stopped him. It was as if I was repulsed by him. Just as I knew, Tommy didn’t take very kindly to my refusal. He sat up, looking at me before saying, “is this how our marriage is going to be now?” We sat side by side, under the covers on the bed. He replaced my breast in lieu of a cigarette.

“I don’t feel well,” I said, and his response made my blood boil. 

“You never feel well anymore,” he said. “I’m starting to think it’s me. Perhaps we should discuss something that will make you feel better.” There was always a tone of threat. He dealt with his lovers as he did his business partners. 

That was it for that night. 

Which brings me to now. The bathroom floor feels cold against my clammy body. I puked up my dinner which was nothing, but a few biscuits and a glass of milk. Milk is a no-no for my new stomach, I’ve learned. But as I’m on this bathroom floor, I realize. I realize that Tommy will know. He will figure it out. My body will thin out, I’ll be bruised, and my cheeks will sink in. Nevermind my hair that is already falling out in clumps. As I hear his footsteps approach, I try to gather myself to save face, but moving just makes it worse. My body feels like it’s on a merry go round, and I cling to the toilet once more. At this point, as I feel the burning acid climb up my insides, I don’t know what I am throwing up. It is a clear bile. 

As I am hunched over, Tommy walks in and asks, “are you pregnant?” Oh, how easy that would have been. 

I turn to him, face pale. I could see myself in the mirror. My eyes look sunken with heavy bags. “No.”

He sighs. “Have you seen a doctor?” he asks like I am dumb.

I’m blunt. “Yes.”

“Well?” he presses, coming inward, leaning on the bathroom vanity, puffing on his smoke. Always a smoke. Before I can answer him, I beg him to put it out.

“The smell, Tommy-”

“How far along are you?” he asks, disregarding the fact I told him I’m not pregnant. “Funny enough, love, we haven’t fucked in two months. Every night I wait for your comfort. Perhaps you’re going elsewhere for it-”

“I’m not pregnant, Tommy.” My head is boiling at this point and I feel my temper on the verge. I sit up, resting against the toilet, trying to catch my breath. He’s not convinced, I can see it in his face. How he’s half ignoring me. 

“You know,” he starts, pointing a finger my way. “I do fuckin’ love you. You married me, thought you understood the way I am-”

“Tommy,” I plead, closing my eyes. “Please.” But he goes on and on about how I betrayed his trust, but he still loves me and wants to work through whatever it is. 

“But that fuckin’ baby is going-”

“I’m not fuckin’ pregnant!” I yell at him in a tone I never dared to before. It was enough for him to get a bit startled. He is about to say something else when I say, “I found a lump on my right breast.” Tommy pauses mid-smoke, and looks over at me, eyes knitted. “A few weeks ago, maybe a month ago now…I don’t know. They ran a test-”

“You never told me,” he says in this low, depressing whisper that makes me feel like every problem in the world is my fault. Tommy finds his way to the bath basin and sits on the edges. He throws his lit smoke in the sink and runs his fingers through his hair. “And you never thought to tell me?”

“I didn’t want it to be another burden-”

“What?” He turns to me, face like a ghost. He slides to the marble flooring next to me. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I feel him tenderly grab me by the face, placing me in his lap. His chin rests on my head. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, love, I’m…love, you should have told me?” This was the Tommy I met and agreed to marry. The one who is tender and loving, smooth talking and sweet. I twist in his lap and his hand rests on my cheek. “I’m scared to ask-”

“It’s early enough,” I say, nodding, swallowing the lump down. “But it doesn’t feel any better-”

“No, no it doesn’t,” he agrees, leaning down to place a kiss on my forehead. “God, love, I love you so much. And I just…I've been so selfish. From now, you and I are going to go through this together-”

“Tommy, Tommy, please,” I whisper. “Just lets not act all weepy-”

“I’m not,” he protests, gripping my chin. “I’m taking care of you because if you have forgotten, I am your husband.” Yes, I have forgotten, but at this moment, I forgive it and soak up his affection. I need every inch of tenderness I can get my hands on. And so, I move on and relax into his words. “I love you.”

“Thank you, Tommy,” I say before quickly adding, “I love you, too.” 

[heavenlyvision]

˚₊‧⁺⋆༄ dearest pt.II first part ˗ˏˋ here ˎˊ˗ pairing: Vamp!Tomas x reader wc: 7k warnings: 18+ only, smut, mentions of injuries, blood drinking, cunnilingus, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v sex, minor cumplay, -- like tiniest amount, afab!reader, no pronouns or y/n used, pet names used; dear/dearest a/n; i hope you enjoy it !!! i know this took a while for me to finish and i'm thankful to you all for being so patient !!! <333 MDNI | SMUT UNDER CUT

Most of your day is spent being anxious about Tomas’ promise to return tonight, you don’t know what he’s expecting, or if he’s expecting anything at all. Last night… sleeping with him was stupid, he’s not even really Tomas, you mean… he is… but he’s not. What even is his end game here, was it to sleep with you? Does he plan on killing you? And what is your end game? Surely you can’t leave him like this… you don’t want to leave him like this, you miss your Tomas.

The way you’re feeling is getting hazy and the lines are blurring, you’ve grown too attached to someone who isn’t even their original self. How would Tomas feel when he comes back, only to see you left him like that for so long, would he still look at you the way he used to? With kindness and adoration, or would he condemn you and tell you that you’ve broken his trust. These thoughts that plague you are debilitating, whatever you decide to do, you need to do it soon. Maybe you’ll be able to talk to him tonight… or maybe that’s not a great idea.

A knock on your door startles you out of your thoughts, looking to the clock you can see it’s about the time Kuai Liang visits everyday but when you open it, the only person in front of you is Harumi.

“Hi! It’s just me today, Kuai is a little bit busy but I’d like to chat, we’ve not spoken in a while,” she smiles at you, it’s kind but also mildly strained.

You eye her for a few moments, feeling uneasy by her lack of explanation and Kuai’s lack of presence, “…Yeah, uhh… come on in,” you say, stepping off to the side to let her into your home.

She brushes past you and moves to the small dining table, sitting as she asks, “How have you been?”

Lingering awkwardly, you answer, “I have been… fine I guess,” you pass her on the way into the kitchen, “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” she fiddles with her fingers against the table and quietly waits for you to return with tea, not speaking again until you’re done in the kitchen and sitting across from her, “I just wanted to come by and check on you, make sure you’re… well,” she blows on her drink, watching you carefully.

“I’ve been fine, not great but nothing has changed since yesterday,” you’re lying through your teeth, you just hope she doesn’t notice.

She has come here for a reason today and you aren’t quite sure what it is but she knows something, you can only hope she doesn’t know about Tomas visiting you nightly. The reactions you’d get from her, from everyone, well, to be quite honest are frightening to think about. You’ve waited so long now and there isn’t any real or good reason as to why – besides the fact that you enjoy Tomas and all of his attention, foolishly, you like him.

This visit is incredibly uncomfortable, you know why you’re uncomfortable but you can’t figure out why she’s uncomfortable. It’s been a good few moments now, of her trying to think of something to say and failing.

Your patience is growing thin and as you sigh, you decide to be blunt, “Has something happened, Harumi? You seem to be worrying about something.”

Her eyes grow wide for a second before she collects herself, “No, nothing has happened… I guess I’m just worried over Tomas, I’m not supposed to tell you… but he’s been moving closer to the village, I’m just a little concerned for you.”

If you hadn’t known her for so long, you’d believe her but she’s still withholding something from you. It is an incredibly good cover though, “I am not worried, I can take care of myself,” you offer in an attempt to ease her nerves, she’s lying but she’s still genuinely concerned for you, you believe that much.

She smiles appreciatively at you but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “Thank you,” she murmurs, taking a sip of her drink.

The visit isn’t long, she doesn’t linger like Kuai Liang does, she came to check on you, have a small chat and then she’s out the door. It’s something you value about her, not really being one to linger yourself. It’s not often she drops by on her own though, her solo visit has raised alarm bells in your mind.

You’re on edge for the rest of the day, leg bouncing anytime you try to sit still, too much anxious energy pent up inside you. You can’t focus enough to do anything though, nothing holding your attention long enough to forget about your situation. The day can’t go by slow enough, you want it to hurry up so you can see Tomas and talk to him, maybe he has answers, or will be able to offer you some comfort… wait, since when did you start seeking him for comfort?

˚₊‧⁺⋆༄

Frustratedly, Tomas did not come by last night like he had promised, you waited, even stayed up significantly longer than you usually do, only for him to neglect to visit. It’s not characteristic of him, not when he’s made it an active habit to see you every night for the past few months. For him to suddenly stop out of nowhere, it hurts if you’re honest. It hurts because it feels like he’s gotten what he wanted from you, like he’s lost interest suddenly after fucking you.

Though, it’s suspicious too, especially since Kuai Liang also neglected to come by, sending Harumi in his steed. The lack of communication here is annoying and there isn’t a damn thing you can do to fix it, having to just deal with it whether you want to or not. It’s not like you can ask anyone if they’ve seen Tomas and you certainly can’t ask Kuai, not when he doesn’t even visit.

You’re feeling a little aimless and still on edge, it feels like every muscle in your body is wound tight and like you’re ready to fight back against anything that could give you a mild fright. You can’t sit in your house all day again, you’re going to go stir crazy, you might start bouncing off the walls. Instead of rotting away in your house, you wander around the village, even visiting people you’ve not spoken to in months, not since Tomas’ original disappearance.

It's nice but by the time you’re done, there is a significant amount of day left and you’re still high strung. This is frustrating you to no end, so you choose to go for a walk, not particularly enjoying the thought of it, only hoping it will expend enough energy and that you’ll be too tired to continue to be anxious.

Walking is honestly, annoying, it feels pointless, you know it isn’t and that there are benefits, you just personally feel no benefits from it. You don’t experience the mental clarity; you experience mental irritability. Almost as soon as you start, you want to stop but you’re determined to waste your time, maybe if this irritates you enough, you’ll be too focused on being annoyed to remember everything else.

You can’t be sure how much time passes, but you sure are irritated, instead of forgetting things though, it’s just piling all together. Frustration reaching a new point, you want to scream and kick your legs and have a full-blown tantrum but you just keep going, keep moving forward. You… aren’t used to feeling this uncertain for this long, normally you know what the right thing to do is and maybe if you were being honest with yourself, you’d realise you already know what the right thing to do is but just because it’s the right thing… doesn’t mean it’s easy.  

When you finally turn around and head back home, you’re sufficiently tired by the time you walk through the front door. The first thing you do is head for the shower, washing the day away before collapsing onto the couch, it doesn’t take long for sleep to find you. It isn’t intentional but you also don’t really mind, happy that you’re finally exhausted enough to sleep at all.

˚₊‧⁺⋆༄

It’s been a couple more days now and you still haven’t heard from Tomas, at first it mostly hurt and was vaguely concerning, now it’s starting to just feel concerning. You’ve seen Kuai Liang once, he visited yesterday quickly, to check in on you but he seemed… similar to how Harumi was acting, like he knows something that he’s keeping from you. No one is saying anything to you, so you’re taking things into your own hands. Maybe visiting people again and talking to them will result in some kind of gossip, someone has to have seen something helpful.

Being nosey proves to be fruitful, people tell you little tidbits and what you’ve gathered is – Kuai Liang has seemed on edge the past few days, he has recently asked people if they’ve seen anything unusual, and has been searching the nearby land a lot more frequently. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out he’s had some kind of run in with Tomas, whether he actually made contact or only saw him, you have no way of knowing but you know he’s clearly had some kind of confirmation of his proximity to the village and he must have witnessed his presence himself for it to have affected him this much.

Knowing Kuai has seen Tomas is worrisome, you don’t think Kuai will hurt his brother, he believes he can be helped. It’s Tomas who might react more…violently, he’s not adverse to injuring people, he’s grievously hurt some people just to make a point. To completely dismiss the idea of him harming Kuai Liang would be foolish, though it seems Tomas is avoiding him at the moment so you can be thankful for that much, he’s not actively aiming to attack him. Small miracles or whatever, you just hope Tomas comes by soon… you’re worried about him, the hurt you felt has passed, especially since it seems like he’s been avoiding getting too close because of Kuai Liang, at least… that’s what you’re telling yourself, until proven wrong.

The sun has gone down by the time you get home, though it’s not quite late, you just spent a lot of the daylight in the village, you think you’re finding joy in talking with people again. That or you’ve been feeling lonely since you’ve been getting less visitors lately. Brushing off the thought, you commence your nightly routine of showering and cooking dinner for yourself.

It’s not until after dinner that you’re graced by Tomas’ presence, you’re washing up in the kitchen when you hear thumping as he stumbles into your house. It makes you jump, all the noise he makes as he clumsily enters your home.

“Tomas! What the hell? Where have you–” moving closer, you take in the state of him, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m all good,” he smiles at you, “How have you been?”

He looks really tired, “I’ve been…” you frown deeply as you remember how you’ve been, “I’ve been worried! What happened to you for the past few days?”

He looks guilty, well… as guilty as he can manage, “A lot happened, I–”

“–You slept with me and then disappeared for three whole days,” you cross your arms, still eyeing him carefully, concerned.

“Yes, I see how it may look like that,” he scratches the back of his neck.

Your eyes scrutinise him, “It doesn’t just look like that, that is objectively what happened.”

“From your perspective yes, but a lot… a lot happened, I didn’t mean to leave you hanging… I just couldn’t get close enough to see you again,” he sighs, dejectedly.

You cross your arms, sizing him up, “Well, now that you’re here, can you explain what has happened?”

“I can, I just need to sit down or something,” he rubs at his eyes.

There is something definitely wrong with him, he looks exhausted, you don’t think he could look any worse, “…Yeah, just… lay down on the couch, I’ll get some extra blankets.”

“I won’t need them,” he reminds.

You pause, “Maybe not for warmth but the comfort would be nice… right?”

He smiles at you softly, so slight that you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t watch him so closely, “Sure.” You know he’s lying for your sake, but you’ll get him the blankets anyways.

When you come back into the living room, Tomas has made himself comfortable on your couch, you go to give him the blankets and his hand brushes yours as he takes them. You aren’t sure if he’s going to use them or not, but he unfolds one and stretches it out over himself, he’s quite large under the small throw blanket, not that he seems to mind. He uses the other to prop his head up on the arm of the couch, he looks a little ridiculous actually, his feet don’t fit under the throw and his head does not look comfortable like that.

You frown at him but there’s an amused smile ghosting your lips, Tomas looks at you, “What?”

“You look ridiculous… you don’t have to use the blankets if you’re uncomfortable,” you move to sit in the armchair facing him.

He frowns, his tone defensive, “No, I will be using them.”

Lightly huffing an amused breath, you say, “Alright! I’m not stopping you…” You let him settle in some more before asking again, in a polite way, “…What happened, Tomas?”

His eyes flick to yours quickly before looking straight ahead, “I ran into Kuai Liang…after I left yours.

You stay silent, mostly because you’re thinking too many things to be able to pick which question you should ask first and you’re hoping he’ll offer that information on his own. But the silence persists, he just lays there, his eyes closing as he sinks further into your couch.

He must feel your increasingly aggravated staring though because he sighs, “We fought.”

The annoyance you’re feeling towards him increases tenfold, “Why are you withholding? Just tell me everything that happened–”

“–Why?” He glances over to you, smirk plastered on his face, “You worried about me? You care about me, about my safety?”

The urge to roll your eyes is strong but you worry that if you give into that urge now, they’ll permanently be placed at the back of your head by the time this conversation is finished, “More worried about what you may have done.”

He huffs at you, amused by your inability to admit you care for him, “Kuai Liang is fine, I had a feeling if anything happened to him you would get upset so I played defence, I didn’t even hurt him… that bad… I think.”

Your tone is flat, “Are you kidding?”

He blinks at you, “I don’t think so.”

When you saw Kuai he seemed fine, so you’re going to assume if he was hurt, it really wasn’t that bad but that doesn’t mean you’re elated by all of this. In fact, you’d say you’re pretty well on your way to being pissed off right about now, you can feel your eyebrow beginning to twitch.

“Okay, listen… before you get upset, just know I really did try my best to avoid a fight,” he moves to try and sit up but winces as he does, only making it about halfway up.

Frowning, you move over to him, kneeling on the floor, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” his hand holds over his stomach as he continues to sit up, his legs still laying across the length of the couch.

You’re beginning to get exasperated, “Okay… so, am I not worrying about it or are you fine?”

He pinches his brows, “Both.”

He’s frustrating you and he knows it, you tug at his clothes to try and see what may have happened, “Stop being annoying and–”

“–You know…if you wanted me to undress for you, all you had to do was ask,” he throws that smug smile your way and you feel like you might start vibrating with your irritation.

Tugging your hands back, you slump to the floor beside him, “Tomas please– just let me look at you…”

“Listen.” He waits for you to look him in the eyes again before continuing, “When I ran into Kuai we fought and I was focused on not hurting him… he nicked me is all, it really isn’t bad.”

You’re confused, “That was days ago… why aren’t you healed yet?”

He looks away from you, “It’s not important.”

Thinking on it, you realise it’s pretty clear why he’s not healing, “Tomas…”

“I’m fine,” he asserts.

You place your hand on his, “You could be finer though… I can help.”

His voice is firm, “No.”

He’s back to annoying you, “Why not?” You whinge slightly, hand tugging away in your irritation.

He sighs heavily, “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

You don’t appreciate his tone, “I’m fairly certain I do.”

He repeats his previous sentiments with a simple, “You don’t.”

You spell it out for him, to show him you do understand, “I’m offering to help you heal faster by letting you drink my blood, there isn’t much to not get–”

He’s growing frustrated with you now, “–You aren’t understanding the gravity of letting me do that.”

You understand his trepidations, but you want to help, “…Tomas–”

“–What if I can’t control myself? You are literally the last person I’d ever want to hurt…” He’s frowning to himself, agonising over the thought.

Reaching out, you go to touch him on his arm again, attempting to offer comfort but it only makes him tense in response, “I want to help and… I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.” He looks you straight in your eyes, his brow set, tone serious, “You’re not understanding just how good you smell to me,” you have a feeling, that if he could manage it, he’d walk away from you.

His words effect you in a way they probably shouldn’t, at least not in this moment anyways, you push away the feelings swirling in your stomach and refocus, “Let me at least see how bad you’re hurt then.”

The hardness in his eyes softens and he nods, a good choice because you were not about to let this go. He moves to sit on the couch properly, no longer laying across it and you stand to help him undress his upper half. You try to be careful, but he still winces at some movements made, his discomfort more apparent now that he’s not trying to hide it from you. Once you’ve managed to get his layers off, you shuffle to sit beside him and look him over, he lets you get your eyeful.

It's honestly not as bad as you were picturing, still not great, if he were human you’d be running to get your first aid kit, but you know of a quicker and hassle-free way to have this fixed fairly soon.

He must feel how hard you’re thinking because he says, “I’m good, it’s fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine,” you quirk a single brow at him.

He keeps a straight face, “Well…” He looks down at his wound and then back at you, “It is.”

“I don’t want to keep going round like this, you’re being unnecessarily stubborn, let me help or I’ll…” You pause to think of a good threat.

He just smiles smugly at you, waiting for your threat patiently, nodding his head in encouragement.

“I’ll…” You look at him sternly, “I’ll never let you touch me again.”

“Well, that seems like an overreaction,” his expression is still overwhelmingly amused, not taking you seriously at all.

You huff out a sigh and slump slightly, “I just want to help.”

“I know you do,” his hand reaches out to cradle the side of your face, “But it’s not necessary.”

Leaning into his touch, you offer a different perspective, “If the roles were reversed and I was the one who was hurt, would you be so quick to give up your argument and not help?”

“I don’t think that’s the same,” he defends himself, badly.

You go to argue with him, but he predicts that move and instead kisses you, he’s gentle about it, kissing you sweetly for only a moment before pulling back. Frowning, you try to remember what you were going to say, “Tomas… seriously, just bite me.”

He hums at you, “No,” he murmurs, moving in to kiss you again.

You stop him, holding a finger to his lips, “I want you to bite me.”

“You into that sort of thing?” He speaks against your finger.

Choosing to fuck with him, you reply, “Yes.”

He groans at you, “You make everything difficult.”

You drop your finger, “Me!?” You’re shocked by his audacity to accuse you of being difficult when this conversation could’ve ended ages ago.

“Yes, you,” he grumbles out mildly annoyed, before pressing his lips onto yours again, this time less gentle about it all.

His kiss is deep and unapologetic, his tongue licks into your mouth, you moan at his forcefulness. The hand on your face tilts your head so he can have more access to you, his other hand gropes at the fat of your hip, wanting to tug you closer, he wants you in his lap.

Parting from him, you voice concern, “Tomas, I don’t think I should sit on you, right now.”

“I disagree, in fact I think you should always sit on me,” he tries to pull you onto him more.

You place your hands on his shoulders, “No, Tomas, seriously, I’m worried about hurting you–”

“–It’d be worth it,” he smiles but you frown at him, and he drops his smile, instead offering, “It’s fine, you’re not going to hurt me.”

You insist, “I don’t want to risk–”

He gets sick of this back and forth and cuts you off by moving you into his lap with ease, apparently his initial attempts were just for show. “I’m not made of glass,” he leans in close, his lips brushing your cheek, “I could still fuck you stupid.”

Deciding to spin this in your favour, you say, “If you want to do anything more than just kiss me, you’ll have to bite me.”

“I really don’t want to hurt you, dear,” his thumb brushes high on your cheekbone.

“This is my first, final, and only offer, if you want to… go any further tonight, you’ll have to drink from me,” you shrug, playing at indifference despite knowing he’s done an exceptional job at making you wet without trying very hard.

Dropping his hands to your thighs, he shuts his eyes and sighs, his head leaning onto the back of the couch.

Cruelly, you grind your cunt down into his pelvis, hoping to incite some kind of reaction, this is quickly changing from wanting to help heal him, to wanting him to bite you while plowing into you. His response is a deep groan and his fingers gripping your thighs harshly, his dick jerking underneath you.

He opens his eyes to look at you, “You’re not playing fairly.”

Quirking a brow at him, you ask, “Would you?”

“Of course not,” he smiles, leaning up again, “But you know… you’re giving away your intentions.”

You feign ignorance, “I’ve not a clue as to what you’re referring.”

“Keep going, keep rubbing your pretty, little cunt down into me and we’ll see who ends up more affected,” he hums, “But remember… I can smell you,” he moves his lips to the side of your ear, “And dear, you smell divine.”

You don’t move, mostly out of spite, he’s overly confident and there’s good reason for it but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss you off, just a little bit, “I’m not doing a single thing.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder and his hands rub up and down your thighs, a faint humming leaving him in thought. Turning his head to the side, he licks along the expanse of your neck, when he reaches your jaw, he presses a small kiss to it. Trailing his lips back to yours but you turn your head just before he can kiss your lips and he huffs a sigh in response.

“I can’t even kiss you now?” He questions.

You pout, looking away from him, “No.”

Sighing, he asks, “You want me to bite you this bad?”

Turning back to face him, you add, “Please?”

“Fuuck–” his brows pull together in thought for a moment, “Fine.” You go to celebrate your win, but he cuts you off, “But you need to tell me if it hurts, or if you’re dizzy or if you just don’t want me touching you anymore, okay?”

“Okay,” you smile at him.

He looks worried, like he’s still not sure if this is a good idea, “Alright, just… relax for me.”

“I am relaxed,” you reach out with both your hands and cradle his face, “You need to relax,” leaning in, you press a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling back and waiting for him to bite you.

He takes a breath, “Kiss me again?”

Moving your hands to his shoulders, you lean in again to kiss him, you mean for it to be quick, but he lightly grabs the side of your neck and pulls you closer, kissing you deeper. His lips are insistent and his free hand gropes at you. His sudden parting from you has a whimper leaving your lips but he’s already trailing his kisses from the corner of your mouth down your cheek, past your jaw, to your neck.

He doesn’t bite you, not straight away, he sucks and licks at your neck first, leaving gentle kisses in between. He nips lightly at your skin, and you stifle a moan at it, not wanting him to know just how aroused you’re getting from the thought of him biting you. The way his mouth quirks against you has you doubting that you’re hiding anything from him though. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on it and instead presses a single peck to your neck.

Pulling back, he looks you in the eyes one last time, wanting to check that you’re absolutely okay with this. When he’s satisfied, he nuzzles into your neck, you move your head to the side, offering him more room. His teeth lightly graze your skin before slowly sinking into your skin, the pain shocks you but dulls as he lathes over the spot with his tongue, licking at your blood.

It’s a new feeling, the ache of his teeth in your skin, it’s making you hazy. Tomas moans into your skin both from the taste and because you’ve begun absentmindedly grinding down into his lap, seeking friction. When he pulls back, he moves to see your reaction, to make sure you’re still okay.

In all honesty, it doesn’t feel like he drank that much from you, “I thought you would take… more.”

“Mmm, I want to bite you elsewhere,” he moves in and continues to lick at the blood left behind.

Seemingly keeping true to his word, he shuffles to move you. He’s careful as he does, laying you down against the couch gently. Getting himself comfortable, he leans over you, a smile prominent on his lips. Your clothes are his next focus, his hands pulling at you. You want to help him but as you rise he places a hand on your chest and lightly pushes you back down.

Arching your back, you make it easier for him to take off your shirt, “Don’t overdo it.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles in mindless agreement, though he’s not really listening now, too busy looking at your tits.

“Tomas.”

His eyes flick to yours, “Sorry dear, what did you say?”

Squinting at him, you repeat, “I said, don’t overdo it.”

“I am fine,” he leans back to show you wear he had been injured, “Look, already healing better.”

It is, it’s still there and looks irritated but the minimal amount of blood he took from you seems to have helped a great deal. It’s less open and for that you’re thankful but it still has to be tender, “Just be careful.”

“Someone might mistake that for you caring about me,” he has a giddy look in his eyes.

Smiling at him, you say, sheepishly, “Well, I might not go that far.”

He hums at you with a slight smile on his face, not believing you. His hands move to your lower half, pulling off your bottoms, your underwear are tugged off along with them. He’s not wasting any time tonight, eager to have you naked underneath him.

Maybe if he were to give you a little time to think, you’d feel more embarrassed about how he’s stripped you bare and pulled your legs apart all within the span of a minute but he’s not giving you that time, he’s already shuffling himself in between your legs. Your legs which have been haphazardly thrown over his shoulders, you could’ve sworn you just told him to be careful.

He trails his lips along your inner thigh, his touch so gentle it makes a shiver run down your spine, “Can I still bite you?”

You feel fuzzy, his words not completely registering when his breath is tickling your inner thigh, “You can do whatever you like.”

A big grin breaks out across his face, you can feel it, you don’t get a chance to correct your statement or make a snarky remark though, he’s already sinking his teeth into the soft expanse of your thigh. You jump slightly but he holds you steady, growls leave him, clearly enjoying this immensely.

When he parts, he licks and sucks at your thigh, not letting your blood go to waste, “Still with me?”

You feel a little hazy still, but you don’t know if that’s from him biting you or the position he’s put you in, he’s so close to your pussy and you want so badly for him to just put his mouth on you–

“­–Hey,” his voice cuts off your thoughts and you look down to him, “Are you okay?”

“Mhm, yeah, I’m all good,” your head flops back onto the couch once you’ve answered him.

He sighs, “Mmm, is that so?” His thumbs move to your cunt and spread your lips apart so he can hungrily gaze at you on complete display, “You okay with me leaving you like this?...” His thumb runs through your slick heat, “…Or do you want me to do something to help?”

He places his thumb over your clit, not moving, just keeping steady pressure and it’s driving you insane. You want more, you need him to do more, he’s being purposefully cruel now, he wants it just as bad as you do. He also likes to hear how much you want him though and he’s not going to give you any sort of relief before you do.

On another day, maybe you hold out longer, tease him back, but today you’re all too happy to bend to his will, “Tomas…” His eyes shoot to yours, “I missed you.”

The look in his eyes lower and a huffed breath leaves him, “You play dirty.”

“I wasn’t trying to– ah,” you get cut off by his tongue licking at you, up the length of your cunt.

Genuinely, you were trying to give into him, but you seem to have said something that carried more weight than you expected it too. His tongue drags heavy on your pussy, flicking at your clit just to watch your thighs shake and body twitch. Unconsciously, your thighs go to close around his head, he moves he hands to keep them apart. He doesn’t stop there though, he pulls them open and up, almost folding you half.

His mouth doesn’t leave you, in fact, his tongue enters you, his nose presses into your clit, he’s trying to taste as much of you as he can. The wet slurping sounds he’s making are obscene, the room filled with how he laps at your cunt. He’s getting you close to finishing embarrassingly quickly but just when you think you could cum like this, he pulls his mouth back and bites into your other thigh.

Two of his fingers slip into your cunt just as his teeth puncture your skin, the simultaneous feelings are like a gut punch, you twitch and go to cover your mouth as his thumb reaches your clit and circles it harshly. A loud moan slips from you and is caught by your hands, the resulting sound a muffled cry. You cum around his fingers, your thighs shaking with it, Tomas moans into your skin, feeling your cunt pulse around his fingers and your blood coating his tongue, it has his control slipping.

Retracting his teeth and fingers from you at the same time, he slips the two fingers that were in you into your mouth. You take them, glassy eyes looking at him, your blood stains his mouth now, he was messier about his last bite. Slipping your tongue between his two fingers makes him shiver, the look in his eyes is dumb and sated.

When he pulls his fingers from you, he watches intently as they leave your mouth, he trails them, wet and slick down your chin, neck, sternum, all the way back down to your cunt. You gasp against the sensitive feeling, he pushes them inside you, crooking them up, his thumb already back on your clit.

“I really do love watching you cum,” he mumbles mindlessly. Going to say his name results in a pathetically moaned sound leaving you, it makes him smile deviously, “Trying to say something, dearest?”

You shake your head no at him, huffing out small sounds as his fingers pick up speed, his eyes never leave yours, intent on watching you the whole time, wanting to see every expression you make.

He leans down, free hand holding himself up, “Tell me again.” Your thoughts are garbled, and your eyes get lazy, unfocused, “Stay with me, I want to hear it again – how you missed me.”

You focus back on him, words slurring slightly, “Missed you so much, Tomas– hah.”

His fingers speed up again, his thumb harsh on your clit, you spasm around his fingers, your stomach pulling tight.

“I missed you too,” he smiles at you, his fangs showing through it.

Your back arches against the couch, “I– I was –mmphf– I was worried about you~”

Tomas curses at your confession, his head swimming with affection for you, he pulls his fingers from you suddenly and you whimper at the loss, “No– no, don’t be sad, I just can’t fucking wait any longer.”

The overwhelming need for you has overpowered him, he’s shucking his pants down his thighs carelessly. Pulling his cock out and immediately guiding it to your cunt, he slips the head of it through your folds a few times before slowly entering you. He’s trying to take his time and be gentle, he really is but he’s so suddenly desperate to be balls deep he can’t seem to find the patience to open you up for him more.

He makes it easier for you though, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit. It’s completely unexpected when you cum on the first few inches of his cock like this, a bitten back moan leaving you as shudders run through you. He had gotten you so close before retracting his fingers, the fullness now and way he was playing with you had your forgotten orgasm being not so forgotten.

“Tomas– it’s –ah–” You can’t even get out what you want to say, though you’re not entirely sure what you wanted to say. Cumming on his dick makes you go cross eyed, your hips moving to grind up into him, wanting so badly to be stuffed full as you orgasm.

He grunts out, “Fuck–” before taking advantage of your gushing pussy and slips balls deep, a loud and deep moan leaving him, “So incredibly slick, my dear,” he grinds down into you, his pelvis digging into your clit, he’s trying to give you a moment to breathe but he desires friction. “You never cease to amaze me, so incredibly perfect… responsive.”

Ironically, your cunt twitches at his words and a devilish smirk makes an appearance on his face, as if to gloat about his previously accurate statement, “I don’t know… if I can handle another,” your eyes are wet and unthinking when you look up at him.

“You can handle another,” he groans, dragging his cock out at the same time as he speaks, “Been so good to me tonight, I’m just returning the favour.”

He slams back into you, a high-pitched whine leaving you, matched against his low one, “I jus wanted to help –mmph–”

“And help you did, so incredibly helpful,” his words are coming quickly as he starts thrusting into you more consistently, “Taste absolutely divine, dear. Few moments there –ngh– I was scared of hurting you, you’re such an overwhelming presence in all facets of my life.”

Lewd and wet slapping sounds follow each of his thrusts, his hips fucking into you at a speed that makes your head spin. You’re not really capable of responding to him anymore, you’re as good as gone. His cock hits so deep inside you, he tickles your cervix, a thrilling kind of pain following each of his deep thrusts.

“You wanna know something?” He leans in, getting impossibly closer, deeper.

He’s waiting for your response, “Yeah– hah– mmph~”

He engulfs your mouth in a deep kiss, his tongue in your mouth before you can really register that he’s kissed you. He’s heated and rushed; kissing you in such a needy way that you can’t even keep up with him. When he pulls back a string of saliva connects the both of your mouths, he licks his lower lip, disconnecting it.

“I could smell how fucking wet you were getting each time I bit you,” he huffs breathlessly into your ear, “Fresh arousal drenching your cunt every time my teeth sunk into you, do you know how hard it is to focus on not taking much blood from you when you’re getting horny from it?”

“S–sorry,” you apologise but your pussy clenches down on him, his words working you up.

“No, don’t apologise, dear. You did nothing wrong, nothing.” He traces wet and sloppy kisses down the side of your face and neck, “I just meant to say, I think you would cum awful hard if I were to bite you at the same time, don’t you?”

Before you can comprehend the conclusion he’s given you, his hips switch from slamming into you, to grinding when he re-enters, the added stimulation makes you stupid, slurred words of praise and his name leaving you. Just as you’re about to climax, he bites into your neck, he doesn’t drink from you this time, he just sinks his teeth into your flesh. The pain rockets through you and you finish all over his cock, fresh, creamy, cum leaving you and leaking down his dick, a white ring left at the base of it.

The sound he makes is feral and not human, deep animalistic groans leaving him at the way you squeeze his dick so tight. He forces his way through all the sensations he’s feeling, fucking into your tight, spasming cunt, the slick of you making it easier. You’re so fucked open on him that he’s getting dizzy thinking about it, about how well you take his fat cock.

Raising his upper half, he looks down to where he’s fucking you, at the mess you’ve made, at the bite marks on your thighs, it’s all driving him wild. There’s very clear evidence of him being here and it’s sending pleasure down his spine to his core.

His dick jerks and twitches and as he looks at your face, at the gooey look in your eyes, at the unshed tears sitting in your waterline, he cums. It forces its way through him, the sensation almost making him spiral, he’s already cumming when he remembers what he wanted to do.

Pulling out, he aims the rest of his cum at your cunt and thighs, wanting to leave evidence of him all over you. He almost whimpers at the sight of your pussy leaking and being coated in him. Absently, he takes his hand and places it in his spend, smearing it up your stomach and grabbing your tit, leaving evidence of it there too.

You gasp at how he grabs at your breast, his slick forefinger and thumb tweaking your nipple, “Tomas–” You moan out to him.

His eyes shoot to yours and he looks sheepish, “Sorry…I got carried away.”

Mumbling lazily, you ask, “Are you okay?”

He bites a laugh at your question, “Are you kidding? I feel fantastic.” He moves in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek, “How do you feel? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay…tired,” you wrap your arms around him, pulling him down into you for a hug.

He breathes in the scent of you, committing it to memory, “You should sleep, I’ll carry you to bed–”

You object, cutting him off, “–No… you’ll be gone when I wake up, I really did miss you…”

He can’t hide the way your words make him glow with joy, “How about, we shower and see how you feel?”

“Mmmkay, you’re gonna need to do all the work though…” He’s already picking you up off the couch halfway through your sentence, “…Don’t think I can walk.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to,” he chuckles, carrying you off down the hallway.

˚₊‧⁺⋆༄

IT IS DONE !!!!!! MWUAHAHA!!! i hope you enjoyed it :3

[bunnysdollette]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁ How I manifested my desired appearance + More Confidence with social anxiety 🐆🎀

⟢ hey dolls! today I wanted to share how I became more confident and manifested my desired appearance!! let’s get right into it! also if you guys are interested, my inbox is open! love ya guys ♡ ♡

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ MANIFESTING MY DESIRED APPEARANCE

dolls, I recently had a breakthrough. manifesting is actually so easy.

I’m here to remind you all that you don’t have to do anything extra with your manifestation. I manifested so many things just by believing in the law. Literally the second you decide something is yours, ITS YOURS. no bullshit, no ten thousand methods, that’s the secret formula.

Additionally, when people say “living in the end” they really mean living in the end. Really START living in the end. It’s not your face claim, it’s you. You aren’t trying to manifest, you have manifested.

Start being delusional babe, relying on confirmation from the 3D WILL GET YOU NOWHERE. The work is done. The proof is here. Just relax and let your desires start to grow in front of your eyes.

Some of the ways I manifest my dream appearance:

♡ everytime I looked in the mirror, I would recite affirmations about my desired features like “my nose is so cute and upturned, my skin is so clear and glowing.” here’s my recent affirmations on a living angel appearance 🕯️

♡ whenever I felt like my manifestation wasn’t going anywhere/fixating on the 3D, I would affirm and affirm and affirm. if you’re an anxious manifestor like me, affirmations are literally your best friend.

♡ consuming the RIGHT manifestation content and simply ignoring advice I disagreed with. this is my domain

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ CONFIDENCE 101: BOOSTING SELF CONCEPT

what is self concept? self concept is the set of beliefs you have about yourself, the way you think about yourself. low self concept = insecure, awkward, not very secure in oneself. high self concept = confident, self-assured. I used to have a low self concept

it’s important to realize that if your self concept is low, you can literally create a new identity and version of yourself at any time. if you want to become more confident and focused, then become that person. visualize that person. create a vision board of the vibe that person gives off.

think about how you can BECOME that person, and embody that emotion as much as possible till it sticks.I used to be so incredibly anxious and insecure I would overthink about my eating habits, the way I walked, talked, smiled, everything.

you have to drill this into your head that nobody cares and they’re actually too focused on their own lives to worry about you. and if they do, it’s usually only for a few seconds before moving on with their lives.

YOU owe it to yourself to become better. It is possible. Let’s do it.

ways I boosted my self concept:

♡ remind myself I CAN have more: liz explains this really well in her video here (still one of my faves from her till this day)

♡ shadow work: I would review difficult memories and kind of like detangle it, and I would learn more about myself from doing shadow work questions. definitely good for self healing

♡ persisting in the belief I was beautiful, confident and magnetic. Literally affirm 24/7

♡ be patient. confidence doesn’t happen overnight especially if u are a socially anxious and was insecure person like me.

⟢ and that’s mainly all I have for today angels! hope everyone found some part of this helpful, I’ve been trying to fix my format over these last few posts it’s kinda messy, thoughts? other than that stay cute, and I’ll post again soon. mwah 💋

[rampantram]

I've been saving this but I can't take it anymore... your art is super cool!! I love the drawing style you have, especially the lines and expressions. Also the dynamic poses and interactions between characters, everything looks so cute but at the same time exciting to keep watching!! I would read a whole manga with your art in it :3

Curious question: what size are your drawings normally? I see that you draw in pencil and many times there is more than one drawing on a single canvas/sheet so I am curious to know approximately the size of your drawings

I hope you don’t mind me using your ask to say this, but…you guys have no idea how much your kindness and positivity has affected me since I started posting my CotL stuff.

I’ve had anxiety since I was a kid, and depression for almost a decade now, and most recently been diagnosed with ADHD and OCD. I’ve had the most lows in my life over the past few years, and my consistency and drive to draw has suffered for it; at most, I’ve posted every other week, but mostly once every couple of months, and even longer than that until now. Being on medication has affected my motivation to draw, and I’ve been on short-term disability for over a month now, trying out new medications and feeling mostly miserable from the side effects.

Despite all that, I’ve wanted truly to finally be consistent with art, interact with people, try new things, and it’s helped so much to have so many people loving the things I’ve come up with. I haven’t been as consistent this last week, and spotty some weeks before that, but you’ve all been so patient despite that, which is part of the reason I want to give you some transparency and vulnerability on my part.

So I apologize if things continue to be a little less than organized or consistent, but I’m going to keep trying my best everyday, because I want to keep bringing you things you enjoy and want to interact with, so…thank you. 🥹

But getting to your question before I really start to tear up…this 9x12 sketchbook by Strathmore (specifically the recycled paper) is what I’ve been using for my sketches for a long while:

And it typically depends on how big or small I think each of the drawings should be, but I do try to keep them on one page if I can just for organizations’s sake.

Also if I know I need to post it from my phone, I try to make things easier for myself by putting things within proximity of each other with my phone’s camera in mind (not the whole page because it’ll be blurry, up and down since that’s easier for me to take a shot with, and so on).

If I’m gonna scan it, that makes things a bit easier, but I do try to condense them enough so I can try and avoid doing two scans of the same page and having to stitch them together (this one below just ended up taking the whole page, and since most scanners - my roommate’s included - usually only scan Letter or A4 size areas, those I end up having to scan on multiple parts and edit them together in Clip Studio Paint).

But of course, it all comes down to what feels right or works with your own method the best (as long as you achieve the outcome you wanted, the tools and method to get there don’t necessarily have to be the “best” or “right” way to do it).

I hope this helps, though, and that you have a brilliant day~✨

[colouredbyd]

The Nightingale VI: The Capitol Has Teeth

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: a wounded alliance begins to form. old memories resurface under the cover of night—constellations, names, and things left unsaid. the arena is changing, and the Capitol is already tightening its grip.

warnings: scenes of violence, characters death, graphic content, blood, emotional distress, violence, injury care, body horror (mild), themes of control and helplessness, mild language, intense fear, reflective of the brutal nature of the Hunger Games.

word count: 8.9k (totally didnt take 3 days to write)

authors note: i love this chapter so so much, ugh. ps. so many hidden easters in this chapter..

previous part series masterlist main masterlist

This is day two of the Games, and the Garden is changing.

The trees loom higher than they did yesterday—though maybe it’s not the trees that have grown. Maybe it’s me, shrinking by the hour, forgetting how to measure anything except the ache in my chest and the sound of my own heartbeat.

The canopy above is a patchwork of rust-colored leaves, their edges curled and blackened like they’ve been touched by fire. They drip something sticky onto the ground, sap or blood or something that smells too sweet to be natural. The earth beneath our feet shifts softly sometimes, like it's breathing. And in the corners of my vision, I keep catching flickers—ghosts of motion, glimmers of light that vanish when I try to focus. I turn my head and see nothing but bark. Stones that look like teeth. Vines that might’ve been ropes.

We don’t speak. There’s no need to. The silence between us is heavier than the air.

Regulus walks ahead, every step deliberate. That same quiet intensity he’s always carried—like he was carved from silence and taught how to move without making the world flinch. He reads the terrain with his eyes, his hands, the angle of his shoulders. Every few paces, his fingers lift to the back of his neck—light and quick, like a whisper he’s trying to chase away. I’ve seen him do it before. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I see how often. How unconscious. Like a tether—his mind checking a leash only he can feel.

He hasn’t spoken since last night. Neither have I. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t come out as a prayer or a scream.

Yesterday there were three cannons. Three faces in the sky.

Emmeline Vance from District 4. Mundungus Fletcher from 12. Hestia Jones from 8.

I didn’t know them—not really. I remembered their faces at the Reaping, the slight tremble in Hestia’s hands, the way Emmeline had kept her chin raised too high, defiant even when her voice cracked. But names blur quickly out here. Still, I forced myself to look. To hold their eyes as long as the sky would let me. It felt like the only thing I could offer—acknowledgement. A witness. Something human.

My heart clenched, waiting for a fourth. Bracing for the face I wouldn’t survive seeing. But it didn’t come.

No Regulus.

And the relief that washed over me was sharp and selfish and so full of guilt I could barely stand it. Because part of me still thinks that as long as he’s alive, I can be too. Like if I can just keep him breathing, I won't become one of those faces. A name no one knew well enough to mourn. But maybe that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep walking.

I glance at Regulus again and wonder, not for the first time, what it’s cost him to survive all this. What corners of himself he’s had to cut away to keep going. What softness he’s buried. What screams he’s swallowed.

His profile is turned to the trees now, neck long and throat bruised with old scrapes. There’s a sliver of dried blood along his collarbone—too thin to worry about but too stark to ignore. His hands hang loose at his sides, stained from the last time we dug through mud for shelter. Hands that used to tremble in the Capitol’s glare. Hands that no longer do.

The Capitol doesn’t need to kill you with blades or bombs. It just waits. Patient, calculating. Watching as the days chip away at you until there’s nothing left but instinct and ash. Until the war lives in your bones and mercy is a myth you no longer afford. It doesn’t pull the trigger—it hands you the weapon, then teaches you how to aim at yourself.

It silences you slowly. Hollowing out the soft parts first—grief, love, hope—until only survival remains. It makes memory sharp. Makes kindness dangerous. It turns every name you loved into a weakness, every soft moment into something that could get you killed. That’s the Capitol’s real talent: it doesn’t need to kill you. It teaches you how to do it on your own.

And Regulus—he carries every one of those lessons behind his eyes. He walks like someone who’s memorized loss. Like the air itself cuts him, and still he keeps moving. He doesn’t look back. Maybe because he can’t. Maybe because looking means remembering. And remembering means bleeding all over again.

But I do. I always do.

Because someone has to. Someone has to hold onto what we were before they renamed us tributes and strung us up like symbols. Someone has to remember that we were people once. That we had birthdays and favorite songs. That we laughed. That kindness wasn’t a liability.

I wonder if he remembers that, too. Or if he buried hope with the rest of the dead.

We keep walking, the Garden thick around us, the silence breathing down our necks. And still, I say nothing.

But gods, I want to.

I want to call his name and watch it settle on his skin like something warm. I want to press my hand to the curve of his spine and remind him that he doesn’t have to carry all of this alone.

I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I was something he couldn’t afford to lose.

Not here. Not in the Garden, where the trees eavesdrop and the wind keeps score. Here, tenderness is a trap. 

He doesn’t need to tell me why he’s quiet. I already know.

The longer we’re still, the louder the Garden gets. The wind carries laughter sometimes, or the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to either of us. Once I swore I heard my mother singing. The exact lullaby she used to hum when I couldn’t sleep. The notes hung between the branches like fruit.

Because we both knew the truth: the arena isn’t just a place.

It’s a mind.

It watches. It learns. It carves open your past and feeds it back to you with blood on its fingers. It waits until you forget you’re a tribute, and then it strikes. Not with teeth or claws, but with memories. With softness. With the illusion of something kind, until it becomes the thing that kills you.

I walk beside him now, watching the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like he’s holding something back. Maybe rage. Maybe grief. Maybe something colder. There’s a part of me that wants to reach for him, to remind him I’m still here. That we’re not entirely gone yet. But I don’t.

I haven’t spoken since the camera shattered. I don’t think Regulus has either.

The Garden is quieter than it was yesterday. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just… still. Like the calm that presses down on your chest right before a scream. Even the birds are gone, if they were ever real to begin with.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve blinked without seeing anything at all.

How many times I’ve heard my name, whispered low and sweet, threading through the trees like a secret—and turned to find nothing but bark and silence. The branches know my name now. They’ve learned how to say it with the same lilt my brother used to, the same pause my mother would make before pulling me into her arms.

I think I’m starting to forget what real sounds like. What true sounds like.

We were moving through a dense patch of undergrowth when something ahead caught the corner of my eye. It wasn’t a sound or a cry—just the faintest flicker of motion, too small to be a threat, too subtle to ignore. I stopped. My foot hovered above a root as my gaze dropped to the forest floor, sifting through the layers of leaves and dirt.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy, half-swallowed by the roots of an overturned tree—limbs tangled like he’d fallen from the sky and the forest had tried to claim him before he hit the ground. His body was twisted awkwardly, one leg bent beneath him, the other dragged out behind like he’d been running and never quite stopped. Dirt smudged his cheek, blood crusted at his temple, and his arm was curled protectively over his ribs, as if even unconscious, he was trying to shield something.

For a breathless second, I thought he was dead.

Then his fingers moved—just once. A faint tremble, barely there.

I stepped forward before I even realized it, breath catching in my throat.

“We can’t,” Regulus said. His voice was low.

I turned toward him, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the boy, sharp and gleaming like the blade he kept hidden at his side. I could feel the tension coiled in him, the way his breath had shortened, how his grip on me tightened just slightly as the boy coughed again.

“What if it’s a setup?” Regulus muttered. “What if someone left him there to draw us out? We’re in the Garden. Nothing’s real here. Not pain. Not mercy. Not dying.”

His hand was still on my arm. The contact sent little aftershocks skimming through my nerves, but it was the way he said dying that made my stomach twist. Like he wasn’t afraid of it, just tired of watching it happen.

“I don’t think he’s pretending,” I said, softer now, but steady. “No one pretends to bleed like that.”

Regulus didn’t let go. He looked at me then, and for a moment, his expression faltered. Just enough for the mask to slip. Just enough for me to see what was beneath it—fear, maybe. Or something heavier.

“I can’t protect you if you walk into a trap.”

I swallowed hard. His fingers were still wrapped around my arm, thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist like he was trying to convince himself it was fine. That I was still breathing. That I was still warm. I could’ve told him I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, not from this, not now—but the words stayed in my throat.

“I’m going,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to come with me. But I’m not walking away.”

I moved toward the boy, lowering myself into a crouch until my knees met the damp, moss-covered earth. The scent of soil and something metallic filled my lungs as I leaned closer. His breathing was shallow and ragged, every rise of his chest uneven, as if each breath was a decision his body had to wrestle with. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, a deep maroon stain spreading across his side, dark and tacky. Most of it had dried, crusted in streaks where it had mingled with dirt and sweat, but fresh droplets still clung near the wound—bright enough to mean danger, slow enough to mean time was running out.

His body looked wrong somehow, too twisted to be resting, too still to be safe. One leg was curled beneath him in an unnatural position, the angle of it suggesting a break or worse. His arm had fallen across his ribs, bent awkwardly as if he'd collapsed mid-flight and never gotten the chance to move again. His face was pale beneath the grime, the sort of pallor that came with too many hours of pain left unattended. One eye was swollen shut, puffed and bruised, while the other remained barely open, glassy and confused. He blinked once, slowly, as if even that motion cost him something. His gaze didn’t quite find mine.

He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. There was something delicate about him, something unfinished, like he hadn’t been given enough time to grow into himself before being thrown into this place. His lips were cracked and flaking, the corners stained with blood and dust. I studied his features, searching for a name, a memory, anything to anchor him to the world outside this nightmare. 

He must have been one of the quiet ones during the interviews—the kind of tribute whose voice got lost beneath the roar of louder stories. The kind no one truly noticed until their portrait appeared in the sky, accompanied by that mournful anthem. He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like he belonged in the Games. But then again, none of us did.

The heat coming off him was feverish, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. It radiated from him in waves, pulsing with every weak breath, and I knew then that the wound had festered longer than it should have. His body was fighting a war it was already losing.

Behind me, I felt the shift of movement before I saw it—Regulus lowering himself into a crouch beside us. His expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and shadows. He didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the boy with clinical precision, taking in the damage, calculating the risk. One hand hovered near his knife, fingers ghosting the hilt like a reflex, like his body didn’t quite know how to be still without the comfort of a blade in reach. But he didn’t draw it. He stayed where he was, close but guarded, alert but not hostile.

The suspicion had not entirely left his features, but it had softened. Not into trust—Regulus didn’t give that freely—but into something quieter, something cautious and heavy with restraint. It was enough. For now.

“His leg’s broken,” he said, scanning the injury like it was a riddle. “Might be his ribs too.”

He stared at the boy a moment longer, then reached into his pack without a word.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t believe in softness, not out loud. But he still acted on it, always in the quietest ways.

Regulus took most of the weight, one of the boy’s arms draped across his shoulder, the other hanging lifeless at his side. I stayed close, supporting from behind, one hand steady on his back, the other ready to grab him if he collapsed. He was light—too light—and every step made him wince. He didn’t say a word. Just stumbled and clung on.

Regulus led the way, his pace steady but quick, each step a careful rhythm, as though he was trying to stay two steps ahead of danger. His eyes flicked over his shoulder frequently, watching the boy who staggered just behind, trying to keep pace. I saw the way his jaw tightened with each stumble, the way his grip on his knife never fully relaxed. He was wary, cautious, a man who had learned the hard way to trust no one. Not even someone in a condition like this boy’s.

The boy’s breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest like the prelude to something worse. He coughed, a wet, miserable sound that seemed to echo through the quiet woods, and muttered something I couldn’t catch. His voice was weak, barely a whisper, and when his head dropped forward, I felt a momentary surge of panic. For a moment, he looked like he might just collapse, crumple under his own weight, and we’d be left here with him, an easy target for whatever might be watching from the shadows.

I slowed my pace, moving closer to him, and whispered, my voice tight with worry. “We’re almost there,” I said, though it felt more like a promise to myself than to him. “Just hold on.”

I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and he swayed as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with the effort of standing. I could feel Regulus watching us, his gaze sharp and calculating. He was already thinking two steps ahead, thinking about the next danger we might face. Even here, in this moment, we weren’t safe.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of winding through the underbrush, we emerged into a small clearing. The trees opened up just enough to give us a breath, the weight of the forest lifting slightly, as if the earth itself had parted to let us pass. The ground beneath us was soft, covered in thick, spongy moss that swallowed the sound of our footsteps, offering a temporary reprieve from the harshness of the forest.

Regulus moved swiftly, lowering the boy to the ground, his movements more tender than I would have expected, more careful than he probably intended to show. I knelt beside the boy, brushing the damp curls from his forehead, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. It was too much warmth, too much for someone so young, someone who had already been through so much.

His breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one sounding like it took all the effort he had left. I could feel the weight of his fever in the tremors of his body, the way his skin was flushed, slick with sweat despite the coolness of the night. I gently pressed my fingers to his wrist, trying to find his pulse, but it was weak, barely there.

I didn’t know how long he could last like this. The wound he’d sustained was bad, worse than I had first thought, and there was nothing we could do for him right now except wait. Wait and watch, hoping it wasn’t too late.

The air around us seemed to hold its breath, the quiet of the forest pressing in from all sides. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what was happening here.

Regulus moved behind me, his presence a quiet shadow at my back. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his gaze on the boy, feel the tension in the way he stood, watchful and poised. He wasn’t ready to let go of the boy, not yet. I understood that—this was dangerous, and we couldn’t afford to trust anyone fully, not in the Garden.

 But as I looked at the boy, his chest rising and falling too slowly, his body trembling with fever, I knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to last long unless we did something

I reached for the canteen with steady hands, though inside, I felt anything but calm. The metal was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the boy’s fevered body. I tilted it carefully toward his mouth, trying to find the balance between urgency and gentleness. “Can you drink?” I asked, my voice quiet, measured, like I was afraid the sound itself might scare him back into unconsciousness.

His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and rimmed with dirt, glassy with pain and exhaustion. They looked too old for someone his age—haunted, like he had already seen too much. He blinked up at me slowly, uncomprehending, and his cracked lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Only a thin rasp of air, dry and broken. I tilted the canteen again, just enough to let a trickle of water touch his mouth.

He flinched slightly at first, then swallowed—a small, effortful motion that looked like it took everything out of him. A second later, he coughed, the sound low and grating, each breath catching in his throat like it was scraping against gravel. I steadied his shoulder, trying to keep him upright as his body shook. His skin was far too warm beneath my fingers, and his pulse fluttered weakly like a moth against glass.

Behind me, Regulus stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, his frame half-shadowed by the last light filtering through the trees. His face was a mask—neutral, unreadable—but I knew better than to think he was at ease. His eyes didn’t leave the boy, not for a second. Every twitch of movement, every inhale, every subtle flicker in the boy’s expression was caught in his gaze. He wasn’t just watching—he was assessing. Calculating. Always preparing for the moment things might turn.

The boy stirred a little more, his head turning slightly as his eyes squinted against the light. I leaned closer, my tone softening into something gentler, something I hoped he could anchor to. “Hey,” I murmured. “You’re okay. We found you in the woods. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

His gaze darted between us, unfocused and flickering. I saw the fear begin to rise in his eyes—not wild panic, not the kind that screamed or thrashed, but the quieter kind, the kind that sank its teeth in slowly. It was buried beneath layers of exhaustion and pain, but it was there, tightening his expression, making his breath catch as he tried to place where he was and who we were.

“We need to know your name,” I said, more gently now, as though coaxing it out of him could unravel some of the fear. “Just your name, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. His attention snapped to Regulus, narrowed in on him like he sensed something dangerous beneath the silence. I followed his gaze and saw what he did—Regulus hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, but the stillness of his posture was deceptive. He was coiled beneath it, ready. There was a tension in his stance, like the entire forest could shift and he’d still be the first to react. Something in the boy recognized that. He wasn’t just looking at a stranger. He was looking at a threat.

Finally, after another strained pause, the boy swallowed and whispered, “Evan.”

His voice was paper-thin and frayed at the edges. The name hung between us for a moment, fragile and weightless. I turned to Regulus, catching his eyes for a brief second.

I looked back at the boy and nodded. “Okay, Evan,” I said softly, like his name was something sacred, something I didn’t want to break. “We’re going to help you. That wound—it needs care, but you’re not alone anymore. We’ll take care of it, and we’ll figure the rest out together.”

Evan’s gaze didn’t waver, but something inside it dimmed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe me, like he’d already seen too much to think anything here could be safe. “There’s no such thing,” he murmured, his words barely audible, worn thin from pain. “Safe doesn’t exist here.”

I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Regulus finally moved, crouching low beside us, his knees brushing the moss, and his shadow stretched long and dark over the clearing. His presence was grounding, solid, but it brought with it the weight of reality. This wasn’t just an act of kindness. It was a decision with consequences.

His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. “Are you alone?”

Evan’s head dipped in the faintest of nods. “I don’t know where my district partner is,” he said, voice rough. “We got separated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of possibilities. Regulus glanced at me, and for a second, I saw the flicker again. He was thinking. Calculating how this changed things. How long we could afford to care.

“When?” Regulus pressed.

“Since the bloodbath,” Evan said. “I tried to climb a tree after. I Thought I saw movement. I fell. Think I broke something.” He winced as he tried to shift. “Been there since. Two days, maybe.”

I reached for the first aid kit, pulling out a strip of clean cloth and the last of our antiseptic. The gash on his side had bled through his shirt. It was ragged and deep, but not too wide—if we kept it clean, he might have a chance.

“This’ll sting,” I warned, my voice low, almost apologetic as I prepared the antiseptic.

Evan didn’t flinch at my words. He just nodded, his fingers digging into the moss beneath him like it might anchor him to something solid, something real. The tremble of his hand was faint, almost imperceptible, but I saw it—saw the effort it took for him to hold himself still. His skin was already raw, burned with the fever he’d been running, and I knew this was going to make it worse.

I dabbed the cloth across his wound, and a sharp hiss escaped him, his breath a shallow, quick intake, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t pull away. He just endured it. The sound of his breath was the only thing I could hear, ragged and unsteady.

I focused on the task, moving carefully. The world around us felt distant, like everything else had slowed down in that moment. The air was thick, heavy with the tension between us. Regulus remained quiet, his gaze fixed on Evan with a mix of watchfulness and something else—something unreadable. He handed me what I needed without a word, his movements precise and fluid, like he had already decided he would do what was necessary, whether he wanted to or not.

The silence stretched, a fragile thread that might snap at any moment, but it held. We worked in synchrony, each of us trapped in our own thoughts, the weight of what was happening pressing against us, unspoken but shared. The moment felt like it was balanced on the edge of something unnamed, something too complex to voice.

When I finished, I leaned back slightly, wiping my hands on my pants, suddenly aware of how still the air had become, how heavy my own breath felt.“You need rest,” I said, trying to make the words sound like a command, but it came out more like a suggestion—a plea. His body was barely holding itself together, and I could see how exhausted he was. He needed sleep more than anything else. 

Evan blinked slowly, his gaze drifting between us. I could see the questions in his eyes—too many to count, and none of them answered yet. “Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words felt like they were stuck. I didn’t have a good answer. Not one that would make sense to him, or to me, for that matter. But before I could speak, Regulus answered, his tone low but firm, like he was stating a simple fact.

“We’re not sure we are.”

His words hung in the air, sharp, blunt. There was no malice in his voice—just the quiet honesty of someone who had learned the hard way not to promise things he wasn’t sure he could keep. I felt the weight of it, the honesty of it, even though part of me wanted to argue. Wanted to say that we were helping, that there was something between us that demanded it. But Regulus had said it. And in that moment, I couldn’t deny it. 

I glanced at him sharply, but his face didn’t shift. There was no anger, no bitterness, just an unwavering calm.

Evan’s eyelids fluttered shut as if the effort of staying awake had finally become too much. His voice came in a soft rasp, as fragile as his breath. “Fair enough.”

The acceptance in his words struck me more deeply than I expected. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pleading. He was just... resigned. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain, or just the weight of everything that had happened, but in that moment, his voice was quiet, but there was a sort of strength in it too. The kind of strength that didn’t come from fighting back, but from accepting the world as it was—however hard that might be.

And as he lay there, silent, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, I felt something shift. Something delicate, but undeniable. It wasn’t that I understood Evan, not fully. But in that moment, with his simple admission, I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t expected.

I looked back at Regulus, catching the fleeting glance he gave me—brief, unreadable—but I could sense it. Whatever had brought us here, whatever decision had been made when we chose to help him, it wasn’t just about the boy on the ground. It was about us. And whatever was happening between us, unspoken but felt, was just beginning to unfold.

Regulus stood again and moved to the fire pit, kneeling to strike the flint. I stayed by Evan’s side, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips moved soundlessly—like he was whispering something to himself in sleep. Maybe a name. Maybe a prayer.

Across the clearing, sparks jumped from stone to kindling. The fire began to catch. Regulus didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension still radiating from him like heat.

He didn’t trust Evan. But he’d carried him here.

And something about that mattered more than either of us could admit.

It's been a few hours since Evan fell asleep. I tried to sleep. I really did, but I couldn't take my eyes off the horizon above me. The sky above isn’t real—too static, too perfect, as if someone painted it from memory and forgot that stars are supposed to flicker. The air smells like damp earth and something artificial beneath it, the Capitol’s idea of what a forest should be. It’s close but never quite right, like a lullaby sung off-key.

Beside me, Regulus lies just barely within reach. Our arms aren’t touching, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him radiating in the space between us. I can sense the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of the silence, the way the air stirs gently whenever he exhales. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s thick with the weight of unspoken things, of years that passed without permission, of names we don’t call each other anymore.

I don’t know when I started watching him instead of the sky.

The years haven’t changed the shape of him, not really. He’s still all edges and quiet restraint, still wears silence like armor. But in the dim blue light, with the trees casting soft shadows across his face, he looks younger. Softer. Like the boy I used to know before the world asked him to become someone else.

( i highly recommend playing Space Song by Beach House here)

My gaze lifts to the stars, or the simulation of them, and a thought drifts through my mind before I can catch it.

“I used to draw stars on you.” I say.

The words slip out quieter than I expect, drifting into the dark like breath on glass. They hang there for a moment, fragile and unclaimed. My voice barely belongs to me—it sounds younger somehow, like it was pulled from another version of myself. I don’t even know if I meant to say it aloud. Maybe it’s just a memory trying to make itself real again.

But he hears. Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes. The rhythm of it is steady, but there’s something underneath it now—something old and aching. Then, after a pause that feels too full, he murmurs, “On my wrist.”

His voice is rough, like it had to scrape its way up from somewhere deep.

Another pause. Longer, softer.

“My arm. My collarbone, once,” he adds, as though he’s cataloging each place with care, brushing dust from the bones of the past. “You got bolder every year.”

A smile finds me, faint and slow and a little sad. It hurts to hold it, but I let it bloom anyway. “You always moved before the ink dried.”

“You always scolded me when it smudged.”

“I didn’t scold,” I whisper, the corners of my voice tugged by something tender. “I just… hated when they stopped looking like stars.”

He turns his head, just enough that I can see the side of his face in the blue-dark hush. The sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, something raw and open that I recognize, even after all this time.

“They looked like stars to me,” he says. His voice is steady now, quieter than the night, but clearer somehow. “Always.”

I close my eyes for a second and let myself slip backward, into a different time.

I used to steal ink from the shops when no one was watching. A cracked bottle, a stolen brush, a piece of charcoal snapped in half and hidden beneath my coat. We’d sneak into our hideout—our haven in the woods behind the lumber mill, where the branches reached toward the sky like they were trying to remember it—and I’d press his hand flat against the floorboards, the skin of his wrist pale and waiting.

He was always so still for me. Not for anyone else. Not even for himself. But for me—he let me paint on him like he was a blank space meant to be filled. Only for me.

Never for anyone else. Not for the world. Not for the Capitol. Not even for himself. But when I touched him, when I painted him, he became quiet in a way that felt like surrender, or maybe trust. He let me draw constellations on his skin like I was writing a language only the two of us could read.

He’d watch me with those storm-colored eyes—eyes that never gave anything away unless you knew where to look. Half-curious, half-somewhere-else. Eyes that carried entire winters in their silence.

I always began with Altair. The lead star. Three dots in a line—clean, sharp, deliberate. A shape with direction. Then I’d connect it to Vega, to Deneb, tracing faint arcs across his forearm, letting the brush kiss the contours of his bones. I’d mark Orion’s belt along his wrist. Sketch Canis Major where his veins ran faintly blue beneath the surface. Each stroke was careful, slow, reverent. A sky unfolding. A map no one else could see.

Sometimes, when I was finished, he’d flex his fingers slightly, and the stars would shimmer. Smudge. Shift. And I’d scowl like I didn’t expect it, even though I always did.

But other times, he’d just let them sit there—those tiny galaxies drawn down the pathways of his hands—like he knew they weren’t really stars. Like he knew they were promises.

And like he needed them anyway.

“I learned constellations just so I could give them to you,” I say now. “I didn’t have anything else. Not really. No money. No gifts. Just ink and time and my hands.”

“You gave me more than that,” he says quietly. “You gave me a map.”

My chest pulls tight. I don’t answer.

“You said it would help me find my way back,” he continues, the words hesitant now, like he’s stepping over glass. “Even if I got lost. Even if I was taken away.”

I turn my head toward him. His profile is made of angles and shadows, but I see him. I see the boy he used to be beneath the man the Capitol sculpted. I see the softness he buried.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really leave.” I whisper.

He’s silent for a long time. Too long.

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” he says finally, and his voice cracks like something old breaking open again.

The ache between us spreads like ink in water.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush against his wrist, finding the place I used to start with. That delicate patch of skin beneath the bones, where his pulse beats like it remembers me. I press there, gently. My thumb moves in a slow, absent circle. My body remembers the motion of drawing.

“I always started with Altair.” I whisper.

His breath catches. “You did.”

“Three dots. A line.”

“You were always so careful about it,” he says, his voice low, almost tender. “So precise. You’d tilt your head when you worked, like you were trying to see the stars from a different angle. Bite the inside of your cheek when you were focused. You got ink on your nose half the time.”

A laugh escapes me, soft and slightly stunned by the memory. It catches in my throat, but it’s real—like it came from somewhere deep and untouched by the passing years. “And you never told me.”

His silence lingers for a moment, and then the faintest smile touches his lips, but it’s more in the way his eyes soften than anything else. “I liked watching you forget the world.”

The air feels thicker between us now, heavier with the weight of something unspoken, something raw. It’s an intimacy that feels familiar, but different, like we’re seeing each other in a light we haven’t allowed ourselves to look at in far too long.

I trace the memory of Altair now, just the lightest touch of my fingertip across his skin. No ink. No need for it. The shape is still there, imprinted beneath the surface, burned into both of us. A constellation we never erased. A story neither of us stopped carrying, no matter how much time has passed or how much we tried to forget.

His voice is quieter now, almost reverent when he speaks. “Why Altair?”

I pause, my finger hovering for just a second longer. The air around us feels thick with the weight of his question, as if the answer means more than I ever realized. I exhale slowly before speaking, my words soft but sure. “It was the first star I learned. It means the flying bird in Arabic.”

He’s quiet for a long time, the kind of silence that feels like it could stretch on forever if we let it. I keep tracing, my finger moving along his skin like it’s the only thing tethering me to the past.

“You were so angry, back then,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. “And quiet. Like you didn’t trust the world not to hurt you, so you stayed locked up tight. I think… I wanted to give you something gentle. Something that didn’t take. Something that didn’t demand anything.”

Regulus randomly flinched, one hand shooting up to the back of his neck. He pressed his palm there for a beat too long, like he was trying to smother a sudden sting.

“Something I could hold,” he says, the words fragile, like they might slip away if he doesn’t let them go now.

I nod, my throat tight, and keep tracing, my hand steady despite the trembling inside me. “Something you could follow.” I whisper back, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. It’s the truth, and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

He shifts. His wrist turns under mine, his fingers brushing my palm. The contact is so slight, but it feels like gravity.

“That’s when you started calling me Starling,” I say softly, watching him through the dark.

But he shakes his head, slow and certain. “That’s when I understood why.”

I blink. “What?”

He exhales, like the words cost something to carry. “The first time you sang to me, I called you Starling. I think I was twelve. Maybe younger. But I didn’t understand the name then. Not really.” His voice drops lower now, like he’s peeling something open inside himself—something delicate, something hidden. “Not until you started tracing constellations on my arms with your fingers. Not until I saw how you looked at the night—like you could read it.”

I stay quiet. There’s something sacred about his voice right now. Like if I speak too soon, it’ll break the spell.

“You didn’t just look up at the stars,” he says. “You pulled them down. Wove them into songs. Hid them in your laugh. In the way you moved. I started calling you Starling because I thought it sounded small and beautiful. Something fragile, something soft.”

He pauses, and I feel it more than I hear it—that moment when something shifts in him.

“But then I saw you,” he continues, quieter now. “Really saw you. And I realized… you were never small.”

His voice hitches, just slightly, like the truth is scraping its way out of him.

“You made me feel like you were reachable,” he says. “And that terrified me.”

My breath stutters.

I want to tell him he was the only one I ever drew stars for—that no one else’s skin ever felt sacred enough to hold a sky. That I memorized the way his veins curved just so I could map the constellations with more care on his pale skin. That I sometimes woke up at night with ink-stained fingers, reaching out for a boy who was already fading into headlines and hollow eyes.

Instead, I just look at him.

“You always smudged them,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But I remembered every single one.”

It happens so fast, I almost don’t have time to understand it. One moment, I’m lying there beside him, my fingers gliding over his skin, tracing the shapes of constellations that feel almost sacred—quiet, intimate. The moment is soft, and time feels still, a fleeting sense of peace that I cling to like a lifeline.

But then, without warning, everything shifts. It’s not like the breathless panic I’ve felt before, the kind you get when you're running, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. No, this is something entirely different. 

This is fire. It burns through me, flooding my chest with heat so sharp it feels like it could tear me apart from the inside. It steals my breath in one agonizing, violent wave. My ribs feel like they’re closing in, the air choking on its way out, and I can’t do anything but gasp in frantic desperation.

A scream claws its way up my throat, raw and strangled, as if it wants to rip through me, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s twisted—broken. 

It’s not even a scream anymore. It’s just agony, squeezing the air out of my lungs, twisting it into something unrecognizable. I claw at my throat, desperate for some relief, for just a single breath. But the fire inside only grows, the pain consuming everything until all I know is the burning in my chest. The stars I was tracing, the peace I felt only moments before, seem like distant memories now. The world tilts, spins, and I can’t find my footing. Everything goes dark at the edges of my vision.

Regulus is there, though—his hands on me, pulling me toward him, but even his voice feels far away. I hear his name, his frantic shouts, but they don’t make sense. It’s like I’m drowning in this fire, trapped in a nightmare I can’t escape. The world around me starts to blur, a thick haze of panic and pain. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is claw at my chest, trying to get air, trying to fight the fire that’s burning through me.

“Reg—” I try to say his name, but it comes out cracked and broken.

My fingers twitch, then seize. My whole body is shaking, twisting with something I can’t name. It feels like my insides are folding in on themselves, like they’re being turned to ash from the inside out.

Regulus is on his feet in an instant.

And then I feel it. A cold pressure on my neck, Regulus’s hands—frantic, shaking as he tries to steady me. His fingers are everywhere, his voice breaking through the fog of panic, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except for the suffocating burn that fills every inch of me. Every part of my body wants to scream again, but nothing comes out. Only the fire. Only the suffocating weight of it.

Regulus was on me in seconds. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice cracked. “Tell me where it hurts—tell me what’s happening—”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even find the air to scream. My throat burned. My vision blurred. It felt like something was crawling inside me, twisting up through my spine, dragging barbed wires through my veins. I hit the dirt, shaking.

“Reg—Regulus—” I choked out, barely managing the sound. “I—I can’t—”

He caught me before I collapsed fully, hands gripping my shoulders like he could hold my body together through force alone. “No, no, no—stay with me. Look at me. Breathe.” His voice was wild now, breaking in places. “Breathe, please. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

I dropped to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings, convulsing, nails digging into the dirt. My insides felt like they were tearing, every nerve lit up with flame. “Can’t—breathe,” I gasped. “It—it hurts—inside—”

“Where?” Regulus dropped beside me, eyes wild. “Where does it hurt? Starling—look at me.”

My hand flew to my ribs, fingers twitching violently. Regulus followed the motion, his hands already on me, searching, trying to stop the shaking. I could feel the panic building in him, in his breath, in the sharpness of his voice. “What is this? What did this?”

Evan stumbled out from behind the trees, his face pale, eyes wide with confusion. He looked between Regulus and me, his breath shallow and quick. "What’s going on?" His voice cracked, the panic seeping through with every word.

Regulus's voice was tight, his eyes frantic as they flicked over me. “She’s hurt.” His words were clipped, jagged. “She was fine—just a second ago—”

I tried to speak, to tell them I was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat constricted, and I choked again, a violent, desperate gasp of air that scraped through me. The pain was crawling up my chest now, sharper, more intense with each passing second. It was a fire, biting at my insides, and it felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out.

Regulus was still watching me closely, his hands trembling at his sides. Then, in an instant, his gaze snapped down to my shirt. His eyes locked on the blood, barely visible at first, just a thin red line starting to stain the fabric beneath my ribs.

His breath hitched, and I heard him mutter, almost to himself, "A cut." Then, louder, with a growing urgency, “There. A thorn. A branch must’ve scratched her—”

I wanted to shake my head, to tell them it wasn’t that, that it wasn’t just a scratch, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The pain was suffocating, pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t escape. 

Evan stepped closer, his expression stark with fear. “She barely moved,” he said, his voice trembling. His gaze flicked from me to Regulus, looking for answers.

Regulus's fingers brushed over my skin, just above the wound. I felt the slightest touch, and I screamed again, the sound tearing through me like a jagged, broken thing. The pain intensified, the fire spreading through my chest and down my limbs, as if the poison was winding its way through every part of me.

Regulus's face went pale, the reality of the situation sinking in. “It’s poisoned,” he said, his voice low, dark with the weight of the truth. 

“Fast-acting. It must’ve been one of the plants.” His words were grim, carrying the knowledge of something far worse than a simple wound. The poison was already inside me, coursing through my veins, and I could feel it.

He moved quickly, grabbing cloth from the first-aid kit and pressing it against the wound, hard, as though trying to stop the poison from spreading. I barely registered the motion, my head swimming with the overwhelming sensation of burning, of being torn apart from the inside out.

“Stay with me,” Regulus’s voice cut through the haze, hoarse and desperate. His eyes were locked onto mine, his face drawn tight with fear, but his hands were steady, pressing the cloth harder against my side. “Look at me. Breathe, Starling. Please.”

The world started to fade. The edges of my vision blurred, the colors and shapes melting into a dull, dark haze. My limbs felt distant, almost foreign, as though I couldn’t feel them at all. There was ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine that clawed at my mind, and I thought—I thought—I might lose myself in it.

Regulus’s hand gripped mine, his voice low but firm. “Stay with me, (Y/N), I need you to fight this. Please.”

I wanted to tell him I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him it was too much, that I was already slipping away, but the words wouldn’t form.

And then, as if the world itself had decided to turn against us, I felt the ground shudder beneath us.

 At first, it was just a tremor, a soft shake that could’ve been mistaken for a gust of wind, but then it intensified. The trees around us creaked and groaned, their trunks bending unnaturally as though they were being pulled by an invisible force. The leaves rustled, a low, eerie whisper carried by the wind.

 The ground beneath our feet shifted again, a deep, unsettling rumble like the earth itself was alive and angry.

Regulus’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with panic. “The arena... it’s changing.”

The trees began to move. Not just sway in the wind, but move. Their branches twisted, reaching down like fingers grasping for something to hold, something to claim. The ground beneath us seemed to shift, warping and rippling in ways that defied logic. It was as if the earth itself was trying to consume us, to pull us deeper into its hungry depths.

Regulus pulled me up, his hands shaking as he dragged me to my feet. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Evan was already moving, his face a mixture of disbelief and terror. “What’s going on? What the hell is happening?”

“There’s no time!” Regulus shouted, urgency flooding his voice as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes frantic. “The trees—look at the trees!”

I could barely keep up, each step feeling like a battle against the poison coursing through my veins, my limbs weak and unresponsive. But I could hear it—the snap of branches, the groan of the earth, the sudden, unnatural stillness that filled the air. Something was coming.

And then, we saw them.

Through the trees, coming toward us, two figures emerged. 

Caradoc Dearborn and Charity Burbage, both from District 10.

Their weapons drawn, their faces grim. They didn’t see us at first. Their focus was elsewhere—on the shifting ground, the movement in the trees, the unsettling sounds of the arena alive with fury.

But then, they stepped too close.

Charity took another step forward, her eyes still scanning the shifting landscape, her footsteps heavy against the uneven ground. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees as the air grew thicker, heavier. The world felt off balance, like something had tipped and we were all about to fall into its chaos.

She didn’t notice it at first, the ground beneath her feet moving, the soil rippling like water disturbed by a pebble. She took another step—and then, with a sickening crack, the earth buckled beneath her. 

Her foot sank into the ground like it was soft mud, but there was no give, no escape. She tried to pull it out, but the ground around her was shifting, curling around her ankle like a viper’s grip.

Charity’s scream rang out, but the earth didn’t let her escape. She tried to pull her leg free, but the ground twisted around her, thick roots and vines wrapping around her like serpents. Her hands scraped at the soil, but it was no use—the earth had claimed her.

Caradoc rushed forward, his face pale with fear, but before he could reach her, the ground opened wide beneath his feet. His body jerked as he fell, his hands flailing for something—anything—but the roots shot out like claws, dragging him under.

His eyes locked onto mine, wide with terror, as the earth swallowed him whole. He struggled, his body convulsing, but the soil was stronger, crushing him until there was nothing left but an empty hole where he had been.

The arena stood still for a moment, as if savoring the silence it had created. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The echoes of their deaths reverberated in my chest, the horror of what the arena could do to us settling like a cold stone in my gut.

The forest was trying to eat us.

My breath came in short, ragged bursts against Regulus’s neck. I could feel his heart pounding like a war drum.

Regulus had me in his arms before I fully understood I couldn't walk. My legs had gone limp, a dull weight dragging behind the panic in my chest. I could feel my fingers twitching against his shoulder, but I couldn't lift them. The pain had shifted—no longer sharp, just heavy. Like something inside me was curling inward, fading.

“I’ve got you, love” Regulus murmured, voice close to my ear. I could feel the strain in it, the tightness, like he was fighting to keep it from cracking. “Just hold on. Please.”

The nickname made me want to cry.

Evan was ahead, hacking at a wall of thick vines that had grown impossibly fast, curling over the path we’d come from. The ground shook beneath us—roots bulging and splitting the earth, trees bending low like giants being pulled from the sky. 

The Garden wasn’t just alive. It was hunting.

“Faster,” Evan called back, his voice wild with terror. “It’s closing!”

My breath hitched again. Regulus faltered, feeling it.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, stopping just for a second. His eyes met mine, desperate. “Stay awake. Stay with me. Just a little longer, alright?”

I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell him I was trying. That I didn’t mean to be slipping. But my lips were too heavy.

“I don’t want to go.” I finally managed, my voice barely a breath.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said fiercely. “You don’t get to leave me. Not again. Not like this.”

A branch snapped behind us. The ground moaned as if something deep beneath it had begun to stir.

Regulus turned and ran, gripping me tighter against his chest. I could feel the pounding of his heart, fast and wild. For a moment, I imagined I was the star again—drawn on his skin, clinging to the lines of his pulse.

Behind us, the trees twisted inward, forming a wall of writhing limbs and screaming bark. The last glimpse I caught was a blood-red moon above the canopy, blinking like an eye.

Evan screamed again—something about the path—but all I could hear now was Regulus’s breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Real.

The world was shaking. The earth howled. And through it all, Regulus ran.

I wanted to tell him thank you. I wanted to say his name. I wanted to scream.

But all I could do was close my eyes and hope the forest didn't get there first.

They are watching us, always.

It is only day two, and already the Garden is trying to chew through our bones.

The Capitol has teeth.

taglist: @fadingcollectivenightmare @spidermansfangirl   @foulwaterss @slaybestieslay946 @aelinwya @yvessentials @sickly-afraid @urfunnyvalentin3 @hufflebubble53

[ohtobeleah]

Grief in Grace and Memory // A Goodbye

Woah…guys. 🥹 The love and support in my asks and DMs is beyond my ability to express my thanks.

If you missed episode three (the month that was March) of season 26 of Leahs Life, heres a recap. This is my experience and a little of Dads eulogy I wrote. Tw: surgery/death

On Monday the 10th of March, I underwent a exploratory laparoscopy to diagnose suspected endometriosis. I also underwent a tubal dye study to confirm the viability of my fertility and fallopian tube quality.

-> Diagnosis: Endometriosis and a non-viable left tube. 🥲

Four days after surgery, on Friday night, my dad had a major medical episode that required immediate medical attention and care. I was told not to lift anything substantial for a few weeks. Because although routinely done through keyhole, a laparoscopy is still major abdominal surgery that requires recovery.

However, dad needed help and at the time I was the only one who could. I made sure to get him off the floor before paramedics arrived.

Adrenalin is a fantastic biological response to emergency situations. With less than 45 minutes of sleep for Friday night, as I'd gone to bed close to midnight, it kept me going for the next 17hrs.

My sister (who joined us at 4am after 41 missed phone calls and a frantic dash to her house) and I, made sure all of dads advanced care directives were followed. My mother was inconsolable.

I've never experienced anything like this before. The ICU. The family waiting room that's off to the side where doctors ask you and your loved ones to wait for hours on end while they do everything humanly possible to keep your loved one alive.

I remember about 10 hours into the traumatic experience, I was lying on the floor of the waiting room with my legs bent at the knees on the nearest chair. My stomach was in fire. My incision sights were burning, and the gas trapped in my right shoulder was extremely uncomfortable.

But my dad was dying…the emotional toll of knowing that was far worse than the physical pain I was in.

I had a doctor in emergency check my stomach and administer some pain relief to get me through the next 7 hours of pure hell. (I am still under strict recovery orders)

The waiting. The unknowing. The sadness. The sorrow. The sound of delusional laughter that sets in as your husband and brother in law try their best to keep your mother, a soon-to-be widow, occupied by infomercials that repeat over and over again.

And then comes the hardest conversation you ever hear and never want to be apart of again. Its the conversation that the doctor has with a patients family when all avenues have been explored…Dads not coming home…

The disbelief sets in quickly. I'd grown up believing in the theory that Dad was going to be the only person who survived the end of days. He was always so indestructible. Immortal. Even though the last seven years of his life as he battled two aggressive forms of throat/tyriod cancer.

But here I found myself, saying goodbye to my Dad for the final time. My mother, my sister, my husband, my brother-in law, and later my grandmother would all say goodbye. And at 6:30pm on March the 15th 2025, my Dad passed away.

He chose to go when we weren't there. He didn't want us there to see him like that.

And the truth is, I’ve been trying to write this all week. I've been too preoccupied by this one bumblebee that won't stop harassing me around the house. I've convinced myself it’s Dad.. and don't get it twisted either, it’s not just a regular bee.

There's a difference, bumblebees are much larger and fly without any sort of conviction. So, instead of writing this, I've been researching bumblebees and why this one specific one keeps trying to fly into the house and keeps making a B-line straight for the garage.

I’ve found it quite challenging to commemorate and summarise my dad’s entire 61 years in a eulogy. I’ve had way too many memories clashing around in my head to really sit and organise any of the chaos and pick out a select few. But four things came to mind every time I tried to sit down and express our family’s love.

Dad was never a man of frills. I was ever convinced he owned anything but work shorts and tracksuit pants until I was at least seven. He’d wear the same shirt until it was falling off. But that was just Dad. He never turned down grabbing a beer or two at the ‘Redacted’ Tav with his mates, he lived for family barbecues on a hot summer’s afternoon with all the cousins, aunties, uncles and friends... And whenever the opportunity presented itself, Dad loved to grab the paper and sneak down to ‘Redacted’ Beach to watch the waves, listen to the races and enjoy his vices.

If you passed Dad on the road, you were sure to receive the classic one-finger wave of acknowledgement, or in dad code, the ‘ol mate’ in the old Rodeo Ute that’s held together by hopes, dreams and a hell of a lot of bog. A blessing so meaningful, that if you were ever lucky enough to receive an ‘ol mate’ I wholeheartedly believe that it is now one of the most lucrative clubs to be a member of. The old mates club.

I’ll forever cherish the memories of butcher runs and icy poles, the laughs shared during late-night holiday fun, and the adrenaline rush ‘redacted’ and I felt when we would steal Dad’s high-quality concrete sand for our much more important backyard cooking show.

I'm sure it was a joint effort, but to my very core I attribute my first real-world experience to the whole ‘actions have consequences, even though the consequences were not a direct result of my own actions’... to Dad. you see, it may not look like it now, but I was well and truly a ratbag of a kid. So much so that if I didn't knock it off and knock it off quickly, that brand new fibreglass pool that had only just been installed, would be up in the air faster than I could blink.

I knocked whatever I needed to right off because summer was right around the corner and I wasn't hightailing it to the beach every day. So I worked on fixing the attitude I’d come across. Only to come home the next day to the same fibreglass pool I had made my entire personality for at least six months, was in the air, as promised by my dad who was actively encouraging the crane to lift it higher.

Cut back to little Leah for five seconds…Picture the tears, the crying, the guttural pain of a little girl whose pool was being taken away before she even got the chance to swim in it. I was, rightfully so, devastated beyond belief. And if you could suspend your belief in reality momentarily for me, I can not stress to you all how much I thought the world was ending and I would never recover from the fact my Dad had followed through with his promise of taking away my beloved pool.

If you’re still tuned in, amongst my grief and completely understandable crash out, I missed a crucial piece of information. It had rained the night I had been up sorting my attitude out. The pool had popped out of its hole and rain that had made its way under the pool, needed to be drained…

In hindsight, and the point of telling this specific memory, is perhaps if I had taken a second to look at the bigger picture around me, I would have seen that, although my world was ending and my brief run-in with what a heart attack must feel like, scared be into rethinking my entire personality, that if I took a moment to process the situation, I’d be sad for a while about my pool, but life would keep going, the tides would still push and pull, the earth would keep spinning and the sun would rise the next day.

As an adult, I keep thinking back to this moment, because while we try to process living in a world without Dad, the tides will continue to push and pull. The world will continue to spin, but the sun will always look a little more impactful now that someones up there to paint the skies and keep the cold ones cold.

Although actions have consequences, the biggest consequence Dad ever had to deal with was having a family that loved him till his last breath…

Because like fuck was he gonna go through life without one.

***~***~***~***~

[moonysunrulytoast]

situations that have happened in my friend group that are marauders coded part 2 (wolfstar edition):

(it’s new years day. remus got too pissed and threw up early in the night at a bar. sirius, also pissed but not to the point of vomiting, offers to accompany him home in an uber. on the way back to james’s apartment, remus is trying very hard not to throw up. he does. out the window though! no harm no foul. sirius helps remus walk to the apartment, as much as he can in his own state, and unlocks the door. at this point remus is back to talking. in fact, he’s talking a lot more than usual. the two of them move to the bathroom so remus can brush his teeth. when he’s done, sirius grabs him a glass of water, setting it down on the coffee table. the two of them immediately collapse onto the couch. remus ends up half in sirius’s lap but neither of them move. they stay there, even with the couch being abnormally large, and them not knowing each other very well this being their 3rd hangout. and their first time alone together. remus was regulus’s friend, they met at reg’s birthday party two months prior.)

*Sirius absentmindedly wraps his arms around remus’s waist and just… holds him. remus leans into it and makes a very light contented sound*

sirius: (a little slurred) sooo how’re you feeling?

*remus suddenly sits up, turns, and looks sirius directly in the eyes before speaking very quickly and earnestly*

remus: honestly??? better. loads better. eons better which is horrible because now i feel really guilty and embarrassed and ugh *remus turns around and lays back with his eyes closed, making a sound of frustration* i fucked up your new years. and that’s horrible like we just met and you lent me your books from your room on your birthday even though i barely knew you and now we’re here and now this is how you see me and-

sirius: oh love, stop. you’re freaking out.

*sirius absentmindedly rubs his hands up and down remus’s arms. once his breathing slows down, sirius starts drawing soothing circles on his skin*

sirius: first of all, my new years is far from fucked up. i spent the day day drinking with some of my best friends and my brother (one of my all time favorite activities) and now im here with you. you. you. you. who i enjoy being around. and!! i get to listen to you talk. which is a privilege by the way. i love conversations with you. and even if i didn’t (which again i very much do) it’s also very difficult for me to have a bad night. i love hanging out with myself - so the other person’s gotta be pretty bad for the vibe to be ruined.

remus: but i-

sirius: second of all, we’ve all been too drunk before and each have our own fair share of embarrassing stories. the last thing this group of people is going to do is judge you for a bad night. they happen to everyone.

remus: …really?

sirius: yes really! you absolute dork. you should hear some of the stuff IVE done. you’re a human being and you making ONE mistake doesn’t make you deplorable.

(remus nods slowly before zoning out for a few moments, deep in thought. sirius waits patiently.)

remus: you know, i’m really glad it was you who brought me home. i feel… safe with you. safer than i’ve felt before when something like this happens

sirius: that’s horrible. that you’ve felt unsafe. i’m happy i don’t make you feel that way.

remus: me too.

sirius: …you know, it’s funny, this is the longest we’ve ever talked one on one

remus: oh my god you’re right

(they both burst into laughter. after a few moments it dies down and the two of them are looking at each other. staring into each others eyes, both smiling. remus cocks his head very lightly to the side before going to speak again)

remus: (a little dreamy) you’re… you’re so…. you remind me of a book character. someone people write stories about.

*sirilus swallows harshly, his cheeks burning*

sirius: oh! well. thank you remus. that’s probably one of the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me

remus: it’s true!! i would know. books are my favorite. and listening to you is like- it’s comforting and warm. just hearing you talk - did you know that? it’s like i always really want to know what comes next. i could never get tired of it.

sirius: i- um *sirius’s face is hot now and his heart is beating really fast. remus just smiles and pokes his nose* you’re like the moon

remus: what?

sirius: you’re so beautiful and bright. you have this kind, wise energy and you’re quiet but your presence isn’t. people see you, they notice you, and you change them. and you’re witty and funny and a little dark sometimes too. you’re like the moon remus. you’re like the moon.

remus: oh.

(just then james unlocks his front door and their friends pile through the entrance.)

james: SIRIUS

sirius: JAMES

(sirius scrambles up and they embrace each other fiercely)

james: oh how i’ve missed you

reg: it has been two and a half hours tops since you’ve seen each other

sirius: two and a half hours TOO LONG

remus: yeah

james: (quietly, to sirius) had you two…been there the whole time?

sirius: yes

james: okay… and he’s okay?

sirius: yeah :) he’s okay

james: oh good. that’s so so good. (he claps him on the shoulder and his eyes soften) and you? are you okay?

sirius: (looking over at remus and back at james) never better prongs

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for starting shit with a 15 year old??

Alrighty here’s our cast:

I’m OP, I’m 19 years old, I’m FtM trans but not out nor have I started transitioning medically. I’ve graduated but live at home while I attend college

I have a little sister named “Janet”, she’s 16 and a sophomore. She’s popular, friendly, and had a big friend group

Janet has a friend named “Amy” who’s 15. Amy is the kid I think I started beef with

Okay for the story;

Janet is the leader of her group. She’s got the strongest personality and is the most sociable. Almost all the kids in her group are comfortably upper class while Janet and I are sitting very middle class. It’s always very jarring when I drop Janet off at a friend’s house and it’s a literal mansion.

Amy is who introduced Janet to this group, but it became quickly very clear that Amy has never been told “no” in her life. She’s controlling, spoiled, and jealous. Now, I’ve hung out with Amy before (Janet was there too, we were at a get together and Amy tagged along with us) and she’s a sweet girl, but definitely a product of her environment.

Now, over the last few weeks, things have spiraled out of control for that group. Amy got a boyfriend and has been repeatedly picked to spend time with him and made her friends (Janet’s group) feel like shit about it. Her boyfriend was always invited to group things, but Amy refused to let him join. She cited the other girls (who are all either lesbians or dating other boys) as trying to “steal her man”. She’s very insecure about herself and I genuinely feel bad for her

Recently, she’s been left out of group activities because she chose not to attend, but then later would send the group hateful messages on social media or would vague post about them being pieces of shit because they didn’t insist that she attend. Janet’s been under fire the most along with another girl named “Christina”. Amy even went as far as to out Christina as bisexual on Snapchat because Christina pointed out that Amy could have attended their Halloween party at any time as it lasted for seven hours

So Amy’s a mess.

Now, recently (again), Janet started talking to a boy we’ll call “Jeremy”. Jeremy’s a sweet guy, he’s in band, he’s still a dork because he’s a high school sophomore, but he’s still a cool kid. One day, Jeremy sends a bunch of screenshots to Janet from Amy. Amy, who has a boyfriend as mentioned above. Amy was not only flirting with Jeremy, but also talking shit about me and my family. She called my mom fat, said my dad was lying about having cancer (he’s a terminal colon cancer patient), called my twin sister an ugly control freak, and me a “gay whore who acts like a man” (LMAOOOO).

Here’s where I may be the asshole. I got Amy’s number from Janet’s phone and sent her what’s basically an essay calling her out for these insults and also threatening to screw her parents. I told her to never contact Janet again and that I hope she got over her insecurities. I know her insults weren’t directed towards me nor was I supposed to see them, but I can’t stand people talking about my family. I know I shouldn’t have contacted her, especially behind Janet’s back, but I wanted to defend myself and my family

Anyways, if I’m voted the asshole for sticking my nose in high schoolers’ business, I’d completely understand

🧐

^^^ so I can find this again 😭

What are these acronyms?

[movingmusically]

Caught Feeling - Chapter 3

Synopsis:

A dinner with friends brings laughter and teasing, but y/n’s mind keeps wandering back to Hank. As she reflects on the unexpected turn her life has taken, the excitement builds with the possibility of seeing him again—sooner than she expected.

Word Count: 7,131

Masterlist

That evening, I was meeting the girls for dinner—something we hadn’t managed to pull off in far too long. It had been months since we’d all managed to get together in one place. Between work, relationships, and life pulling us in different directions, catching up had become more difficult lately. But tonight, we’d somehow made it happen—me, Natalie, Grace, Aisling, and Haj—my core group from college. We had always promised to keep our dinners a regular thing, but life had a way of shifting that definition of “regular.”

The Italian restaurant we’d picked was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It had a charming, almost rustic feel to it—brick walls, low lighting, and fairy lights twinkling above the outdoor seating area, that gave the place a cozy, intimate vibe. The scent of garlic, fresh basil, and wood-fired pizza drifted through the air, making my stomach rumble as soon as we sat down.

The place was lively, filled with the hum of people chatting over plates of pasta and glasses of wine. We’d managed to get a table by the window, and within minutes, bottles of wine had been ordered. We’d already gone through the obligatory catching-up phase, talking about family, work, and the latest shows everyone was obsessed with.

“So, this patient today,” Aisling was saying, swirling her wine glass. She worked as a pharmacist in one of the biggest hospitals in the city. “Comes in with a prescription for, like, five different meds—none of which should even be taken together. I spent half my afternoon trying to explain to the guy that he might actually want to talk to his doctor about that.”

Natalie laughed, shaking her head. “Seriously, people just don’t get it. It’s like they have no idea how close they are to causing real damage to themselves.” As a researcher in a hospital lab, Natalie had more than her share of stories about patients and experiments. “I had a patient swearing up and down last week that he was allergic to water. I mean, how do you even respond to that?”

The laughter around the table was easy, familiar. We had known each other long enough that everyone’s stories felt like shared history, and despite how long it had been, slipping back into conversation was effortless.

Grace leaned back in her chair, tapping her glass thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been dealing with a lot of that lately too. It’s like no one understands basic biology anymore.”

Haj, who had been mostly quiet up until now, nodded. “It’s the internet. Everyone’s convinced they’re a doctor now because they read some sketchy blog.”

I nodded along with their stories, adding in the occasional comment, but my mind wasn’t really there. I’d been smiling all evening, but it had little to do with the conversation and everything to do with Hank.

I couldn’t help it—my thoughts kept drifting back to him. The way he had looked at me before he left, his lips brushing against mine one last time, promising he’d call. Even now, hours later, I could still feel the warmth of his jacket draped over me. I caught myself grinning like an idiot more than once.

Natalie, who had been watching me with narrowed eyes for the past few minutes, finally spoke up. “Y/n? Hello? You’ve been smiling to yourself for, like, the last ten minutes. Care to share?”

I blinked, snapping back to the conversation. “What? Oh, sorry. I’m here. I’m just… distracted.”

Grace raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a smirk. “Distracted, huh? By what?”

“Or who?” Aisling added, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.

My face heated up instantly. I quickly shook my head, trying to play it off. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just had a long day.”

“Oh, come on,” Natalie teased, leaning in. “We know that look. You can’t just brush us off like that.”

I sighed, feeling my blush deepen as they all stared at me expectantly. “Fine. There’s… a guy.”

The table erupted with a chorus of excited squeals, and I immediately regretted saying anything. “Oh my God!” Grace practically shouted. “Spill. Who is he? When did this happen?”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said quickly, trying to downplay it. “We just met yesterday.”

Haj leaned in, looking scandalised. “Yesterday? And you’re already smiling like that? It sounds like a pretty big deal.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the grin that was tugging at my lips. “He’s just… different, I guess. We had a great time, but it’s too early to know if it’s anything.”

Ever the voice of reason, she tilted her head thoughtfully. “Are you going to see him again?”

I shrugged, though my heart fluttered at the thought. “I hope so. He said he’d call, but… well, we didn’t exchange numbers.”

Natalie groaned dramatically. “Y/n, seriously? Rookie mistake!”

I laughed, shrugging. “We both know where the other lives, so it’s not like we won’t see each other again. I guess it’s just… a waiting game.”

“Wait, what?” Aisling interrupted, staring at me wide-eyed. “Why do you know where he lives already?”

I hesitated, feeling my heart race slightly. “Okay, so maybe… we slept together.”

That was all it took. The table practically exploded with noise—gasps, laughter, and shrieks of disbelief.

Natalie was the first to recover, wide-eyed and grinning. “Hold on—you never sleep with someone that quickly.”

I buried my face in my hands, laughing despite my embarrassment. “I know! But it just happened. We met at a bar where he works, and things went really well… and then today, we spent the morning together.”

Aisling’s mouth fell open. “You spent the morning together? Like, an actual date?”

I nodded, blushing again. “Yeah, we had breakfast at his place, and then went to get coffee. There was an incident so we went back to my place, and we hung out a little.”

Grace smirked, raising her glass. “Well, well, well. Look at you. The y/n I know never moves this fast.”

“I know, okay?” I said, rolling my eyes but unable to wipe the grin off my face. “It’s completely out of character for me. But he’s different. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Haj leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Okay, we need every detail.”

I spent the next few minutes filling them in on the whole story—meeting Hank at the bar, the night we spent together, breakfast and the coffee date, and playing records at my place earlier that day. By the time I was finished, my friends were practically buzzing with excitement.

Aisling was shaking her head, grinning. “This is wild. I can’t believe you did that.”

Grace, ever the pragmatic one, raised an eyebrow. “But… are you okay with it? I mean, no regrets?”

I thought about it for a moment, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. “No regrets,” I said, feeling the truth of it settle in my chest. “I don’t know where it’s going, but it feels good.”

Natalie lifted her glass. “Well, don’t overthink it. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.”

“Exactly,” Haj chimed in, raising her glass. “To not overthinking.”

We all clinked glasses, and I tried to relax back into the conversation. But as the night wore on, my mind kept drifting back to Hank. He didn’t have my number, and I knew he was working tonight, so it wasn’t like I could expect a message. Still, a small part of me couldn’t help hoping for some sign that he was thinking about me too.

By the time I finally got home that night, the buzz of excitement I’d been riding since the morning had started to dull, slowly replaced by a nagging sense of uncertainty. My apartment felt quieter than usual, the space around me too still after the laughter and chatter of dinner with my friends. I kicked off my shoes by the door, tossing my bag onto the couch before heading straight to the kitchen. A glass of wine would be nice, I thought. Maybe it would calm the growing restlessness building in my chest.

I poured the wine and leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at my phone. The screen stayed stubbornly dark, no messages or missed calls lighting it up. Of course not, I reminded myself. Hank didn’t even have my number. He was at work tonight—busy, dealing with who-knows-what at the bar. It wasn’t like he had the chance to reach out, even if he wanted to. But still, that tiny flicker of hope wouldn’t die.

I told myself over and over that it didn’t mean anything. The fact that I hadn’t heard from him was just logistics. Nothing more. I’d see him soon. Right?

I pushed the thought aside, draining the glass of wine in a few long sips before heading to bed. But even as I lay there, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, my mind wouldn’t stop spinning. I replayed the day over and over—the way Hank had looked at me over coffee, the feel of his hand resting casually on my waist, the way his lips had lingered on mine like he wasn’t ready to let go. Every moment flickered through my mind like a reel I couldn’t stop, leaving me lying there, wide awake.

*

The next day at work, it was no better. If anything, it was worse. I arrived at the clinic early, hoping that a busy day with patients would pull my focus away from Hank. But instead, every quiet moment seemed to amplify the thoughts swirling in my head.

I replayed the previous morning in my mind, my stomach fluttering every time I thought about the way he’d smiled, that easy, teasing grin. The warmth of his jacket still lingered in my memory, a constant reminder of how close we’d been. It was like I couldn’t get him out of my head, no matter how hard I tried.

I moved from exam room to exam room, seeing patients and making notes, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him. Each time my mind wandered, I had to reel myself back in, forcing myself to focus on the animals in front of me, their worried owners standing nearby. But it was hard—too hard.

I was in the middle of checking on a Labrador with a persistent cough when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. My heart leapt, a ridiculous wave of excitement crashing over me, but the moment I pulled it out and saw a notification from my grocery delivery app, reality hit me. I sighed, shoving the phone back into my pocket. He doesn’t have my number, I reminded myself for what felt like the hundredth time.

I tried to shake off the feeling of disappointment, pushing myself to focus on the work that actually needed my attention. There were animals here, depending on me to be present, but even though I was right there in the clinic, part of me was somewhere else entirely.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, the day felt like it was dragging. I’d spent most of it trying to stay focused, but every quiet moment made me wonder if Hank was thinking about me, the way I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was distracting, but also… kind of thrilling.

It wasn’t until later that night, when I was on call, that I finally got the distraction I so desperately needed. I was about to head home when an emergency came in—a sweet old retriever, his eyes cloudy and breath laboured, was rushed into the clinic. His owner was frantic, explaining that the dog had suddenly collapsed after dinner. My heart ached just seeing the worry on their face.

Without a second thought, I threw myself into work, the adrenaline kicking in as we moved the dog onto the exam table. It was serious, but we were ready for it. Hours went by in a blur of scans, blood-work, and constant attention to the frail dog, the kind of focus that pulled me away from everything else in the world.

For the first time in two days, I wasn’t thinking about Hank or wondering what he was doing. My mind was solely on this dog, on making sure we found the cause and did everything we could to help him.

By the time we got the retriever stable, it was well past two in the morning. I was completely drained—physically and emotionally—but there was a sense of relief that came with it. The hours had been long and intense, but knowing we’d done everything we could brought a certain peace I hadn’t felt all day. The weight of the day began to lift, replaced by the simple satisfaction of doing my job.

Stepping outside into the cool night air, exhaustion finally settled in. My body ached, and all I wanted was to collapse into bed. For the first time in hours, I wasn’t thinking about Hank. I was just tired—too tired to overthink anything, too tired to care.

By the time I got home, the streets were quiet, the world around me dark and still. I fumbled for my keys, barely keeping my eyes open, but relieved that the day was finally over. As I unlocked the door, something caught my eye. A small piece of paper was tucked under the doorframe.

I bent down and picked up the paper, its edges slightly crumpled from being shoved under the door. The handwriting wasn’t familiar, and for a second, I wondered if it was something random—a flyer, a note from a neighbour—but as soon as I unfolded it and saw his name at the bottom, my heart skipped a beat.

Hey, I stopped by, but you weren’t home. I guess maybe you’re working late. Anyway, here’s my number. Call me if you’re free later. – Hank.

I read the note again, slower this time, letting each word sink in. My heart did a little flip as I realised he hadn’t forgotten. He’d come by. The day had been so long, my head so full of overthinking, that I hadn’t even let myself imagine this.

He didn’t know where I worked, didn’t know what time I’d get home, but he’d still made the effort to leave a note. That simple gesture, the thoughtfulness of it, made my chest feel warm, even in the silence of the late night. He wanted to talk. He wanted to see me again.

I stood there for a moment, staring at his handwriting, trying to remember if I’d ever felt this... excited, yet unsure at the same time. It had only been a couple of days since we’d met, but somehow, it felt like longer. Like something bigger had shifted. The nervous energy from earlier slowly melted away, replaced with quiet relief. He’d left his number. Now, it was my turn.

I moved into the living room, kicking off my shoes and dropping my bag on the couch, but my mind was already working overtime. Should I text him now? I wondered. If he’d just gotten off work, maybe he was still awake. It was late, but maybe it wasn’t too late, not for someone who worked nights like he did. But would texting now seem like I was coming on too strong? Should I wait until the morning?

I glanced at my phone, turning it over in my hands a few times before finally sitting down and pulling it closer. I opened a new message, typed and deleted at least three different versions of the text before settling on something simple but honest.

Hi, it’s y/n. Sorry I missed you. I was on call tonight, had an emergency, and got home super late.

I reread the message, my thumb hovering over the send button. It felt... okay, right? Not too eager, but not too distant either. I took a breath, bit my lip, and before I could overthink it any further, I hit send.

Immediately, I set my phone down on the coffee table, my heart still racing. I tried not to stare at the screen, but every few seconds, I’d glance over, expecting it to light up. The minutes stretched on, and my mind wandered—what if he didn’t reply tonight? What if he was already asleep? What if...

My phone buzzed.

I nearly knocked over the glass of water I’d set down as I grabbed it off the table. I quickly unlocked the screen, my heart leaping at the sight of his reply.

Well, look who it is. Thought you might’ve forgotten about me ;) No worries! I figured you were busy saving lives. Let me know when you’re free.

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face as I read his message. The nervous tension in my chest loosened, replaced by a flutter of excitement. I laughed softly to myself, shaking my head at his playful tone. Of course he’d make a joke.

I leaned back into the cushions of the couch, relaxing a little more as I typed my response:

I’m on an earlier shift tomorrow, and I’m not on call. I should be home by around 5pm.

This time, I didn’t hesitate as much before hitting send. The anticipation of hearing from him again had shifted from nervousness to something lighter, easier. I didn’t have to overthink it. He wanted to see me, and I wanted to see him too. Simple.

My phone buzzed again, just a minute later.

Good to know. I’ll let you get some sleep—don’t want to tire you out before tomorrow :)

I laughed softly, feeling a warm flutter in my stomach. He was thoughtful, even when teasing. It was enough to make the rest of the day feel like a blur—a tiring blur, sure—but somehow, it all led to this moment. I sent back a quick Goodnight before placing my phone down for the night.

I sat there for a few moments, letting the day sink in, the feeling of Hank’s presence lingering even though he wasn’t here. Tomorrow. I’d see him tomorrow.

With that thought in mind, I finally got up, heading to bed with a small, content smile still tugging at the corners of my mouth.

*

Still, as my alarm blared, I groggily pulled myself out of bed, the anticipation of seeing him again driving me forward. My phone was silent, no new messages waiting, but that wasn’t a surprise. We hadn’t arranged a specific time to meet; I figured we’d text or call once I got home. The thought of him waiting for me later kept me from succumbing to the usual morning fog that clung to me after a short night’s sleep.

I shuffled into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and splashing cold water on my face. The routine was automatic—getting dressed, throwing on my scrubs, tying my hair back—all while my mind wandered to what the evening might bring. The thought of seeing Hank again sent little flutters of excitement through me, even if part of me was still trying to play it cool. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but I couldn’t deny the thrill of it.

The day at the clinic dragged. The steady stream of patients helped keep my mind busy, but in every quiet moment, my thoughts drifted back to him. I found myself replaying our messages from the night before, the playful banter and the promise that we’d see each other today. It was silly, I knew, to be this worked up over someone I’d only known for a few days, but there was something about Hank that felt different—like we clicked in a way I hadn’t expected. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to see him.

By the time my shift was over, I was practically counting the minutes until I could get home. I tried not to rush through my last few patients, but the excitement bubbling up inside me was hard to contain. I finished my notes, packed up my things, and practically bolted out of the clinic.

The walk home felt longer than usual, each step filled with a nervous kind of energy. I knew I’d be seeing him soon, but without a clear plan, I wasn’t sure when. Maybe we’d talk when I got home, figure out a time to meet up later in the evening. The uncertainty of it made my heart race in a way I hadn’t expected.

But when I turned the corner onto my street, I saw him. Hank was there, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance to my building, two cups of coffee in hand. He spotted me instantly, a grin spreading across his face as he straightened up.

“Surprise,” he said, holding up one of the cups as I approached.

I couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across my face. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said, reaching out and taking the cup from him. Our fingers brushed briefly, a light, almost electric touch, and I felt a flutter in my chest. The coffee was warm against my hands, but the warmth I felt had nothing to do with the cup.

“I figured you’d need it after your shift,” he said, his voice soft but playful. His eyes flicked over me, and I could see the amusement there. “Long day?”

“You have no idea,” I replied with a soft laugh, taking a sip of the coffee. The rich taste flooded my senses, instantly making me feel a little more grounded, like I could finally unwind. It wasn’t just the coffee—it was the fact that Hank had thought to bring it. That small gesture, so thoughtful, made my chest feel light.

He watched me as I drank, his smile widening slightly as if he could tell how much I appreciated it. “Good?” he asked, the teasing note still there.

“Perfect,” I said, feeling my shoulders relax for the first time all day. “Exactly what I needed.”

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked, my heart fluttering slightly as I looked up at him, meeting his gaze.

“Not long,” he said with a casual shrug. “Wanted to catch you off guard.”

“Well, you definitely succeeded,” I teased, biting my lip as I studied him. The warmth between us seemed to grow with every second we stood there. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at me, the easy way we fell into conversation, like we had known each other for much longer than just a few days.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just stood there, smiling at each other, the world around us shrinking down to the two of us. The street, the cars, the faint sounds of the city—it all faded into the background, leaving this charged space between us.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked, my voice softer now, the invitation hanging in the air between us, filled with anticipation.

Hank didn’t hesitate. His grin widened as he nodded. “I’d love to.”

We made our way upstairs, and my heart thudded in my chest with every step. The nervous excitement that had been building all day was now full-blown, humming through me. I fumbled a little with my keys as I unlocked the door, but Hank didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t mention it.

Once we were inside, I set the coffee down on the kitchen counter, turning to face him. He stepped into the small space of my apartment, glancing around for a second before his eyes settled back on me. His gaze dropped to the scrubs I was still wearing from work, and he smirked.

“Not gonna lie,” he said, stepping a little closer, his voice low and teasing, “you look pretty damn good in those scrubs.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something that made my stomach flip. “Really?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, but the way he was looking at me made my heart race. “Scrubs aren’t exactly known for being sexy.”

“You’d be surprised,” he murmured, his hand moving to rest lightly on my hip, his fingers brushing over the fabric. The simple touch sent a rush of warmth through me, the connection between us deepening with each passing second. “I think you pull them off pretty well.”

I swallowed, the air between us feeling suddenly heavier, charged with something electric. His hand on my waist felt like it was leaving a trail of heat in its wake, and the way he looked at me made my breath catch.

“You have a thing for vet scrubs, huh?” I teased, though my voice was softer now, almost breathless.

Hank’s grin widened, his eyes darkening slightly as he leaned in closer. “Maybe I just have a thing for you,” he said, his voice low, his lips brushing lightly against mine as he spoke. The words sent a rush of warmth through me, my pulse quickening as the space between us vanished.

The kiss started slow, tentative, like he was giving me a moment to pull away if I wanted to. But I didn’t. I kissed him back, my hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, the heat between us building with every passing second, every touch.

His hand slid around my waist, tugging me against him as the kiss grew more urgent, more desperate. The teasing from earlier was gone, replaced by a hunger that had been simmering between us since the moment we’d met.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured against my lips, his voice rough with desire.

His words sent a shiver down my spine, my body reacting instantly to the need in his voice. “Me too,” I whispered, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I pressed against him, wanting to be closer, to feel more of him.

Hank groaned softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as his hands roamed over my body, exploring, claiming. The kiss intensified, growing hungrier, needier, until it was like we couldn’t get enough of each other. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him as our kisses became more frantic, more heated.

Hank’s hands gripped my waist tighter, pulling me even closer until there was no space left between us. The heat radiating from his body made my skin tingle, and every touch felt more urgent, more desperate. I could feel the tension building, the electricity between us crackling like a live wire, and it was impossible to hold back.

His fingers fumbled at the hem of my scrubs, tugging the fabric up over my hips, his touch sending sparks across my skin. I gasped into his mouth as he pulled the material up, breaking the kiss just long enough for him to strip the top off over my head, tossing it carelessly to the side.

Before I could catch my breath, his hands were back on me, trailing down my sides, his lips crashing against mine again in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. My fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, yanking it up in a frantic motion. I wanted—no, needed—to feel him, to touch every part of him. The moment his skin was exposed, I dragged my hands across his chest, my nails grazing lightly over his skin as I pushed his shirt up and over his head.

He groaned against my mouth, the sound sending a wave of desire through me. His hands moved to my hair, his fingers brushing over the tied-up strands. Without a word, he tugged the tie loose, letting my hair fall around my shoulders in a messy cascade. His fingers tangled in it as he pulled me closer, kissing me like he couldn’t get enough.

“You look so damn good like this,” he breathed against my lips, his voice rough and full of need. His hands roamed over my body, caressing, claiming, and I could barely think, barely breathe. All I knew was that I wanted him closer.

I pressed against him, my hands sliding down his chest to the waistband of his jeans, my fingers fumbling with the button in my haste to get them off. Hank’s lips moved to my neck, his teeth grazing my skin as he kissed his way down, making my knees go weak. His hands slid down to my waist, gripping the fabric of my scrubs with a possessive urgency. In one swift motion, he tugged them down, the material falling around my ankles, leaving me standing there in nothing but my underwear.

“Fuck,” he groaned, stepping back just slightly to look at me, his eyes dark with desire. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

I didn’t have time to feel self-conscious, not with the way he was looking at me, like I was the only thing that mattered in the world right now. His gaze was intense, filled with hunger and something deeper that made my heart race even faster.

Before I could respond, his lips were on mine again, and we were both moving, our hands desperate as we tugged at the last pieces of clothing between us. His jeans hit the floor, quickly followed by his boxers, and I felt his hands reach for my bra, unclasping it with a practiced motion before tossing it aside.

He pressed me up against the wall, his lips trailing down my neck, my collarbone, his breath hot against my skin. I moaned softly, my head tilting back as his hands gripped my waist, pinning me there with an intensity that made my pulse race.

“Hank,” I breathed, my hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer as our bodies moved together. His name slipped from my lips like a prayer, and the sound of it seemed to ignite something in him.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties, and with one swift motion, they were gone, tossed somewhere to the side with the rest of our clothes. The sensation of his skin against mine was overwhelming, every nerve in my body on fire, aching for him.

He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed me harder against the wall, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered, “I need you.”

I could barely respond, my mind clouded with desire, my body moving on instinct as I pulled him closer, our lips crashing together in a kiss that was wild, frantic, and all-consuming.

Our bodies pressed together, the heat between us searing. Every touch felt electric, like a live current running through me. Hank’s hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he held me against the wall, his mouth never leaving mine, our breaths ragged and urgent.

A desperate whimper escaped me, my voice trembling with need. My nails dug into his shoulders as he kissed his way down my chest, his tongue flicking over my skin in a way that made my knees go weak. I arched into him, my back pressing harder against the wall as I tried to get even closer.

Hank’s grip on me tightened, his hands moving with a sense of urgency that matched the heat building between us. I could feel the tension in his body, the barely contained desire, and it made my pulse race. His lips found mine again, the kiss deeper this time, more intense, like he couldn’t wait any longer.

I moaned into his mouth, my hands sliding down his back, pulling him closer. The sensation of his skin against mine, the heat between us, was overwhelming, and I couldn’t help the way my body responded, arching into him, craving more.

I felt his hands shift, lifting me slightly as he positioned himself at my core. There was a brief pause, a moment of anticipation that hung in the air between us, and then he was there, and I couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped me as he pushed inside.

The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and heat that sent a shockwave through me, making me arch against him. He groaned, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot and ragged as he held still for just a moment, letting us both feel the intensity of the connection.

“God, you feel amazing,” he breathed, his voice low and rough with need. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, deeper, and I moaned softly in response, my nails digging into his shoulders as I held on.

Hank’s breath was hot against my neck, his grip on me firm as he set a steady, intense rhythm, his body pressed tightly against mine. I could feel the muscles in his back flexing under my hands, the power in every movement, and it drove me wild.

“Fuck,” I gasped, unable to stop the word from slipping out. Everything about this—about him—was too much, too good. Every movement, every touch, sent pleasure crashing through me, building higher and higher until it felt like I might explode.

I bit my lip, moaning as the intensity between us built, our bodies moving in perfect sync, the friction between us driving me closer to the edge. My legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper, and I could feel the tension inside me winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

“More,” I whispered, my voice ragged with need. “Don’t stop.”

Hank growled softly, his grip on me tightening as he picked up the pace, his movements more urgent now, more desperate. I could feel the heat rising, the pleasure building with every thrust, until it was all I could do to hold on, my body trembling with the force of it.

“Hank, I’m close,” I panted, my voice trembling, and he groaned in response, his fingers sliding down between us, teasing, making me gasp.

“Let go for me sweetheart.” His voice, his touch—it was all too much. The tension inside me snapped, and I fell over the edge, pleasure crashing through me in waves so intense I couldn’t hold back the cry that escaped my lips. My body shuddered under the force of it, my hands gripping Hank’s shoulders, nails digging in as I rode the overwhelming sensation.

“God, yes,” I gasped, the pleasure coursing through me, threatening to unravel me completely as I held on, lost in the intensity.

Hank let out a deep, guttural moan, his hands gripping my waist tighter as he followed me over the edge, his body tensing against mine as he found his own release. We moved together, the intensity of the moment leaving us breathless and shaking, our bodies still locked together as the last waves of pleasure washed over us.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. We just stood there, our bodies pressed together, our breaths mingling as we slowly came down from the high. His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm against my skin, and I couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across my face.

Hank’s grip on me relaxed, and I loosened my legs as he carefully lowered me to the floor. My feet hit the ground, and I wobbled slightly, still feeling a little unsteady, but Hank’s hands stayed on my hips, steadying me.

“There you go,” he said with a teasing smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Thanks,” I murmured, still catching my breath. My body felt like it was buzzing, alive with the afterglow of what we’d just shared, and even though the moment was over, the connection between us still lingered in the air.

Hank let out a soft chuckle, his lips brushing my temple. “I didn’t plan on that happening the second I walked in the door,” he said, his voice low and still a little breathless.

I laughed, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t exactly expecting it either,” I admitted, my fingers still lightly resting on his chest. I could feel his heartbeat slowing under my touch, a comforting rhythm that made me feel even more connected to him.

He gently pulled back, his hands sliding down my sides as he did. “You hungry?” he asked, his expression softening as he tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.

I nodded, feeling the stirrings of hunger now that the intensity of the moment had passed. “Starving,” I said with a grin.

“Good,” he said, stepping back and reaching for his jeans on the floor. “I think we’ve earned a feast after that.”

We both laughed as we quickly dressed, the air between us lighter now, more comfortable. Once we were both decent, I grabbed my phone and looked up the number for the local Thai place I always ordered from.

“Thai okay?” I asked, glancing over at Hank as he pulled his shirt back on.

“Perfect,” he said, flashing me that easy smile I was quickly becoming addicted to. “I could go for some Pad Thai.”

I placed the order, my stomach growling at the thought of all my favourite dishes arriving soon. Once the food was on its way, we settled onto the couch, the atmosphere between us relaxed, almost cozy. I tucked my legs up beneath me, leaning back into the cushions as Hank sat next to me, close but not in that desperate, frantic way from before. Now, it felt natural.

“So,” I began, looking at him with curiosity. “You said before that you moved here from California?”

Hank nodded, resting his arm on the back of the couch, his fingers lightly brushing my shoulder as he did. “Yeah, a small town just outside of San Francisco,” he said, his voice taking on a slightly nostalgic tone.

“Big change from San Francisco to New York,” I commented, raising an eyebrow. “What brought you here?”

He hesitated for a second, his eyes flicking down to his hands before meeting mine again. “It wasn’t exactly planned,” he admitted with a small shrug. “I moved here with my girlfriend at the time—an actress. But she left not long after we got here. I decided to stay, got a job tending bar, and… well, the rest is history.”

I narrowed my eyes playfully, sensing he was glossing over the details. “Come on, there’s got to be more to it than that.”

He paused for a moment, his smile fading slightly, as if deciding how much to share. “Alright,” he said finally, turning to face me a little more.

“You know I played baseball, right? I was supposed to go pro. Scouts were coming to my games, my parents were always in the stands… I had it all lined up.”

I nodded, feeling a twinge of sympathy, sensing where this was going.

“And then I broke my leg,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “It wasn’t just a fracture—it was bad. Ended my career before it even started. After that… I kind of lost my way.”

“That must’ve been hard.”

Hank nodded, his expression softening. “It was. I didn’t really know what to do after that. Baseball was my whole world, and when it was gone… well, like I said, I kind of lost my way.”

I reached out, resting my hand on his arm, offering silent support.

“I got into cars for a while,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Started racing, fixing up a Mustang with my Dad. It gave me something to focus on, but it wasn’t the same. Then, one night, I was in a car accident. My best friend, Rich… he didn’t make it.”

My heart ached at the weight of his words, the pain he was carrying. “Hank, I’m so sorry.”

He gave a small nod, his expression tight. “Yeah, it’s been a long time, but… some things stay with you, you know? I haven’t driven since that night.”

I squeezed his arm gently, not sure what else to say. I could feel the weight of his past, the way it had shaped him, and it made me respect him even more.

“And after that?” I asked quietly.

He sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I tried college for a while, bounced around a bit, but never finished. Eventually, I met the actress and now… well, here I am.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his past hanging between us. I could feel the pain in his words, the way he’d been carrying it all these years. But there was something else there, too—strength, resilience. He’d been through hell, but he was still standing.

“What about now?” I asked softly. “What keeps you going?”

Hank smiled again, though this time it was softer, more genuine. “I guess… I’ve found my place here, in a way. The bar’s not glamorous, but it works for me. I get to meet people, help out when I can. It’s not the life I imagined, but it’s good. I feel useful, and I’ve got friends who look out for me.”

His eyes met mine, and I could see the truth of it. He wasn’t where he thought he’d be, but he’d made a life for himself, one that was grounded in helping others and finding some measure of peace in the chaos.

“I think that’s pretty amazing,” I said softly.

Hank gave me a crooked smile, leaning in slightly. “You know, I don’t usually talk about this stuff. But with you… it feels different.”

I felt a warmth spread through me, his words settling somewhere deep in my chest. “I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me.”

For a moment, we just sat there, the space between us shrinking as something unspoken passed between us. It wasn’t just about the past—it was about the connection we were building, something neither of us had expected. And just as the weight of that connection settled over us, the doorbell rang, the scent of Thai food already teasing the air, gently pulling us back to reality.

Masterlist