#and i can’t even pretend at work anymore

[abbotmohann]

closed doors

pairing: jack abbot x attending!reader

summary: you don’t mean to let jack abbot into your heart but when you realise you did, the only logical response is to push him away and pretend like you can go back to being a cold hearted bitch

a/n: i love reading angst idk what that says about me but anyways this was meant to be just a little drabble but it turned out longer than i imagined but the ending is kinda meh. also not proofread, hope you like it!

jack abbot is a widowed former trauma medic amputee not that he let it define him at least not anymore, the man has been through it and even though he occasionally hangs out on the roof he goes to therapy he makes an active effort to work through his ptsd and improve his mental health. so when jack meets you he feels a sense of kinship just as morbid as he was possibly even more so but he enjoys your deadpan humour.

you don’t realise how or when it happened but over the course of the months working together he worms his way into your life, he gets you coffee most nights and half the time when you’re in the doctors lounge trying to take a moment and eat a protein bar he comes in and offers you half his packed lunch which you insist you can’t take but he never takes no for an answer and when he offers rides home you don’t even fight it.

you come to the realisation the first time he’s off in months and you feel the lack of his presence the whole shift, your mind wandering what he was doing - you miss him and you hate it. you’re anxious throughout the next shift you feel tense and awkward around him, trying to process. you try to distance yourself from him but he makes it so goddamn hard, you couldn’t exactly turn down the free coffee so you find other ways like not eating in the doctors lounge, you keep small talk to a minimum where you used to banter with him you don’t - you’re not mean about it at least you don’t think so and when your shift ends you hang back a good 15minutes. eventually he seems to get the picture, he still gets you coffee and searches your eyes every time likely trying to figure what’s changed but you smile and say thanks like normal every single time leaving him confused but that’s really the only that’s stuck, there’s no back and forth anymore it’s strictly professional and you don’t have to hang back anymore, he doesn’t offer you ride anymore. you hate it you miss him, him still buying you a coffee makes it worse sometimes you want to say something spark it all back up again and every once in awhile he sees it and hesitates but you chicken out. eventually even the coffee stops and that really breaks your heart, he never treats you differently on a professional level which at the very least you’re thankful for not that you doubted him but a sick part of you almost wishes he did, there’s an aching void where he used to occupy that you keep trying to ignore - an impossible task when you see him almost daily.

one night you’re running into work early deciding to buy a coffee from the local spot that jack used to get it for the two of you, you make the impulsive decision to also grab one for jack immediately regretting as you’re walking in. you thought about all the ways this was a bad idea so close to throwing it away but just as you were getting to the entrance with both cups in hand so was jack - this was the moment.

“hi jack! i got you coffee”

he furrowed his brows perplexed, she doesn’t speak to him in months but now she brings him a coffee from their spot - she obviously needed a favour he assumed. “thanks” he gave a tight lipped smile as he took the cup and walked away. the rest of the shift went by as normal and there was no favour to be asked so what was that? he wondered, something to discuss with the therapist he figured.

now at the end of your shift there’s a downpour, the kind of torrential rain that soaks you through to the bone. you’re standing at the exit cursing at yourself for not having an umbrella or anything protective dreading getting onto public transport. jack walking out spots you, he sighs his chest tightening nervous for what he’s about to say dreading your reaction.

“i’ll give you a lift”

“oh no jack it’s fine, it’s not too bad”

he rolled his eyes huffing. “it wasn’t a question” you open and close your mouth not knowing how to respond and jack simply pops open his umbrella waiting so you get under it and walk to his car.

the silence is deafening, you feel sick to your stomach. you feel this wave of anger coming off jack you can’t tell if it’s all in your head your if it’s just own guilt projecting. it silent the whole journey and when you reach yours.

“thanks for the ride”

“here take the umbrella”

“thanks but i can survive a few feet”

you unbuckle your seat but you can’t move, you feel the overwhelming urge to fix this now but unsure of how to approach this you say probably the most ridiculous thing you could.

“i know you live far so if you want you can wait at mines for the rain to calm down” you lived a 15 minute drive away from the hospital but tonight he had taken 30 minutes and you knew he lived a 45 minute drive away. you were being logical in a situation that was incredibly illogical. “please for my sake”

he’s thrown off, irritated at the offer. he wants to be mad at you but your voice soft and shaky just makes him want to grab you into his arms and comfort you, you were maddening he thought.

when he walks into your apartment he’s struck by how clinical it feels, you have the barebones it seems there’s no warmth like it’s not lived in. “do you want something to drink like a cup of tea or coffee?” at ease now in your own domain the guilt temporarily forgotten.

“uh, a coffee would be nice” he stands there awkwardly not sure what to do watching you fuss about around your studio flat seemingly switching the heating on opening the curtain halfway (what was that about?).

“you can go ahead and sit on the sofa jack” and so he does, he mind swirling with a million questions, he decided this was it this was the best time to get his answers once and for all.

you come to sit beside him with two cups of coffee, the awkward tension stronger than ever you know you should say something or else what was the point of inviting him to your place at the very least for the sake of being a good host.

“it was lucky you brought an umbrella i don’t remember seeing it as going rain when i check the weather”

“seriously!? you wanna talk about the weather? not about how you’ve been treating me the past couple months?”

“i haven’t been rude”

“seriously!?”

“what!?” you running your fingers through your hair frustrated this isn’t going how you wanted, not that you had a plan but anything is better than this.

“you’re too smart to be playing dumb right now, you’ve been avoiding me” his voice is harsh now, exasperated with you and you’re inability to be honest. he knew you had walls, he knew you weren’t an open book if anything you reminded him a little bit of him and he liked it cos he understood it.

“no i haven’t” you know it’s stilly to so balantly lie but you’re still too scared to be real.

“you’re never in the doctors lounge, you never wanna speak about anything that isn’t medical anymore and don’t think i don’t know you purposely hang in the locker room so i can’t offer you ride home. i thought you were going through something personal and pushing everyone away but then i soon realised you had no problem with any of our coworkers just me, so if ive done something to hurt you just tell me how i can fix it?”

“jack, i’m sorry i wasn’t clear but our relationship was becoming unprofessional you’re my senior, i was just trying to establish boundaries again and keep it strictly professional”

“you think it’s professional to invite me into your home?” he rolls his eyes, he feels defeated now maybe tonight wouldn’t be the night this would be fixed.

“i’m not a total monster, i can’t have you getting into an accident on my conscious”

jack sighs and you both sit there silent for a beat, jack bumping his legs against yours willing you to look at him and you do.

“god you drive me insane” he lets out a chuckle rubbing his face.

you’re pouting now. “do you hate me now?”

“no! i wouldn’t be here trying to fix this, asking my therapist for advice”

“there’s nothing to fix” it’s out before you even think, wincing at the harshness but you don’t let jack speak. “wait i’m sorry that was mean”

he rolls his eyes “normally i like that about you so i’ll it slide” you chew on your lips at his casual confession, like in what way is the first thought and the second thought is ‘you’re insane’

“you spoke about me to your therapist?” a giggle escapes, it seemed absurd that you’d be brought up, that you had any significant meaning to his life. “i’m sorry it’s not funny, i’m just surprised”

“i know i said this already but god you’re drive me insane, what’s so surprising about that?”

“idk the fact that there’s anything significant about me or us to discuss”

“maybe throwing away our friendship was easy for you but it meant a lot to me, you mean a lot to me. i can’t stop caring about you even if i wanted to and if you really did think the professional lines were blurring and it was making you uncomfortable you could’ve just said so, i don’t wanna ever make you feel uncomfortable.”

“i’m sorry” you look down at your fidgeting hands breaking the eye contact.

“stop apologising”

“i don’t actually care about professional boundaries, i know you wouldn’t let any personal beef getting into the way of work. i just you’re better off without me”

“what’s that supposed to mean? you don’t think you’re good enough for me?”

“jack i’m incredibly fucked up and i don’t go to therapy even though i probably should, i don’t let people into my life but all of a sudden you weaseled your way into my heart and so i pushed you away for my sake and yours. i didn’t wanna go through the mortifying experience of you realising my feelings and rejecting them but here we are”.

“please look at me when i say this.” you oblige considering it’s the least you could do. “did i bring anyone else coffee? did i share my food with anyone else? am i giving rides out to everyone? you think you didn’t weasel your way into my heart? you’re the only thing i look forward to coming into work even when it hurt”

he strokes your cheek as he brushes a few unruly pieces away, “i’ve wanted to do this for so long” he pulls you in to a passionate kiss and you oblige melting into his touch, he’s soon pulling you into his lap the kiss frantic and desperate.

he pulls away to catch ch his breath and remark on the facts. “you know we could’ve been doing this for months instead”

pressing soft kisses along his neck, you let out a frustrated sigh “i know i’m an idiot, i’m sorry”

“what did i say about apologising, you can you make it up to me instead” he winked

“oh i’m not sorry then” you smirk running your hands through his salt and pepper curls.

“you’re gonna be the death of me” his lips are back on you again in a frantic mess, your arms wrapped around him tightly rolling your hips deciding this morning was going to end with both of you naked.

[andy-15-07]

Say It Louder

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1513 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

request:Can you maybe write one where the reader is like in her 30's and dating pedro and lately she notices hes a bit distant and not himself to her at least and one day after work she asks him whats going on and he tells her he wants to break up and he doesnt give an explanation and they are both heartbroken and on set shes quiet and one night at a award show or afterparty of a movie a guy is flirting with her but she is just being nice and not going in on it until he put his hands on her and pedro is there too and helps her and confronts the guy and she takes him home and he explaines why he broke up cause of ppl downgrading her with the age difference but she never cared and they make up? Can you end it with smut and maybe after they go full out public cause they dont care anymore what others think @kellyxo1

You knew something was off.

Pedro hadn’t been himself for weeks. Not distant in the obvious way,he still made your coffee just right, still left sweet voice notes when you were on set,but it was in the eyes. Less sparkle. Less softness when they landed on you.

You didn’t want to pressure him, but after two weeks of his half-hearted kisses and distracted smiles, you couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

That night, you waited until he got home. He dropped his keys in the bowl like usual, shrugged out of his jacket, and when he turned to greet you, you were already waiting in the hallway.

"Hey," you said gently. "Can we talk?"

Pedro paused, eyes flicking to you with that guarded look you'd grown to hate. “Sure.”

You motioned toward the living room. He followed, sinking into the corner of the couch while you sat opposite him.

"You’ve been different lately," you said. “And I didn’t want to make a thing out of it, but… it’s been eating me up.”

He ran a hand over his face. "Y/N..."

"Just be honest with me, Pedro. Please."

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“I think we should break up.”

Your breath hitched. "What?"

His hands gripped his knees, knuckles pale. “I just… I think it’s time.”

"Why?"

“I just," he shook his head, still avoiding your eyes, "I can’t do it anymore.”

“You can’t do what, Pedro? Be with me?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said quietly.

You stared at him, stunned. “So you’re just ending it? Without even explaining?”

His silence told you everything. You nodded slowly, standing, your heart pounding in your ears.

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking up.

You didn’t cry. Not until the bedroom door closed behind you.

You stayed professional on set. You didn’t cry in your trailer or avoid eye contact with crew. But people noticed.

Pedro noticed too.

He watched you when he thought you weren’t looking,eyes filled with regret he refused to speak aloud. You greeted him politely, like any colleague. He looked gutted every time.

A few weeks passed. The new film premiered with glowing reviews, and the cast was invited to a big afterparty at the Chateau.

You almost didn’t go. But the publicist insisted. “You’re stunning and successful. You need to shine.”

So you put on the dress that made you feel invincible and stepped into the spotlight like nothing had ever hurt you.

Pedro was already there. In a classic black suit, nursing a whiskey, eyes tracking you from the moment you walked in.

You didn’t go to him. You were trying to move on.

A tall man with a sharp suit and cocky smile approached you at the bar. “You’re Y/N, right? The scene-stealer?”

You laughed politely. “That’s generous, but yes.”

He offered you a drink. You sipped slowly, nodding along as he talked,clearly impressed with himself. You were just being nice, not encouraging anything. But then his hand slid across your lower back.

Too low.

You tensed. “Hey,”

He leaned in. “You’re even hotter in person. Age looks damn good on you.”

You stepped back. “Okay, that’s enough.”

But his hand followed. “Oh come on,don’t be like that,”

A hand clamped over the man’s wrist. Firm. Unyielding.

“Let go of her.”

Pedro.

He stood between you and the man now, body tense, jaw clenched.

The guy raised his hands, trying to play it cool. “Whoa, alright. Didn’t know she came with a bodyguard.”

Pedro didn’t flinch. “I’m not her bodyguard. I’m the man who’s about to get you kicked out if you touch her again.”

The guy muttered something under his breath and slinked off. Pedro turned to you, eyes stormy.

“You okay?”

You nodded, heart still pounding. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I’ll take you home.”

You didn’t argue.

The ride was quiet.

When you got inside your place, you kicked off your heels, adrenaline still buzzing. Pedro lingered at the doorway like he didn’t know if he was welcome.

You stared at him for a moment, and finally asked the question that had haunted you since the night he left.

“Why did you break up with me?”

He closed the door behind him. “Y/N…”

“I deserve the truth, Pedro. Not silence. Not distance. Truth.”

He paced for a second, then finally let it spill.

“Because people were starting to talk.”

You frowned. “Talk about what?”

“The age difference. You know,how I’m older, and you could do better, and I’m holding you back. That it’s weird. That you’re some kind of… fantasy I don’t deserve.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You broke up with me because of them?”

He looked pained. “It got to me. I started thinking maybe they were right. That I was just dragging you down.”

You took a slow step toward him. “Pedro, I never cared what people thought. You’re the one I loved. You.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And that scared me. That I could have something so good, and maybe I didn’t deserve it.”

You placed a hand on his chest. “You do deserve it. Us.”

He looked down at you, hands curling around your waist like he couldn’t help himself.

“I missed you,” he whispered. “Every damn day.”

You leaned up and kissed him,soft at first, then fierce. Weeks of longing and heartbreak melted in the heat between you.

Pedro lifted you in his arms without breaking the kiss, carrying you toward the bedroom like instinct. The door clicked closed behind you.

His jacket hit the floor first. Then his shirt, hanging forgotten over the back of a chair. Every barrier vanished as he pressed you against the wall, one hand braced on the drywall, the other cradling your face. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, to the hollow at your throat, each touch igniting a spark that ran straight to your core.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick. His mouth dipped lower, sucking gently on your collarbone, and you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you to the edge of the king-size bed.

He paused to meet your eyes. “I need you,” he breathed, voice husky.

You nodded, heart hammering. “I need you too.”

Clothes fell away in a trail: your dress pooled at his feet, his belt and jeans hit the floor in a soft heap. He paused to admire the curve of your hips, the smooth line of your back, the way your breath hitched when he pressed his palm to your belly.

“Perfect,” he murmured, capturing your lips again.

He guided you down onto the mattress, positioning you so you were lying back and he hovered above, knuckles brushing your inner thighs. The anticipation was electric,each small touch sending shivers along your nerves.

Then, gently, he slid home. You cried out, an urgent, breathy sound, and Pedro paused to close his eyes, savoring the feeling. Slowly, he began to move, barely a whisper of motion at first,inch by inch, savoring every gasp and tremor escaping your lips.

Your fingers gripped his shoulders as the pace deepened. He thrust deliberately, hands bracing at your hips, then increased the rhythm until the world narrowed to the friction at your core and the sound of skin against skin.

“Oh, Pedro…” you moaned, arching your back as he found the right angle, each stroke driving you higher.

He bent to press kisses to your neck as he moved, murmuring your name over and over. “Y/N… Y/N…” His thrusts grew more insistent, driven by need and regret and the promise of never letting go again.

Your breath hitched into one long, keening plea just before your release. Muscles tightening around him, you came apart beneath him,hard, trembling, tears of relief and joy shining in your eyes.

He collapsed beside you, sliding out and rolling onto his side so he could cup you close. His body shook as he rode out his own climax, whispering a choked, “I love you,” into your hair.

You curled into him, skin to skin. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder blade. “I never want to be apart from you again.”

Your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “Stay,” you murmured. “Let’s never hide again.”

He smiled against your skin. “For real this time, I promise.”

Outside, the city hummed on,and inside, you two rebuilt all the pieces you thought were lost.

Two weeks later, Pedro posted a photo.

It was taken on your balcony, sunlight hitting your bare shoulder as you looked over your coffee mug. You were wearing his shirt. He captioned it simply:

“Mine. Always was.”

Within minutes, Twitter exploded. The age-gap discourse restarted, of course,but something shifted.

This time, neither of you cared.

You went public, hand in hand at the next premiere. Pedro kissed you on the red carpet.

And you smiled, because no whisper, no headline, no jealous critic could erase the way he looked at you now.

Like he’d never let go again.

[itertarot]

Tarot | Love

Pick an image:

1. 2. 3.

⋆˚࿔ₒₙₑ ☾ ｡🍸｡⋆ ⊹₊

4. 5.

⋆˚࿔ ₜwₒ ☾ ｡🍸｡⋆ ⊹₊

I'm losing hope, honestly. I’m just losing hope in us. I’ve been waiting for you for so long, being patient, holding onto something fragile and uncertain, and putting in all of my effort for what feels like nothing in return. It seems like I’ve been waiting for years, standing still, hoping for something to change. I’ve put myself in a place I never even wanted to be in from the beginning, just a friend... How many years have I been here? How long have I been quietly hoping you'd see me differently? Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I should have been more upfront from the start. Maybe I should have shown you more clearly how much I care, shown you that I’m the right person for you. I actually tried, I really did, but you didn’t see me. You didn’t notice the way I looked at you, the way I showed up for you, the way I stayed. And now… I feel like I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep living like this, waiting endlessly for a moment that may never come. I can’t keep letting you hurt me, even if I know deep down that you’re not doing it on purpose. It’s not your fault. You never promised me anything. But I wanted something more. I always wanted you. I’ve been in love with you all along. I’ve been wishing every single day that you’d notice me, that you’d finally give me a chance, that you’d wake up and realize I was here, right in front of you, all along. But I’m tired. I’m worn out from hoping. If you don’t feel the same way… okay. It hurts more than I can say, but I understand. And if that’s the case, then I’ll walk away. For my own peace, I have to.

⋆˚࿔ ₜₕᵣₑₑ ☾ ｡🍸｡⋆ ⊹₊

There’s no secret, Im in love with you. I’ve made myself very clear. I love you. I’m in love with you. I adore you. You are the love of my life. I love you. Have I said I love you? I love you. My love for you is so much more than all the drinks I’ve had tonight, it’s bigger than anything, bigger than an ocean… (At this point, they would try to hug you, get very close to your face, and spend quite a while being clingy and repeating how much they adore you, emotional drunk vibes.). I’ve got our whole future planned out! I know exactly what we should do, listen to me, take me seriously, because this is a genius idea (Here, it becomes very personal. For some, it’s them trying to convince you to travel together, for others, it’s suggesting you try a new hobby or go to an event together, If you’re both in school, it could be them wanting to do a project together. For a small few, it could even be related to a work project idea. They’ll be extremely confident, believing they’ve come up with the greatest plan ever, so be ready to hear a full, step-by-step “brilliant” plan they’ve built in their head.). You know something? I don’t want to lose you. Yeah, I want you only for me. I’ll fight for you. Who do they think they are? Why do they think they can steal you from me? No, not that easily. I won’t let them. I want them away from you. I will fight for you, and I’ll make sure everyone knows I’m the only one who loves you this deeply. They’re no match. Yes, I’ve been insecure. Yes, I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. I’m jeal… I want to keep you only for me. Only mine. Mine!

⋆˚࿔ Fₒᵤᵣ ☾ ｡🍸｡⋆ ⊹₊

Baby, I'm so heartbroken and tired of you being cold towards me. Just give me a little love and tell me you care about me. I'm over being tough and pretending I've got my life together and that I don't care. I do care. I've been patiently waiting for an opportunity to get closer to you, hoping that something would change and bring us closer. It's my fault. I haven't done anything to show you I care. I don't even believe you care. Can we just...? I don't know. Can we just get to know each other again? Can we just take it slow and maybe go for coffee? I'm not in a rush. I'm not young anymore. I want something stable. I'm not here to play, I don't even have the energy for that. But I want to take you out and maybe you'll get interested in me too. Will you accept?

⋆˚࿔ Fᵢᵥₑ ☾ ｡🍸｡⋆ ⊹₊

Maybe it’s the drink, maybe I’ve had too much, but I feel like I need to tell you this: I’m in love with you. I am. I’ve been afraid to confess my feelings, but right now I finally feel like I have the courage to say it: i love you. You have no idea how much you mean to me, how deeply I think you're the most beautiful woman in the world, and how much I crave a relationship with you every night before I fall asleep. You live in my thoughts day and night. You're in the back of my mind with every decision I make, every move I take, because you’re the woman I want to cherish for the rest of my life. I want to take care of you, to love you every single day. I want to make you feel loved, safe, and warm. I’m serious about what I feel. I have patience if you’re not ready now, I really do. But you have to know one thing: you’re not just someone to me… you’re the one.

Since our breakup, I left, completely miserable, but I left, I did what I needed to do. You took everything from me, I lost, I really did. For me, none of it was fun, none of it was worth it. All our fights just hurt me, it wasn’t what I wanted. And honestly, I don’t even know now why we had to fight so much in the first place. But even though you made me go through the worst pain of my life, even though you took everything and left me with nothing, I still found the strength to heal. I’m not healed, but I’m healing… slowly.

I don’t want a relationship with you. There’s nothing left to save about us anymore. Even though it hurts deep in my soul, I will keep moving away from you, because I believe I deserve to be happy. I deserve someone who will love me just as much as I love them, someone who won’t hurt me like you did. I accept all the punishment I deserve. I take responsibility for my faults, and I’m sorry for everything I did wrong, truly. But I’m healing, and I think you should too. If you hear that I’m with someone else, it’s not true. I need time for myself. I need to be alone right now.

For some of you, this person could have cheated and now they’re paying for what they did.

For others, there may be rumors that this person cheated or is secretly with someone else, but that is not true.

And for a very few of you, this person will open up about all the pain they went through with someone else, how much it broke them, and how they are now healing, with no intention of going back to that situation again.

[santaasi]

cold opens

pairing: film director!james potter x actress!reader

summary: james casts you in his first student short. it's a rainy day. you show up in vintage denim and ruins the first take. james falls a little in love

warnings: slow burn, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 2.5k

a/n: new part of muse is up — yay! I’ve decided to post all the parts in timeline order, so this one’s season 1, episode 2 for you all

prev. episode // next episode

IT STARTS IN A GRAVEL LOT BEHIND AN ABANDONED TRAIN DEPOT, where rusted tracks vanish into the hush of rain and a sky swollen with thunder. The air tastes like metal, charged and waiting.

James is already there when you pull in, crouched low over a battered tripod. One hand shields the lens from the spit of drizzle; the other steadies the weight of a camera that looks like it’s seen better decades. His shirt clings to one side, half-untucked, a pencil tucked behind his ear like an afterthought. Notes scrawl wildly across the back of a bus ticket — ink smudged, rain-dappled, undeniably his.

He looks up at the sound of your car door slamming. And pauses.

You’re soaked to the knees. Vintage Levi’s dark with water, lace-up boots swallowed by mud. The blouse you thrifted last week — sheer and romantic in your mirror this morning — now clings to your skin like regret. You hadn’t dressed for a storm. You hadn’t dressed for James, either. And yet.

The actor playing opposite you offers a watery hello. You don’t answer. Can’t find it in you to pretend.

James jogs over, sheepish and warm-eyed. “Hey, I meant to text. Sorry about the–”

“ –rain?” you snap, sharp as broken glass. “Or the script? Or the total lack of shelter? Or maybe the fact that your scene partner looks like he wandered out of a public service announcement on tax fraud?”

James blinks. Then that maddening grin unfurls — slow, sunlit, like nothing’s ever truly that bad. “I was gonna say parking directions, but yeah. All of the above.”

You glare. He shrugs.

This is your first time working with him — James Potter, golden boy of the university’s film program. The kind of director people call promising in that reverent, premature way reserved for boys with good hair and better instincts. The kind with charm that curdles into legend before the footage even gets cut.

You said yes to his short film because you were desperate, not for attention, but for something. Nobody wanted to cast you anymore. Too sharp, too strange, too unwilling to giggle through someone else’s vision. Too difficult, they whispered, like it was a diagnosis. And James Potter — sun-drunk, art-house, a little arrogant — was the only one who didn’t flinch when you spoke. Maybe he liked the bite. Maybe he saw something worth the trouble.

It was supposed to be harmless. Niche enough to avoid scrutiny. Small enough not to matter.

Except now you’re here. And everything does matter. The sodden script pages curling like petals in your lap. The generator’s low growl rattling your spine. The boy with camera-callused hands and a smile too warm for the sky above you.

You drop into a folding chair, water squelching at the back of your knees. Wrung-out sleeves, muddy laces, hair sticking to your cheekbones. You feel like a drowned ghost of the person who left their apartment this morning.

James doesn’t hover — he knows better than to make you a problem he can solve. He flips through his notes, tilts the mic stand half a degree, then lowers beside the tripod. His fingers rest on the focus ring. A breath too long.

“Scene twelve,” he calls. Voice steady. “Rolling.”

You walk into the frame like it’s a battlefield. Rain stings your lashes. The actor delivers his line — flat, lifeless. Like he’s reading off a teleprompter two rooms away.

It was supposed to be the climax. The moment that cracked the whole film open.

And he gives you that?

“Are you kidding me?” The words snap out, brittle and blood-hot. “He’s just confessed to leaving his wife for me, and you respond like you’re ordering a latte?”

The actor stammers. You don’t wait for an answer. James doesn’t call cut.

“I’m not doing this,” you mutter, stepping out of frame, out of reach. “I came here to act, not babysit.”

The silence that follows feels louder than your voice. Someone shifts behind the bounce board. A cough. A held breath. You can hear the label sliding back onto your skin: difficult. Cold. One of those girls — all theory and stormclouds and unmet expectations.

You pull your jacket tighter, pacing, half-slick with rain and fury. You’re angry at the sky. At the script. At your soaked boots and the way your teeth chatter. At James Potter and his goddamn napkin shot list.

At yourself — worst of all — for caring. For hoping. For the way his stupid grin still hums behind your ribs like a song you don’t want to know the words to.

“Hey.”

You glance up.

James stands a few feet away, rain threading through his hair, clinging to the collar of his shirt. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. For once, there’s no camera between you. No excuse to pretend this is just about the film.

“That–” he begins, gesturing vaguely toward the emotional wreckage you left in your wake, “ –was perfect.”

You squint at him, unamused. “I wasn’t acting.”

“I know,” he says, like it’s sacred. “That’s why it was perfect.”

You should shut him down. Should spin on your heel, march to your car, and never go back. But instead–

You laugh.

It startles out of you, rough and involuntary, edged with disbelief. It tastes like rainwater and old anger and something frighteningly close to relief.

James laughs too, surprised by it. And for a beat, the world folds in, just the two of you suspended in the storm, a wire strung tight between your ribs and his.

“Reset!” he calls over his shoulder, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours.

You shake your head, exasperated. “This film better be worth it.”

He looks at you like it already is.

The next take is lightning. Every word slips sharp and gleaming from your mouth like broken glass turned art. You cry — effortless, full-bodied, not because the script demands it but because the ache inside you finally found somewhere to go. It spills from you like it belongs to the scene, but you know better. It’s yours. And James knows it too.

He doesn't speak. Doesn’t dare.

He watches you through the lens like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

The scene ends, but silence hangs. He forgets to call cut.

You stand there in the soft roar of rain, chest rising, lashes damp, your whole body lit from within by something raw and holy. Behind you, the boom operator wipes his eyes.

James lowers the camera slowly, reverent. His voice barely breaks the moment. “That’s the one.”

You nod once. A quiet offering. A white flag. A beginning.

Something tender and dangerous, still unnamed, but no longer avoidable.

You stay too long on set.

The crew has packed up. The actors vanished like breath on glass. Even the rain has given up, leaving behind a hushed, glistening quiet, as if the world is holding its breath. The sky hangs low, bruised and secretive. You know you should leave, your jacket’s still damp, your boots a graveyard of mud and gravel, but your body doesn’t listen.

So you hover at the edge. Pretending to scroll your phone, pretending not to watch James coil cables and hum under his breath like the silence doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just flicks a glance your way now and then, as if you’re part of the set dressing he hasn’t decided how to frame. Then, finally:

“You waiting for someone?”

You shake your head. Then — quieter than you mean to be, softer than he deserves — “I just… wanted to say I’m sorry.”

James pauses mid-knot. His fingers still on the cable, the tension in them mirrored in his shoulders. “Sorry?”

You nod, biting down hard on the word.

“For earlier. The yelling. The whole… storming off thing.” Your voice hitches, raw and reluctant. “I know I’m not easy. People always tell me that. And they’re not wrong.”

He doesn’t speak immediately. Just watches you, his brow knitting like he’s trying to decode a language written in rainwater and restraint. You feel suddenly, unbearably exposed. Like he’s seeing through your jacket, your bones, your carefully constructed armor. Then, quietly: “You wanna watch what I got?”

You blink. “What?”

“The footage. From today.” He lifts a hard drive, thumb tapping against it absently. “I haven’t reviewed it yet, but I think…” A beat. A half-shrug. Casual, but not really. “I think it’s good. And you’re in almost every frame.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. Something about the way he says it — so matter-of-fact, so unsentimental — lands in your chest like a spark in dry grass.

You’re in almost every frame.

You should say something clever. Or dismissive. Or safe. Instead: “I mean… if you’ve got somewhere else to be–” he adds, suddenly unsure.

But you’re already shaking your head. “No,” you say, steadier now. “No, I’d like that.”

He takes you to a greasy little diner just off campus, the kind that time forgot — all flickering neon and jukebox ghosts. The windows sweat with condensation. The booths are cracked vinyl, patched with duct tape and memory. Someone’s carved a heart into the tabletop, initials long since faded.

You slide into the corner booth beside him. The laptop sits between you, still speckled with rain and fingerprints, battery limping at 23%. The screen casts a pale glow across his features, softening him. Making him look more like a dream than a director.

He doesn’t press play.

Just opens the folder: cold opens // raw takes. Rows of stills flicker by — thumbnails of you mid-scene, mouth open in fury or fear or something too honest to name. Your body, caught in half-motion. Your face, too close to real.

“You’re not difficult,” James says, eyes still on the screen.

You turn to him, startled.

“I know people say that about you,” he goes on, voice low and even. “Heard it before I ever met you. Cold. Intense. Difficult.” He tilts his head, mouth curving into something almost-smile. “And maybe that’s true. But I think they just don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t flinch.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just clicks a file.

Play.

There you are — rain-matted, gravel-wounded, your blouse clinging like regret. You’re mid-yell, voice raised, eyes alight with fury that doesn’t quite belong to the character. From here, it’s different. From here, it’s alive. You look like someone breaking open, not breaking down. There’s power in it. A reckless, radiant sort of power. Like if the world dared you to kneel, you’d laugh in its face.

“I didn’t direct that,” James says softly, gaze flicking sideways. “That’s all you.”

And you look at him.

Really look.

Not through the camera. Not through the shell you’ve built for rooms that underestimate you. But through the low diner light, with your sleeves still damp and your guard beginning, impossibly, to peel back.

This boy — James Potter — with stormlight in his eyes and calluses from cradling lenses like they hold holy things. This boy who’s sat through your silence, your fury, your fire, and didn’t once flinch.

You don’t say anything at first.

You just let the quiet stretch, a fragile thread catching on every flicker of neon, every breath between you.

Then, dryly: “So you’re telling me that screaming at your actor in the middle of a thunderstorm made your student film?”

He huffs a laugh. “What can I say? Genius strikes in hostile environments.”

You raise an eyebrow, your voice low and teasing. “Bet that’s what you tell all your temperamental actresses.”

James leans back, eyes still on you. “Only the brilliant ones.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth won’t stop tilting. You try to hide it behind your straw.

The laptop hums between you, warm and rain-smudged. He scrolls through the footage with careful hands. Like the frames might fall apart if touched too roughly. When your face appears again on-screen, soaked and luminous and furious, you glance over instinctively — not at yourself, but at him.

He’s watching the scene like it’s a secret he hasn’t been trusted with before. Like he’s still trying to figure out how you did it. Or how you are.

“You know,” he says, like he’s thinking out loud, “you’re not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” you say, crossing your arms. “Colder? Scarier? More likely to murder a sound guy with a boom pole?”

He smirks. “I was gonna say louder. But also, yes. Terrifying.”

You snort. “Charming.”

James looks at you again — really looks, the kind of gaze that pauses before it lands. “I mean it,” he says. “Everyone warned me you were...difficult. Too intense. Too much.”

“And yet here you are,” you say, faux-sweet, “trapped in a diner booth with me. What does that say about your judgment?”

He grins, big and unbothered. “That I have impeccable taste.”

You roll your eyes again, but softer this time. Easier. There’s something in your chest loosening — a knot you didn’t notice until it started to come undone.

Then, after a pause, more careful: “You really think it was good? The footage?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

He just clicks a clip, lets it play — your face filling the frame, soaked in stormlight and something fierce and unfiltered.

And when the scene ends, James says, “It wasn’t just good.”

A beat.

“You made it art.”

You blink. “Alright, filmmaker. Don’t start getting poetic on me.”

He shrugs. “Too late.”

There’s a new silence now, weightless but crackling, like the second right before a curtain rises. And then, just as you reach for the last of your milkshake, he says it:

“You’re my muse, you know.”

You nearly choke on the straw. “Excuse me?”

He grins, unrepentant. “For real. I’ve already written you into my next project. Autumn term. New script. More dialogue, more light. Less mud.”

You narrow your eyes, playing skeptical. “You sure you can handle me twice?”

James tilts his head, like he’s considering it. “Probably not. But I’m gonna try anyway.”

That gets him a look — flat, amused, half-flattered against your will. You shake your head and mutter, “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re impossible,” he says, quietly.

But there’s no accusation in it. No edge. Just something almost reverent.

You don’t reply right away. Just reach for a napkin, smear a rain-damp curl off your forehead, and watch yourself flicker once more across the screen — raw, unguarded, real.

Outside, the sky’s still heavy, but the rain’s long gone.

Inside, the diner glows warm and strange. James’s arm brushes yours when he leans forward to rewind a take. You don’t move away.

You sit like that, shoulder to shoulder, in the buzz of cheap neon and soft Elvis crooning from the jukebox, letting the moment spool out around you.

No declarations. No conclusions. Just this, this space that wasn’t here before.

Something beginning.

And when he looks at you again, with that quiet certainty only artists and fools have, you believe him.

Come autumn, you’ll say yes.

Because this time, it’s not desperation.

It’s choice.

It’s curiosity.

It’s the promise of something more.

thankx for reading <3

I’d appreciate any feedback, whether in the comments or my inbox. :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

masterlist // muse script

[biancasaidstfu]

I used to work as an assistant to a publicist in the sport industry and I actually seen that publicist plan fake relationship to a football ( soccer for Americans) player and I don’t think many people realize the lengths these things go to, they hired an upcoming model on the rise to pretend to be that football player gf and at times she would even stay at his house just so paparazzi see her leaving his house or see them leave the house together just to sell the idea that they were really together, so would stay at another room and everything. They would also make sure that they kiss in places that they potentially get filmed. Not gonna get into more details but really a lot of “relationships” of some famous people are entirely fake for cameras, it’s pretty common actually and always been common since silent movies with big studios liking to control narratives about their client’s private lives

As for what’s happening, to be completely honest, A and L didn’t seem that fake for a while back pre-WT and those few months early last year, after the WT she did stuff that made me go hmm that’s interesting 🤨 but still felt there is a slight believability in her behavior, but this year it has been clear with each appearance that it’s entirely fake & the past few days it had fake pr all over it. Same thing with N & J with each appearance it feels faker. I would like to say I’m not in the camp that thinks N & L are together in secret but more in the current attachments they have at the moment are 100% fake. From experience when the appearances become more frequent and more too into your face then it means it’s to fulfill some sort of clause and paint certain scenarios when that agreement by its middle or reached its end and by end here it doesn’t mean like next week end & I can’t put time limit on these things but most of the time it’s couple of months left

Betting on both attachments ending with similar reasons & using key words from these “busy with work, didn’t have much time to spend together anymore, grew apart, felt timing isn’t right anymore, decided to focus on work at the moment, it was amicable, they still friends”

Now this is exactly what a real life PR scenario sounds like and looks like and is most definitely being applied to what we're seeing.

Love your insight anon, thank you 💜

[cosmiclily]

where ivy grows - part two

★ Vi x f!reader

part one

wc: 5.4k

cw: talking about pregnancy, needles, hormone shots, a little angsty

notes: some of you may already know, but i’m turning this family au into a series, there won’t be schedule updates, just what pops up in my head, so feel free to request anything related to this universe lol

One afternoon, while Vi was at work and it was your turn to pick Ivy up from school, you found yourself lingering in the doorway, watching her play.

She was seated at her little tea table in her room, dressed in a sparkly princess gown that trailed around her like a cloud of pink tulle. A tiara sat on her head, and she was speaking very seriously to the stuffed animals seated around her.

“No, Mr. Tickles, you can’t have more cookies. Martha would be left with none, and that’s very rude,” she scolded the oversized bear Vander had gifted her, before turning to the plush cow beside it. “Don’t worry, Martha. I saved you the biggest one.”

You leaned against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips—but the warmth in your chest was tinged with something else. Something quieter. Sadder.

Because for a moment, despite the fantasy world she’d built for herself, despite the tiara and the toys and the pretend cookies, Ivy looked… lonely.

You saw yourself in her then. Saw your own childhood mirrored in the way she carefully arranged her guests, the way she used make-believe to fill a space that felt just a little too empty. You’d grown up surrounded by love—your parents, a cousin or two during the holidays—but there were long stretches of quiet, too. You knew how it felt to have a room full of toys but still ache for someone to share it with.

You didn’t know if Ivy had any siblings before she came into your life. You knew only vague pieces about her parents. She’d been through multiple shelters in her short life—maybe she didn’t remember everything, or maybe she remembered too much. Maybe there were faces she longed for, or names she couldn’t place anymore. Maybe she missed something she’d never even know how to ask about.

You knelt beside her eventually, joining the party in silence.

“Martha,” you said solemnly, lifting the cow with care, “I think this tea could use a little more sugar.”

Ivy looked up at you with wide eyes, then broke into a grin. “You’re invited to the party, Mommy. But you have to wear a dress.”

You laughed softly. “Deal. But only if I get to sit next to Martha.”

Later that evening, when Vi got home and found the two of you on the floor, still dressed in mismatched tutus and surrounded by half-eaten pretend pastries, she dropped her keys and sat down right beside you, slipping easily into the world Ivy had built.

After that day, you started noticing the little things. How Ivy lingered when other children passed by in the schoolyard, her gaze following the way siblings held hands or shared snacks while waiting for their parents. Sometimes, she’d tug on your sleeve, pointing out kids with matching backpacks or identical lunch boxes.

“They’re sisters,” she whispered once, almost reverently. “They share everything.”

You nodded, brushing a hand gently through her hair. “That’s right. Sisters can be best friends, too.”

She didn’t say anything else, but the look in her eyes stayed with you long after.

Then one night, after a particularly long day, Ivy curled up between you and Vi on the couch, half-asleep and warm from her bath, her head resting against Vi’s shoulder. In that drowsy, dreamy tone that only came when she was on the edge of sleep, she murmured, “If I had a brother or sister… I’d let them play with Mr. Tickles. Even the tea set.”

Vi looked at you over her head, her eyes soft with something unspoken.

Later that evening, after Ivy had gone to bed and the house was quiet again, you and Vi stood in the kitchen finishing the last of the dinner dishes.

“She’s thinking about it,” Vi said softly, passing you a rinsed plate. “About having siblings.”

You nodded, drying it slowly. “Yeah. I’ve seen it too. She doesn’t come right out and say it—but she watches. Like she’s wondering what it would be like.” You paused, handing her another plate. “That day, when we were having the tea party? I joined her because she looked so… lonely. I know what that’s like—to grow up in a quiet house, just you and your imagination.”

Vi leaned against the counter, drying her hands, her expression far away. “You know, I always pictured a loud house. Full of noise and chaos, kids running down the hall, someone always yelling about missing socks or spilled cereal.”

You chuckled softly, stepping into her side and resting your head on her shoulder. “Do you think we could do it? Adopt another? Maybe even… have one? I’m not saying we build a football team like Vander hoped, but maybe—just maybe—a duo for Mr. Tickles wouldn’t hurt.”

Vi looked down at you, her smile small but sure. “Yeah. I think we could. Ivy made us a family—and now, maybe it’s time to grow it a little more.”

You turned in her arms, hands resting on her chest. “So we keep our hearts open?”

Vi nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Always. And when the time’s right… we’ll know.”

──────────────────────

The house was filled with balloons, streamers, and the warm scent of vanilla frosting. Ivy’s birthday party was in full swing, and the living room had been completely overtaken by a dozen kids—darting around in a blur of color, laughter, and sugar-fueled excitement. You and Ivy had baked the cake earlier that morning, per her very specific request: chocolate with rainbow sprinkles and “just a little too much frosting.” Vander, with Benzo’s help, had built the front panel of a princess castle in the yard, complete with cardboard turrets and a drawbridge made of old crates and fabric.

You watched the scene unfold from the kitchen doorway, leaning into Vi’s side, both of you sipping lemonade and soaking in the joyful chaos.

Ivy was getting a piggyback ride from Claggor, her laughter bubbling so loud and bright you were momentarily afraid she might actually pass out. The other kids surrounded them, bouncing on their toes and shouting, “Me next! Me next!”

“She’s glowing,” you whispered.

Vi chuckled, her eyes soft and locked on Ivy. “Yeah. It’s like she was made for this”

Ivy was the perfect host—bouncing from guest to guest, thanking everyone for their presents, helping the younger kids cut their cupcakes, offering her toys without hesitation. At one point, she spotted one of her classmates clinging to his mom’s leg, too nervous to join in. Without a word, Ivy took his hand gently and led him to the coloring station.

“She’s really good with the little ones,” you murmured.

Vi nodded. “She’s got that calm energy. Kind of like you.”

You snorted softly. “I don’t know if ‘calm’ is the word I’d use when I’m chasing her around the house with a hairbrush.”

Still, neither of you could look away from her. Martha, the stuffed cow, was tucked under one of Ivy’s arms, while Mr. Tickles���the oversized bear Vander had given her—had been offered to the nervous boy. Ivy now sat beside a toddler, patiently explaining how to color inside the lines with a level of patience that made your chest ache with pride.

“She’d make a great big sister,” Vi said after a beat, voice low.

You looked up at her, heart flipping at the way she said it—so certain, so gentle, like she was already picturing it.

“And we’ve been talking about it,” you murmured. “Adoption. Or trying for one… biologically.”

Vi turned to face you more fully, her expression thoughtful. “I know we always said we’d follow our gut. Do what felt right in the moment. Do you think… this might be it?”

You hesitated, gaze drifting back to Ivy. “I think we should ask her. This affects her just as much as it does us. She deserves to be part of the conversation.”

Vi nodded, squeezing your hand.

That night, after Ivy had said goodbye to every guest, played an extra round of “pin the crown on the unicorn” with Jinx, and eaten the leftover cupcakes down to their wrappers, the three of you were curled up on the couch in a post-party haze. Ivy was wrapped in the blanket your mother had made, thumb brushing the edge of the fabric as she leaned against Vi’s chest, her eyelids heavy.

“Hey, birthday girl,” Vi murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Can we ask you something?”

Ivy blinked slowly, fighting sleep, but nodded. “Okay.”

You shifted slightly to face her. “You were amazing today. So kind and patient with the other kids. You made everyone feel so welcome.”

A sleepy smile curved her lips. “They were nice. I like sharing my toys.”

Vi took a slow breath. “So… we were wondering. How would you feel about having a little brother or sister? Maybe someone younger you could play with. Help take care of.”

Ivy’s eyes fluttered open wider. “You mean… like, here? In our house?”

You nodded gently. “Only if it’s something you want. We’re thinking about adopting again. Or maybe trying to have a baby. But we’d never make that decision without you.”

She went quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. Then she looked up at both of you, serious and soft-spoken. “If they were scared, I could show them the tea table. And I’d tell them Mr. Tickles doesn’t bite.”

Vi chuckled, her voice catching just a little. “That’s a pretty good start.”

“And I could help,” Ivy added, her voice growing stronger. “Like… really help. ‘Cause I know what it’s like to be new.”

Your heart swelled. You reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’d be the best big sister.”

Ivy’s grin stretched across her face before she snuggled back between you both, the warmth of the day still lingering in her cheeks.

“And maybe,” she murmured sleepily, “they’ll like to draw. I’ll share my coloring books. Even the good ones.”

“Guess we have our answer” you whispered after she had fallen asleep.

Vi nodded. “Guess we do.”

──────────────────────

It started with a folder.

A plain, slightly bent manila folder Vi dropped onto the kitchen table one quiet afternoon. Ivy was at school, the house unusually still, sunlight spilling through the windows and casting golden stripes across the floor.

“What’s this?” you asked, setting down your mug of coffee.

Vi slid into the chair across from you, resting her elbows on the table. “I stopped by the clinic this morning. Picked up some information. You know, just to… start thinking.”

You opened the folder slowly, flipping through brochures and forms. Artificial insemination. IVF. Donor profiles. Medical consultations. Lists of questions neither of you had really said out loud yet, like Who carries the baby? How do we choose a donor? Are we ready for this?

Your fingers stilled on a small pamphlet titled Growing Our Family: Options for LGBTQ+ Parents. You looked up at her.

“You’re serious.”

Vi nodded. “I’m not saying we decide today. But I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And after Ivy’s party… I don’t know. It just felt like the right time to start looking.”

You reached across the table, taking her hand. “And what about adoption?”

Vi hesitated for a beat, then pulled a second folder from her bag. “Got this too.”

You let out a soft laugh, touched by how thoroughly she’d prepared. “Wow. Someone’s been busy.”

“Don’t act surprised. I’m organized sometimes.” She gave you a crooked grin. “Besides, you’re not the only one picturing a sibling for Ivy. The kid’s got a heart the size of Piltover.”

You nodded slowly, flipping between the two folders, your chest swelling with equal parts fear and hope. “Okay. Then maybe we start small. A few calls. See what’s out there. What the timelines look like.”

Vi leaned back, arms folded across her chest. “You ever think about carrying?”

You paused. “Sometimes. Not gonna lie, the idea terrifies me. But… yeah. I’ve thought about it.” You chuckled lightly. “I mean, my job’s probably easier to manage with a baby bump than yours.”

Vi watched you, expression soft. “If we went that route, I’d be with you every step of the way. Even the barfing parts.”

You smiled, lips twitching. “Especially the barfing parts?”

“Especially those,” she said with mock solemnity, and the two of you laughed, the tension easing just a little.

The conversation meandered gently into the evening. You talked through donor options—anonymous or known. You weighed the unpredictability of pregnancy against the familiarity of adoption, which had already brought you Ivy. You spoke about genetics and biology, but always circled back to love—how that’s what truly makes a family.

That night, you curled up together in bed, Ivy’s soft breathing drifting from the next room, her stuffed animals lined up like loyal guards outside her door. The house felt full—of possibility, of peace.

You lay there quietly, fingers intertwined beneath the blanket, both staring up at the ceiling.

“Whatever we choose,” Vi whispered, “I just want them to feel what Ivy feels now. Safe. Loved.”

You turned toward her, voice gentle. “They will. Because we’ll love them the same way.”

──────────────────────

In the end, you decided to go with artificial insemination. You would carry the baby—your job was easier to manage while pregnant, and honestly, you couldn’t even begin to imagine Vi fighting crime with a child growing inside her. You’d never sleep at night knowing that.

But it wasn’t as simple as just deciding.

There was so much that went into it—tracking your ovulation cycles, taking pills and supplements, enduring hormone shots, sticking to a strict routine and diet you had to follow to the letter. And it was taking a toll on you.

Especially now that it was the holidays.

The house sparkled with garlands and fairy lights, the scent of cinnamon and pine lingering in the air. Ivy had made paper snowflakes and taped them to every window, her childlike excitement a constant, joyful hum in the background.

But for you, December came with needles, stress, and a tight schedule.

You tried to keep smiling for Ivy’s sake, letting her wrap you in fuzzy scarves and drag you to hot chocolate dates you couldn’t even enjoy, and gingerbread decorating marathons that left your back aching. But the mood swings, the bloating, and the quiet ache from every new bruise made it harder to hide the weight you were carrying.

Vi noticed, of course.

She always noticed.

One evening, you were in the bathroom, the dull yellow light casting long shadows across the tiled floor. You held the syringe in trembling fingers, trying to steady your breathing, but your hands wouldn’t cooperate.

Vi appeared in the doorway without a word. Her reflection met yours in the mirror—calm, steady, concerned.

“You want me to do it?” she asked gently.

You nodded, the lump in your throat too big to speak past. She stepped in, took the syringe from your hand, and guided you to sit on the closed toilet lid. Then she knelt in front of you like a knight preparing for battle.

“Deep breath,” she murmured.

You braced yourself. It didn’t hurt—not physically, at least—but the sting of it landed somewhere deeper, buried under layers of hope, exhaustion, and quiet fear. When it was done, you let your eyes fall closed and leaned forward, forehead resting on her shoulder.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered. “All this hoping. All this waiting.”

Vi wrapped her arms around you, grounding you in warmth. “You don’t have to do it alone. And if this doesn’t work... we still have options. We always will.”

Her lips brushed your temple, soft and sure.

Later that night, you sat by the fireplace with Ivy nestled in your lap, her mug of warm milk cradled in small hands, her feet tucked beneath a shared blanket. She didn’t know the full picture—just that you were “taking medicine to maybe help make a baby.” She knew it made you sleepy and sad sometimes, and she tried her best to cheer you up in her own little ways.

“I made you something,” she said suddenly, giving you her mug and hopping off the couch.

She returned with a folded paper card, smudged with glue and glitter, a crooked heart drawn in the center. Inside was a drawing—four stick figures holding hands: one with pink hair, one who looked like you, a small one with blue scribbles, and a tiny figure in the middle wearing a crown. Stars twinkled above them.

You smiled through the sting behind your eyes. “What’s this?”

“That’s you, and Mom, and me, and the baby when it comes,” she said proudly. “I made a wish for you. I told the star on the tree.”

The holidays came with lights, music, and needles—but they also came with love. With small hands offering hope, and a partner who held you through every silent moment of fear. And despite everything, you kept going.

──────────────────────

But after what felt like the hundredth negative pregnancy test, you started to lose hope. Maybe your uterus was just a hostile place. Maybe your body wasn’t made for this. Maybe you weren’t ready to bring a baby into the world.

“Seriously, Vi. I’m tired,” you said one night, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re not the one taking these shots every day. The mood swings are killing me. Last week, I almost snapped at Ivy... and she looked so sad. I felt like the worst mom in the world.”

You were curled up on the couch, the movie playing in the background long forgotten. Vi was behind you, giving you a slow, soothing back massage, her hands steady even as your voice trembled.

“I know it’s not easy,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “If you want to stop trying and look into other options... I’ve got your back. Always. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

You exhaled, tension easing from your shoulders just a little. “I just feel like I’m failing.”

“You’re not,” she whispered. “You just need to breathe for a second. Take the pressure off.”

So you did. Kind of.

You still had work stress. You still had to raise a very curious, very energetic child. But you let go of the rigid schedule and the endless dietary restrictions. If you wanted to eat an entire pizza alone on the couch, you did. And if one night, around 2 a.m., you found yourself sitting on the kitchen floor in Vi’s oversized hoodie, jar of pickles in one hand, a spoonful of peanut butter in the other, that was your damn business.

But that probably should’ve been your first clue.

That, and the nausea—not constant, but sharp and sneaky. It crept in the mornings when Ivy tugged you out of bed too fast or when Vi’s coffee filled the house with its rich scent and made your stomach churn. You told yourself it was hormones. Maybe stress. Maybe the flu.

But then the tears started.

Not the usual ones. These were intense, unstoppable, absurd. You cried over a cartoon dog that got lost. A broken mug. You sobbed when Ivy asked, “Mommy, are you okay?” with wide, concerned eyes, like she’d just watched you fall apart in real time.

One night, Vi found you curled on the couch, wrapped in two blankets with Martha tucked under your arm and Mr. Tickles nestled at your feet. The lights were dim, Ivy was asleep, and Vi leaned in the doorway with that familiar look—part worry, part amusement.

“So… you cried because the gingerbread man broke in half?”

You sniffled. “He had a gumdrop face, Vi. A face.”

Vi crossed the room and sank down beside you, rubbing your back. “Want me to glue him back together?”

You let out a choked laugh. “You can’t glue a cookie.”

“I can try. I’m very committed to this relationship,” she said solemnly.

That’s when it hit you—like a snowball square to the face.

You went quiet, eyes drifting to the calendar, then back to her. “Vi,” you said carefully. “When’s the last time I had my period?”

Vi blinked. “I thought it was supposed to be last week?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

She was already on her feet.

Ten minutes later, she came bursting back in, breathless, clutching a crumpled paper bag from the corner store. Five different pregnancy tests inside.

She tore them open with nervous hands, her fingers only slightly steadier than yours.

The bathroom felt smaller than usual—like the walls were holding their breath right alongside you.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, gripping the sink with one hand and the test with the other. Vi paced just outside the door, her thumb tapping anxiously against her leg, eyes darting to the clock on the wall every few seconds like she could will the result into being faster.

"Three minutes," she muttered. "Why does three minutes suddenly feel like a lifetime?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your heart was beating too loudly in your ears.

The stick trembled in your hand. You were afraid to look. After everything—the injections, the bloating, the mood swings, the crying over broken cookies—you couldn’t take one more heartbreak. Not tonight. Not when hope had started creeping back in like the glow of a fireplace in the middle of a cold night.

“Time’s up,” Vi whispered, suddenly right in front of you, crouched at your knees.

You turned the test over in your hand.

Two lines.

Two pink lines.

You stared at it, mouth parting. Your lips moved before sound came out. “Vi…”

She took the test from your shaking fingers, eyes scanning it.

She blinked. Then blinked again. “Wait.”

Her breath caught. “Wait, wait—this is… this is positive. It’s—baby positive.”

Suddenly you were laughing—hysterically, half in disbelief, half in joy—as Vi pulled you into her arms.

“We’re pregnant?” she asked, as if she needed you to say it to make it real.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “We’re pregnant.”

Vi’s arms wrapped tighter around you, her lips pressing to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips. “Holy shit. You’re amazing. You did it. You fucking did it.”

“We did it,” you whispered. “We really did.”

And It felt like you could breath again, like the world had finally given you back something it had held out of reach for too long.

──────────────────────

You decided to wait a few weeks before breaking the news to your family. You were still overthinking everything about this pregnancy, half-convinced your body would just change its mind and kick the baby out before you even had the chance to process it. It felt too early, too fragile to share. But you and Vi were quietly, wildly excited.

Vi spent most of her free time deep in research mode, bouncing between baby name generators, stroller reviews, parenting blogs, and an alarming number of tiny onesie websites.

One afternoon, she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her laptop perched precariously on a pillow, scrolling through an online baby boutique for what felt like hours.

“With Ivy, it was easier,” she said suddenly, frowning at the screen. “She already had a name, a personality… and once she got comfortable, she’d tell us if she liked things or not. But this little baby—what if I buy something and they hate it? What if I pick the wrong onesie and they grow up resenting me?”

You snorted, sprawled on the other end of the couch with a blanket over your legs and a half-eaten bag of chips on your lap. “I don’t think the baby’s gonna care much, as long as it’s warm, fed, and not covered in glitter.”

Vi looked at you over the screen. “You say that, but Ivy has very strong opinions about socks.”

“She was six when she developed those opinions. This one’s the size of a strawberry and doesn’t even have a favorite fruit yet.”

Vi grinned, eyes crinkling. “Still… I want them to have stuff that feels like them. Even if they’re just a strawberry.”

You smiled, watching her—how gentle she was when she thought about the future, how much care she poured into the details. “They’ll love whatever you pick. Because it’ll come from you. And because babies don’t know how to hate pajamas.”

Vi huffed a soft laugh, then leaned over to press a kiss to your cheek. “I just want to do it right. Again.”

“You will,” you said, voice low but sure. “You already are.”

The baby didn’t have a name yet. It didn’t have a room or a onesie or a favorite toy. But it had love—already filling every corner of the house, from the quiet warmth of Vi’s cautious shopping tabs to the way she kissed your stomach every night before bed like it was a promise.

──────────────────────

The first person you told was Ivy—partially because that was always the plan… and partially because she found out on her own.

Vi, in a rare moment of distracted triumph, had left a book titled “Baby Steps: A Practical Guide to Parenting” on the living room table. Ivy—armed with her usual curiosity and razor-sharp attention to detail—marched into the kitchen holding it up like a detective presenting evidence.

“Mommy,” she said, brow arched and voice suspicious, “why is there a book about raising babies on the coffee table?”

You froze mid-scoop, a glob of cupcake batter poised on the spoon halfway to your mouth. You looked at her, then at the book, then back at her again.

“Hmm,” you hummed, buying time as your brain scrambled. “Good question.”

Ivy didn’t blink. She just crossed her arms, waiting.

You sighed, setting the bowl down and wiping your hands on a dish towel before crouching in front of her. “Okay, but you have to promise not to scream. Or cry. Or immediately demand to name it after your favorite cartoon character.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait…”

You nodded slowly, your own smile creeping up. “There’s a baby. In here.” You took her hand and gently placed it on your stomach—still soft and flat, but no less important.

She gasped like you’d just told her unicorns were real.

“For real?” she whispered.

You nodded. “For real.”

Ivy squealed so loudly you were sure the neighbors heard. She immediately threw her arms around your neck, squeezing you tight.

“Does this mean I’m gonna be a big sister?! Like, a real one?”

Vi walked in just then, hands full of grocery bags and a confused look on her face—one that immediately cleared when she spotted the parenting book in Ivy’s hands.

“Oh,” she said with a wry smile, “I see the book gave it away.”

“I knew it!” Ivy squealed, spinning around like a little whirlwind of joy. “Wait till I tell Auntie Jinx! And Nana! And—oh my gosh, does the baby know my name yet? Should I introduce myself?!”

You laughed, already tearing up as you grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at your eyes. “Not quite. But it’ll definitely know who you are soon enough.”

Vi leaned down and kissed your cheek before ruffling Ivy’s hair. “We were going to tell you together this weekend. But you figured it out like a true detective.”

Ivy puffed out her chest proudly. “Detective Ivy. Has a nice ring to it.”

Later that night, she brought you a new drawing for the fridge—four stick figures again, but this time the smallest one had a speech bubble that said “Hi, Ivy!” in her best crayon handwriting. And underneath, she’d carefully written in bold, slightly wobbly letters:

“I’m going to be the BEST big sister ever.”

──────────────────────

You knew there was only a small window of time before Ivy’s excitement would get the best of her, and spill out the news to everyone, so you and Vi decided to tell everyone together—one dinner, one reveal, all at once.

You sat Ivy down the next day, once she’d settled from her initial sugar-rush level of excitement, and explained the plan gently.

“No blurting it out at school,” you said, crouching to her eye level. “And no phone calls to Nana or Jinx. We want to tell everyone in person.”

She frowned dramatically, arms crossed. “But I really wanna see Uncle Mylo’s face when he finds out.”

Vi, seated beside you on the couch, chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, Detective. You’re going to be front row for that.”

That sealed the deal. Ivy agreed—on one condition: she got to help plan the announcement.

And as the date for the dinner grew closer, the excitement in the house was contagious—despite the nausea and the weird craving you now had for canned peaches and barbecue chips at 3 a.m.

And with Ivy counting down the days on her calendar with glittery star stickers, you couldn’t wait to finally share the news.

──────────────────────

You and Vi spent the entire day prepping for the dinner—cooking, cleaning, making sure everything was just right. Ivy, of course, insisted on helping. She wore her “fancy” dress (which was really just her favorite sparkly one with an ugly unicorn that Vi had gotten her as a joke) and kept reminding everyone, “Act normal. No one can know until dessert.”

Everyone was invited—even your parents, who had flown in and were both very suspicious about this sudden, random dinner out of the blue. Your mom brought a pie, your dad arrived armed with his usual arsenal of dad jokes, and Vander brought enough wine to last a week. Jinx showed up fashionably late with a six-pack of something unidentifiable and a wink that said she definitely suspected something.

“So,” Claggor said, glancing around the table once everyone was seated, “not that I’m complaining, but this is the fanciest thing I’ve eaten in weeks. What’s the occasion?”

“Yeah,” Mylo added, his mouth half-full. “Feels like we’re celebrating something.”

Vi gave you a quick look across the table, her foot tapping yours lightly under the tablecloth.

“We are,” you said, setting down your glass. “But we wanted to share it with all of you at the same time.”

That was Ivy’s cue.

She practically leapt out of her chair and dashed into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned carefully carrying a tray of cupcakes—each one frosted in pastel colors, with letters on top. She slowly settled them on the table, making sure not to drop a single one, until the message was clear for everyone to read:

“Big Sister in Training.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Vander let out a booming laugh, your mom gasped, Claggor blinked like he was trying to make sure he’d read it right, and Jinx shrieked loud enough to make Ekko nearly drop his fork.

“You’re pregnant?” your mom asked, tears already brimming in her eyes.

You nodded, barely able to hold it together. “We found out a few weeks ago.”

“Holy shit,” Mylo muttered, grinning. “I mean—holy crap. Sorry, kid.” He glanced at Ivy, who was too busy bouncing in her seat to care.

“I helped make the cupcakes!” Ivy announced proudly. “And I’m gonna be the best big sister ever!”

“She already introduced herself to the baby,” Vi added, laughing softly as she wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “It was very official.”

Ekko shook his head with a wide smile. “Congratulations, you two!”

Vander raised his glass. “To the kid who doesn’t even have a name yet, but already has an army ready to spoil them rotten.”

Everyone clinked their glasses together. Your mom came around the table to hug you, tears rolling freely now. Your dad clasped Vi’s hand and joked about getting a “baby’s first wrench” kit ready. Claggor and Mylo immediately started arguing over who would be the cooler uncle.

“I knew you two were hiding something!” Jinx shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at both of you. “Ivy was acting verysuspicious on our last call…”

She burst out laughing, then scooped Ivy up and spun her around.

“Don’t get lame like my big sister,” she teased after putting her down, turning to Vi with a grin. “Congrats, sis.”

Later that night, after the hugs, laughter, and second helpings of pie, you stood in the kitchen with Vi. The sounds of chatter and clinking glasses drifted in from the dining room like warm music.

“They took it well,” Vi murmured, arms slipping around your waist from behind.

You leaned back into her, smiling. “I think we might’ve made their whole year.”

Vi kissed your temple. “You already made mine.”

From the other room, Jinx’s voice rang out: “Hey! You guys better not be kissing in there—we still have pie!”

You both laughed.

And just like that, your growing family wasn’t a secret anymore.

──────────────────────

masterlist - part one

[multiheadcanons]

IM STILL ON ONE, FELLOW SPORT QUEERS. MERCS ON SKATES AND BOARDS AND SIMILAR

scout: scout is confident and versatile on all wheels, and though he doesn’t do it as often anymore, the kids not bad on ice either. but if you asked him to pick one, he would probably pick a skateboard. though inline skates are a close second! he feels there’s less work of maintaining balance, and the thinks the tricks are more impressive. he’s hell on wheels, regardless of what he picks.

soldier: soldier would eat up some quad skates. he’s working on a new trick where he rocket jumps then uses the momentum to go even faster when he hits the ground. he has succeeded a single time at this. and nobody knows this, but soldier knows his way around some skis. every once in a while he has the itch to hit the slopes, but he’s not sure if the rest of the team would want to join him. and he’s not going alone.

pyro: pyro has a pair of stilted quad skates that they use to frighten the rest of the team. they are a menace on them, and terrify the team by chasing them at breakneck speeds. if you ask pyro how they even managed to learn how to skate on those you can hear, through the gas mask, “i dunno, practice?”. pyro truly enjoys the feeling skating has on their body, they like the wind rushing past their gas mask. and they look so odd most people just let them do their thing!

demo: demo would be a hell of a racer. but demo finds most, if not all wheels are easy for him to pick up! if he personally had to pick any set of skates or a board, he would pick inline skates. he just likes the look of them more than quad skates. demo is also proficient at snowboarding and skiing; though he’ll opt for the skis if he has an option on that. he feels like he falls less on skis than he does on a snowboard. and he hates when people say “hit the slopes”. just say you’re going skiing like a normal person, don’t piss him off. can NOT ice skate. don’t let him try every time he does he is falling.

heavy: heavy would drop everything he’s doing and leave the team in the dust if he was invited to participate in the iditarod. he would go on a caloric deficit so fast to get into the best shape for that race. and every single member of the pack would make it. he has so much faith in himself. one of heavy’s few unachievable dreams is participating in the most famous dog sledding race in the world. he knows he will never be picked. that doesn’t stop him from having multiple sled dog breeders on speed dial and a bag packed.

engineer: engineer is a speed skater. the man knows he doesn’t have the longest legs in the world. but he’s got some weight on him, and he uses that to get hell’s flames underneath him. he’s one of those people that you see while you’re falling flat on your ass trying to get up a hill, or busting ass being unable to keep your feet underneath you going down the hill, and out of the corner of your eye he’s going backwards and doing fancy footwork and shit. it’ll piss you off. but if you manage to catch him, he’s happy to at least give you some basic skating lessons!

medic: the doctor cannot maintain balance on any form of wheeled skate. he can’t keep the wheels underneath him and he’s not sure how to stop, or turn himself around. he’s not going to pretend he can. however, he is fairly adept at ice skating. he’s not doing any spins or jumps, but he can pick up a good amount of speed and at the very least stay on his feet. the doctor is suited for motorsport racing, if he had to pick a set of wheels. he’s hell on the road, but he can lock in for a good race.

sniper: get this man a surfboard. immediately. place it in front of his camper. when he notices it, listen to a full grown man let out a girlish scream of the sheer excitement of having a surfboard. one could argue sniper is in his element in the water. he’s a strong swimmer, and he just looks right out there. he’ll lay out on the board in the wakes of water and sunbathe. it gives him an adrenaline rush to be on a surfboard. he did cry watching surfs up.

spy: spy is a skier and says “hit the slopes” to demo just so they can argue about it. spy loves arguing with demo. they go on ski trips and all they do is argue. you hear them as they’re flying down the hill just bitching at each other. nobody knows if they even like to be around each other. these are some of the best days of their lives. spy also has a luge team he sponsors out of the country. he would really like to try skeleton. that looks like the coolest experience in the world.

[kathrahender]

I Want You To Stay

Jim walked Strickler to the exit of the Trollmarket, where the gyre would take him away. They walked in complete silence, not even looking at each other. Jim didn’t want to speak. Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know what to say.

Their relationship wasn’t the same anymore, and he didn’t want to pretend it was.

Strickler was his enemy. And he hadn’t forgotten everything he’d done.

Strickler had revealed to Bular that Jim was the Trollhunter. He had betrayed him without a second thought. He had fought against him. He returned to Arcadia weeks after Jim defeated Bular, only to continue antagonizing him. He had awakened Angor Rot. He had bound his fate to Barbara’s.

The damage from all of that hadn’t disappeared— and it wouldn’t anytime soon.

And yes, they had worked together. When Strickler came to his house asking for help with Angor Rot, Jim helped him. They had worked together to defeat the troll assasin, but that barely meant anything. Strickler had shown he wasn’t as bad as Jim once thought, but Jim could no longer see him the same way.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do?” Strickler asked just as the gyre came into view.

Jim grimaced. You had to ask that. Holding back a sigh, he looked at Strickler. “The other trolls don’t trust you to fight beside them. And honestly, neither do I.”

For a moment, pain flickered in Strickler’s eyes, and Jim quickly looked away. He couldn’t allow himself to feel sorry for Strickler. Not after everything that had happened.

Still, he felt a pressure in his chest when he heard him whisper, “I suppose I deserve that.”

Jim turned his head to look at Strickler, who was staring at the gyre, not at him. That expression on his face —and the sling around one of his arms— made him look different.

He didn’t look like the monster who had attacked him.

He didn’t look like the changeling who had fought him at the museum or in his home.

He looked like... a tormented man.

Shit. He cursed himself for feeling empathy, and sighed.

“I... I might not trust you to fight with us,” Jim began. He could feel Strickler looking at him, but this time, he was the one who didn't look at the changeling. “But believe me, I want to. I want to trust you. I just... after everything that’s happened, I don’t know how.”

Strickler exhaled sharply. “I understand. I’m not asking you to trust me, Jim.”

Strickler’s expression became sadder, and Jim began to regret what he’d said. He was supposed to make him feel better, not make him feel worse.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jim said, clenching one fist and closing his eyes, trying to focus. “What I meant is... I want you to stay.” He opened his eyes. His words sounded sincere even to his own ears — not a lie to make Strickler feel better. “I want you to stay,” Jim repeated, looking at Strickler, who watched him silently. “I’m just... not sure it will work. The trolls don’t want to fight with you, and...”

Strickler placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it with a warmth Jim hadn’t felt in a long time. “Then I’ll leave. You don’t have to—”

“Strickler,” Jim cut him off. “Maybe you can’t fight with us right now, but you can still stay in Arcadia. You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to. I…” Jim hesitated. “I don’t want you to go."

“Why not?”

“Because...”

Because I don’t want to lose you again.

Because deep down I still need you.

He tried to ignore both thoughts and said the first thing that came to mind: “Because you want to help. And if you want to help me, then you have to stay here to prove it.”

Strickler hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to trust Jim’s words. But at last, he gave a faint smile.

“Alright. I’ll stay.”

[holyblonded]

can we have hcs about how alexia reacted and stepped in for her girls after olga was declared stable? especially estrella, how did alexia comfort her, knowing exactly what she needs when she’s that scared?

i love your work so much you have no idea!!

— the second olga is declared stable, alexia runs on pure adrenaline. her hands are still shaking and her heart’s going a million miles a minute, but she’s already thinking about the girls.

— when she finds estrella in the hallway outside the room, she doesn’t say anything at first. estrella’s sitting against the wall, knees drawn up, fists pressed to her mouth like she’s trying not to scream. her eyes are wild, but the second she sees alexia, they go even wider.

— “she’s okay,” alexia says gently, kneeling in front of her. “she’s stable. the baby’s okay too.”

— estrella tries to nod like she already knew that, like she doesn’t care. but then alexia cups her face with both hands and estrella crumples like paper. the sob that comes out of her is raw and awful, and she hates it, hates crying like a little kid, but she can’t stop.

— alexia pulls her in without hesitation. estrella clings to her like she’s drowning, arms wrapped around her neck so tight it’s almost painful. and alexia doesn’t tell her to calm down or breathe or stop crying, she just rubs her back and murmurs, “i’ve got you, mami’s okay, i promise.”

— azulita’s standing nearby, stiff, eyes red but dry. alexia pulls her in too, holding them both, kissing their heads and whispering soft, grounding things in between her own quiet tears. “you were both so brave. i’m so proud of you. she’s gonna be okay.”

— estrella eventually starts apologizing, for yelling, for losing it, for not doing something, and alexia shuts that down immediately. “you don’t ever have to be perfect, estrella. not for me. not for anyone.”

— she keeps one hand in estrella’s curls the whole time, grounding her with touch because she knows estrella. she knows she spirals when she doesn’t feel tethered. knows she’ll pretend she’s fine and then break alone later.

— once they’re allowed to see olga and val, both girls doesn’t leave olga’s side. but they keeps checking over their shoulder to make sure alexia is still in the room, still there. still solid.

— later that night, when the adrenaline crashes, estrella curls up in alexia’s lap in the corner of the hospital room. she won’t say she’s scared anymore, but she doesn’t let go either. alexia strokes her hair and whispers, “you don’t have to be the strong one right now. i’ve got you.”

[barley-st-band]

hey does anyone know how we’re supposed to survive it all. asking for a friend

[petercushingscheekbones]

idk this is probably a very personal experience but I find it so annoying that every therapist, counsellor I talk to just seems to go ‘oh looks like you can deal with it’. Like I know enough tricks to be productive, I fucking understand why I’m failing and I intellectually know if I don’t procrastinate I’ll get so much more done. I get it’s probably meant as empowerment but it feels dismissive I don’t keep going to appointments for fun.

like this is not even blaming them idk if there is anything they can do other that encourage me but with study related stuff specifically they give the impression of not caring if you’re doing okay academically. Like I know my grades indicate I’m doing decently but I’m not even doing as half as well as I could and it’s killing me

[bisexydesaster]

brooooooo my father (derogatory) is such a capitalist bootlicker. it’s a goddamn MIRACLE my sister and i turned out as leftist as we did

[rosesradio]

.

[devilsskettle]

my workplace is gonna have extended hours coming up so my life is going to be miserable for 2 months starting in 2 weeks

[trashbaget]

tell me your failed/embarrassing flirting stories to make me feel better, i’ll go first: today i said “get out of my way” forgot to say “i’m kidding” then immediately said “bye”

[not-neverland06]

Kid?

Logan Howlett x fem!mutant!reader A/N: I haven’t watched X-Men since I was a child, so I can’t promise this is going to be canon-compliant. I haven’t watched DP & W either, I’ve just been influenced by that one gif where Hugh Jackman shakes his head like a dog. I feel FERAL Also, I am not good at superhero names or coming up with creative powers. So you’re a mutant with matter manipulation and they call you Flux. I mean, superhero names are inherently ridiculous so I think this works. (Don’t judge me, I’m just here for the sexy man) Summary: You walk in on Logan and Jean in a compromising position and feel your heart break. You really thought he loved you, you were so wrong. (Or were you?)

It was your own fault, you should have knocked before you busted through the door. You only have yourself to blame as you struggle to catch your breath and swallow down the lump in your throat. The image of Logan standing between Jean��s bare legs is going to haunt you for a while. Their faces will keep you awake at night, cringing at yourself while you remember the humiliating moment. 

You rush towards the door, a stupidly giddy skip to your step. You were a mutant, a superhuman, and getting a chance to talk to your crush should not have you giggling like a schoolgirl. Still, you’re blind to all logic when it comes to Logan. 

You turn the corner, spotting the medbay and nearly ramming into the door you know he’s lurking behind. Charles had told you where to find him. Of course, you hadn’t paid attention to the odd tone of voice when he had very clearly warned you to knock. All you’d heard was Logan’s name and you’d zoned out for the rest of the conversation. 

And, of course, you don’t knock. You grab the door’s handle and bust in, “Hey!” Your eyes widen and your stomach plummets with a depressing plop to the floor. Your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see the way Jean and Logan are entangled in each other. He’s leaning over her, the muscles and veins in his neck pulsing with strain. Normally, that sight would have you nearly drooling. 

Instead, all you can see is the flush on Jean’s cheeks and the way her pupils are dilated with want. Her nails are digging into his back, bare legs twined around his waist. There’s no way to misinterpret this. No way for you to later assure yourself that this was all just a misunderstanding. 

The words stumble out of your mouth in a disjointed mess that even you can’t decipher. You stand there, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water before you finally get it together. “Charles,” you stutter out, his name sounding like a question. You wince and finally tear your gaze away from them. “Sorry,” you chuckle, trying to play off your hurt as humor. “Charles needs us all for a mission.”

You don’t give them a chance to respond, you slam the door closed, ignoring what you think might be someone calling your name. 

You shake off the mortifying memory and groan. Your head falls into your hands and you grip at your face until the pain distracts you from the embarrassment. It’s not too hard to push it all down, to pretend what happened didn’t make your heart crumble away into nothing.

Maybe it’s because you’re a mutant that you’re so used to rejection. You’re used to constantly being disappointed by people around you. Your childhood was nothing but cruelty, your crush not liking you back can’t compare to half of what you went through. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, to try and pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. You shove it down until you think you can’t feel that dull ache anymore. And when Jean and Logan walk into the room, looking more put together, you smile at Logan like you always do. It doesn’t turn down at the corners, your eyes don’t water. You take in a deep breath and look utterly unaffected. 

He sits down beside you and leans towards you. “I can explain-”

You cut him off and shake your head. “Forget about it. I should have knocked.” You turn towards Charles who wheels himself to the front of the room. You dismiss Logan and ignore the way his stare burns into the side of your head. 

Charles looks to Jean and Logan, a smile starting. Then his gaze drifts towards you and your chest deflates when you see the look on his face. He knows, the old miser probably coasted over your thoughts and he knows. He sends you a sympathetic look that makes you feel like a little girl who just got told unicorns don’t exist. “Jean, Logan, glad that you’ve finally joined us.”

Logan nods and leans back in his chair. But his eyes remain fixed on you and it makes you wish you could stab a fork into them. You let out a short, irritated huff of air and frown at yourself. Maybe you were a little more angry than you would like to admit. 

You blame Logan for that. You never would have fallen so deep into infatuation if you hadn’t believed there was even a sliver of a chance with him. Always speaking so kindly with you when he would barely spare anyone a second glance. Constantly doing checkups on you after a particularly harsh training session with Charles. 

Your mind runs over all the small things with him, everything you’ve done together. And you’re hit with a sudden nauseating thought. Oh my god, what if he sees me paternally?

You force yourself not to physically react but inside your throwing up and fucking freaking out. You feel a sudden spark of alarm from Charles and quickly do your best to fortify your mind so he doesn’t see your major mental freakout. 

You’re not that much younger than him. Well, it’s not illegal, your crush on Logan. But what if this entire time, when you’ve been falling harder and harder for him, he’s just been platonically taking care of you? You’ve seen him do it plenty of times for the younger kids, as reluctant as he is to admit it. 

You’re spiraling further and further into panic. So much so that you have no idea what’s even being discussed or what’s going on. You get onto the jet and have to ask Storm what you’re doing. She gives you a confused look but tells you nonetheless. Just some recon on a potential mutant trafficking ring. Nothing out of the ordinary, as depressing as that is. There shouldn’t be much violence, which is why your group is particularly small today.

You nod your head, moving like you’re in a daze as you throw yourself onto a seat. Logan sits beside you, an alarmed look on his face. “You alright, kid?”

The nickname, which is used to make your stomach flutter, makes you want to throw up. How have you missed it for this long? It was laid out so plainly before you. Of course, he doesn’t want you. Not when he has perfect Jean. Bile rises in your throat with a vicious ferocity when you glare over at Jean. 

There’s a sudden petty, vindictive rage fueling you. The type you should have abandoned in high school, especially now that you’re grown. Instead, you feel like giving into Logan’s idea of what you are. You feel like reacting to all of this petulantly. 

You ignore Logan and instead catch Jean’s eyes. Slowly, and with as much intention as you can force into your gaze, you look from her to Logan and then Scott. Her eyes widen and Logan scoffs beside you. She shakes her head minutely, silently begging you not to say anything. You smile at her and stand up.

You take a step towards Scott and Logan calls out an irritated, “Kid.” You ignore him and Jean eyes you warily as you approach. She stands like she’s ready to fight you and take the jet down just to keep you quiet. You reach Scott and can hear the way Jean takes in a sharp breath. 

“Scott,” he looks up at you with his brows raised. There's a pause before you speak. Dragged on too long for Scott not to realize you’re planning something. 

Jean takes a step towards you and you grin, “Mind checking my cuffs?” Scott gives you an odd look and his confusion only gets worse as Jean slumps onto the seat beside him. She’s not even trying to hide her relief. Scott shakes his head and holds his hands out, fingers gently probing around the cuffs on your wrists. The ones that keep your powers in check. 

You’re still new to welding them. And they’re too entwined with your emotions for you to just have free range with them. If you hadn’t had the cuffs on this morning, you’re afraid you might have just turned everything around you into nothing but dust.

“They look fine, Flux.” His tone betrays his thoughts. He doesn’t know why you’d come to him for this when it’s Charles who usually deals with it. But this stupid, petty little display wasn’t for poor oblivious Scott. It was for the woman sitting next to him. The redhead whose still drilling holes into your skull. 

You’ve got leverage over her that you’ve never had before. Scott wouldn’t take her little foray with Logan very well. And all it would take is a flick of your wrist to give him a very clear image of exactly what you’d seen. Then, her picture-perfect relationship would be over in a matter of seconds. You’re sure Logan would be more than pleased. But he doesn’t seem to understand that Jean just wants to have fun with him, she’d never choose him over Scott. 

“Thanks,” there’s a bite to your tone that you’re not used to. You usually keep your emotions relatively in control. That way you won’t have to wear these cuffs one day. But you feel volatile today. You’re channeling your hurt and turning it into misguided anger. 

You drop your wrists to your sides and stalk toward the front, hovering behind Charle’s and Storm’s chairs so you don’t have to look at the others. It doesn’t take long for you to feel the floor trembling under heavy booted steps. 

Logan’s arms rest on the headrest of the chairs, bracketing you in between them so you can’t escape. He leans forward until his chest is pushed against yours and you can feel every ridge of his muscled torso pressing into you. You try not to suck in a breath, try not to play into the cliche of instantly forgetting why you’re angry when you’re faced with those muscles of his. It is hard, though, because he’s so handsome and so warm and you just want to melt into him. 

“Wanna explain what the hell that was?” His voice is so low, whispering against the shell of your ear so only you can hear. You feel the vibrations of it against your back, his tone more gravelly than it should be. 

You glance over your shoulder at him, face placid and blank. “What? Just needed some help.” Storm looks over at you both and rolls her eyes. 

Logan opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off. “Put a pin in the lover’s spat, we’re landing.” Using just a bit of your power, you push Logan off of you and head towards the back of the jet. There’s a slight jolt as you land and then the ramp opens up and you’re practically running into the snowy forest. 

You don’t know where you are, mainly because you weren’t paying attention, you just know it's fucking freezing. The leather of your suit isn’t doing much to help fight against the chill. Charles stays on the jet and reminds you all that this is only meant to be recon. You’re partnered up with Logan, and as much as it irritates you, you’re not stupid enough to argue against it.

You have to put aside your personal grievances for this mission. You can’t risk the safety of mutants because the guy you like likes another girl. Logan seems pleased about it, stubbornly staying by your side even when you make it clear you want space. 

You both linger behind the other’s as Storm leads you through the forest. Jean is being more touchy with Scott than normal. Either to assuage her own guilt or to rub it in Logan’s face, you’re not sure which. You nearly gag as you watch them whisper to one another, you glance over at Logan to see if he notices. 

You’re startled when you see him already staring at you. His lips tick up into something mischievous when he catches your eye. That smug smirk on his face as he leans in towards you. “Wanna tell me what’s got you so pissed off?”

You roll your eyes and tamp down the rising tide of anger. “Nothing,” you bite out, jaw clenching the longer you stare at the back of Jean’s head. You’re surprised you haven’t chipped a tooth with how hard you’re grinding your teeth together. 

He scoffs, not believing you for a second. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you an expectant stare. You can taste the words forming on your tongue, an irritating urge to just spill your guts overcoming you. Before you can stop yourself you blurt out, “I’m a little surprised that’s all.”

“Oh yeah, ‘bout what?” You hate how amused he sounds, the chuckle just lying in wait under his words. Like your anger is funny to him, like he didn’t just break your stupid fucking heart. 

You stop walking, not feeling as intimidating as you want while you shiver and huddle into yourself. He seems perfectly at ease in his leather jacket and beater, still refusing to wear the uniform. He leans back and looks at you with a fondness that you can’t tell if you love or hate. “You and little Miss Perfect.” You spit the nickname with enough venom to make both of your eyes widen. 

Logan rolls his eyes and takes a step towards you, again, Storm interrupts you both. “Guys, really?” Everyone turns around to stare and you will the heat in your face away. “Not the time,” she scolds and you brush past Logan to catch up with the others. 

You come upon a warehouse, it’s nearly camouflaged under all the snow. You see two guards waiting outside the metal doors and you all disperse behind the trees. Storm glances towards Jean who focuses on the guards. They drop to the floor and you wave your hands, their guns melting into puddles of metal. 

Logan and Scott move forward, sliding the large metal doors open. You wince at the loud screeching as the rust flakes off the sides. There’s a collective quiet as you all hold your breath, waiting for them to give the all-clear. Once they run inside and run back out, you and the others quickly get to your feet and rush into the warehouse. Logan closes the doors again as you make it inside. 

“No one here?” Storm checks. Scott shakes his head and you frown. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be guards if there was nothing inside?

Your question is, unfortunately, answered a minute later. You find a pile of metal crates stacked on top of each other. A large beige tarp covers them. You tug at the corner, letting the fabric slide off. Your eyes flutter with disappointment, “Guys! Over here,” mutants sit inside the crates. Each of them stares at you with varying degrees of mistrust and fear. 

As awful as it is, you’ve gotten used to these quiet depressing missions. There aren’t usually many mutants in one place. They don’t like to keep the product in one spot for too long. There are only four kids here. The youngest is eleven and the oldest is seventeen. There’s nothing physically telling about their abilities so you assume it must be psychic powers. 

They don’t want to come with you until you all give them a demonstration of your powers. Proving that you’re not just trapping them and taking them somewhere worse. You’re nearly out the door when Charles's voice rings loudly through all of your minds. 

You wince at the volume, hands coming up to grip at your hair as he shouts, “Behind you!” A gunshot rings out, something hot rips across your wrist and you gasp in pain. There’s a clatter of metal as your cuff drops to the ground, the bullet having destroyed it. Without them both, they’re useless. One won’t work without the other. 

You glance up at Logan, a panicked look on your face. You can already feel the tidal wave of power thrashing and building in your chest. It’s been so long with the safety net that you forgot how bad it gets without the cuffs. 

“We need to get you out of here!” He shouts over the gunfire. He herds the group behind a cluster of metal shipment boxes. It provides enough cover for you all to try and figure out an escape plan. 

You listen to the other’s worried voices, each of them trying to console the kids. You don’t know their powers yet. Don’t know what might go wrong if they get too scared and can’t control their abilities. 

You can’t speak, breaths coming short and fast as you clutch your wrist to your chest. You know it’s delusional, hoping that if you keep a tight grip like the cuff you might be able to control yourself. You can already feel the energy leaking out of you, the ends of everyone’s hair stands on end. The wall in front of you warps and cracks like it can’t decide if it’s liquid or solid. 

You grit your teeth and look only at Storm. “You need to get out,” you force the words out. It causes physical pain to try and keep everything at bay. You can feel pressure building in your forehead, pushing out until you think you might explode. 

“We’re not leaving you,” Logan snaps. There’s shouting going on behind you, a pause as they all reload their guns. 

“Wasn’t a question,” you grit out. You look towards Jean and there’s a moment where you both put aside your differences. You both know how stubborn he is, how much he’ll fight against leaving you behind. Regenerative powers or not, it's dangerous to even be close to your gift now. You can see them all straining against the ebbing flow of your powers. Their skin shifts unnaturally like you’re already altering the atoms of their being. 

This is why you’re only allowed to train with Charles and Jean. They can get in your head, shut it down when you can’t. You’re not sure you’re going to survive yourself. Logan glances between the two of you and practically growls at Jean, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare-”

His words trail off into an unintelligible slur as he slumps forward, Jean having knocked him out with her powers. Scott grabs him and grunts under the weight of his body. “I’ll cover you,” you gasp the words out. Anything but focusing on your powers causes physical strain that makes you feel like you’re being tugged in a hundred different directions. “Just get them out,” you nod towards the kids. 

Storm nods and you slip out of cover. It isn’t hard to push your powers in one direction, to solidify the air in front of you so the bullets ricochet harmlessly off. You listen to the whine of the metal door and wait for the others to be gone. 

“They’re in the jet,” Charles's voice rings out. “Don’t do this,” he warns. You can’t think of a response, you’re not even sure what you would say. You never thought you would be able to approach death this calmly, or that this would be how you die. It feels almost pathetic, dying because you lost control on a recon mission. 

At least those kids are safe. It’s not a bad reason to die. Just not great. You glance down at the other cuff on your right hand, the air around it fluctuates until it melts off your wrist like liquid metal. With the last barely there tether off your powers, you close your eyes and release the tidal wave. 

It feels like a dam exploding. It doesn’t leak fluidly from you, it rips through you like a hailstorm of knives. Tears apart anything in its path and rewrites the molecular build of everything in its path. Screams echo through the air as men’s bones turn into brittle dust and their hearts morph into something inorganic. You’re blind to everything around you, vision clouded by the horrific release of energy. 

You can feel warmth leaking down your face. Blood still pours from the wound on your wrist, and fresh blood from other wounds you can’t even feel. You don’t know when the screams stop, or when you’re finally drained. But you feel like an empty husk as you drop to the floor, your head bouncing harshly against the cement as everything goes black. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Logan says with a grin, glaring at Scott even though it’s Charles who is holding him back. He’s got a firm mental grasp on Logan, keeping him locked into place while he focuses on the warehouse. 

They’re waiting for the all-clear. The others know there’s always the possibility that they’re going to be collecting a body. But none of them are willing to say that, not with the look on Logan’s face. His muscles look ready to pop out of his skin with how much he’s fighting against Charles’s hold. 

Scott backs away from Logan with a scoff. He stands near Jean, but she can’t take her eyes off the restrained man. Nothing had happened this morning, Flux had seen to that. Interrupting them just as they’d started. Seeing the way he’s acting now, she’s starting to believe that nothing is ever going to happen. 

He’d looked like he was about to dismiss her when she started making a move. She can see the anger on his face, it seems he’s only ever pissed off. But underneath that, as much as he hides it, she can see the fear. He’s terrified that they're going to walk in there and you’re going to be dead. 

Jean can feel the fear of the others as well. They’ve only seen you lose control once and that had almost leveled the mansion. Charles had stopped you then, but the loss of the cuff had been so sudden Jean just barely had enough strength to keep the others blocked from your powers. She didn’t have enough time to shut you down. 

Jean, as much as she’s tried to deny it and dismiss her suspicions, can’t look Logan in the eye and ignore it anymore. It’s never been her that he’s wanted. The way he trails along beside you, always prodding and poking until you’re pissy and mouthing off. It’s not done because he finds antagonizing people fun, it's because he loves seeing you all worked up and passionate. He doesn’t view you through the same platonic lens he does the others. You’re something else to him, something she doesn’t want to name, afraid of the bitter taste it will leave on her tongue. 

Charles slumps back in his chair and Logan suddenly lunges forward. He looks a little surprised by the sudden freedom of movement, but before any of them can stop him he’s running out of the jet. “Logan,” Jean tries to call after him but he’s already a distant blur. 

Scott sighs and starts down the ramp. “Come on,” he mutters. He’s the last one who should be coming along. If anything is wrong with you, he’ll end up being Logan’s punching bag. Jean follows reluctantly, she’s not sure she wants to see what’s happened. 

Your powers are too similar in their volatile nature. The way they rule you and come so close to destroying you when you use them too much, is too familiar to Jean. She doesn’t want to see you lying dead on the floor and be reminded of her own mortality. But someone needs to make sure Logan is stuck on a leash. 

They reach where the warehouse should be. It’s nothing but a pile of rubble now. Throughout the wreckage, Jean can make out odd pools of liquid, some writhing, others still. She can only assume that these had been the men shooting at them. She doesn’t see your body, none of them do. But Logan isn’t giving up. 

He lifts different pieces of metal and tosses them off into the forest. Jean doesn’t sense your presence anywhere but she doesn’t have the heart to tell Logan to give up. After a few minutes of searching, she almost tells him to quit. But she can’t see him anymore. He’s disappeared somewhere behind a particularly large pile of roofing. A moment later, Logan stands up. His jacket is gone, wrapped around the body in his arms. None of them are close enough to see if you’re breathing. And he doesn’t say a word as he brushes past them, just keeps going back to the jet. Ororo, Scott, and Jean all share a silent look. None of them prepared for the potential fallout that’s going to happen after this. 

The first thing you feel is two familiar bands of metal around your wrists. The comforting feeling of the cuffs is enough to have you sinking further into the pillows surrounding you. Then you hear the beeping in your ear, feel the cool blow of AC, and become startlingly aware of the fact that you’re in a bed you don’t recognize. 

You groan, eyes peeling open painfully as your lashes get stuck on your skin. You reach up to rub at your face but your arms feel too weak to lift. You give up on the thought, instead staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your vision to refocus. 

A throat clears in front of you and you nearly jump out of your skin. Sitting at the end of your bed, arms crossed and a fierce glare on his face is Logan. His feet are propped up on the small table beside you. He quirks a brow and gives you a sardonic grin, “Finally awake, princess?”

Normally the name would have you up and doing somersaults, but there’s something distinctly negative and disappointed lacing his tone. It squashes any and all butterflies in your stomach. You grimace as you try and sit up. Logan is up in an instant, an annoyed look still on his face as he helps you up. 

You can’t help your dopey smile at how gentle his hands are on you. Even pissed off, he treats you so kindly. Maybe it’s the drugs relaxing you, or the fact that you almost died, but you can’t remember whatever made you mad at him. You can only feel the slide of his calloused hands against your arms, the way you shiver under his touch and crave more. 

He pulls the chair closer to you with a loud scratch of metal feet on the linoleum. You groan at the loud sound and he huffs, throwing himself down in the seat. “How do you feel?”

Your head sinks back against the wall and you finally realize you’re in the medbay. It’s why everything smells so sterile. “Like I got hit by a semi.”

He barely lets you finish your thought before he spits out, “What the fuck were you thinking?” He doesn’t ease you into this at all and you frown. You’re not sure why you would expect him to ever beat around the bush. That’s not his style, he’s always been blunt. Even when others wish he wouldn’t be. 

“What else was I supposed to do?” You ask, voice weak. Your throat feels like it’s been ripped apart. Idly, you wonder if you had been screaming in the warehouse or if this was just general strain from the whole ordeal. 

“Not put yourself at risk like that.” He leans forward, voice stern and bordering on shouting. You know he’s holding back. As much as he wants to lay into you right now, he’s stopping himself from going completely out of his mind. You appreciate it, but you almost wish he would just yell at you. You wish you had a reason to resent him, to finally get over him. “Not have Jean knock me out like that. You don’t get to make those decisions for me.”

It’s completely inappropriate and horrible timing, but you can’t help but scoff at the mention of Jean’s name. Can you not have one conversation that’s not tainted by the mention of the redhead?

Logan’s mouth snaps shut and he glares at you in disbelief. You squeeze your eyes shut, not willing to face him as embarrassment washes over you. No wonder he always calls you kid. You’re not exactly acting like an adult. You’re being a brat and for such a stupid reason too. 

Just because you like him doesn’t mean he has to reciprocate. You can’t just force your feelings on someone. “Logan,” you whisper his name, “Sorry. I’m sorry-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. Some of the anger, but not all, has ebbed from his expression. He almost looks like he’s smiling. “Jean? That’s what this is about? Jealous or something, sweetheart?”

You sputter, shocked little noises leaving you but no words. After a solid minute of restarting a sentence you don’t know how to end you finally land on a squeaky, “Who?” If you weren’t so mortified, you might have just thrown yourself out the window. Out of every cop-out you could have gone with you chose to just pretend you didn’t know who she was. Maybe you could make this work, like selective amnesia. 

Your shame only builds as Logan laughs. You cover your face and wish you could bury yourself six feet deep and never come up. You feel two rough hands wrap around your wrists, tugging your own away from your face. You don’t have the energy to fight back, so you keep your eyes on his chin. Too afraid to meet his gaze. 

“Come on,” he mutters, gently nudging your chin up until you’re forced to look at him. You're caught off guard by the look in his eyes. You recognize it, but you’d only ever seen it directed at Jean. It’s the same way you’ve always looked at him. Pure unguarded want and desire. 

The hand on your chin drifts back, fingers tangling in your hair and gently resting on your jaw. He tugs you forward until your lips are nearly touching, breaths mingling with every exhale. “Only ever wanted you, darlin'.’”

The kiss catches you off guard. It shouldn’t, deep down you knew it was coming, but the intensity behind it, the way you can practically taste how bad he wants this, wants you, catches you off guard. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting yourself melt into his hold. 

His free hand drifts to your waist and clutches the flimsy hospital gown until you hear it tear. You part your lips, deepening the kiss so you can finally taste him. It’s cigars and whiskey, something you should hate but is entirely intoxicating when he’s holding you so tightly. Fireworks are going off in your mind, sparks darting between your fingers as the cuffs struggle to contain all the energy suddenly pushing out of you. 

He can feel you holding back, squeezing you like it’s a promise he can take it. Take everything you throw at him. You let go as much as your cuffs will allow you. Let the energy blanket you both so you can’t hear your heart monitor going off like crazy. So you don’t feel anything other than each other. You think you’re going to devour each other like you’ll just keep kissing until neither of you can take it anymore. You don’t want to let go of him, don’t want to lose this moment. 

But you have to breathe. You don’t get to just keep living the way he does. You pull away from him slowly, every part of you dreading separating from him. His forehead drops against your own, his laughter playing along your lips as he finally hears the monitor going haywire. 

You groan, flicking your wrist and shutting it off so it can’t betray how flustered you are anymore. He gently nudges you aside so he can sit beside you on the bed. You don’t waste a second before you’re draping yourself across his chest and siphoning his warmth. He chuckles, arms coming up to wrap around you. 

“Can’t believe you were jealous of Jean.”

“Shut up,” you snipe. You look up at him and glare, “How else do you explain what you two were doing?”

He leans forward and gives you a smug grin. “She came onto me, sweetheart.” Your face screws up in distaste and jealousy. She’s going to need to learn to keep her hands to herself. He seems to feel the way you tense up, he huffs in amusement and rubs your back. “Relax, you’re gonna blow your fuse again.”

You glance down at your wrists and nuzzle further into him. You can’t believe you could have been laying on him this whole time. You never want to use a blanket again, not when you’ve got him. “I’ll be fine now that I’ve got my cuffs.”

His hand stills on your bicep. He squeezes it before his hand drifts up to your chin and he tilts your face up again. “I don’t ever want to see that again.” You’re a little surprised by the sudden shift in tone, but you knew this was coming. 

“I had to, Logan. I either took you all down with me or I went on my own.”

Logan frowns and takes in a deep breath. You place a hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. He smiles down at you, “Next time, take me with you. I’m not fucking dealing with Summers without you.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Your face grows warm and your chest expands with some odd gleeful feeling as he laces your fingers together. “Deal,” you whisper, still smiling at him. 

A/N: Okay, this might be shit, I’m not sure. I sort of rushed the ending because as I was writing this I had another idea for him. I guess I’m officially off my hiatus. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.