#and it is something she will FOREVER carry around with her

[hedwig221b]

I'm looking for some Sterek with soft Derek and happy endings. You know, the perfect mushy read after something dark and angst-ridden.

Okay, settle in for Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts time

Physical Touch by mybestfriendsarebooks

Scott has noticed that Derek isn't big on physical affection. Scott and the others had made peace with that and knew when not to push or back away quickly. One person seems to be the exception. Scott notices the progression of this affection over the years.

The Words You Speak by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Stiles just stared at her. “Derek’s a Werewolf, why the hell would he be in the hospital?” Melissa gave him an odd look, then turned to Scott for help, who looked just as lost. At least it wasn’t another one of Stiles’ oblivious moments, though considering Scott’s IQ, it wasn’t exactly hard to be down at his level. Melissa turned back to Stiles, still looking confused. “Whenever Derek has a bad day, he always goes to the postnatal ward at the hospital. He likes being around all the babies, and he’s actually really good with them. The women up there love him, he can get the crying ones to stop in a second. Not sure if it’s a wolf thing or a Derek thing, but it’s very sweet.” Derek did what now? “Did you both not know this?” Melissa turned to include Scott in her inquiry. “He’s been doing this for well over a year, I figured you knew.”

Ain't Nothing so Good as the Cake and Eating it by sofonisba_found

Derek thinks he's doing alright in life, with his family at his side and a job he loves. Despite his family's concerns he remains adamant that he doesn't need a mate, afraid to take the risk of letting anyone close enough to try to hurt his family again. That is until he realizes that his true mate has been right under his nose for years, and that now through his inaction he may lose him.

what a big heart i have (better to love you with) by crazyassmurdererwall (smartalli)

Stiles has a massive thing for Derek Hale. This is not news. Stiles, after all, has been carrying a torch for Derek ever since they bumped into each other at a taco cart at the start of his freshman year. But what is news? With no hope of ever capturing Derek’s attention, Stiles is thinking it might be time to let that torch go. Try to let it burn out. (Derek might have something to say about that.)

Three Lost Kids, Two Minute Noodles and One Hot Mate. by MysticEdge

Stiles is leaving a local store and he notices a toddler wandering the parking lot by himself. worried for the childs safety he rushes to him to discover the child had wandered away from his mother’s mini van. Doors are wide open. Upon closer inspection looks like there are 2 more kids in the car crying because the mother is laying face down in the back. Like she passed out after putting 2 of the 3 kids in the car. Frantic he calls his father while checking to see if the mother is breathing. The mother is Laura Hale. No Hale fire, Derek is still weary with people as Kate attempted to set the fire but was thwarted. Stiles meets Derek for the first time when he’s called to the hospital for Laura and the children.

Little Promises by crossroadswrite

Derek doesn’t really know what happened. He just knows there was a lady and she was pretty but she was also really mean and she was trying to hurt his friends. “Holy fuck,” Erica mutters and is harshly shushed by Isaac. “Don’t swear in front of the kid.” “It’s not a kid,” Erica counters. “It’s just-“ “Derek?”

You Fit Me Better by Rena

Five times Stiles and Derek ended up wearing each others clothes on accident, and one time it's deliberate.

Of Puppy Piles and Sugar Dreams by StarShineForMe

In which Isaac and Scott get de-aged, the pack must learn to bond and protect their own, and Derek ("Dewek!") and Stiles ("Sti-ewes!") are mates…even if it takes them forever and two toddlers to realize it. “Oh, God.” Stiles buries his face in his hands, water dripping down his wrists. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Derek whips out a towel, wrapping it around Stiles’ forearms, pulling them away from Stiles’ body so he can look them over. “I’m fine,” Stiles says, a little blankly. Erica and Boyd have set Issac and Scott back onto the floor, tickling them both into fits of giggles. He huffs out a noise that’s not quite a whimper, not quite a laugh. “Just wondering when the hell I ended up in my very own episode of ‘Teen Mom’.”

Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me? by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

So if his dad hadn’t been the one to come home and get him into bed properly, and was now making him breakfast, then who…? Seriously, his embarrassment level couldn’t get any lower at this point. It was bad enough to imagine it was his dad, but to know Scott had come to take care of him was worse. But not nearly as bad as the absolute horror and astronomical levels of embarrassment when Stiles walked into the kitchen and found Derek at the stove making French toast. Because of course it was Derek. If someone was going to see Stiles naked and passed out cold on his bed, why wouldn’t it be Derek? His long-time crush and provider of fap material? Sure, why not, life wasn’t horrible enough yet, might as well make it downright dreadful!

The by kaistrex (weishen)

Snippets of the lives of four-year-old Derek and baby Stiles as they grow up together.

Finding Home by captaintinymite (augopher)

To teach them a lesson, a pair of mischievous pixies hit Derek and Stiles with a spell that makes them six years old again. Neither of them remembers anything about their lives beyond that age. What happens when the pair of them become immediate friends and declare that when they grow up they will get married? Will they remember anything when the spell wears off?

A Slight Problem by kaistrex (weishen)

The Hale family dog takes a shine to seven-year-old Stiles.

Are You the One? by Venrajade

Derek's sister works for a television network with a dating show that claims that they are able to find someone's True Mate. Cora steals a scent sample from Derek and matches him to an Omega applying to the show with a 99% chance of them being mates. Which means Derek is now a reality dating show star. Shit.

Sometimes Not Seeing Is Believing by FeelingFredly

Stiles gave him a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t poison you, Der.” His grin turned sharp and sharklike. “At least not much. I just need to test it on you to make sure it will work on other weres.” Derek snorted. “And you didn’t think Peter would be a better target for your experiments?” That got him a shrugged shoulder. “He offered, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.” ---or that time when an invisibility potion helped Derek see things a lot more clearly.

Slugs, and Snails, and Puppy Dog Tails by yodasyoyo

kid!Derek being super taken with kid!Stiles. And their interactions.

We're Like Milo and Otis by tabbytabbytabby

Stiles and Derek meet each other before they can even talk. With Claudia being the Hale family Emissary, Stiles spends most of his time with the Hales. Stiles and Derek are immediately inseparable. Stiles learns early on that his magic reacts to Derek more than anyone else and because of that he is able to shift into a fox and go on adventures with Derek. Those adventures aren't always safe but one thing is certain, they'll always look out for each other.

Five Times Stiles Needed A Crash Course On Wolfy Behavior and the One Time He Figured Shit Out by 1lostone

Pretty much what it says on the tin. Written for hungrylikethewolfie (ladyblahblah) who had a bad day and requested possessive!Derek and Oblivious!Stiles.

Lying (By Omission) by redezon

College fic where Stiles has an adorable girlfriend. Only ‘D’ isn’t adorable. Or his girlfriend. Or: Five times people talk about Stiles’s mysterious significant other, and one time they actually see them.

and i'll just keep on stumblin' (right now it feels too humblin') by dee_lirious

Derek Hale is pretty much the worst person in the world to hypothetically develop a crush on, being a murder suspect, a dangerous werewolf, a weirdo who stalks people from the treeline, and also living in a train car, Jesus Christ. (In response to jennova's prompt: Five times Stiles tries to make Derek smile and one time he succeeds but doesn’t notice because kissing or something.)

Loud Love

There wasn’t a single moment when they weren’t touching. They didn’t notice anyone — obsessed with each other, they were blind to all jealousy. The circle of one another’s arms encapsulated their world. Close, tight, inseparable. They didn’t care if someone watched them, both lost in each other, entrapped.

Other fic recs: angsty fics + pt2 | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles + pt2 | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles + pt2 | oblivious!Stiles | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | feral Derek | arranged marriage | Stiles is underestimated | mpreg w/o abo | accidental knotting | jock!Derek | jock!Stiles | alive Hales | spanking | royal abo au | longfic | void!Stiles | sheriff dissaproves | Stiles doesn't know about werewolves

[gamergirlwrites]

Title: Caring

Pairing: Sevika x Female!Reader

Synopsis: You and Sevika settle things after a fight.

CW: Smut. Dom!top!Sevika. Bottom!sub!Reader. Mean!Sevika. Strap-On Usage. Cunnilingus. Rough Sex. Throat Fucking. Strap referred to as cock. Breeding kink.

You hated fighting with Sevika. She could be confrontational in her no-bullshit attitude, so you steered clear of conflict with her. The way that she managed to handle herself as you hurled insult after insult at her to get a rise always left you devastated in the end. It didn't matter how many times Sevika picked up the pieces of your heart after a fight, you always remembered the way she carried herself in the moment.

"Watch your tone," Sevika warned. Her patience had been lacking since she had come upon her new position on the council. It was tiring without the physical outlet that running things in Zaun had given her. She had been able to do things a different way whenever she had just been another person that she missed as a councilor.

"Is this really going to be what it takes Sev? Do I really have to stand here and scream at you for a little attention? Don't you fucking care about me anymore?" You couldn't stop yourself. Each question loaded up to come out one right after the other.

Sevika pinched the bridge of her nose as she sighed. You were grating on her nerves. Everybody wanted to pull her one way or another it seemed, but you were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be the one she came back to every night happily. Admittedly, she had been a bit busy for you with late nights and after-hours meetings, but if she had loved you back in Zaun, she still did in Piltover.

"I could ask you the same fucking thing a thousand times, but I never did. I trusted that you loved me even when you spent every chance you got hanging off of whoever had the biggest purse. How many people did you spread your legs for before I took you up here with me? You can say a lot of shit, but don't you ever accuse me of not caring," Sevika told you. Her voice was harsher than it had sounded in a long time. You hadn't fought like this in forever, not since everything that had happened with Jinx and Isha.

Sevika's gaze was angry as she stared at you, but you could see the inkling of something else behind it. A long, hard day's work for Sevika usually meant one of two things for you. Sometimes, it was an argument if you tried to pester her for attention followed by Sevika giving you exactly what you wanted. Other nights, things happened on Sevika's terms, and you knew what kind of night you were in for this time.

"I care enough not to throw you out on the streets, but what have you done for me lately? Has it been hard keeping your legs shut all day? Do you miss the drunk idiots fucking into you like it's their last night here?" Sevika asked you. You swallowed nervously as she closed the distance between your bodies. There was barely a moment of hesitation before her mouth was on yours.

Sevika's lips pressed against yours harshly in a bruising kiss. Her metal arm tightened around your waist, holding you securely against her body. You brought one hand up to cradle the back of her head as the other balled up around her shirt. Sevika nipped at your lip as she pulled back just enough to see the dazed look on your face.

"Don't think I forgot about the way you used to beg me to fuck you like the slut you are." Sevika's words brought a rush of memories back for you. Nights that you had spent riding her when she'd come see you after roughing someone up. There was something intoxicating about the way Sevika had been rough with you before her feelings settled in. You missed it sometimes, even if you wouldn't have traded the way Sevika loved you for anything.

"Whatever, you've always been too soft for that shit." You regretted your words the moment that they left your mouth. Sevika's grip on your back tightened a little as she hauled you over her shoulder. You knew that she was taking you to bed. You knew that she was going to give you a stark reminder of the way she used to be, and then some. There was more aggression pent up inside of Sevika that she was usually too tired to vent out.

Sevika dumped you unceremoniously onto the bed with your head dangling off the edge of it. She placed her hand on your stomach and pushed it down, just past the waistband of your underwear. Sevika was unsurprised to feel that you were wet. She knew that nine times out of ten, your attitude was caused by the fact that you felt physically neglected by her.

"Jesus Christ, I haven't even done anything yet and you're already leaking onto my fingers," Sevika teased as she swiped her fingers through your folds. A little teasing trace of your entrance had you actively dripping onto her hand just like she had said. You closed your eyes and pushed your hips just enough to push her fingers inside of you. That was when Sevika pulled them back at the last second.

"Sev, please," you whined. Sevika removed her hand completely and plunged her fingers past your lips and into your mouth. Sevika had positioned you perfectly on the bed. She managed to keep her fingers in your mouth as she grabbed her favorite toy from the bedside table.

Your eyes widened as Sevika removed her hand to remove her own pants. She kept her underwear on as she stepped into the harness. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you were completely bare in front of Sevika. She's keep the rest of her clothes on until later, giving you plenty of time to squirm at the feeling of being so exposed.

"I don't want to hear a word from your mouth for a bit. In fact, you're not gonna open your mouth unless it's to take my fucking dick," Sevika ordered. You swallowed nervously as she began to stroke the toy. You squirmed a bit on the bed as she teasingly brought the tip to your lips. Sevika backed away for a second before squeezing your cheeks to open your mouth.

Sevika didn't inch her way into your mouth this time. You took every inch of her down to the hilt. Sevika planted her hands on the bed as she started thrusting back and forth. You knew that the toy was putting a bit of pressure on her. You could feel the heat radiating from her cunt as she spread her legs to fuck even deeper into your throat.

It would be only a matter of time before she was fucking you like this, and you knew it. Sevika's thrusts were rough, harsher than they had been with your mouth in quite some time. You had enough practice for a lifetime of this though, and Sevika knew it. She had seen some of the things you could do firsthand, and even if it wasn't usually her cup of tea, Sevika appreciated it. She appreciated the way your body could take and take without breaking, but tonight, Sevika wanted to break you.

"That's it, fucking swallow every bit of me like the slut that you are. I can see your pussy getting wetter the harder I go like this. You couldn't even pretend to fucking choke on it, could you?" Sevika's words lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. She knew just how to press your buttons to both piss you off and turn you on. You took everything she gave you with the hope of getting the chance to make her beg you for her own release later.

In a bold move, you placed your hands on Sevika's hips. She could have easily gotten onto you for it, but before she could open her mouth to say anything, you pulled her further into you. Sevika's jaw dropped as she watched you take her even further into your mouth somehow, defying what she thought was even possible.

"Oh my fucking god. I need you right now," Sevika swore. She pulled out of your throat and quickly flipped you around on the bed so that your cunt was closer. Sevika made quick work of ripping your shorts and underwear off of you in one fluid motion. Your shirt fared a different fate as Sevika literally tore it practically to shreds to free your breasts.

You were absolutely soaking wet, and despite herself, Sevika ignored the slick skin that was calling out to her. She stroked her hand along her strap, as if it was an actual cock. The toy was slick, her mechanical hand gliding along the length of it effortlessly thanks to your saliva. Sevika knew that she wouldn't even have to touch you to get every inch of herself inside of you tonight.

"Your pussy is mine," Sevika told you with a sharp slap to your cunt. She'd never touch you with her mechanical arm. It was too dangerous in her mind. It was pretty rare for her to even leave it on this long. She only needed a single arm to hold you in whatever position she wanted, which was a true testament to her strength.

"I'm yours," you told her. Sevika leaned forward and grabbed your face in her hand. This time, it was the mechanical one, and you shuddered at the feeling of cool metal against your skin. Sevika smirked as she wiped a trail of drool left over from her fucking your face. "Yours."

"Mine," Sevika echoed. She moved her hand to plant it on the bed as her hips snapped forward. Every inch of her dildo was pushed inside of you, stretching you practically in half for a moment. Sevika didn't bother watching you stretch around her toy, instead caught up in the look of pleasure on your face. "Dirty fucking whore. Letting me split you open like this and liking it. You're fucking sick, and I've got no choice but to fuck it out of you."

Sevika began thrusting into you at a rough pace. The bed frame knocked against the wall with each thrust of her hips. You were almost certain that she would fuck you out of the house if that was even possible. Sevika's hands balled up in the sheets as she hammered into you. The pace was fast and rough, but you knew that it wasn't for you.

You watched as the toy moved in and out of you, being swallowed wholly each time. Sevika's eyes finally trailed down to your cunt to watch as well, and you noticed the stutter in her hips when she saw the state of you. She was fucking you selfishly, and despite the evidence of your arousal on her cock, you were nowhere near as close as Sevika was.

"Cum in me," you told Sevika. You perched yourself up a bit, holding onto her shirt for leverage. Sevika's eyes widened, and you could tell from the way her hips just rocked against yours that she had listened. Sevika came with soft pants as her face was buried in the side of your neck. Slowly, she pulled out of you and knelt down in between your legs.

"You're such a fucking mess, and you're not even done yet. You still need more, don't you? You fucking creamed all over my cock, but you didn't cum, did you? Are you gonna soak the sheets too? We'll have to sleep in the fucking guest room after this. It's filthy, just like you," Sevika said as she placed her hand over your clit. She rubbed furiously, almost to the point of hurting more than pleasure.

The pressure made you shoot up a little, curling into yourself. Sevika could tell that you were close as your hole fluttered around nothing. She kept rubbing her fingers over your clit, not watching anything other than the way you dribbled and gushed from it. Sevika missed the way that your arms limply tried to reach for her to push her away. She could have gone like that all night, but after about a minute of her harshly rubbing you through aftershocks, you managed to find the strength to kick her away.

"Such a fucking bitch, I swear," Sevika muttered as she stood up. You looked clearly and thoroughly fucked out. You had only cum once, but Sevika had put your body through the ringer with that one. She knelt onto the bed next to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead before she leaned in to whisper, "Don't you ever tell me that I don't care about you again. Don't be fucking stupid, you know I love and care for you."

"Sorry Sev," you apologized. Sevika pulled your head into her lap as she scratched at your scalp. You nearly drifted off to sleep like that, but Sevika didn't let you. She pulled you into the bathroom, setting you on the side of the tub as she wiped away the mess that she had made of you. "I know you care baby, I know it."

Sevika's cheeks were tinted a bit pink as she looked away from you in a vain attempt to hide her blushing. You clung to Sevika until she dressed you in a pair of her boxers and a t-shirt. She brought you into the guest room to lay, where you quickly fell asleep while she took care of the sheets and blankets from your room. There would be more to clean later, but Sevika yearned to curl up in bed with you instead. She placed her mechanical arm by the bed before she climbed in with you, smiling to herself when you immediately moved towards her subconsciously.

[electricneonvalkyrie]

Smut. 18+ only.

Let's talk muscle memory. Let's dive into a little poetic devastation. Because Abby's a powerhouse, there's no denying it. But lemme tell ya... tough women can be so goddamn gentle when the rest of the city is asleep.

You wanna know what it's really like to date a woman with the stamina to carry you up several flights of stairs with ease, all because your shoes were rubbing the backs of your heels raw?

A woman who emasculates most insecure men by simply existing. If they only knew.

I have the inside scoop.

There are downy, fine hairs on Abby's hard stomach and along the long plane of her back, barely there. They catch the sunlight, as if they were spun from it.

It's something only you get to see and the heat of it will live in your spine forever.

You think you’ve seen Abby's strength before.

But have you seen it when it turns soft for you?

Her back muscles ripple when she supports her own body weight. Do you know what it looks like when she supports yours?

Do you know what it feels like against your fingertips? Every cord of her aching, woven muscles, carved by repetition, pressing into you.

The way the tendons in her forearm flex as she softly fists the cotton sheets. When her hand disappears between your thighs. If you follow them down to her wrist, do you see how her veins lift beneath her skin?

Have you kissed them? Run the tip of your tongue along the warm ridges of what makes her so powerful, what sets her apart?

When she pulls you into her, wraps her arms around your thighs, when she encourages you to grind against her face, do you see the way her shoulders move? The way her muscles roll, playing with shadow and light from an angle she'll only ever trust you to see.

Do you notice how soft her lips are in contrast to her rigid jaw?

How maybe she tried her hand at a wand of mascara and now it's running down her cheeks a little because you taste so good and she needs you so much that she's holding herself back.

Just enough to worship you properly. Just enough that when you break, you're taking her with you.

Do you hear how she whimpers so sweetly while the rough, sculpted lines of her built body pull and knot? The way her hair, spilling wet from her messy braid, spirals in golden threads at the base of her neck. Just like when she's pushing that last rep with a barbell in hand, only this time, you're her sole focus.

Only this time, she won't catch her breath.

Look at me. Please.

Do you see how her chin glistens, all freckled and yours to grip? To cradle until you lose control and forget yourself entirely. Until you fall apart in wild giggles that make her smile against the most sensitive part of you.

You'll never unravel like this for any other woman, and you know it.

But she doesn't.

Tell her.

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 32

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Content Warning: family loss, angst

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The flight to New York was quiet. Y/N’s hand rested lightly in Robby’s, the soft hum of the plane and the light bustle around them making everything feel like a dream. But today wasn’t about the city. It was about family.

They’d talked about it before, but you had always been reluctant to bring Robby into the fold. Your family’s history was something you carried very close to your sheltered heart.

But today was different. You were ready.

The family vault was nestled in a corner of a cemetery that looked like something out of an old novel. Old, regal stonework, and the overgrown ivy that made it feel timeless, like it belonged to a different world altogether. You stood at the base of the vault, your fingers pressed against the cool stone.

“You okay?” Robby asked softly, his voice steady.

She nodded, though her expression was a mix of fondness and something else, an unspoken weight she’d never fully explained.

“This is me, my parents, my grandparents, my great-grandparents and my brother.” Your eyes flickered, your gaze softening as you stared at the engraved names. “I wanted you to meet them, to finally see all of me.”

Robby’s hand found yours again, squeezing gently. "Thank you for showing me this. I know it means a lot to you."

Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t just about a visit to the cemetery, it was about sharing the core of who you were, the history you carried with you every day, the legacy of love and loss that made you. You never thought you could open this part of your life to anyone, but with Robby… things felt different.

They stood there for a few moments longer, the wind stirring the leaves around them, the silence settling over them like a comforting embrace.

—--------------------------------

That evening, you introduced Robby to your family in a more conventional way, at a small but lively family dinner. The warmth of your aunt and uncle’s home in the suburbs felt different from the reserved energy of the family vault, but there was a familiar comfort in the noise, the laughter, and the shared history.

Your uncle, David, was a man of few words but many gestures. He had the sharp eyes of a man who had lived through a hundred stories and had a thousand more to tell. Robby and he exchanged a few words in Hebrew, which you watched with a certain fondness, relieved to see Robby fit in so seamlessly with your family. Your uncle, despite his stoic exterior, welcomed Robby into the fold without hesitation.

“Your uncle’s really something,” Robby said after a while, quietly to you as you both helped clear the table.

“He’s not exactly warm,” you replied with a smile. “But he’s family. And in his own way, he shows he cares.”

Her aunt, Victoria, a lively woman who seemed to never stop talking, pulled you aside with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “So, when do we get to see a wedding ring, huh? I think you two would make adorable babies.”

You froze for a moment, your cheeks coloring. “Aunt Victoria, not now.”

Her aunt laughed. “Oh, come on. You know it’s only a matter of time.”

You swallowed. Robby. Family. Forever.

You weren’t quite ready for the topic to come up so abruptly, but there was a part of you that couldn’t shake the thought. The idea of a ring... It felt almost right, but the timing wasn’t there. Not yet.

—------------------------------------------

Later that evening, after they had returned to the apartment they’d rented for the trip, Robby sat down beside you on the couch, the quiet buzz of the city just outside the window. You had spent the day in a whirlwind of family introductions, old and new memories. It had been more than you expected—more than you had ever thought would be possible with someone else by your side.

You had been thinking about your family’s comments, especially Aunt Victoria’s. The idea of commitment, of forever, had been bubbling beneath the surface of your thoughts all day.

Robby was quieter than usual, his eyes flicking over to you with that deep, patient gaze that always made you feel like he was truly present in whatever moment you shared.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked softly, his voice gentle.

You hesitated for a moment. Your family had given you an unspoken challenge today. The question of when, when you weren’t even sure of the how.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, shifting slightly. “My family, they keep talking about… forever. And it’s not like I haven’t thought about it. But I don’t know what the right time is. What if—”

“Y/N,” Robby cut her off softly, his hand on yours. “There’s no right time. There’s just us. And what we’ve built together.”

You turned to look at him, your breath caught in your throat. “What if we’re not ready?”

Robby smiled gently, a quiet understanding in his eyes. He cupped your face tenderly. “We don’t have to be ready. I’m just asking for a chance. A chance to make this forever. With you.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. Your throat tightened. He was asking you for more than you had ever been asked before. He wasn’t rushing you. He was simply offering a future, one that you knew, deep down, wanted.

The weight of the moment pressed on her, but this time it wasn’t heavy, it was soft, like the promise of tomorrow.

Robby reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, simple velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate golden ring, simple but beautiful. He held it out to you with a quiet intensity.

“Y/N Williams, I don’t want to just be with you. I want to build a life with you. Will you marry me?”

Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the ring. Your heart swelled with everything you had felt for him over the past year. The laughter. The fights. The quiet moments. And now, this. The promise of forever.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Yes.”

Robby’s smile stretched across his face, and he gently slid the ring onto her finger. The room seemed to stand still, the only sound the soft hum of the city beyond.

As you kissed, the world outside seemed to fade away. You knew, without a doubt, that this was it. The beginning of forever. With Robby.

[writerslittlelibrary]

I will be your family

masterlist

summary: growing up on the streets had never been easy, but when you steal the wrong person’s wallet, your life changes forever…

pairing: Mob!Natasha x child reader

warnings: none, just pure fluff

genre: fluff, angst

words: 1763

a/n: something abnormal is going on cause I’ve written three fics this week and I am planning on writing more. the apocalypse is near…

this one is posted on ao3 at the same time, so if you prefer to read on ao3 click this link

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

When your parents died, you were only six, and it didn’t take long before you realised you would have to resort to stealing to survive. Foster care never came to pick you up, with how over full they have been since a virus three years ago. 

Many adults succumbed to the virus, and with that many children were left an orphan. 

The government took in who they could, but a large percentage of the orphans were left on the street, you included. 

You started stealing two years ago. You were against it at first, but when you got so sick from being hungry, you stole a cinnamon bun from a bakery. It was the best piece of food you had ever eaten. 

Soon, you moved up from stealing food. You learned swiping wallets wasn’t that difficult with people being distracted by their smartphones.

Stealing was easy, and while you still slept under a bridge, you did so with a full tummy. 

Now you were eight, and you spotted your best target yet.

You were sitting at a table in the mall, munching on a sandwich while scouting the best potential targets. So far, a red-headed woman caught your eye. She was on her own, and when she pulled out her wallet she was absolutely loaded. 

Seriously, who carries around that much cash? She was basically asking to get robbed.

To make it easier for you, she literally put her wallet in her back pocket. Like, be for real lady, you’re about to get robbed by an eight year old and it’s your own fault. 

You finish your sandwich quickly, abandoning the wrapper at the table while starting to follow the red haired lady around. She doesn’t stop at any of the other stores, just the one jewelry store you spotted her in. Maybe she was picking up a nice pair of earrings. 

Had you been older, or perhaps been able to follow the news, you’d known who you were following, and you’d known about the bodyguards she always had with her. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t, and when you swipe her wallet, all you can do is yelp at the strong hand that encircles your entire upper arm. 

“Hands off,” a gruff voice commands. 

Startled, you drop the wallet, staring up at the man with tears in your eyes. You’ve never been caught before. What the fuck do you do now?

You turn your head to look at the red haired lady, seeing her now staring down at you with intrigue, rather than anger. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!” the man asks meanly, his voice rough and commanding. It makes you quiver. You don’t think you’ve ever been this scared. 

“James, be gentle,” the red haired woman commands, and immediately the man loosens his grip on your arm. He doesn’t let go, however. 

The woman crouches down, now just a little lower than your eye level. You were never a tall child. 

“What’s your name?” she asks. 

You shake, tears now falling from your eyes and staining your cheeks. The woman reaches out her hand, gently running her hand along your cheek before using her thumb to wipe your tears away. 

“It’s quite alright, darling, there there. Why did you try to steal, hm?”

You can’t find it in yourself to respond, scared of what the consequences might be. Will she call the police? Will you go to prison for all the stealing you have done so far? 

The man holding you gives you a light shake. “Answer.”

“James,” the red haired lady immediately scolds. 

The man, ‘James’, lets go of your arm completely now, grunting some response to the lady who has now gently taken your hand. She’s started stroking the back of your hand with her thumb. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” the lady says. “Why don’t you tell me where your parents are?” 

You sniffle, stuttering slightly when you try to speak. 

“Dead…”

The expression of the woman turns glum. Then, she pushes that expression away, putting a pleasant smile on her face. 

“Well, we can’t have you returning to the children under the bridge now, can we? How about you come with me, and I will make sure you have a nice warm bed for tonight?”

You look at her confused. “You’re not going to call the police?”

The woman laughs. 

“Oh, no, darling. Let’s just say I’m a bit more important than the police around these parts. I can personally decide over your punishment for trying to steal, and right now that ‘punishment’ consists of a warm meal and a warm bed.”

“Why?” you ask her, voice shaky and confused as to why this woman whom you tried to steal from would want to help you. 

“Because you are quite a clever child. Had James here not caught you, I wouldn’t have noticed.” The woman reaches her hand towards your face again, gently pushing some hair behind your ear. 

“Not many people manage to sneak up on me, and an even smaller percentage manages to steal from me without me noticing. You are a very special child, my darling.” 

The stand from her crouching position, gently taking a hold of your hand and guiding you out of the mall, towards the parking lot. It’s only now you notice that large group of guys in suits that follow her. 

She leads you towards an expensive looking, black suv, opening the door for you and helping you step in. 

She climbs in after you, sitting next to you while James takes the passenger's seat. Another man in a suit takes the driver's seat. 

“Are you famous?” you then ask.

The woman looks amused, a small chuckle escaping her mouth. 

“You could say so, yes, although I am not famous in the sense you’re thinking of. I’m not a movie star, nor a famous singer.” 

“What are you then?”

“I am a business woman,” the lady says, straightening her jacket. 

“A business woman? Are business women considered famous?” you ask. The woman nods.

“Oh yes, I do so much important business, I’ve grown quite the name for myself,” she says, before she smiles kindly. 

“But those are not the things you should be concerning yourself with. How about you tell me your name now?” 

You nod, telling her your name to which she responds with her own. 

Natasha. 

After about an hour, you arrive at a very large, high building. The car drives into a garage under the building, and when it comes to a stop one of the men in suits opens the door for you and Natasha. 

Natasha helps you step out of the car, and she leads you towards the elevator. 

You stare at the buttons hopefully, not wanting to ask yet also not wanting to let this opportunity pass you by.

You don’t know if Natasha is a psychic, but after the day you’ve had you might argue that she is. She doesn’t even need for you to utter a single word before she’s motioning her head towards the buttons. 

“PH,” she says, and you’re quick to press the button that reads ‘PH’. 

What it stands for you don’t know. 

Once upstairs, Natasha leads you into what you assume is her kitchen, where an old lady is already cooking.

“Do you have any allergies?” Natasha asks, to which you shake your head. 

Natasha pulls out a chair for you, helping you climb onto the high stool before sitting in the one opposite from you.

“Do you live here alone?” you ask after a moment of silence. 

Natasha nods. “It’s quite big to be living alone, I agree. Perhaps you could help me fill up the space.”

“How?” you ask. Natasha smiles.

“Well, what do you like to play with? Do you have any favourite toys?” 

You look down at your hands, picking your skin while you fidget anxiously.

“I don’t have any toys…”

Natasha smiles again, and when you look at her, you feel… safe…

“We’ll fill it up with all the toys you want. Perhaps we’ll start with a nice drawing set. What do you think about that? Perhaps some nice crayons?” 

At the mention of crayons, your head perks up. You’ve always liked drawing. 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Natasha promises. 

------------------------------

You’ve been with Natasha for a few weeks, and you’ve never been happier. Settling into a routine with her was rather easy. Natasha was very clear and direct, which you thrived on. The structure she provided you was something you never knew you needed. 

She did get you those crayons she promised, and you were currently laying on the carpet in the living room, drawing a beautiful picture for Natasha. 

You were drawing the two of you, holding hands, and you even added a big red heart in between the two of you. 

Granted, they were only stick figures, but you hadn’t had a lot of practice in your life. You’d improve, Natasha promised. 

After debating it for a few minutes, you grabbed the yellow crayon and added a crown to Natasha’s stick figure. You very quickly learned Natasha was basically the queen of the underworld, and funnily enough, that didn’t bother you. 

She provided you safety when no one else did.

She gave you a warm bed, hot meals every night, and most importantly, love. 

You finished your drawing, standing up from your spot on the floor in favour of going to Natasha’s office. She’s probably busy, like she always is, but she’s assured you that she doesn’t mind when you interrupt her. 

You knock on her door anyway, and when you hear her call out you push the door open. 

Natasha immediately closes her laptop, smiling while she pushes her chair back, patting her lap in invitation. 

You’re quick to rush over, scrambling to sit in her lap and enjoying the kisses you receive on your head. Natasha holds you tightly, the warm, strong embrace of a mother. 

“What do you have there?” she asks when she spots the paper in your hand.

Shyly, you hand her the drawing, studying her face while she observes it.

“Oh Malyshka,” she sighs happily, “this is wonderful. Truly an outstanding job you’ve done. Is this me?” 

You nod, laying your head on her shoulder.

“You have a crown because you’re a queen,” you explain. 

Natasha smiles, kissing you cheeks and forehead a million times.

“I love it, you’ve done a wonderful job. I will make sure to hang it somewhere where it can be admired every single day.”

You smile, kissing her cheek. 

“Thank you mama.”

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

SQUID GAME CHARACTERS CUDDLING? (with reader)

Cuddle Buddies

Characters: Cho Hyun-Ju, Thanos, Namgyu, Gyeong-Seok, Young-Il, Gi-hun, Dae-Ho, Min-Su, Sang-Woo, Salesman

Summary: Above!

Warnings: none!

Hyunju

The rain drummed gently against the windows, a soft rhythm that made the whole apartment feel like a lullaby. You padded barefoot from the kitchen, two mugs of warm tea in hand, the scent of honey and chamomile curling in the air. Hyun-Ju was curled up on the couch under a thick gray blanket, legs tucked close, eyes tired but warm when they found yours.

“Smells good,” she said, voice low and a little raspy. She scooted over, lifting the blanket wordlessly in invitation.

You set the mugs down on the coffee table and climbed in beside her. She wrapped the blanket around both of you, her arm sliding around your waist as you settled in. Her body molded to yours like it was second nature. It was. Months of healing had led to this: small, quiet moments where she let herself breathe, let herself be held.

“Rough day?” you asked softly, fingers running through her hair.

She didn’t answer right away. Her head rested on your chest, rising and falling with each of your breaths.

“Not bad,” she murmured. “Just… heavy.”

You didn’t press. You knew what kind of weight lingered in her bones—the kind only time and gentleness could ease. So you pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple, and whispered, “You’re safe now.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around your shirt. “I know,” she breathed. “When I’m with you, I remember that.”

Silence fell, not uncomfortable, just full of unspoken love. Outside, the rain kept falling, and inside, she finally started to relax.

You stayed like that for a long time. No words. Just her heartbeat syncing with yours.

Thanos

It’s late when he finally comes home.The door clicks shut gently behind him, like he’s afraid to disturb the quiet. You don’t need to look up from the couch to know it’s him—no one else walks that slowly, like they’re carrying the weight of the whole world in their shoulders and still trying not to let it spill onto the floor.

You stretch your arms out wordlessly.

He doesn’t hesitate.Su-Bong shrugs off his jacket and slips into the space beside you, resting his head on your chest like it’s the only pillow he ever wants. You curl your arms around him, fingers drifting up to his hair, and he exhales like he hasn’t breathed all day.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your shirt.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” He nuzzles in closer. “I think I run cold without you.”

You smile and press a soft kiss to the top of his head. He smells like wind and city and something faintly citrus—his shampoo, probably, the one you picked out for him months ago because the bottle said fresh sunshine and that made him snort laugh in the store.

“You okay?” you ask, gently.

He nods against you. “Now I am.”

There’s a silence after that, but it’s the good kind. The kind that wraps itself around both of you like another blanket. His arms tighten around your waist as your fingers card slowly through his hair, brushing out the day one strand at a time.

Eventually, he speaks again. “Let’s just stay like this. Forever.”

You laugh softly. “You say that every time we cuddle.”

“Then maybe one day you’ll believe me.”

You don’t need to say it aloud—but you do believe him. In these quiet, stolen moments, you believe everything he says. Because in a world that once took so much, Su-Bong is someone who still gives. All of him. Freely. To you.

And you hold him tighter, like a promise.l

Namgyu

The first thing you noticed when you woke up wasn’t the sunlight creeping through the blinds, or the soft hum of a fan in the corner—it was Nam-Gyu’s arm around your waist, heavy and warm, like he’d been clinging to you all night.

You barely moved, not wanting to disturb him. He was still asleep, face pressed against the back of your shoulder, breath steady and quiet. His hair was a little messy, curling slightly at the edges, and you could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back.

You smiled. It was rare to catch him this relaxed.

Nam-Gyu usually woke up before you—he liked his routines, his early mornings, his tea brewed just so. But today… he stayed. You tilted your head slightly to peek at him. His brows were soft, no tension there. No furrowed lines like when he was deep in thought. Just him. Peaceful. Yours.

You shifted a little, enough to roll over and face him. His arm slipped easily around you again, like muscle memory. Without even opening his eyes, he mumbled, “Where’re you going?”

“I wasn’t,” you whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Just turning around.”

He hummed, eyes cracking open just enough to glance at you, then closing again as he pulled you closer until your forehead rested against his. “Good. Stay like this.”

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist in return. “You’re so clingy in the mornings.”

“And you love it,” he said sleepily, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple.

You did. You really, really did.

Gyeong-Seok

You didn’t expect Gyeong-Seok to be home early.

You’d just gotten out of the shower, hair damp and bundled in your robe when you heard the front door shut gently. No clatter of shoes or loud “I’m home!” Just soft footsteps—and then, like always, his familiar presence filled the room like warmth from a sunbeam.

You turned to find him already loosening his jacket, his eyes on you and only you.

“Long day?” you asked, stepping forward.He gave a small nod, the kind that said, I missed you but I’m too tired to say much. That was okay. You understood him like that.

Without another word, he reached for your wrist, tugging you toward the couch like a man with one goal: cuddle time, now.

You giggled, letting him pull you down with him. He tucked himself around you easily, head resting against yours, arms snug around your waist. You felt his breath slow against the side of your neck, as if holding you made the day disappear.

“You smell like soap,” he mumbled.

“You smell like outside,” you teased.

“Fix it,” he murmured sleepily.

You leaned in, wrapping your arms tighter around him. “How?”

He nuzzled into your shoulder like a sleepy bear. “Hold me until I don’t.”

You smiled into his hair, brushing it back with gentle fingers. “Done.”

The two of you stayed tangled there, your heartbeat syncing with his. The TV stayed off. No lights. Just warmth, skin to skin, soul to soul.

Outside, the world was still too loud—but in Gyeong-Seok’s arms, there was only quiet. And safety.

And love that never asked for words.

Young-Il

Rain pattered against the windows, soft and steady. You were curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, when Young-Il finally came home. His coat was damp, his hair even messier than usual, and his expression tired—until he saw you.

“You waited up?” he asked quietly, dropping his bag by the door.

You nodded, opening the blanket in invitation. “Only because I knew you’d come back looking like a wet puppy.”

He chuckled, shedding his coat and toeing off his shoes before crossing the room. “Then I guess I better live up to expectations.”

When he sank beside you, you felt it immediately—his warmth, the way his body curved around yours as if molded to fit. He pulled the blanket tighter around you both and pressed his forehead to your temple.

“Bad day?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer at first, just held you closer, arms wrapped snugly around your waist. His sigh was heavy but not defeated. “Just loud. Busy. But this... this makes it better.”

You let your fingers trace lazy patterns on his arm. “We don’t have to talk. Just stay here.”

His grip tightened a little. “Can we stay like this forever?”

You smiled against his chest. “Forever sounds perfect.”

There were no grand declarations, no dramatic kisses. Just the steady rhythm of his heart, the hush of rain outside, and the unspoken promise in the way he held you like you were home.

Gi hun

You find him on the couch, the television casting soft, flickering light across his face. He’s not watching, not really—just staring blankly at the screen, lost in whatever memories he refuses to speak about.You quietly cross the room and kneel beside him, gently brushing his hair from his face. “You should sleep.”

Gi-Hun looks at you with those tired eyes of his. Not the kind of tired sleep can fix, but the kind that digs into your bones. “I was waiting for you.”

“You always say that,” you whisper, curling up beside him, your head resting on his chest.

His arms wrap around you like instinct, like muscle memory. Warm and a little shaky.

Neither of you speaks for a while.Eventually, you murmur, “You’re safe now. It’s okay to rest.”

Gi-Hun kisses the top of your head, slow and soft. “I don’t know how to stop running.”

“Then let me hold you until you forget how to move,” you whisper.

He lets out a breath—half laugh, half sigh—and pulls you tighter. “Just stay here. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t. You fall asleep tangled together on the couch, while outside, the world turns quietly on.

Dae ho

Of mYou woke up to the sound of birds outside the window, but what really kept you from moving was the warmth wrapped around you.

Dae-Ho had his arms snug around your waist, his chest rising and falling against your back in a slow, steady rhythm. One of his legs was draped lazily over yours, and even though you’d tried to shift just a little—maybe to reach your phone or stretch—his hold instinctively tightened.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You smiled. “I was just—”

“No,” he said again, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Exactly. That’s how the math works,” he murmured, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose brushed the back of your neck, and you felt him press a soft, sleepy kiss there. “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy.”

“Mm-hm. Your fault.”

He didn’t need to say more. His touch, his steady breathing, the weight of his arm across you—everything spoke of quiet love. Safe love. The kind that made time stop for a little while.

So you let yourself melt into him, intertwining your fingers with his and whispering, “Okay. Five more minutes.”

But neither of you moved for the rest of the morning.

Min su

Min-Su’s arms were already open when you came through the door.

He didn’t say much. He rarely did when the days were heavy. His eyes flicked up from the book in his lap—one of your favorites he pretended not to enjoy—and he scooted over just enough for you to sink into his side. The blanket was already warm. His chest rose with a quiet breath as you settled in, cheek against the slope of his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and scratchy, like it had been unused all day.

You nodded against him. “Now I am.”

His fingers found yours beneath the blanket. A gentle squeeze. No pressure to speak. Min-Su never rushed you, never demanded more than what you could give. It was like he knew silence could speak, too.

The room was dim, rain ticking softly at the windows. He reached up, brushing hair from your forehead, and kissed it like it was instinct—like your head belonged under his chin, and his lips belonged against your skin.

“I like this,” he murmured, thumb rubbing slow circles into your arm. “You and me. Like this.”

You closed your eyes and pressed closer. “You always smell like laundry and safety.”

He huffed a laugh, that tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s the fabric softener.”

But he held you tighter.

Time moved slowly in Min-Su’s arms. And somehow, that was your favorite part.

Sang woo

You find him sitting on the couch, his shoulders hunched, tie loose, shirt wrinkled from the long day. The apartment is quiet except for the rain tapping against the windows, and when he glances up at you, there’s something heavy in his eyes—like he’s been stuck in his head again.

“Sang-Woo?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, setting his phone face-down on the table like whatever he was looking at had pressed too many bruises.

You walk over, slipping behind him on the couch and sliding your arms around his torso, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Rough day?”

He exhales, then leans into your touch, letting his head fall back against yours. “They keep asking for things I can’t give,” he murmurs. “Deadlines. Reports. Smiles.”

Your fingers trace soothing circles over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. “You don’t have to give me anything right now. Just… be here.”

He turns then, slowly, almost like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to. But when he does, his arms come around you so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

You end up curled on the couch like that, tangled up in each other. His head tucked beneath your chin now, your fingers carding through his hair while he murmurs things he never says out loud during the day. Apologies. Fears. Quiet gratitude.

“This,” he whispers against your collarbone. “You… You’re the only place I don’t feel like I’m failing.”

You kiss the crown of his head and whisper back, “Then stay here as long as you need."

And he does.

Salesman

You don’t hear the door open. Not at first. The rain patters gently against the window, and your blanket is wrapped tight around your shoulders as you scroll aimlessly on your phone.

Then you hear the familiar click of his shoes.

“Don’t move,” Gong Yoo’s voice calls softly from the hallway. “Let me find you.”

You smile. “Maybe I disappeared.”

“You’d leave me without a goodbye?” he teases, stepping into the room. His coat is damp, his hair tousled from the rain. He sets his briefcase down, unties his tie with one hand, and reaches for you with the other. “I’d track you down, you know.”

You laugh, but let him tug you up and into his arms. He smells like the storm and something warmer—spiced cologne and home. His arms wrap around your waist, tight and certain, like he’s afraid to let go. “Rough day?” you murmur against his chest.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips to the top of your head, then sinks down with you onto the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you.

“Long,” he says eventually. “Tired of pretending.”

You tilt your head up. “Then don’t. Just be here.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath all day. “That’s why I came back.” He leans in and kisses your temple. “You remind me I’m real.”

You stay curled up together in silence, the rain whispering outside, your fingers tracing lazy circles against his chest. He holds you like you’re the one thing in the world he doesn’t have to negotiate for. Like he doesn't need to sell anything tonight. Just this. Just you.

[izzih22]

Epilogue: Ours, Out Loud

Note: the final chapter of this series. Enjoy!!

The first time they told someone, it wasn’t planned.

It had been a bit since Paige left Virginia, and in that time, the two had gotten used to the rhythm of loving each other from afar. FaceTime calls that lasted until the sun rose. Stolen photos sent mid-practice with hearts drawn sloppily over their faces. Handwritten notes slipped into care packages—Azzi’s soft curls drawn in blue ink by Paige with the caption “My favorite painting.”

They were happy. Still private. Still theirs.

But when Azzi’s mom, Katie, came into Azzis room on a Friday night and Azzi layed in bed with her head tucked under Paige’s hoodie—Paige’s hoodie she was very obviously wearing again—it only took about three seconds for Katie to squint knowingly.

“You’ve been wearing that hoodie for days,” Katie said casually, sipping from a mug. “Is that your girlfriend’s or something?”

Azzi choked. Paige, visible one FaceTime, froze like a deer in headlights.

Katie blinked. “Wait—what.”

Azzi looked at Paige, then back at her mom. Her heart pounded.

Paige leaned over in screen and said gently, “Hi, Mrs. Fudd.”

Katie blinked again, then slowly broke into the warmest, smuggest smile Azzi had ever seen on her.

“Oh,” Katie said, setting her mug down. “So it is my daughter’s girlfriend’s hoodie.”

“Mooooom,” Azzi groaned, burying her face into Paige’s side.

“You didn’t tell me!” Katie laughed. “I’ve known for years you two were orbiting each other like little lovesick planets. I thought I was going to have to wait until your wedding to get the confirmation.”

“We… weren’t ready yet,” Paige said quietly, arm wrapping protectively around Azzi.

Katie’s teasing softened into something gentler. “I get that. Really. But I’m so happy for you both.”

Azzi peeked at her mom, cheeks flushed. “You’re not mad we didn’t say anything?”

“Mad? Sweetheart, I’ve been praying for this since… well forever,” Katie grinned. “Just promise me you’ll be kind to each other. Protect what you have.”

Paige smiled staring at Azzi and without thinking. “I already do.”

⸻

Telling Tim, John, and Jose was next. It came in the form of a chaotic game night. Paige and Azzi had joined as a team—playing Spades like they were trying to qualify for the Olympics—and when Paige casually dropped a “babe, your turn” mid-play, all three of Azzi’s family members stopped talking.

John blinked. “Wait, babe?”

Jose pointed. “Yo. Did Paige just—did you just say—”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Am I going to need to give a speech, or is this the part where I say I’m proud?”

Azzi laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Paige smirked, unapologetic.

“We’re dating,” she confirmed, hand resting possessively over Azzi’s knee.

There was a pause. Then:

John: “Knew it.”

Jose: “Finally!”

Tim: “Took you long enough.”

Paige glanced sideways at Azzi, her smirk shifting into something tender. “Worth the wait.”

Azzi leaned her head on Paige’s shoulder and whispered, “Definitely.”

⸻

By the time they told Paige’s family, it was nearly summer. Paige flew home again, and Azzi joined a few days later—invited under the pretense of just “hanging out before training camps.”

Her mom had packed snacks for the flight. Paige had sent her a picture of her freshly cleaned room with the caption “Your throne awaits.”

They didn’t hide it anymore.

Azzi held Paige’s hand in the airport.

Paige carried her bags.

They shared a quiet kiss outside the terminal while waiting for Paige’s brother to pull up, and Paige didn’t care who saw.

The Bueckers’ home had always felt like a second one to Azzi—but this time, everything felt different. This time, she was more than Paige’s best friend. She was hers.

Paige’s mom, Amy, wrapped Azzi in a hug the second she stepped through the front door.

“I figured it out awhile ago,” she said softly against Azzi’s shoulder. “I just waited for you two to figure it out yourselves.”

Azzi laughed, teary-eyed. “We’re slow, huh?”

Amy smiled knowingly. “The best love stories take time.”

⸻

Late one night, curled up on Paige’s couch with a movie playing and no one else awake, Azzi rested her head on Paige’s chest and traced invisible shapes over her stomach.

“We still haven’t told our teams,” she whispered.

Paige’s fingers played with the ends of her curls. “I’m not rushing that. We’ll know when.”

“I kind of like it like this,” Azzi admitted. “Quiet. Just us. No noise.”

Paige kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

Azzi sat up slightly, propping her chin on Paige’s shoulder. “But when we do tell them, can we just… show up holding hands and let it click?”

Paige grinned. “Classic.”

“Dramatic.”

“My style,” Paige teased, stealing a kiss.

Azzi melted into it, soft and sweet, fingers gripping Paige’s shirt.

Their world was still theirs. Still quiet. Still sacred.

But now, it was also expanding.

⸻

The first time they called each other “girlfriend” out loud, it happened like this:

Azzi was on FaceTime, giggling at something Paige said while standing in the middle of a hotel hallway during a team trip. One of her teammates called out, “Who’s got you smiling like that?”

Azzi, without thinking, answered, “My girlfriend.”

There was a pause on the line. Then a chorus of whoops behind her.

Paige heard it and grinned into her pillow. “Smooth.”

Azzi looked proud. “About time I said it out loud.”

Paige smiled, heart full. “Say it again.”

“My girlfriend,” Azzi repeated, slower this time, letting it roll off her tongue like it belonged there.

And it did.

⸻

In the fall, when they returned to their teams, the long-distance routine became real again—but different now.

There were weekend visits and handwritten letters. A Spotify playlist that only grew longer. Pictures of workouts captioned “don’t forget who your favorite point guard is.”

They didn’t tell everyone, but they didn’t hide.

Paige would kiss Azzi’s cheek before boarding a flight. Azzi would wait by the gate to watch her disappear.

They had something real. Something rooted in years of friendship, loyalty, love.

And now they had each other, fully and openly.

No more waiting.

No more almosts.

Just Paige and Azzi. Together.

⸻

One Year Later

Their first anniversary was quiet.

They were at a small cabin near the lake where they used to train in the summer, completely off the grid for the weekend. No social media. No cameras. Just them.

Paige brought a photo album she’d been secretly building all year. Azzi brought a necklace with both of their initials carved into the back.

They sat by the fireplace, curled up under a blanket, music low, hearts full.

“You’re it for me,” Azzi whispered, forehead pressed to Paige’s.

“You always were,” Paige replied, voice soft, hands holding hers. “Even before we knew.”

And then they kissed, slow and deep, wrapped in a love that had taken years to grow but was now entirely theirs.

Their love wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And it was finally, finally theirs to share—with the world, with their families, with each other.

No more hiding.

No more waiting.

Just Paige and Azzi.

[pokesturns]

STURNIOLO FANFIC ⇢ UNSPOKEN LOVE

sum. chris, secretly in love with childhood friend y/n, learns from his mom that she’s moving to london. devastated, he confesses his feelings over a late-night call

feat. chris sturniolo

cw. angst, heartbreak, unrequited love, childhood friends

wc. 1.491 words

the dining room was alive with the clatter of plates and the warmth of home: marylou’s lasagna sat heavy on the table, steam curling up in the soft glow of the chandelier that had watched chris grow up. boston’s autumn chill slipped through the window, carrying the scent of damp leaves and nostalgia.

twenty-one now, the triplets back from los angeles for a fleeting visit, sat around the table with their parents, laughter bouncing off the walls as matt recounted a dumb prank from their high school days. it was the kind of night that felt like slipping into an old sweater, comfortable and worn, a reminder of who they were before the world got so big.

chris tried to stay in the moment, to laugh at nick’s snark or nod at james’s stories about the neighborhood, but his mind kept drifting, as it always did, to y/n. she wasn’t here tonight, though her absence felt like a shadow in the room. they’d grown up together, their parents’ friendship stitching their lives so tightly that chris couldn’t untangle his memories from her; the sleepovers at six, stealing cookies from the jar, bike races at twelve, her screaming with joy when she beat him, late nights at seventeen, her head on his shoulder as they watched the stars, her voice soft as she talked about dreams he secretly hoped included him.

he’d loved her for years, though he’d never let himself name it. it was too much—too fragile. love meant opening himself up to rejection, to the chance she’d laugh it off or, worse, pull away forever. he’d seen what girls could do, how they’d toyed with his heart in high school, leaving him raw and doubting himself. y/n was different, but what if she wasn’t? what if he confessed and lost her, the one person who made the world make sense? so he kept it locked away, buried under jokes and late-night texts, under the lie that he didn’t ache every time she smiled at him.

until tonight.

marylou’s voice cut through the chatter, casual but sharp enough to slice through chris’s thoughts. “oh, did you boys hear about y/n? her mom told me she’s moving abroad. london, i think. got some big job offer.”

james nodded, sipping his wine. “yeah, her parents are so proud. it’s a huge deal. she leaves in a couple weeks.”

the words hit chris like a fist to the chest, knocking the air out of him. his fork froze halfway to his mouth, his heart stuttering. moving abroad. london. a couple weeks. y/n—his y/n—was leaving, and she hadn’t even told him. the room kept moving with nick asking questions, matt joking about fish and chips, but chris was stuck, drowning in the sudden, suffocating weight of it. she was slipping away, and he’d never said a word.

he forced a smile, mumbled something about how cool it was, but his hands were shaking under the table. the rest of dinner was a blur, his mind screaming while he nodded along, playing the part of the carefree brother, but inside, he was unraveling, the truth clawing its way out: he loved her, and she was leaving, and he’d lose her forever.

when dinner ended, he slipped upstairs to his old bedroom, the one still plastered with faded posters and memories of a simpler life. he shut the door, the silence swallowing him whole, and sank onto the bed, his breath ragged while panic surged, hot and relentless, memories flooding him like a cruel tide: y/n at eight, chasing fireflies with him in the backyard; at fifteen, laughing so hard she cried when he tripped into a puddle; at nineteen, hugging him so tight when he left for LA that he thought she’d never let go. and now she was letting go. she was leaving, and he’d never told her how her smile was the only thing that kept him steady.

his phone was in his hand before he could stop himself, his thumb trembling over her name. what could he say? what did you say to the person you loved when they were about to vanish from your life? he was terrified, terrified she’d brush him off, terrified she’d pity him, terrified she’d confirm what he’d always feared: that he’d never been enough. but the thought of staying silent, of letting her go without a fight, was worse.

he pressed call.

it rang three times, each one an eternity, before her voice came through, soft and sleepy. “chris? it’s late. you okay?”

he closed his eyes, her voice a knife and a lifeline all at once. “y/n,” he said, and it came out broken, raw. “i… i heard you’re leaving. london. is it true?”

a pause, then a sigh. “yeah. i was gonna tell you, i swear. it just… it happened so fast. i got the offer last week, and i’m moving in two weeks.”

two weeks. the words were a death knell, echoing in his skull. he stood, pacing the room, his free hand tugging at his hair. “why didn’t you tell me? y/n, you’re… you’re leaving, and i had to hear it from my mom?”

“i’m sorry,” she said, and he could hear the guilt in her voice, the weight of it. “i didn’t know how to say it. i’m still figuring it out myself.”

he laughed, but it was bitter, jagged. “figuring it out? y/n, you’re leaving the country. you’re leaving me.” the last word slipped out, too honest, and he froze, his heart pounding.

“chris…” her voice was soft, uncertain. “what’s going on? why are you so upset?”

he couldn’t hold it back anymore. the dam broke, and the words spilled out, desperate and unfiltered. “because i love you, y/n. i’ve loved you for years, and i was too fucking scared to say it. scared you’d laugh, or run, or break me like the others did. but you’re different—you’re everything. every memory, every moment, it’s you. and now you’re leaving, and i can’t… i can’t look at you knowing we’ll never be what i dreamed we could be. not the stupid fairy tale we read as kids, not the ending where you stay.”

silence. it stretched on, heavy and suffocating, and he thought he might choke on it. then, her voice, small and trembling. “chris… you love me?”

“how could i not?” he said, his voice cracking. “you’re my best friend, my home, the only person who sees me and doesn’t expect me to be anything else. i was a coward, y/n. i should’ve told you years ago, but i was so fucking scared of losing you. and now i’m losing you anyway, and it’s killing me. i can’t stop thinking about you, about us. something like this… it doesn’t just disappear.”

he heard her breath hitch, a soft sob breaking through the line. “chris, i… i don’t know what to say. you’re my best friend, too. you’re… god, you’re so much more. but this job, it’s my chance. i have to go. i have to try.”

her words were a blade, cutting deeper than he thought possible. he wanted to beg her to stay, to choose him, but he heard the pain in her voice, the way her dream pulled her just as fiercely as his heart pulled him. he sank back onto the bed, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall.

“then why does it feel like we’re dying?” he whispered, his voice barely there. “why does it hurt so much to let you go?”

“because it’s real,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “because what we have… it’s not something you just leave behind. but i can’t stay, chris. and you can’t follow. not this time.”

he pressed the phone tighter to his ear, like he could hold onto her through the line. “just… don’t forget me, okay?” he said, his voice breaking. “don’t forget the kid who loved you before he even knew what love was.”

“never,” she whispered, and he could hear her crying now, soft and steady. “i’ll call you when i land. i promise.”

the call ended, and chris sat there, staring at the wall, the silence louder than his heartbeat. she was leaving, and he’d bared his soul too late. the love he’d carried for years, the one he’d buried under fear and excuses, was out now, but it wasn’t enough to keep her here.

he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, memories of her flickering like a dying film reel. they’d sworn they’d always be together, that they’d make it to the end, but this wasn’t the end they’d promised, no, this was a wound, raw and open, one that would scar but never fully heal.

she’d be gone in two weeks, and chris would be left with a heart full of regrets and a life that felt empty without her.

©pokesturns any and all forms of modifications, reposts, and translation of my work are prohibited.

[thelastsurvivinggirl]

‘‘Trapped in Thorns’’

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐱 𝐶𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

‘‘The Rose That Does Not Bloom….’’

I

You were your parents’ only child — quiet, observant, a little dreamy. You don’t remember your mother clearly, as though she existed behind a veil.

But some things have stayed with you forever: her voice when she sang lullabies, the scent of warm milk with honey before bed, and the words she often repeated:

“Where there is faith in kindness, there is kindness. And kindness — that is magic.”

When she passed away, everything changed. The house grew quiet, heavy. Even the colors seemed to fade. You wandered through the garden, hoping to find something left of her — but everything felt frozen, just like she was no longer there.

Only your father remained. He tried to stay strong — at least on the outside — for you. In the evenings, you played cards or read books by the fire. Sometimes you even laughed. But the sorrow never truly left.

When Lady Tremaine appeared with her daughters, the house filled with sound again. Drizella and Anastasia were loud, a bit clumsy, but you couldn’t help smiling when they sang or tried to play the harpsichord. It sounded dreadful — yet charming, in a strange, domestic way.

You, on the other hand, played the harp — softly, delicately, purely. When your fingers touched the strings, everything hushed. Even your stepmother would pause to listen.

Laughter returned to the house. Warmth crept back into the evenings. And you almost believed — maybe this was a new beginning.

One day, your father was preparing to leave on another journey. His ships waited in the harbor. Before leaving, he gathered everyone around the breakfast table and asked:

— What would you like me to bring you, my dears?

— A new dress, Venetian silk. — Drizella said.

— Mother-of-pearl earrings! — Anastasia added with delight.

Lady Tremaine gave a soft, knowing smile, almost flirtatious:


— Perhaps… a mirror. A beautiful, enchanted one. If you find it.

You were quiet.

For a long time.

As if the answer needed to rise from somewhere deep within you. And just as he was about to leave, you whispered:

— That rose… the one Mother loved. If you find it. I’d like to breathe in its fragrance again. Just once.

Your father nodded and gently squeezed your hand.

— I will. I promise, my dear.

Letters came regularly after that. He wrote of ports, of storms, of distant cities. And always, there were lines just for you — warm, sweet, filled with affection. A raven — clever and loyal — carried the envelopes and returned to your window, even in rain.

Until one day, a different letter arrived — the handwriting rushed, uneven:

𝑴𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕,

𝑰 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑭𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆. 𝑨 𝒔𝒕𝒐���𝒎 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆. 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒅, 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔. 𝑰 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏. 𝑰 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓.

It was the last letter…

Days passed in dread. You sent messages back with the raven — but the bird always returned with your letters unopened. No answer came.

No ship returned.

Some said his vessel had sunk.

Others whispered of pirates.

The city murmured: “Widow.”


Lady Tremaine didn’t weep. She simply said, quietly, that everything now rested on her shoulders.

The estate passed to her.

You wanted to go looking for him. But trouble piled up. One ship disappeared, another sank into debt. Trade halted. Servants were dismissed — first the cooks and gardeners, then the maids. At last, only you remained.

Then things worsened.

Lady Tremaine and her daughters grew different. Colder. Sharper. At first, you thought it was grief. But soon you realized: grief had only stripped away their masks.

You began to tend the hearth. Clean the rooms. Patch the worn linens. You didn’t even notice when you became the servant.

And yet, you stayed.

You loved the house.

It held your memories — of your mother, your father, and your younger self. You cherished the worn stone steps, the faded rug, the quiet hush of empty halls.

Because you knew: no one else would care for it as you would. Lady Tremaine, meanwhile, was busy plotting the marriages of her daughters.


And you?

You had become invisible.

You had become unnecessary.

To no one…

The evening of the ball had arrived.

The house was in chaos — silk, lace, shouting: Where are my gloves? — And my fan?!

You quietly helped — as always. Sewing, hemming, fetching, smoothing.

But deep in your heart, hope still glowed.

You had received an invitation — it had been addressed to all of you.

Maybe… maybe they would let you go? Just for a moment, just to see the world again. To feel like a girl, not a servant.

When your stepmother and her daughters were nearly ready to leave, you stood before the old mirror, holding your mother’s dress.

It was pink, the soft shade of apple blossoms, with wide sleeves, slightly worn at the seams but delicately hand-embroidered at the hem. It still held a faint scent of lavender and petals — the scent of childhood.

You put it on. Twisted your hair up with a ribbon. Around your neck, you clasped the pearl necklace — the one your mother used to wear on Sundays.

And you walked down the stairs.

Your stepmother was already by the door, checking that everything was perfect. But when she saw you, her gaze froze.

— What is that you’re wearing? —she asked quietly, with an icy tone.

The sisters, upon seeing you, were silent at first. Then — they exploded:

— That’s… Mother’s dress!

— You have no right to wear it!

— She looks better than we do!

— I have an invitation, — your voice trembled, but you stood tall. — I just wanted… to see. Just for a moment.

— You? — your stepmother stepped closer. — To the ball? In this… rag? You’re even more naive than you look.

The sisters had already come close to you.

— Give it back! — Drizella yanked at the dress.

— It’s not yours! — Anastasia cried, tearing the necklace from your neck — the pearls spilled to the floor, frozen like tears.

— Please… — you managed to whisper, but it was too late. The fabric ripped under their hands, threads stuck out from the embroidery, and the necklace rolled away into the dark.

You stood there in the torn dress, hair undone, while they laughed. Your stepmother simply said coldly:

— This is a lesson. Remember your place.

And they left.

You couldn’t bear it.

Barefoot, you ran into the night, through the garden gates, to the one place that had always been your refuge — your mother’s garden. Once full of roses and peonies, it was now wild, half-forgotten, but not dead. You dropped to your knees among the grass, hugging yourself, and finally let the tears fall.

The air was cool, the stars shone indifferently, and only the old tree above you whispered something soft, something familiar.

You remembered your mother’s words:

“Where there is faith in kindness, there is kindness. And kindness — that is magic.”

And at that very moment, when the ache in your chest felt like it might consume you, something shifted in the air around you. It wasn’t a gust of wind or the rustling of leaves. No, it was something gentler, something… alive.

A figure emerged from the shadows, her presence so warm, so strange, it made your heart race. She moved closer, and you saw the glimmer of her gown, like moonlight caught in the folds of a cloud. Her face was kind, yet her eyes… they were filled with something ancient, something familiar.

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat.

— Don't be afraid, — she said softly, her voice like the rustling of leaves.

— I am your godmother, — she said, her voice gentle yet filled with strength. — You don't remember, but I held you in my arms when you were just a baby. I have always been by your side, watching over you, protecting you, even when you didn't know it.

She knelt before you.

In her hands, she held something delicate — a single rose. It glowed softly in the moonlight, its petals pale and glowing, its scent sweet and nostalgic. You inhaled deeply, a familiar warmth spreading through you.

— This rose, — the woman continued, — was once a part of your mother's garden. A rose of magic. She planted it with love, with hope. It is a gift, passed on to you.

Your breath caught. This rose? Was it really the same one that had bloomed in your mother's garden?

The fairy’s voice interrupted your thoughts.

— This rose has power, dear. It can grant you one wish — just one. But it is a gift that should not be taken lightly.

You hesitated, looking at the rose in your hands. Could you make a wish? Could you change something? Could you bring your father and mother back?

You felt torn. The weight of the rose in your palm seemed to ask more than just a simple request — it was a chance to rewrite everything, to undo years of pain.

But was that even possible? Could one wish truly heal the emptiness in your heart? Could it restore the family you had lost, or would it only create new sorrow?

You feared that by asking for the wrong thing, you might lose even more.

You looked up at the fairy, a quiet uncertainty clouding your thoughts.

— I don't know if I’m ready to use it yet, — you whispered. — I don’t know what I should wish for.

The fairy smiled, as if she understood completely. There was no hurry, no pressure — just an invitation to decide when the time was right.

— You are wise, — she said. — Some wishes come when the heart is ready, not when it is hurried. Take your time, dear. This night is yours.

She waved her hand, and before you could blink, the garden seemed to shift. The air grew lighter, the shadows receded, and before you stood a beautiful crystal carriage, drawn by horses as white as the moon.

The sound of the wheels, the soft thud of hooves on the ground — it was all so ethereal, so enchanting.

But before you could step toward the carriage, a warm, glowing light enveloped you, and your breath caught in your chest.

The pink dress you had been wearing — the one torn by your stepsisters — began to shift and glow. The fabric seemed to dissolve and reform, becoming something beyond anything you could have imagined.

Your new gown emerged from the light, wrapping around you in an exquisite flow of soft, luminous fabric. It was the color of the most delicate ivory, with a subtle sheen that made it appear almost otherworldly.

The dress fit perfectly, hugging your figure and falling to the floor in soft, rippling waves. It moved with you like liquid silk, catching the light with each delicate step.

The sleeves of the dress were sheer, light as a whisper, fluttering gently with your movements. At the cuffs, they flared slightly, creating the illusion of a soft, flowing cloud that danced with the wind.

The skirt billowed out behind you, forming a train that hovered just above the ground, trailing softly as if it were made of mist.

On your feet, you slipped into a pair of crystal slippers. They sparkled with an ethereal glow, as though they had been crafted from stardust itself.

Each step you took left a faint trail of shimmering light, as if the very earth were enchanted beneath you.

You looked at yourself, standing in the soft light of the garden. The girl who had once been hidden, broken by the cruelty of her stepsisters and stepmother, was now transformed.

The gown shimmered with an otherworldly beauty, as if it had been made for you alone — to remind you that you, too, were worthy of wonder.

The fairy looked at you, her smile warm and knowing.

— You are meant to go to the ball, — she said gently. — Tonight is your night, and your mother would have wanted you to be seen. To shine.

You hesitated, looking at the rose in your hand once more. It pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of the night itself, waiting for your decision.

— I will not wish yet, — you said quietly, the weight of your choice settling in your chest.

The fairy nodded, her smile understanding.

— As it should be. Go, child. Let the night unfold as it will. But remember... — she added softly, her voice a bit more serious. — When the clock strikes midnight, all magic will fade. The gown, the carriage, the slippers... everything will return to how it was. And you must leave before the final stroke of midnight.

Her eyes met yours, filled with both kindness and caution.

— Be mindful of time. The night is yours, but it is fleeting.

You nodded, your heart pounding with both excitement and the weight of her words.

— I will remember, — you whispered. — thank you…very much.

The fairy smiled once more, her gesture guiding you toward the carriage. You stepped inside, feeling the soft warmth of the rose still cradled in your palm. The journey ahead felt both daunting and thrilling.

You glanced back, but the garden, your mother's garden, had already faded into the distance.

As the carriage began to move, the night opened before you.

You stepped into the ballroom, and immediately, all eyes were on you. The music flowed through the room, but you could feel only one gaze, heavy and magnetic, hanging in the air. The prince stood at the center of the hall, surrounded by courtiers, yet his attention was fixed solely on you.

He was tall, with sharp, handsome features, and deep, almost black eyes that glistened with curiosity and a certain power. His dark brown hair fell softly across his forehead.

Without hesitation, he approached you. His steps were confident, each one purposeful.

He wore a black velvet coat, adorned with intricate golden embroidery along the edges, emphasizing his royal status. He was the master of this ball.

— Shall we dance? — His voice was low, commanding, as if it wasn’t really a question, but more of an order.

You couldn’t refuse. He extended his hand, and without thinking, you placed yours in his. His fingers wrapped around your palm, warm and firm.

He led you across the floor, and as you moved, everything else seemed to fade away — the music, the guests, the chatter.

It was as if the entire world had shrunk to just the two of you. His presence was overwhelming, and you struggled to breathe, lost in the rhythm of the dance.

— You are exquisite, — he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race.

He was perfect — every movement, every glance, everything about him commanded attention.

For a moment, you forgot yourself, swept up in his charm.

— Thank you, Your Highness… — you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips.

But then, as the music changed, something shifted. The prince invited you to take a walk by the fountain in the garden, leaving the crowd behind.

As you walked together, his body grew closer, pressing against yours. His breath was warm on your neck, too close, too intimate.

— You leave me breathless, — he whispered in your ear, his fingers brushing down your spine, slipping under the fabric of your dress.

A cold chill ran through you. You instinctively stepped back, but he followed. His touch was no longer gentle; it was insistent, invasive. He was no longer the charming prince you had imagined.

— Do you dare refuse me? — His voice hardened, now sharp with anger, laced with disdain.

He took another step forward, his hand sliding possessively down your waist, and you felt a wave of panic wash over you. This was no longer a dance.

— N-no, I... I just… — you stammered, but your words felt weak, lost in the growing terror.

— I am your prince, — he said, his voice a low growl. — You will obey.

The prince gripped your hips possessively, pulling you against his hard body. With a stifled moan, he pressed his mouth to yours in a possessive kiss. His kiss was hungry, dominant, you felt his tongue enter your mouth, you moaned, but not from pleasure.

You froze as his hand began to slide further, reaching places it had no right to touch. Your heart raced wildly, terror flooding every inch of your body. This was not the prince you had imagined. This was something else entirely.

In that instant, you knew you had to escape.

The clock on the wall struck midnight. The first chime echoed loudly in your ears, a stark warning. You had no time. You tore yourself away from him and fled toward the exit, your heart pounding in your chest. You could hear his voice calling after you, his anger sharp in the air.

As you ran down the stairs, you lost one of your crystal slippers. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The sixth chime of the clock rang out, and you pushed yourself to run faster.

Nothing mattered anymore. You had to get away. The night had turned into a nightmare — this wasn’t the ball you had dreamed of.

You arrived back home, breathless, heart still racing from the frantic escape. The magic had vanished with the stroke of midnight, as if it had never been there at all.

Chapter II:

[milykins]

Forever in my Heart

This is from my AU. You may remember these two from my three-part series Second Chances. I'm slowly trying to build this world through a series of one-shots, if you have any questions please feel free to ask.

This particular story tells us how Raph becomes a father.

TW: Pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding. All characters are aged up. Raph and Chrissy are 25.

Pregnancy. He’d known it was a possibility. He was a ‘man’ after all. His brothers had kids, but he had fooled himself into thinking it wouldn’t happen for him.

How could he, with all the things he’d done, have the ability to father children? He didn’t want to believe her at first, even when she showed him three positive tests… but Donnie had confirmed it, and her scent had changed. Chrissy was carrying his child. It was his, and he would join his brothers in the ranks of fatherhood.

It was after he’d come to terms with it that the instincts kicked in. The lower-functioning part of his brain sent an overwhelming urge to protect his mate and unborn child. A feeling that was difficult to overcome. He could barely stand having her around his brothers, let alone other men. It was a tense time, to say the least, and more than once, Chrissy had to stand firm to put him in his place. He’d managed to give her as comfortable a pregnancy as he could while driving away these urges.

It was nothing compared to what was yet to come.

Watching her give birth to their daughter was quite possibly the most incredible thing he had ever witnessed. He never left her side for anything, taking on the role of being a birthing coach with ease. He was her rock, her pillar of strength, and her unwavering source of encouragement. If she wanted to cry, curse, or scream, she was allowed, and he would repeat how much he believed in her ability to do this.

“You’re so fucking strong. You can do this.”

“Your body is incredible.”

“I ain’t leaving you for nothing.”

If she needed to squeeze his hand as hard as she could, that was fine, he had two. She could squeeze both of them. If her back was sore, he placed himself behind her so she could lean back against him. It was the perfect position for him to rub her lower back between contractions.

Like the stubborn woman she was, she’d refused the offer of drugs to assist with the labour process. Never again would he assume he was the strong one in the relationship. That role belonged to Chrissy now. He could only watch in wonder as she strained and pushed, sweat shimmering on her brow as she brought their daughter into the world. Their little half-turtle baby emerged red-faced and screaming with Donnie quickly catching her and wrapping her in a receiving blanket before placing her on Chrissy’s chest.

“She’s beautiful…”

“Yeah, she is… so are you.” He kissed her reverently, full of pride for his strong mate.

After the cord was cut and their daughter was placed in his arms, something changed. She was really here. This was his child. She had his eyes, and judging by the way she exercised her tiny lungs, she had his fiery temperament as well.

What do you say to your brand-new kid fresh out the womb? “Hey… uh… nice to meet ya finally.”

His daughter just blinked at him and cooed softly. It was clear she recognized his voice from all those long months of having listened to him speak to her.

His heart melted immediately. All feelings of uncertainty that he might have been holding onto disappeared. She was the missing piece of the puzzle sliding perfectly into place.

He was already in love with this tiny creature, protective instincts kicking in full force. Not only would he move heaven and earth for his mate, but he’d do the same for his daughter, for this perfect little being in his arms.

Chrissy gave him a proud but tired smile. “What are we going to name her?”

“Dunno…” He replied softly, still captivated by her. “Daisy? Maybe, like, a flower name? She’s beautiful, flowers are too.”

She giggled softly. “We could go with that, but what about… Ruby?” A slight grin adorned her delicate features because she knew he’d like that.

Donnie, who’d just finished cleaning everything up, had to chime in like the walking Wikipedia page he was. “Ruby, a precious stone prized for its deep red colour. The gemstone symbolizes love, passion, vitality and strength. The word ruby comes from the word ruber, Latin for red. The colour—”

“It’s perfect.” Raph said, cutting his brother off from continuing with the lesson. He gazed into the amber-brown eyes of his daughter. “Ya like that name? I think it suits you.” A soft coo was his response.

Chrissy was unable to keep from smiling at how smitten he already was. “I think she approves.”

He was drawn back to her side, bringing their daughter with him and settling beside her on the bed. “She’s perfect…” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his wife’s forehead. “You’re amazing; I love you so much…”

“I love you too.”

Fast forward to a week later, and his protective nature was fanned into a flame.

Raphael was posted like a sentry outside the bedroom door where his wife resided, attempting to do a feeding. It hadn’t come as naturally to her as she would’ve liked, and she feared the baby wasn’t latching properly.

A previous, concerned Raph had asked Donnie to take a look at her, but those baser instincts were making it nearly impossible. He felt a strong urge to prevent anyone from seeing his mate feed their child.

A deep, unbidden growl emitted from his throat as his brother approached the bedroom. “Raph, cut it out.” Donnie had expected this since he’d spent time with Mikey at the Farmhouse after his first child was born. Mikey had been surprisingly worse than this but, luckily, had relaxed after their baby had gotten a little older.

This Raph, who had succumbed to these instincts, was almost beyond being reasoned with. Stuck in full ‘must protect mate’ mode, he growled more while puffing himself up to seem bigger and more formidable while preparing to fight.

Donnie was exasperated entirely, his expression showing how done he was with this behaviour. “Raph! You asked me to check on Chrissy to see if the baby is latching properly! I can’t help her if you don’t let me in!”

Raph was still not budging. Donnie was not about to fight his brother. He was about to give up when they both heard someone chime in from behind them, and she was not happy.

“Raphael Hamato!! Get your head out of your ass and let your brother in! This hurts, Ruby is crying and I’m leaking everywhere!” Her frustration was heard and it was enough to snap Raph out of his current state.

“Shit, sorry, sorry, Chriss, sorry, Don.” He was flooded with guilt at the fact he nearly prevented his wife from getting the help she needed because of his stupid instincts.

With Donnie’s help, things progressed a lot more smoothly from that moment on. Besides the obvious sleepless nights, colic, crying, and changing that first blowout (it had gotten everywhere, not his finest moment), adjusting to fatherhood had been easier than he thought it would.

In the coming months, he did relax for the most part, only letting out the occasional soft growl when Chrissy would breastfeed in the presence of his brothers.

She had put her foot down, demanding to feed her child wherever and whenever she pleased and even went so far as to use a spray bottle to spritz him whenever those instincts threatened to resurface.

Most mornings, he would get up first, take Ruby from Chrissy after a feed and hold his daughter close as he made breakfast. Clad in only a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, he hummed softly to Ruby, softly churring as he cooked.

To his absolute delight, Ruby had inherited some extra-special turtle characteristics besides her outward appearance. She'd begun to respond with chirps and clicks in her own little language, and Raph would answer with soft sounds of his own. It was a special time for them. Chrissy got the extra bit of sleep she so desperately needed, and Raph bonded with Ruby.

As scared as he had been initially, fatherhood suited him, looked good on him, and was something he embraced wholeheartedly.

End

A minute in his arms and forever in his heart.

Taglist

@danceingfae @thelaundrybitch @iridescentflamingo @redsrooftopprincess @ninnosaurus

@the-cauldron-witch @thepinkpanther83 @avery73 @adebauchedsloth @sophiacloud28

@definitely-canon @scholastic-dragon @truffle-reblogs @fyreball66 @yorshie

@jenuinelycurious

Please ask if you'd like to be added!

[erwinsvow]

i have this entire fleshed out shy reader lore for i guess a hypothetical universe where shy reader dated jj and/or pope first but eventually they broke up because of the whole season one treasure plotline not even because of a lack of love but mostly just her feeling neglected and alone. right at the end of all of that is when she would meet rafe just when he’s in that season two craziness/spiral and they become so insanely codependent and just around there somewhere when the pogues hate rafe even more they find out he’s dating shy reader and it’s just a whole other layer. so basically obx writers let me into the room.

[cent-scratchnsniff]

here together

[theflowerofthecommonwealth]

Fallout 4 Companions as Miis

I attempted to transform the companions into Mii characters. I did by best to make sure they all looked different while making sure to stay as true to their original designs as much as possible.

Let me know what you think.

MacCready: I really love his face, the little squiggly smile I gave him is adorable for some reason. Little rat guy, precious.

Piper: The first time I made her she looked too timid and generic. So I made sure to put some more reporters determination in her face during the second try.

Deacon: Smooth spy egg who was the easiest and fastest. If you remove the glasses he looks like One Punch Man lol.

Danse: His mouth would not cooperate with me. It kept moving in the two photos until I made one higher than the other between screenshots.

X6-88: I tried to make him as intimidating as possible, and I think I got it pretty good. Imagine boxing against him in Wii sports or putting him up against the famous Matt.

Curie: I wanted to give her bright eyes filled with optimism and a huge smile cause she’s happy to see you. :)

Cait: Honestly, I really like her hair here I feel like it fits her perfectly. She has a little smirk and a happier look because I’m tired of her being angry all the time. Let the woman have some peace!!!

Preston: I wanted to make him look very friendly but at the same time if I tweaked his mouth and eyebrows he could have a mean face for fighting raiders.

Old Longfellow: All the hair they had felt too young and crisp. He’s a crusty shaggy old man, I tried my best with what I had.

Gage: I am not a Gage person at all, I barely travel with him and he gets killed every playthrough. But I still tried my best cause I know some people like him. He’s wearing orange because it’s a prison uniform.

Jasmine: I made her so smol and squishable! She’s so freaking cute! LOOK AT HER LITTLE FACE!!! I just wanna scoop her up and swing her around but she’ll probably maul me if I do.

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt the goobers again (oni pmd au)

[d1stalker]

All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]

Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.

Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST - A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby

----

You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of. 

But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.

Everyone, except for you.

Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.

And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.

Logan Howlett.

You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.

You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.

Jean Grey.

She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart. 

You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.

It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.

Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it. 

The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory. 

Logan was never the same after that.

 —

You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.

As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.

Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.

“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.

It’s Logan.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back. 

You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted. 

But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.

Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-

You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.

“Give me a fuckin’ break.”

----

Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.

After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.

You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.

Brown.

You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.

Why him? Why me? Why now?

You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.

The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.

Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.

It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life. 

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.

Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward. 

The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours. 

“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.

You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.

Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”

“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”

“Logan, I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”

He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”

His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over. 

After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”

Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.

“Good. Then stay away from me.”

You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.

—

When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.

If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.  

You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another? 

You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again. 

And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?

—

Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.

His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone. 

Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction. 

It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.

But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him. 

And that’s the cruelest twist of all.

So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.

—

The only person you tell is Charles.

“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office. 

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.

“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does. 

“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”

You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered. 

“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”

The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?

“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”

Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts. 

“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist. 

Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”

The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”

“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”

Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”

“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it.  “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”

He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.

“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”

So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.

The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.

Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.

The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights. 

You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.

You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life—of your emotions. 

But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.

One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.

However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights. 

His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react. 

Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this. 

Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care? 

Because you are the only one who does care.

You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.

—

It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer. 

That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan. 

He’s across from you. Just your luck.

He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown. 

Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up. 

“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.

Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest

“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.

Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak. 

Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you. 

You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall. 

“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.

Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate? 

It’s not fair.

You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”

“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.

“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.

“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”

“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”

“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”

With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”

You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”

He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”

The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”

He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”

You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”

He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”

Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”

“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”

“What if it just makes things worse?”

“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”

You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”

“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.

With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.

You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.

Goddamn it.

You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.

Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock. 

There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.

The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.

“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”

He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”

You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.

“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”

His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”

“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”

He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”

His words hurt. 

“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”

A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”

“That isn’t fair,” you argue.

“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”

“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”

You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him

“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”

You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”

Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”

Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection. 

“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”

What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.

That’s when it really hits you. 

Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start. 

You give up.

This time, it is you who turns your back on him. 

“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.

— 

You decide to go on the mission.

It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief. 

The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.

Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.

“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”

Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze.  “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”

“I promise,” you assure.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out. 

“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”

You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze. 

“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”

Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express. 

It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport. 

—

When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.

The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.

You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.

Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.

He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.

As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.

One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”

You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”

His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”

A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”

—

Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.

His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone. 

In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.

This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.

Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.

“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.

Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”

Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”

Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost. 

Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”

Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.

“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”

Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real. 

“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”

The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back. 

There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.

Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”

Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.

The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.

But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.

—

You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants. 

But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.

It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.

“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”

You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.

Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.

Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.

Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”

The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.

“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”

You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak. 

“You won’t get away with this,” you say.

“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”

With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.

You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold. 

Location: Florence. 

Message: Help.

Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.

His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”

Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.

Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you. 

You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.

—

The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room,  and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device. 

Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.

Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”

There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement. 

Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest. 

“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”

“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”

The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink. 

“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.

“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”

He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.

Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”

Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”

The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.

Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”

“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”

Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”

Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”

—

Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.

And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”

You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.

He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”

Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.

“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”

He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”

Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.

The X-Men have arrived.

Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”

The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use. 

Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.

But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.

In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”

You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.

Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving. 

And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze. 

—

Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.

Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.

His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.

You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.

More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.

Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well. 

For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words. 

You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.

Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”

You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit. 

There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”

“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.

“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”

—

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.

But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.

It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.

In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.

Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.

It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.

And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.

He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?

At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.

But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.

After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.

You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.

And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.

He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.

So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.

But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.

He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.

"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.

"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.

You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”

You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."

That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.

And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.

"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."

You nod. "Okay."

Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.

—

The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.

You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.

With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.

With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.

One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush. 

“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.

“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”

Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”

He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”

Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”

—

It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.

During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.

After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.

Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”

Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”

Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”

Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”

More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.

“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”

And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.

—

“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.

Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”

You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”

You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you. 

You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown. 

His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.

This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.

That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely. 

And that makes all the difference.

----

a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual

[nezuscribe]

it's that same summer when you're at the gojo summer estate, the one near the sea. you're still teens, long before gojo became arranged!gojo.

your last encounter with gojo was something you brushed off. but gojo couldn't stop thinking about you. you were this puzzle he didn't know how to figure out. this war map that no matter how long he looked at it, none of his past strategies were making sense.

but the two of you go about your usual routine. he's with his friends, and you stick to yourself.

or at least you tried to.

gojo's mother, the lady of the gojo family, was an earnest and strict woman. everybody knew that she wasn't one for games or jokes. she rarely smiled and rarely, rarely, laughed. you, along with all the other kids, knew to bow extra low whenever greeting her. she seemed to carry more power than her husband, but she didn't seem to find an issue with that.

but for a woman who was so keen on tradition, she seemed to care about you a lot more than the other children.

when she spoke to you, her eyes softened. her voice was gentler, more caring. your sisters especially grew annoyed at this, trying to butter up to her even more, but she seemed to harbor this sort of kindness only towards you.

you didn't question this either. it must be some form of pity, but you appreciated it nonetheless. sometimes you pretended like she was your actual mom, but then you quickly shook that thought away, chiding yourself for thinking something so childish.

this sort of gentleness she had with you turned into her trying to include you in things. some days it would be having tea with you when the other adults were having tea somewhere else, or sometimes she'd plan a little dinner with you where you could get dressed up and act like a lady.

tonight, however, she seemed to think that the best way she could include you was to include you in the group of the other kids, a gentle and guiding hand on your protesting back.

"really, i like the library," you insist, but it couldn't be farther from the truth. you had been inside the library for so many hours that you could blink and those high walls filled with books would be seared into your vision.

"nonsense," she tells you, her blue eyes and white hair looking down at your form as she waves it off, "the kids are outside near the fire. they'd be delighted to have you."

you cringe a little bit, wondering if she was just as daft as her son.

but she had found you near the fireplace, trying to stick its warmth as you hunched over yet another book. she decided that enough was enough, you should be out with the other kids.

so you couldn't say much to the woman who was hosting your family to argue, letting her lead you outside the grand patio and into the overbearing fields that led out to the sea, you soon saw the fire crackling away, the sound of laughter filling your ears.

some of the kids who were facing the two of you nudged the other ones to turn around, looks of confusion on their faces as the noblest lady of the land led a quivering you closer to them.

the usual look of caring she had whenever she was with you melted away, turning to something icy as the two of you neared the group. her hand on your back was still present, but you wished that it could somehow push you deep into the ground where you could hide forever.

her eyes looked over the group until they fell on her son, gojo, and narrowed.

everybody's eyes bounced from you over to her.

"there should be room for one more, yes?" she asks, and all the kids quickly nod, moving over on the logs that they had created into makeshift seats as they scrambled to make space for you.

you wondered what it was like to command such respect from people, what it must be like to have people actually listen to you.

she nudges you forward a little bit and you glance up at her one more time, a sort of useless plea as she encourages you to sit down.

you take a deep breath, offering them all an apologetic smile as you slowly sit on a log, your legs cramming together to make yourself seem as small as possible.

you watched as she walked back through the patio, talking to a maid as she motioned over to your group, saying something you couldn't make out, and you looked back to the other kids, the ones you had barely spoken a couple words to, and wince.

"sorry," you say slowly, your hands fidgeting non-stop in your lap as you laugh awkwardly, wishing you could just drop dead.

you can see your sisters seething in the corner, rolling their eyes as they sneer. the other kids nod at you just as tensely, and you wonder how disrespectful it would be if you just went back inside.

you feel a pair of eyes searing in the side of your face, and you look slightly to your right to see gojo staring at you, his eyes slightly squinting, just as his mother did.

you swallow thickly, picking at your nails as you send him a small smile before looking back down at your lap.

you could still feel him looking at you, but you chose to ignore it.

gojo doesn't really know why his mother liked you so much, but he never truly questioned her. she treated you with a tenderness he never saw her treat anybody (aside from him) with. he sometimes saw the two of you sharing tea with each other, other times hearing her laugh whenever you cracked a joke. something unusual for both of you.

his eyes look at your face, taking in the way you duck your head to seem smaller than you are. your eyes avert any contact, teeth gnawing on your already chewed-up lips. gojo looks at your hands, at the way you pick at your nails. he looks at your dress and sees the way the seams are fraying, the initial shape of the dress looking a little bit unfitting on you. almost as if it wasn't made for you specifically. his eyes narrow in more as he pieces it together. the dress is a hand-me-down from your older sister. not because your family couldn't afford a new dress, of course not, but to remind you of your place.

he feels a sting in his chest.

slowly the conversation with the group goes back to usual, the other kids pretending that you weren't there. gojo could feel the arms of one of the girls latched around his, her body pressing into his side as she tried to get closer to him. he wanted to shove her away, but didn't want to make a scene right now.

one of the girl shifted the talk to the topic of couples, talking about how she saw this husband and wife in town the other day who seemed to actually like each other.

one of your sisters, mei, snorts, shaking her head at the idea.

"us girls either marry an old man or a slightly older one," her eyes look over to you, "there's no in-between."

everybody grimaces at that, her other sister, yume, shoving her shoulder roughly at the crude statement.

"what?" mei scoffs, sitting back up as she nudges her chin to you, "she is."

yume gives her a warning look, one that's clearly saying she's saying too much, but mei doesn't seem to care much. everybody stirs, their heads craning with the thrill of gossip.

gojo looks at you and wants to see what you think about all this, but you're so far in your own world that you don't notice the commotion that seems to be directed at you.

mei calls your name, trying to grab your attention, and your head shoots up, brows furrowed to see who needs you.

"right?" she asks, knowing you don't know the answer.

you look around again, wondering if she was just trying to be funny.

"what?" you ask finally.

"you have to marry someone older, yeah?" mei presses, her eyes gleaming as your confusion melts away into one of embarrassment, looking at yume to see if mei was really serious.

of your two sisters, mei was always the mischievous one, if you could even call her cruelty that.

gojo sits up slightly, his brows scrunching up together a little bit at the mention of this. nobody had heard of any marriage offers, especially this early. you were still underage. who...?

you scratch at your neck, heat rising to your cheeks at the sudden attention on you.

"it was just an offer," you say through clenched teeth, shooting mei a look as she just smiles smugly. she knew she'd never have to deal with this.

"who?" one of the guys asks.

"nobody," you say quickly, waving it off as you rub a hand over your face, wondering if you threw yourself on the fire if that would help.

"naoya!" mei says instantly, your eyes widening as she reveals this very secret thing that even your father was trying to keep hushed away. you feel your stomach drop, eyes stinging in embarrassment as gasps echo around the group.

"isn't he...?" one of the girls tries to do the math, seeing how much older he already is.

"i heard he wants children," another girl adds, giving you a look of attempted sympathy but it just looks like a wince, "like, a lot of children."

you shut your eyes, rubbing at your aching forehead. you look briefly at gojo, only to see him looking incredulously at you. he's the only one who doesn't seem to be talking in a shocked or excited tone.

everybody gets excited about a terrible marriage offer when it's not them who have to offer themselves up.

he's studying you, seeming to be the only one who sees the way your chest is heaving, as if you're struggling to breathe. or the glossy look in your eyes, the way you dart them away so nobody can see. gojo looks over at mei, at the way she looks satisfied for delivering her piece of gossip for the night,

at your expense.

he doesn't know why he feels the way he does, or why he drags the girls arm away from him as he stands up, shrugging his coat over his frame as everybody suddenly looks at him.

but he's only looking at you.

"i forgot to give you your blanket from last week." he says simply, his voice heavy and coarse, as if he hadn't used it in a while, "come with me,"

well, he never said he was good at lying.

but he puts a steady arm on your shoulder, helping you stand up as you shoot him a confused look, letting him lead you away as the silence behind you becomes defeating.

you wipe at your nose, sniffling silently as he leads you through the grassy field.

he glances down at you. this is the second time the two of you have been alone, and the first time he's ever seen you on the verge of tears.

"thank you," you murmur thickly, rubbing at your eyes with your palms as you laugh wetly, "she wasn't supposed to say..." you trail off, looking away from him in embarrassment.

gojo guides you up the porch, behind a long marble pillar where the two of you are away from the other's curious stares.

he's never been good at comforting people, but he's never wanted to more than now.

"she's right, though," you say through a stutter, arms crossing at your chest as if that's what gojo was thinking about, "naoya, he-" you can't finish the sentence, the reality of it too heavy for you.

naoya proposed a month ago. a marriage offer for when you turn of age. he was desperate to find a wife, but not too many women were desperate to make him their husband. but your father needed the alliance, and your father's wife needed you away, so they swiftly agreed to it.

gojo's hand still hasn't left your shoulder, and he gives it a small squeeze.

"i'm sorry about this," you motion to yourself, laughing humorleslsy, "i didn't mean to...gods, i just...i don't want to be his w-wife," you admit quietly, shaking your head as you hide your face in your hands, "i-i don't want to have his children."

gojo feels bile rise to his throat at the thought of that.

he's only seen you twice. why does he care so much about what happens to you?

"somebody else will come along," he says in a whisper, and you look at him through your fingers, dropping them to your side as you blink slowly, rubbing at your cheeks.

"no good man wants to marry me," you tell him quietly, without any trace of pity for yourself, something that was simply the truth, "if not naoya, then another variant of him."

gojo leans down slightly to level with you, his lips pressed into a thin line.

you don't know why he's so close, or why he looks more worried for you than anybody else has. you shrug him off of you, trying to collect yourself as you peer through one of the large windows that look inside the estate.

"you can get rid of that blanket," you mutter, eyes darting from the window to his stunning blue ones, ones that make your knees slightly weak, "i was going to knit a new one anyways."

you bid your farewells, nodding lowly at him as you find your way inside.

gojo watches your back, looking back at the group as he runs a hand through his hair, gripping at his white locks in frustration.

he doesn't know what he's feeling. he doesn't know why he wants naoya suddenly dead. he doesn't know why he's not going to listen to what you just asked him to do, or why he wants to hold onto that blanket.

gojo doesn't know why you suddenly infiltrate his every waking moment, or why he needs to see naoya buried alive just so that you wouldn't have to marry him.

he doesn't know the answer to any of these things. but he doesn't know if he wants to.