#and just seeing the eye of one of the person who hurted you the most

[thegr33nc0met]

*drops this and runs*

Mark Grayson x healer!reader ♥︎

Warnings: NSFW, GN!reader/unspecified anatomy, reader’s a little mean, cumming in pants, canon typical violence

he was honestly the most insufferable person you had ever put up with.

yes, even more so than rex.

rex at least gave his all when he fought. he didn’t pull his punches or refuse to use his explosives because he felt it was ‘unfair.’ at least he had a valid reason for being in the space used as your office.

mark on the other hand…

you grumbled to yourself as you watched him on tv, clad in his new suit. you sighed in agitation as you watched the villain he was fighting fling him across the ground, leaving a meteor-like hole as he crashed.

great, another injury for you to fix. one he could have easily avoided if he had just taken this guy out.

but no. he has to pretend like he’s the good guy. it really drove you up the wall. everyone knew he was strong enough to finish half his fights in a fraction of the time it normally takes him, and he’d be finished without a scratch.

you flicked off the tv, too annoyed to watch anymore. you knew he’d just be here in a bit to have you heal up his cuts and bruises.

you’re a healer, having discovered your powers at a young age. well, healer was the nicest term you could have used. once cecil got whiff of you, he knew you were something he’d need to control if you were to ever give into those angry urges of yours. all organic matter was under your domain. he once saw you split a man in two, forcing his cells from one side to the other.

it’s not like you enjoyed it, though. you had always had what others referred to as a strong sense of justice, only using your powers to harm those who you thought really deserved it. that’s why cecil convinced you to be a healer at such a young age. you were 14 when you joined the teen team, but you never went out on the field. you simply patched the others up after a fight. you had seen the rise and fall of the team, along with the new guardians. now you were back at the old teen team compound, doing the same work you’d been doing the last few years.

yet despite being through multiple different groups of teams, mark had always been your number one client.

your nostrils flare as you recall the image of him getting injured on the tv. at first, you thought maybe you should feel bad for the guy. you never enjoyed seeing him get hurt. but after finding out what he was capable of and still seeing him hold back in the most dire of situations, it really boiled your blood.

the sound of the door to your office opening snapped you out of your thoughts. you audibly sighed as he limped inside, clutching his ribs as he struggled over to the medical gurney, wheezing as he took a seat without you having to instruct him to. a flash of worry trickled through you at the sight, but it was quickly replaced with anger.

mark knew you didn’t like him, or at least didn’t agree with his methods. he could hear your heart beat faster with anger whenever he showed up beaten and bloody.

you wordlessly step over to him, silently seething as he removed his mask with a grunt. his face was bloody and bruised, his left eye nearly swollen shut. you grimaced.

“happy to see me?” he managed to wheeze out, a shit eating grin on his face despite his pain.

“shut up if you want me to fix you,” you hissed, a hateful gleam in your eye. he was too out of it to tease much more, the pain in his face keeping him tamer than usual. you brought your hands up and loosely placed them on his neck, the only exposed bit of his skin you could reach. there was a low hum tugging somewhere in your body as you willed his cuts and bruises away. it took longer than it would any human, not used to his viltrumite dna quite yet to heal him as quickly as you could others despite doing this countless times. the silence stretched on, your eyes closed in focus. you could feel each and every one of his cells flexing and pulsating beneath your touch.

“just say it,” mark sighed, sensing the mean thoughts he knew you’d unleash on him one way or another.

“you’re a fucking idiot.” he grinned at that, a soft puff of air coming out through his nose in a lazy sort of laugh. “do you understand how many more people are gonna get hurt because of you?” you hiss.

“okay, ouch…” he mutters halfheartedly, wincing as a cut fuses back together.

“and look at you. it’s honestly pathetic,” you spit out, clenching your teeth. “it’s almost like you enjoy being in here.”

something swirls in his lower gut, his breath hitching at your words. it’s such a small noise that you don’t even notice. you keep trying to focus on getting the swelling around his eye to go down.

he knows once you’re start, you can’t stop though. you hurl insults at him as you fix his wounds, your fingers digging slightly into the flesh of his neck. he’s breathing heavier, but you blame it on the healing. you hardly even notice the flush on his face as you continue degrading him.

“…and if you had any self respect, you wouldn’t show your face in here,” you finished, the last of his wounds disappearing as if they were never even there to begin with. you finally take your hands off his neck and the loss of contact makes him whimper. the sound catches you off guard, your eyes flying open. it’s then you notice the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils are so dilated they nearly swallow his iris’ whole, the heavier breathing.

“mark-“ you start, your eyes flicking over his body rapidly before they land on the very prominent bulge in his suit.

“fuck…” he sighs, a fresh wave of hot humiliation clogging his atoms.

“you need help fixing that as well?” before you can even think to regret the words, he’s nodding his head, a bit too eagerly.

you really shouldn’t be taking pity on him. you should keep berating him, tell him he’s sick for enjoying this so much. but instead, you spread his thighs and step between them, closer than before. his hands are on your hips in an instant, a needy noise leaving his mouth.

“stay still,” you tell him. he nods, watching as you hesitantly bring your hand to the lump in his suit.

“fuck…” he breathes out once more, his hips twitching to meet your touch.

“i said stay still,” you say more firmly than before, gripping the outline of his cock tighter. he whines softly, nodding his head as he brings a hand up to quiet himself.

you swallow nervously. the sight of him like this is really doing something to you. you hadn’t really ever considered yourself as super powerful before, but seeing one of the strongest men on the planet crumbling in on himself all because your hand is cupping his crotch through his suit…

it makes you feel high.

maybe this is why he always let himself get beat down. maybe he enjoyed it just a little too much. maybe he liked being weak.

the thought made you pity him. you moved your hand faster against his cock, making him mewl and squirm on the cot. you bring your other hand to the back of his head, encouraging him to rest his forehead on your shoulder. he obediently does so, fighting his urge to buck up into your hand.

you can’t bring yourself to speak up, only the sounds of his whimpers and the creaking of the medical cot filling your office. you can feel the wet patch on the crotch of his suit against your hand now. he’s so painfully hard beneath the damp fabric.

“oh god, oh fuck…” mark grunts, his eyes rolling back. “gonna cum, fuck!” he whines.

“yeah?” you whisper, your voice wavering. “you’re doing so good for me,” you tell him, almost gently.

oh, that really does it. the slightest bit of praise. his noises get louder, his body bucks and writhes uncontrollably as it builds up.

“oh! f-fuck!” he grunts before letting out a series of high pitched moans and whimpers. you feel him tense and tremble against you, feeling the fabric getting wetter beneath your hand as he explodes in his suit. he pants softly as you slow your hand, letting him come down from his high. you stand there for a moment, petting the back of his head like one might a cat before slowly disentangling yourself from him.

he watches you dazedly as you take a step back, his eyes still glossed over with lust. undeniably, the way he looks at you makes you flustered. it’s too intense. you give a light smack to his thigh, making him flinch (knowing damn well it didn’t hurt).

“welp, you’re all healed up, champ,” you tell him, doing your damn best to avoid looking at those eyes that’ll just suck you right in if you let them. “get outta here…” you say, thumbing to the door as you step to the side. something flickers across his face - a pout, almost - before he neutralizes his features and sighs. he turns his head to look at you, narrowing his eyes before a smirk spreads across his lips and he stands.

“see you tomorrow?” he asks, though you know it’s not a question. you just hum in response, watching the way his hips move as he walks towards the door, waddling slightly from the mess in his suit.

what the fuck just happened?

this was heavily inspired by @swtheartz healer stories! go check out his blog♥︎

[ryusjwks]

yapping abt nonmc

Non-MC reader fanfics are always written by authors who know exactly how to hurt a person. The pain is so intense and so well-crafted that, dear God, sometimes I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. And after a while, I start to see myself as that woman—waiting to be loved but never receiving it in return.

Imagine loving someone. Looking at them with the most fragile, the most human part of your heart. When you hear their voice, everything inside you comes to a halt, and your entire existence shifts toward them. But they… they don’t even notice you. Or if they do, their recognition is not with the powerful grasp of love, but with the light touch of mere acknowledgment.

To you, they are a star, the very center of the universe. But to them, you are just another speck of light in the sky. If you were to disappear, they wouldn’t feel your absence. You turn back, realizing your hands are empty, crushed under the weight of your love. And they? They continue revolving around another world, another sun.

You are a meteor, trying to rise and shine, but unable to enter their orbit—shattered by the gravity of a planet that was never meant to hold you. You dissolve into dust, fading into silence. And they move on, as if nothing ever happened.

This plays out differently for each character, but the ending remains the same.

In Zayne’s case, you are either his fiancée or his wife. He is always cold and distant. His words are measured, his presence heavy yet quiet. Even if storms rage behind his eyes, his face remains unreadable. He has always been this way, and you have accepted it.

But then, he smiles—at her.

That smile is like spring breaking through the ice, subtle, warm, and gentle. As if, for just a moment, the layers of frost within him have melted. And in that moment, you realize he was never truly like this—not for everyone. He is not just a distant man; he is only distant toward you.

And that’s when it sinks in. A weight settles inside you, stealing your breath for just a second. Because you have seen it now—he can be affectionate, he can be warm, he can smile. But that smile was never meant for you.

You are likely Sylus’s assistant, though in rare cases, you might be his wife. Sylus has always been indifferent—to everyone. To you. You walked in his shadow on the battlefield, threw yourself in front of bullets for him, but to him, it was merely necessity. A duty. Your presence was nothing more than part of the mission. Until she came along.

With her arrival, Sylus changed. His face softened when he looked at her, the sharpness in his voice faded. He made sacrifices for her, and when he spoke to her, the rigidness in his posture eased. Sylus was no longer the man you knew. Everyone questioned if he was still the same person, but you already knew the truth.

He hadn’t changed. He had simply never been yours.

With Xavier and Rafael, the pattern is almost identical. You are nothing more than a companion who has traveled through centuries with them, defying time itself.

As time weaves its path, they always take the lead—making decisions, guiding, fighting. And you? You are merely a shadow beside them. A witness. While they sacrificed their homelands for love, you were the one who heard the cries of the people they left behind. On one side was their passionate devotion, and on the other, your quiet grief.

For them, time had stopped. But for you, the world kept turning, though it no longer resembled the place you once knew.

And then there’s Caleb.

Caleb was always by MC’s side. He was her protector, her shield, her most trusted person. And you were there too. You grew up in the same house, sat at the same dinner table, shared the same stories. But his eyes always sought only MC.

Through the years, you watched how he looked at her. How he stepped forward at the slightest sign of danger, how every word he spoke to her carried an unshakable certainty. You bore witness to his protection, his sacrifices, his unwavering love—but never once was any of it directed at you.

You were there too. You lived those same moments. But you were never the center of his world.

Some see her as a mistress, a backup, an extra wedged between the main character and the LI. As if she were a mere footnote in someone else’s story, placed there by mistake. But she’s not.

She is not just someone trying to insert herself where she doesn’t belong. She was there from the very beginning. She walked the same path, fought the same battles, gazed at the same sky. She was never a stranger lingering on the edges of the story—she was a part of it.

The difference is that her name was never written into the main plot. Her words never echoed, her presence was never at the center. And yet, she was never just a replacement. Because love isn’t a competition, it isn’t a role to be filled, it isn’t about winners and losers.

She simply loved. With everything she had, without expecting anything in return. Her eyes were always on him, but his eyes were never on her.

[postracehair]

breaking zone

max verstappen x reader | 1.1k

max teaches you how to use his racing simulator.

cw: flirty fun, allusions to sexy fun, a lot of vague statements about the sim cause i don't know a damn thing

a/n: this came from a request! thank you, anon! sorry about the three pics of max up top instead of something aesthetic. i couldn't help it!

EDIT: found this in my drafts, too. wrote it aaaaages ago. have it for the no-race weekend.

--

Max is the one who suggests it.

"I don't want to break it," you protest. "You need that thing."

He rolls his eyes. "You won't," he says. "I just want to show you how it works."

You're on his couch, reading. He's just finished a stream and clearly has some energy from it -- which is why he's suggested, out of the blue, that you try his racing simulator.

There are some drawbacks to going along with his plan. First of all, you're very comfortable where you are. Second of all, you really just want him to lie down with you and watch a movie. He is a potent mix of adorable and devastatingly attractive in his low-slung sweatpants and Puma t-shirt. He's even wearing the glasses that rarely see the light of day.

Damn him.

"Alright," you groan. "Fine."

Max grins with his victory and tugs you off the couch and into his office.

"I'm not going to be good at it. Remember how the Playstation adventure went?"

You'd tried playing F1 2024 on Max's console. It became clear very quickly that you did not quite know how to get the hang of turning around the circuit without hitting other cars.

"Eh, you'd get better if you practiced," Max says. It's a combination of the somewhat undeserved unwavering confidence he has in you because he loves you, and the underestimation of a regular person trying to do his, in fact, very difficult job. But you let him think so.

"Sure, Max."

He turns on the monitors and boots up the sim system. It's maybe the most intimidating setup you've ever seen. Three huge screens curving in a half-circle around the seat, and another smaller one on top of the center screen. The wheel is like an oval dinner plate with so many buttons you almost laugh. You've seen it before, of course, but the idea that you're going to use that thing? Hilarious.

"You're going to sit here," Max says, patting the back of the chair. "Let's start with that."

He beckons you over and you gingerly slide down into the mock-seat. You misjudge how low it is by a few inches and plop down with a yelp.

"Jesus," you say. "This is so much lower then I thought it would be. There go my fantasies of having sex in your car."

"Your what?" Max sputters. His cheeks are red and you wink up at him. "I have other cars," he adds.

"I know," you laugh. "Teach me this, first."

Max sighs like the most put-upon man in the world and crouches down next to the chair so he's more eye level. His voice is right by your ear when he says, "Now, put your feet on the pedals. Do yo see them?"

You look under the screens and see what he's talking about. You stretch your legs and find yourself in a much tighter position than you expected, knees close to your chest and back at an angle.

"This is not comfortable," you grumble. "My abs already hurt."

"All the training isn't just for show, you know," Max teases.

"Yeah, yeah," you say. "You're strong and handsome and a WorldChampion. I know. Now tell me how to work this thing."

You gesture at the nightmare of a steering wheel.

"Okay," Max begins. "So, left to right, you have the radio button --"

Max does what he does best: explain. You already knew he was a good teacher, but to be on the receiving end of his knowledge about the thing he loves most and is brilliant at is kind of thrilling. Worth getting up the couch for, at least. He explains the buttons, the knobs, the clutch paddles. The tyre status, the DRS, the flag indicators.

You retain probably a quarter of it.

"And this is set up differently by each team?" you mutter. "Shit, how do you guys do this?"

He smirks. "Well, not everyone does it very well."

"Max."

"Time and training, liefje," he says. "If you had both of those, you could learn."

"Good thing I like listening to you explain it," you sigh. "It's hot."

Max clears his throat. "Flirting isn't going to get you out of trying it at least once."

"Fire it up, then," you goad him. "We'll see what it might get me after."

His hand darts out to squeeze your thigh, golden hairs on his wrist shining in the sunlit room, and then he stands. He fiddles with the program for a minute and then all three screens light up and you're basically in a Formula 1 car.

"This is Zandvoort," he says.

"Your track?"

"Mhm," he hums. "Figured you could start somewhere you know."

Know is a bit of an exaggeration -- you've been there with him more than once and even walked the track with him during race weekend.

"If you say so," you mutter. You look behind you and find him standing with his arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.

"Well, start it up, then."

As you predicted, the entire venture goes horribly. If this was a real car, they'd take away your license and ban you from setting foot on a racetrack ever again.

But this is your boyfriend's racing simulator. And he is a world champion as well as in love with you, so it's not as bad as that. He's patient -- more than you expected him to be, honestly -- and gentle with his instructions. He doesn't chastise you for things you don't know, instead coaching you to think about one thing at a time. As the laps go on you manage to achieve a low-level form of cohesion between your feet on the pedals and your steering.

It's fun. It's fun to have Max at your shoulder, his constant stream of commentary mingled with praise for your incredibly mediocre ability to follow his directions. It's fun to understand the thing he does all the time, the thing he is so good at, a little better. Sitting in the chair is a little like being inside his head.

You finish another lap almost in stitches from how hard you're laughing, Max's chuckles making it even worse.

"That certainly does not deserve a podium," you say, gasping. "God, get me out of this thing."

You pull your legs from the pedals, abdominal muscles aching, and Max maneuvers himself so it can grab your forearms and tug you up.

"I think you deserve a reward, anyway," Max says. You face him and find a neutral expression apart from a quirked eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah?" you muse. "What would that be?"

He tugs you a little closer. "I can think of some things."

Your noses brush. "Like what?" you ask, a little breathless. "Do you want to show me a lap?"

"No," he whispers, lips so close they brush yours as he talks. "I want to show you something else."

He grabs your hand and tugs to towards the bedroom. 

[pisceanfilm]

⋆ ｡  𐀔  ° ‧     what does this person want you to know?

KEYWORDS: romance, relationships, (past) situationships, seperation, energy check between you and your person of romantic interest.

ꕤ * ． pile one. → ꕤ * ． pile two. → ꕤ * ． pile three.

relax your body, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. ask yourself: "which pile has a message for me today?" when you open your eyes, what image did your eyes fall on? what image do you feel most drawn to energetically? that's your pile!

this reading is timeless! it will cross your path whenever it's meant to find you 🍀 while my main intention was to channel someone you're already involved with, you can also use this for your sp, a future partner, a soulmate, or whoever you're thinking about!!

PILE # 01

your person is a true yearner, i'll tell you this much. their heart is very fragile, they want you to know they're scared of getting hurt, of being betrayed. this is a person who didn't have many healthy relationships in the past. they're confused, unsure what to do, and just wishes to avoid it all right now.

they're very much fantasising about a future with you, though... they want it all with you, they loooove your laugh. (i'm seeing that maybe they want to travel with you? explore the world together is what i heard.) with you on their side, they feel invincible. they really want you on their team. when this person has been processing their emotions healthily, i see that they're very attentive, unafraid of showing a passionate desire towards you, and generally very caring and loving. they appreciate you so much, you're the brightest star in their existence.

however, if this person isn't standing strong in their emotions, i see them being very hot and cold. when you're together, everything feels right. you feel secure, you feel like there's something there. but when you're apart i see that you're very confused by the energy of your relationship. your mind appears to be your biggest enemy: do they like me? am i good enough for them? is this something that could work out? (i see that this is you picking up on the energy of your person... their confusion and doubts are making you doubtful as well.)

what i'm hearing is that you need to focus on your own healing and stability, so you can help this person heal energetically as well. this is a connection that's mostly guided by the divine. (currently there's a lot happening behind the scenes that you aren't even aware of.) you're meant to heal and complete certain cycles with this person for sure, this is not the end of the connection. so have faith, and trust that everything will align!!

a letter from your person: do you think about me too? i can't get you out of my head, no matter how much i try. you're always there. it frustrates me, how easy it would be for you to secure a spot inside of my heart. how well we could work together if i let my guard down. i'm scared, though. scared of hurting you, scared of hurting myself, scared of failing. what if i have something so beautiful with you and then ruin it by my fears and self sabotaging tendencies? i don't know why you still stick around, but i'm trying to be a better person. please call me out on my bullshit, i need you to be firm and stand your ground. don't take shit from me, i know i need to step up. i care for you, i'm trying to put my ego aside.

PILE # 02

god help my soul, i'm sensing a very intense and determined energy coming from your person 😭 this is definitely giving me the energy of an ex, or a situationship that was meant to take off but somehow didn't (i see this being your person's fault, for sure). this person absolutely regrets losing you. they're the reason things aren't moving forward. they blame themselves, they're angry and devastated. they wish they could've done things differently.

in the most favourable outcome, i see this person working on healing themselves. they're going through an ego death/dark night of the soul and are questioning everything and everyone around them. in this reflection i see them wanting to become a better person (for you), if you're willing to give them a chance. they want to love you right, they want to show you how much you mean to them... i see them wanting to swoop in and steal you away so you can ride into the sunset together!!

if this person refuses to face their demons, however, i see that spirit is going to give them a very difficult time unfortunately</3 they will hit them with the same harsh lessons over and over again until they finally see the light. in this case i see spirit keeping this connection in a separation (or limbo) in order to protect you. you can't heal this person right now... if they open their eyes, if they're able to see... they would understand what you truly mean to them. what a treasure they had in front of them. they will get there, though. it might take some time, i'm hearing.

depending on your situation with this person, only take them back if you can see that they've changed!! you know this is the case when they come back and show humble energy, that they're able to admit that they were wrong. i see, for some of you, they truly fucked up. so please use your discernment! losing you has been their biggest regret, though, and they will be carrying this guilt for a very long time...

a letter from your person: i'm going to win you back. i'll return to you and prove that i can be the person you need me to be. i'm sorry for hurting you in the past, i'm sorry for making you feel like you weren't good enough. apologies won't cut it, i know things need to change. i'm working on facing my demons. you were right, you made me realise i need to heal. i hope you still will be there when i come back... do you have someone new? are you willing to forgive me? i messed up, and losing you will be the biggest regret of my life.

PILE # 03

this is such a sweet and gentle energy, i just want to squish their cheeks<33 i see many different scenarios for you two. you could be dating, this could be a secret admirer, this could be your friend... this person feels very hesitant to me. i feel like they often have a poker face or wear a mask. i sense that you might pick up that they're hiding something from you/aren't being 100% authentic. don't be afraid, they aren't hiding anything malicious! if anything, i see they're hiding the depth of their emotions for you. they fear coming off too strong, they fear scaring you away. if you're in a relationship together, i see them wanting to take the next step... (making things official, living together, an engagement maybe? 🤭) they want to move things forward in a fruitful way, they want to give you all the love in the world. they're sooooo gentle with you, this makes my heart want to burst with love. they have such good intentions with you and they want to make you happy for as long as you'll have them<3

i don't feel any negative energies for this pile</3 literally, the worst case scenario here is that your person is a bit hesitant and reluctant to show the depths of their true feelings for you. they fear rejection, they fear being judged by you. (i see this person really cares and values your opinion of them, so your rejection would hurt tbh.) they're mostly testing the waters right now, trying to figure out what you want and what you're ready for. this is a very considerate person! but again, their insecurities might stop them from taking any action right now.

you have such a special place in their heart, it's no joke. you must have such a beautiful and powerful energy because this person literally loves every. single. thing. about. you. they see you as their sun, their moon, their stars, their whole universe... you mean a lot to them. i think the depth of their emotions scares them as well, to be honest. but i see them being brave and facing this head on. they want you, they know they want you, so i see them making a very significant move in the very near future.

please, my pile 3, be gentle with their heart<3 their energy is so pure and wholesome, they could be such a bright light in your darkness! i'm hearing that, if you aren't sure of this person's intentions, know that it's safe to trust them. you'll be very pleasantly surprised with what's waiting for you if you open your heart!

a letter from your person: do you like me? you shine so bright, sometimes it's blinding me. you radiate so much warmth, you make me so happy. when i'm with you there's no other place i'd rather be. did you know this? i'm placing my heart in your hands, i surrender myself to you...

(i'm not getting much more from them because this person is a bit shy... but when i'm in their energy... their heart just glows thinking about you. i see shy smiles, unable to keep eye contact without blushing, i feel like sometimes they need to take breaks from you because you're so overwhelming. love love love this energy 🩷)

[lady-luckk]

love twisted into madness

# pairings: yandere concubine harem x reader

# synopsis: you’re the unwilling ruler of a country with obsessive concubines who are trying to kill each other.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, possessiveness, drugging, and murder. if you are uncomfortable please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: this is a rewrite of my previous yandere concubine harem from my old blog, @screeching-bunny. reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

they called you mad. insane, even. but you didn’t care. insanity was a refuge, a safe place in a world so deeply fractured. you hated your life with a burning passion, a disgust for the bloodline that bound you to a throne you never asked for. the family that birthed you, each one more power-hungry than the last, seemed like a curse. if given the chance, you would’ve chosen to be born to a pauper, far away from the twisted games of royalty.

but fate had no mercy.

once, you were nothing more than an afterthought, a shadow, the last person anyone would have expected to rule. the line to the throne stretched out ahead of you, and you were nowhere near it. but then the scheming mothers and the poisoning, the subtle betrayals and the bloody coups… one by one, your half-siblings, your full siblings—gone, each one murdered to clear the path. and just like that, the unwanted heir became the sole ruler.

you remember the day the crown was placed upon your head like it was yesterday. the moment the weight of it settled on your skull, the vultures swarmed. smiling, whispering, each noble hoping for a taste of your favor. you despised them all. they were like flies, buzzing around you, pretending to admire you while secretly planning to feast on your downfall. even your closest childhood friends, the ones you had trusted without question, turned on you. you couldn’t believe your eyes when your best friend, the one who had sworn loyalty to you, kneeled at your feet and asked for your love. then came another. and another. the shameless petitions for courtship were endless, their hunger unbearable.

love? what even was that? you had never known it. your mother had been slaughtered when you were young, and your father had always been a distant, cold figure. the only love you had ever felt was the strange, suffocating devotion of those who wanted to possess you, to claim you as their prize. people were a nuisance to you, nothing more than obstacles in your path. you’d long ago retreated into your own mind, where no one could hurt you, where the expectations of others didn’t matter. but that world, your sanctuary, was slipping away, one manipulative touch at a time.

when you turned twenty, your father, ever the schemer, presented your first concubine—a princess from a neighboring country. she was clingy, obsessive, a tiny spark in a world of insanity. she watched your every move, her eyes glued to you like a hawk, and whenever your gaze shifted, a storm brewed in her. her jealousy simmered beneath the surface, and with each new concubine, it grew worse.

your harem was a battlefield of madness, a twisted circus of egos and power plays. each day, one of your concubines would try to outdo the others—some showing off their skills, others pushing for attention in the most devious ways. the jealousy was sickening, feeding into a cycle of betrayal, lies, and violence. assassination attempts weren’t a rare occurrence; they were an expectation. each poisoned drink, each knife in the dark, was just another step in a game you never wanted to play.

you couldn’t escape them, not even for a moment. the madness of your harem was unrelenting. you could feel their eyes on you constantly, watching, waiting for their chance. every night was a war for your affection, a contest to see who would be the most adored, the most loved. the prize? a night in your bed. and as the days passed, their obsession grew darker, their need more desperate.

"your majesty, you’re the sun to my dark sky," they would whisper, their voices sickly sweet, desperate. "let me be your first spouse, your most cherished."

the words were the same, day after day, night after night. the promises of eternal loyalty, of adoration, of power. and you, trapped in a world where affection was a commodity, were left with no choice but to indulge them. it was a game, a power play that you didn’t want to be a part of, but you were the one they wanted. you were the crown, the prize, and they would destroy anything or anyone who stood between them and that title.

your chambers were no sanctuary. every time you entered, you could feel the undercurrent of madness. a concubine would always be there, waiting for you, dressed in provocative clothing, eyes filled with a strange hunger. they would make their move, their voices trembling with longing.

"please, your majesty," they would beg, their breath hot against your skin. "i need you. won’t you be mine tonight?"

but there was something more terrifying in their eyes, something darker. their love wasn’t just love—it was obsession. an obsession that twisted them, made them forget what was real, and pushed them to do things that were unspeakable. it was suffocating, it was frightening, and worst of all—it never stopped.

your harem was a breeding ground for monsters. not just the scheming foxes and the conniving lotuses, but the crazed, broken individuals who had lost all sense of reason. they would cry for your attention, manipulate your emotions, and twist their reality to get you to notice them. and the worst part? they knew how to play the game better than you ever could. each tear was a weapon, each sob a carefully crafted plea for power.

but you were not without your own tricks. you learned the game quickly—how to play with them, how to break their spirits before they could break yours. and every time one of them would try to manipulate you, you would feign sympathy, guiding them to your chambers, watching as they thought they’d won. but you knew the truth: they were all pawns, each one playing into your hands without realizing it.

as you led the newest concubine to your bed, her eyes glistening with hope and love, you could feel the fury of the others behind you. a smirk tugged at your lips as you heard their thoughts burning through the air.

"i’m going to make her regret this… i’ll make her suffer."

and so, the madness continued. each day, each night, a new battle, a new war for control. and you, the unwilling queen, stood at the center of it all, watching the chaos unfold with a cold, detached smile.

as the days bled into one another, your mind began to fracture under the weight of it all. the constant flurry of false affection, the endless manipulation, the dark undercurrents of obsession—everything blurred into a maddening fog. you had learned to expect the chaos, to accept that your life was one long, twisted game. but even now, they still found ways to surprise you.

you awoke every morning to the oppressive sound of whispers, the shuffle of feet, the flutter of silk against marble floors. your concubines, the ones you had chosen to stay, would surround you like shadowy figures, each one vying for attention, for a moment of your time, of your affection. and though you had learned to tune them out, to shut down the noise, it was a constant bombardment, a storm that never relented.

one evening, as you prepared for your nightly routine—slipping into the silk robes that once felt like a symbol of power but now merely served as another prison—you felt something new, something unsettling. the air was thick with a strange tension, an undercurrent of unspoken rivalry that seemed to be growing. at first, you tried to ignore it. another day, another ridiculous attempt to win your favor. but tonight, there was something different.

a new concubine, a girl so fresh and untouched by the games, had been added to your harem just days ago. she was beautiful, yes, but there was something off about her. her eyes—too calculating, too sharp—gave away more than she intended. at first, you had brushed it off as naivety, the innocence of someone still unfamiliar with the madness that consumed this place. but now, something in her gaze told you that she wasn’t as ignorant as the others.

you had given her a chance, of course. you always did, to see how they would behave, how far they would go to earn your favor. and tonight, she was ready to make her move.

you had just finished dressing, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of your crown, a crown that now felt more like a curse than a symbol of power. you turned to find her standing at the entrance of your chambers, her posture immaculate, her hands folded demurely in front of her. the soft glow of candlelight danced across her delicate features, casting shadows that seemed to distort her expression.

"your majesty," she whispered, her voice sweet but with an undertone of something far darker. "i need to speak with you. it’s important."

there was a brief flicker of something in her eyes—a glimmer of certainty, a challenge, perhaps. your gaze narrowed, but you motioned for her to come closer. the others were watching from the shadows, as they always did, but this time, you didn’t care. you were tired of the games, tired of pretending that this wasn’t the reality you had to face every day.

she stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, each step deliberate, calculated. when she reached you, she knelt—something you hadn’t expected. most of them, even after all these years, still tried to assert their superiority, to play the role of the dutiful concubine. but not her. she was different.

"your majesty," she began, her eyes never leaving yours, "i would die for you. but i have a question."

you raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but gave no response. you knew that any movement could give her more power, more ground to stand on, so you remained still, letting her feel the weight of your silence. it was a game you had perfected long ago—let them speak, let them reveal their desires, their fears. and then, you would tear them apart with a single word.

"what would you do," she asked, her voice trembling now, just slightly, "if i told you that the one who truly controls you… is me?"

the words hit you like a thunderclap. at first, you thought it was a joke, some petty game she was playing to test her limits, to see how far she could push. but the look in her eyes was dead serious. she wasn’t playing. she wasn’t afraid of you. she was looking right into the abyss, daring you to blink. then it hit you. you had consumed an aphrodisiac.

you took a step forward, your pulse quickening. the room seemed to close in on you, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. you could hear the others shifting outside, the sound of their breathing rising in the stillness of the night. your body felt like it was on fire. but you didn’t care.

this wasn’t about them. this wasn’t about the power struggles that had consumed your life for so long. this was about her. this was about the fact that she had just declared war without even realizing it.

for the first time in years, you felt a stir of something in your chest. it wasn’t love—god, no. but it was something else. something darker. something that recognized the challenge for what it was.

you leaned down, your lips brushing her ear as you whispered, "try me."

her breath hitched, but she held her ground. she was daring you. she was throwing down the gauntlet, expecting you to crumble, to prove her right. but you wouldn’t. no. you had been molded by this life of manipulation, betrayal, and blood. you had been raised on a diet of lies, and now, you were the one who made them.

as you pulled away, you locked eyes with her, a wicked smile curving your lips. "you think you control me?" you said softly, letting the words sink in. "you’re just another pawn in this game. and if you think for one second you can win… well, let’s see how long you last."

she stiffened at the threat, but she didn’t back down. there was something maddeningly beautiful about her defiance. and that, you realized, was the problem. she wasn’t like the others. she was the spark that could set everything ablaze.

and yet, there was a part of you that admired it. she was a mirror to your madness, a reflection of your own broken mind. she wasn’t afraid to burn everything down, to turn the world upside down.

but what she didn’t understand was that the game wasn’t just about power. it was about survival. and in this palace, there could only be one survivor.

you guided her to your bedchamber, her hand trembling with excitement slightly in yours. but as you crossed the threshold, the game began. you could hear the others following you, footsteps growing louder, the silent battle already starting. you could feel the fury and the desire building, the relentless drive to claim what was yours.

as you turned to face her, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, you realized one thing: this would be the last time you let someone else think they had control. you would own this game, and anyone who thought they could take that from you would be burned in the flames of their own ambition.

you were the king of this madness. and in the end, they would all bow to you, or they would burn.

among the many concubines, there was one who stood out—not for his looks or his talents, but for his unnerving obsession with you. zhang wei, a general’s son from a distant province, had initially seemed like just another handsome face vying for your favor. but over time, something darker began to reveal itself beneath his polished exterior. he didn’t chase you like the others, with desperate displays of affection or teary eyes. no, his devotion was quiet, almost suffocating in its intensity.

zhang wei would watch you from the corners of rooms, his gaze never wavering, never blinking. he’d smile when you spoke to him, but it wasn’t a smile born of genuine warmth—it was something colder, something more dangerous. his words were always careful, calculated, as if he were speaking to a deity, not a mere mortal. every conversation felt like a subtle attempt to claim you, his eyes gleaming with an obsession that went far beyond admiration. and the longer you ignored him, the more intense that obsession became.

one evening, long after the others had retreated to their chambers, zhang wei stayed behind, his posture stiff with a quiet desperation that made your skin crawl. he approached you slowly, eyes wide, almost reverent, but the hunger beneath the surface was unmistakable. when he spoke, his voice shook with a mixture of longing and madness.

"your majesty," he said, his words nearly a whisper, as though confessing a secret. "i have waited so long, watched from the shadows, and now… i cannot stand it any longer. i would do anything for you, my love. let me be your first husband. i will prove my loyalty, my devotion. i would die for you."

his voice wavered with desperation, as though his very survival depended on your acceptance. it wasn’t love, not in the way most would understand. it was a twisted devotion, a need to possess you, to claim you as his, to make you his entire world.

the more you rejected him, the deeper his obsession grew. zhang wei followed you everywhere—his eyes constantly on you, his voice whispering in the hallways. it didn’t matter what you did to distance yourself; he was there, waiting, always lingering just out of sight. every time you turned a corner, you could feel his presence, his eyes on your back, never faltering.

"your majesty," he would say, his voice soft but urgent, "you are everything to me. no one else matters. no one but you."

his devotion was not a simple desire to be loved—it was a suffocating obsession, one that threatened to swallow you whole. you could insult him, ignore him, even tell him to leave, but it never mattered. zhang wei would still look at you with those maddeningly adoring eyes, his love unshaken, unwavering.

the others in your harem noticed, of course. they saw the way zhang wei hovered near you, his possessive gaze never leaving your side, and they whispered in corners. his presence was unsettling to them, but they knew better than to challenge him directly. his obsession had become so profound that he no longer sought your affection. he sought only to be near you, to breathe the same air, to be the one closest to you, even if you never returned his feelings.

he was no longer a mere concubine. zhang wei was something far worse. he was a predator, driven by a singular, dangerous desire: to make you his, at any cost. and no matter how much you pushed him away, no matter how many times you rejected his advances, you could feel his grip tightening, his obsession growing darker with each passing day. there was no escaping zhang wei. and the thought of what he might do next—should you finally push him too far—left a cold, unsettling shiver running down your spine.

zhang wei’s obsession with you went beyond his twisted devotion to you. as his fixation deepened, so too did his sense of entitlement. he began to view every other concubine not as rivals, but as obstacles standing in the way of what he believed was rightfully his: your undivided attention, your affection, your love. he didn’t just want you; he needed to eliminate anyone who dared to take even a fraction of what he desired.

it started subtly at first. zhang wei would approach his rivals with a false politeness, his smile sharp, his words dripping with honeyed charm. he would compliment them, flatter them, even offer gifts—tokens of his ‘respect.’ but there was always something in his eyes, something dark lurking beneath that calm exterior, that made every exchange feel like a thinly veiled threat. the others, blissfully unaware at first, accepted his advances, thinking they could win his favor with kindness. they didn’t know that with each word, each token of ‘affection,’ zhang wei was marking them as targets in his twisted game.

one of the first to fall was mei-ling, a young princess known for her beauty and her melodic voice. zhang wei, in one of his more insidious moments, invited her to his private quarters under the guise of a ‘friendly conversation.’ he made her feel special, important—like she was the only one who truly mattered in his world. he listened to her sing, praised her endlessly, and made her believe that she was the one he desired above all else. but when she least expected it, he cornered her, locking the door behind them. his tone shifted, became harsh, and he told her that she would never win his or your favor.

"you’re just a pretty face, mei-ling. but that's all you’ll ever be." his grip tightened on her wrist as he whispered, "if you ever think you could take my place, you’re mistaken."

the next day, mei-ling fell ill—deathly ill. the court physicians couldn’t find any explanation, and her voice, once so sweet and full of life, was silenced forever. it was a slow, agonizing process. by the time anyone realized what had happened, it was far too late. zhang wei’s smile remained ever-present as he continued to express sorrow for her passing, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. mei-ling had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

but the elimination of mei-ling was only the beginning.

lian was next, a fiery and bold concubine who had dared to openly challenge zhang wei's claim on your attention. lian had never been one to back down, and unlike the others, she didn’t fear confrontation. but that was precisely what made her dangerous to him. one evening, in the middle of a gathering, zhang wei calmly approached her, his eyes betraying nothing of his inner rage.

"don’t you understand, lian?" he asked, voice low but full of an unnerving calm. "do you really think you can win our majesty’s affection? you’re nothing more than a distraction to them, a fleeting thing. i’m the one who will stand beside him. i’m the one who will be at their side forever."

lian, always quick with a sharp tongue, didn’t back down. she laughed, dismissing him as a fool. that night, zhang wei followed her back to her chambers, knowing she would be alone. what happened there was a mystery—no one truly knew what transpired behind those doors, but when lian was found the next morning, her throat had been slit cleanly. the bloodstains on her sheets painted a chilling picture. her body had been posed, her eyes wide with fear, and the note beside her read: “you were never meant to win.”

the harem grew uneasy, whispers spreading like wildfire. but none of them dared speak openly of what they suspected. zhang wei had become a silent terror, a looming presence that only tightened his grip the more you pushed him away. his love for you had mutated into something sickening—no longer about desire, but about possession. he wasn’t just fighting for your affection; he was fighting to destroy anyone who stood between him and his claim over you. the harem had become a twisted reflection of the palace itself—a gilded cage, beautiful and suffocating, where the concubines were both trophies and pawns. each one of them, whether driven by love, ambition, or survival, wore a mask of devotion, but beneath it, desperation simmered. there were the ones who had learned to play the game—silent, calculating, waiting for their moment to strike or be struck down. the others were the broken ones, their eyes hollow from endless manipulation, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of constant competition and violence. in this toxic arena, loyalty was a currency that could be bought and sold, but trust was a concept that had long since been abandoned.

every whisper, every glance, every touch was laced with suspicion and jealousy. some sought power, others affection, but all were bound by the same ruthless need to survive. and then there were those who, like zhang wei, had descended into madness, their love twisted into obsession, their hearts warped by a desire to control, to own. none of them were truly free, not in this place, not while you, the center of their world, remained unreachable, a god they could never fully possess. the harem, a symbol of wealth and power, had become their prison, and each day was a fight for dominance, a battle where only the strongest would remain.

[thewistlingbadger]

Holy shit was this a great analysis. I loved the way you worded things. I know I'm biased but in my opinion it is EXTREMELY easy to have empathy for Silco and his suffering if only one is willing to look deeper into his character. Most people see that he's the villain, see the harm he's inflicting on their preferred characters, and then proceed to write him off as a one note kinda guy. But Silco is arguably the most complex character in arcane and he's a perfect example of how the direction of storytelling can greatly shape and narrow our perspective of a character.

This post made me realize something that I never really thought of before, something that might not be an agreeable opinion: Silco did a good job raising Jinx. At least, in my eyes. Is she extremely violent? Yes. Does she lack empathy for others? Yes. Does she have a thousand problems and everything going against her? Yes. Jinx was born with a mental illness that makes living life hard, even if she were truly healthy, which she isn't. Jinx, having been born into a world of violence and predisposed to violence through Vander and Vi was ALREADY a violent person as a child. This child was attempting to build and use NAIL BOMBS when we first saw her. We saw the way she could yield and fire a gun before she even hit puberty! Silco did nothing to stop her violent nature, true, but he's also not the one that gave birth to it. All he did was foster it, and in the dangerous world of Zaun, is that really a bad thing? Hurting others is bad, but defending yourself is good, and violence can be used for both ends. Jinx isn't a good person, she isn't good to others and while it's true Silco did nothing to curve this behavior it's also true that the environment she was in didn't make it easy to be a good person, especially after all the trauma she received.

It's truly remarkable that Silco, a man who knew nothing about children and has absolutely zero regard for them and has never thought of himself as being capable of being a father or having children, managed to take in a mentally ill child who just suffered a major traumatic event. And he did it successfully. Jinx is still alive and well when we see her years later. She has muscle mass. She knows how to fight and is good at it. She makes bombs and they work now. She has the ability to protect and defend herself from violence. She isn't intimidated by others. She is creative, intelligent, skilled, strong, and full of life. These are all traits that Silco fostered in her. These are all aspects of her person that he supported and helped grow. Did he fuck her up, yeah, but it could have been way worse. And the fact that we see him actively choose to go in opposite directions, to genuinely care about her and try to do right by her is incredible for a man we know to be selfish. He did a good job raising her, and she knew and loved him as a father.

Let’s talk about Silco’s parenting.

An essay. Because the internet is stupid. The meta is going to touch on the question of manipulation (a commonly raised but moot point), the concept of “good” parenting versus “perfect” parenting, his relationship with Vander, as well as a double standard I see with traumatized people both in fiction and in real life.

My employment of “you” below is addressing waves hand vaguely I don’t know, the unseen masses? Naturally, this isn’t any sort of pointed attack on anyone. It’s merely a meta commentary on talking point trends I have seen over the past couple months and common discourse on social platforms. First of all, the standard which Silco’s parenting seems most often measured against makes most questions of “good” and “healthy” irrelevant. This is not modern day current culture with access to therapy or education about cognitive reconditioning. This is fiction, there’s magic and fucking talking guinea pigs in government positions and this man is a crime boss who floods the streets with drugs to financially support weapons manufacturing. Let’s keep that in mind, shall we? His atrocities are part of him and I think they’re funny. Second of all, the argument I see often is that manipulation automatically means bad father. It doesn’t. They are not mutually exclusive. Do you know why? Well, I well tell you because I am so tired of black and white media analysis with zero question of ‘why’ for the characters within it. 

Trauma will often be the root of toxic behavior and unhealthy methods of coping. Even being aware of it, we have to actively work against it in ourselves. I was raised in a traumatic environment, I learned toxic traits. These needed to be unlearned with the help of a therapist over time. Because we are not measuring his choices against real life standard, we have to look at intention. That is ALL we can look at because how it manifests is a question of trauma response, a manifestation of genuine belief that stems from hostile experience and a broken sense of safety relationally and otherwise.

Silco’s primary source of relational safety brutally violated that safety.

When he tells Jinx that everyone betrays them, he means it. When he says it’s only them, he means it. It’s not about isolating her. It’s a desperate attempt to teach her what life has taught him through personal experience. It doesn’t matter if its true or not, he believes it is based on what he knows and he wants to offer his daughter lessons that he thinks will empower her to take agency for herself. Is it healthy to teach your child that the world cannot be trusted outside of your tiny family? No, of course not. Does he lie to her about Vi and claim that she is there for the crystal only? Yes! He does! Whether or not he believes that himself, truly, is subjective and I think both the interpretation of deception on purpose versus his active belief that Vi will abandon her are both perfectly valid. But that isn’t the pertinent question in the discussion of whether or not he is a good father, the argument itself is irrelevant on the subject of manipulation because the intention has not changed. He is afraid of losing her. He is afraid of what will happen if she is outside of his care. He’s scared. That fear manifests the way it naturally would for someone with his understanding of relationships.

And intentions do matter when we are dealing with people with this level of untreated personal trauma in storytelling, which is the lens were are looking through here. If you want to measure all fictional dynamics against a generalized standard of healthy behavior, then you’re missing the point. We, as people, try to maintain healthy dynamics in our relationships and to be aware. Stories are not real life and characters in Arcane, while realistic, have a different environment. So, on the question of using a prodigy to further his goals. Does he employ her skills for the sake of the undercity’s sovereignty? Yes, he does. The Nation of Zaun is everything to him. It is the point of his entire arc. The visuals, narrative, it smacks you in the face with his internal conflict at a constant: Jinx or Zaun. It might see a strange point to raise but I have seen it said many a time that his impressing on her the importance of the weapon, the crystal, all of it somehow makes it so that he doesn’t care about her. But that is… the point. That is his primary character conflict, the undoing of a dream carefully sewn for years all for the sake of her. He battles that continually during the second and third acts.

And do we see, very clearly, over and over again, a man that chooses this child above all else? Over himself, Zaun, without question? Yes, we do. You cannot argue otherwise, you really can’t. I’m sorry but that isn’t a discussion point with anything to stand on. The first glimpse we have is an immediate peek into how much he has prioritized her to the point of losing respect from his own people. He takes time away to ease her fear, he allows her into his personal space at a constant, this girl is precious to him and it shows. 

In regard to his operatives? Manipulation is all he knows, he lacks interpersonal skills, he has a cracked view of what it means to trust, and he is under-socialized. This occurs. This happens. This is human behavior. There’s default to manipulation as well as a default to violence. Based on how he was raised, the environment he was forced to grow up in, his experiences with those he loved (Vander) of course that is where he goes when he’s desperate.  Nothing Silco did surprised me in regard to negative tactics. It was all rooted in something I could easily understand and see from his history. But the lack of interest in the ‘why’ of characters with that kind of complexity is telling to me. It seems that characters that aren’t easily sorted in “good” and “bad” are hard to hold so often. So, we simply drop them. We reduce them. That saddens me. When Silco thinks he is going to lose the only person that he values, trusts, that loves him back and offers him a sense of purpose, does he use what could be described as manipulative language to keep her? You bet! Why the fuck would we expect anything else from him? That does not make him a bad father, it makes him a broken man who has a warped view of the world because he was bent that way. And that man loves this kid more than anything and even through all the cracks in his vision, he tries his best to be what she needs. THAT is what makes a good parent. It is not being perfect. It is the urge to try. I love this quote by Mitch Albom about the nature of parenting:

All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

The constant lack of empathy I see in ‘media analysis’ these days alarms me because it utterly lacks compassion while veiling itself as righteousness. A viewer casts judgement rather than looking at the human experience being displayed. There is no true compassion and understanding, there’s only performative, waving a proverbial flag of moral superiority. 

The unconditional love and support Silco offers Jinx is deeply profound. His desire to meet her, always, where she is with patience. His allowance of her taking over his life and his personal space, his constant marvel at WHO she is? That? Giving her that despite his complete lack of it in his own life? That’s so fucking beautiful. It doesn’t eliminate the other parts, manipulation, projection, etc., any more than those parts don’t eliminate a father’s extraordinary love. They can coexist. And they do. 

I believe Silco made mistakes because that is what parents do. But I also believe that man knew this kid, saw this kid, fostered her uniqueness and offered her a sense of safety in herself where she did not have one prior. Vander couldn’t do that for her, neither could Vi. He understands how her mind works, that she needs to know she is still trusted after she messed up. He gives her the injection tool as a physical demonstration of that continued trust. He takes her to the river to show her, using sensory experiences that she can hold, that he believes her to be good enough, perfect, loved as she is. She has another breakdown in the last episode and he knows that warm memories for Vi are triggers for her and he wants to stop it. Silco gets her. He sees her. And for a girl that needs to feel accepted, he offers it despite his own suffering. THAT is a good father.

Silco did his best with the tools that he had. And he died for her and he would do it on purpose as well by accident. If that isn’t perfect enough for you, good luck building healthy relationships with people that have trauma because we all have wounds that will manifest with toxicity despite our best efforts. It’s human.

People say they love a damaged character but then when that character demonstrates realistic consequences of that trauma, they demonize them for it. What message does that send to people that have similar struggle because of something that was done to them? That your worth is measured by how much you hide the less than savory pieces of you? That if you aren’t without negatives, you’re bad? We all have bullshit, we all have bad coping methods, some of us more than others but its part of recovery.  Like Silco, those of us that have trauma responses to things that manifest in negative behavior fight toxicity in our blood and our bodies and our brains. If you like the “angst” of painful backstory but reject the consequences, you’re fetishizing human pain. That’s all. TL;DR Silco is a good dad and I love him. A lot.

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM THE HUNGER GAMES: CATCHING FIRE *  assorted dialogue from the 2013 film, adjust as necessary

if you die, and i live, i'd have nothing. nobody else that i care about.

it's different for you. your family needs you.

you have to live. for them.

nobody needs me.

i do. i need you.

how does that sound?

what if we set your backyard on fire?

he can't hurt me. there's no one left that i love.

remember who the real enemy is.

we got married... in secret.

we want our love to be eternal.

we've been luckier than most.

i just wanted to say that i didn't know [name]. i only spoke to him once.

he could have killed me, but instead he showed me mercy.

that's a debt i'll never be able to repay.

she wasn't just my ally. she was my friend.

i couldn't save her. i'm sorry.

you guys look amazing.

so what do you think, now that the whole world wants to sleep with you?

i wasn't talking to you.

will you unzip?

thanks. let's do it again sometime.

the way the whole "friend" thing works is you have to tell each other the deep stuff.

what's your favorite color?

now you've stepped over the line.

see, this is why no one lets you make the plans.

you have been our mission from the beginning.

the plan was always to get you out.

people are looking to you, [name].

you've given them an opportunity. they just have to be brave enough to take it.

we have seen a lot of tears here tonight.

you are angry. tell me why.

i'm getting totally screwed over here.

now you wanna kill me again.

nobody decent ever wins the games.

nobody ever wins the games. period. there are survivors. there's no winners.

love is weird.

i would love to borrow that outfit someday.

you look pretty terrifying in that get-up.

i outgrew them.

any secrets worth my time?

unfortunately, i think that's true.

i'm sorry you had to cancel your wedding.

i'm really not in the mood for a lecture.

you don't have to apologize to anybody, including me.

i hardly know anything about you except that you're stubborn and good with a bow.

there's more than that. you just don't want to tell me.

make him pay for it.

any last advice?

stay alive.

she's committed, i'll give her that.

you saved my life. you gave me a chance.

fear does not work as long as there is hope.

you were dead. your heart stopped.

how rude of them.

eyes bright, chins up, smiles on.

we're a team, aren't we?

i am truly sorry.

you both deserved so much better.

i don't want to be with anyone else in there. just you.

that's what i want.

no waving and smiling this time.

i want you to look straight ahead as if the audience and this whole event are beneath you.

that should be easy.

be careful. it's a force field up there.

i think these games are gonna be different.

i guess we're not holding hands anymore.

i don't care about any of them.

i'm here to drink.

you know and i know there's only one person walking out of here, and it's gonna be one of us.

i get to say goodbye.

they will kill us.

whatever game you think you're playing, those out there are not playing it with you.

i don't want you to get hurt.

so how do you like the party?

you could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve that boy.

you don't want to shoot her.

how about i shoot both of you?

get them out of here.

[cam3lli1a]

﹑  ̨✿ What they'll be like when they're a yandere? ✿﹐

PICK A PILE

Choose a pile that you feel most attracted/drawn to.

Pile 1 Pile 2 Pile 3

﹫. Order's up!! ʰᵉʳᵉ ᵘ ᵍᵒ ꜝꜝ

This is a general reading, take that resonates.

┆ ┆ ✽ ┆

┆ ✽ ┆

┆ ✿

┆ ✿

✿

PILE 1 (ONE) ‧₊˚ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

The song: Therefore I Am by Billie Eilish pops up in my head for this pile. Perhaps they'll be in ultimate despair as it seems they had someone whom they cherished nor love that they perserved one of their past lover body part to keep. They're in anguish. They're in miseries. Nothing works for their experiments to revive them. Not until you come along as they see you similar as their past beloved. They have lot of judgements and are REALLY wise. It reminds me of a mad scientist but they're the villain wanting ressurect the person they loved. As they mostly be seen as 'withdrawal' due to them busy with their inventions. Unsure why it reminds me of that one villain Evelyn Deavor from incredibles 2 of the vibe they gave yk. Especially as they can brainwash people, a genius mastermind, etc. Yet they have a lot of insights and introspect themselve if they done it right or not. Furthermore they will have lack of morality to revive their beloved. And if you've caught their interest and subconsciously make them forgot or make them move on from their past beloved, their heart will eternally yours, forever. Gradually they feel sudden obsession will increase bit by bit as they feel a sense of anxiety or panick attack if you leave them. Which made them isolate and will go NUTS. Which made them goes throygh great lengths to capture you and not letting you leave the place. They WANT you to be by your sides FOREVER. You're like the drug of nicotine for them. Relieving, addictive, wanting your sides with them even going to great lengths just to capture you. Similar as Evelyn Deavor that they can use their intellect to manipulate people. They can hijack, even hack every systems. If they a skilled hacker, that they had already have their eyes on you settled while looking through your electronic devices camera. They had seen your search histories especially what you had watched before. They are also a technological Genius. If you're in a relationship with them, they easily can hack through your accounts and use them which you thought one of your devices seems 'funny' or odd. Especially as they instinctively might spam texts you because they might be REALLY clingy only towards you. Or, they might have anxious or disorganized attachment style. Additionally the way they texts seems very lovesick as they can't handle themselves on wanting YOU for themselves. Plus, they can be pretty random when they texts. They can be sarcastic as it depends on the situations they're in especially with you around. This person will possibly cross boundaries at someone who had hurt you just to 🔪 .

𓂃 ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 ੭୧ 𓂃　۪ ׄ 𓂃

PILE 2 (TWO) ‧₊˚ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

They want your approval and if you still have parents or family that they might going to prove themselve that they're legimimate the one for your fam approve if they accept and akniwledge them. So your fam approves them to be in a relationship with you. I thought if they gave golden retriever energy. They can be compassion of a person for having both empathy and sympathy only for you. They highkey think 24/7 about you that they become a lovesick clingy puppy around you. They might rush or plan ahead as they have HIGH desires on wanting marriage with you so no one will take you away from them. They thought of wanting to have a family with you. They have a lot of access connections that they instantly knew where or what you're up to from people's gaze. If you have no friends then dw as they might send other people to watch over you for your safety. They can be reckless and indecisive with their actions. Hm, it gives off psycopath vibes yk. They actually posessed a lot of wealth without your aknowledgement as they WILL spoil you a lot. They're over-protective and HIGHKEY posessive of you as they might not let you leave the house. They will be authoriative as their prescence commands attention without them trying too hard. Regardless, they're loyal, logical, self-discipline and very structurized even with their planning. They'll stagnant you and have complete control over you until you'll be at your mercy despite their stubborness and persistence. You'll have hard time to reject them. Wherever you go or escape from them, they know where you are. They'll instantly know your every locations. There's NO escaping from them as they usualky showed up outta nowhere, even in random times. Unsure why Stalker Tango song popped up inside my head for this pile 2. If you're in a relationship with them, you'll often not see them around as they're usually busy with their own responsibilities and usually or iften detached when they're feeling drained from work as they have their own business. Or they have high-payments of job(s) which made them burnt-out. But they still worship the ground you walk on regardless of them being nonchalant to others, but not towards you <3.

𓂃 ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 ੭୧ 𓂃　۪ ׄ 𓂃

PILE 3 (THREE) ‧₊˚ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ

Idk why Two Faced song popped up inside my head for this pile. Saur. This might be a reunion you have with someone as the atmosphere feels very shoujo like pink with cherry-blossom vibes. Furthermore their concealation of their outer personlity cracks up as they showed you their other personality they have as it can be 'something.' You might get subtle clues from their body language nor action(s). You might see them as they done nothing wrong as you see them as a person with naivety or innoccence they had. At the same time which they have their own charisma and inner playfulness they often don't showed it. They seem like a peaceful and not picking anyone sides despite them watched over you. Unaware that they actually have 'something' underneath their sleeves. They have determinations to retrieve anything they WANTS and desires. Especially to retrieve you into their own embrace for not letting go off you. They had been obsessive + posessive of you since the beginning they laid eyes on you. Love at first sight. They have anything it takes to win as they love a challenge despite them being two-faced. They quickly act on that decisions according to their plans. Overall, they do have back-up plans. They'll be in denual that they kept thinking constantly that you love them, only them. They're jyst delusional like that. As they thought on wanting to worship you. If you run away from them, they'll chase you down non-stop. Every simple acts one of you guys done will still make them happy, regardless. They're HIGHKEY strong-willed. They're a good conversationalist even linguistic that they can manipulate others + the surroundings + the situations. They can be pretty dependable and also strong-willed, akwas stand on their ground. They're actually determined to win you over even when they have to harm situations or people with that kind of manipulations they had. A sheep in wolf's clothing they are. If you're in a relationship with them, you'll notice that they're actrually 🤓☝🏻 a really deep person as they love philosophy and literature as they might yap about it at random times. They can be playful at times. Since they're REALLY communicative and good in linguistic, they let you communicate how you feel without it turning into argument(s). They're pretty chill but two-faced towards people especially to those whom harmed you in any types of shapes or forms. They easily can be REALLY jealous, so it's scary when they get angry ngl.

[lanaroff]

House of Broken Hearts- Chapter 6

Paring: Wanda Maximoff and Reader

Warnings: Angst, Blood

Wanda paced back and forth in the dimly lit room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The weight of what she had just learned sat like a stone in her stomach, and she could feel her pulse drumming in her ears. You had left for a reason. And Vision knew more than he had ever let on.

She didn’t bother knocking. The door to Vision’s quarters slid open with a quiet hiss, and she stormed in. He was seated at his desk, hands folded in his lap, but when he saw her expression, he stood immediately.

“Wanda?” His voice was calm, but she could see the tension in his synthetic face.

She swallowed hard. “You knew.”

Vision blinked. “Knew what?”

Her fists clenched. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You knew about Y/N. You knew about what she was doing while she was gone, didn’t you?”

He hesitated. It was slight, but she caught it.

“Wanda—”

“Don’t. Don’t say my name like that. Like I’m overreacting. Just tell me the truth, Vision.”

His expression faltered, and for the first time in a long time, he looked truly conflicted. “Yes,” he admitted finally. “I knew about the missions.”

The words hit her like a slap. A sharp, painful blow to the chest.

She took a step back, as if putting distance between them would make it easier to breathe. “You knew,” she whispered, voice shaking. “You knew she was out there, doing—God knows what—for Fury. And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know the motive, Wanda,” he said, almost desperate. “I only knew that she was taking assignments. That she was—active.”

Active. That was one way to put it. Out there, bleeding, killing, losing yourself more and more with every mission. And all this time, he had known.

“You let me believe she abandoned me,” Wanda said, voice barely above a whisper. “You let me hate her.”

Vision’s jaw tensed. “She hurt you, Wanda. She left you. I didn’t want to bring you more pain.”

She let out a bitter laugh, tears stinging her eyes. “More pain? Do you have any idea how much it hurt to lose her? And now I find out that the person I trusted most was keeping things from me too?”

Vision stepped forward, reaching for her, but she shook her head. “No. I can’t do this right now.”

“Wanda—”

“I need to think.” She sucked in a breath, trying to steady herself. “I need to think about everything. About us.”

His shoulders sagged. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She met his gaze, and he could see the raw pain behind her eyes. “I need time.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heel and walked away, feeling like the floor beneath her was crumbling with every step.

⸻

The safe house was silent. The kind of silence that stretched out for miles, where the wind barely whispered through the trees. You liked it that way. No distractions. No reminders of what you had lost.

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor. Your body ached, exhaustion sinking into your bones, but you couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw her. Wanda. The team. Natasha. The ghosts of your past clawing at you from every direction.

Your phone buzzed. You didn’t have to look at the screen to know who it was.

Fury.

You let it ring once. Twice. Then, with a sigh, you answered.

“I need you to take care of something,” his voice came through, sharp and clipped as always. “A target.”

Of course. You knew this would happen. It was the only thing you were good for now.

You didn’t want to go. But you went anyway.

The mission was a blur. You were reckless, sloppier than you had ever been. There was no precision, no control—just raw, desperate violence. You didn’t care what happened to you. You didn’t care about the bruises, the blood, the way your body screamed in protest. You finished the job. That was all that mattered.

And when it was over, you were still empty.

———

You should have gone back to the safe house. But instead, you found yourself standing outside Wanda’s door.

Your hands were shaking when you knocked.

Wanda opened the door, and her breath caught in her throat.

You looked wrecked. Blood smeared across your skin, bruises darkening around your eyes, your clothes torn and stained. You swayed slightly, barely able to hold yourself up.

Wanda’s heart twisted.

Before she could say anything, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around Wanda and burying your face against her shoulder.

Wanda froze, but only for a second. Then, instinct took over, and she held you.

You trembled in her arms, gripping her like she was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

Wanda closed her eyes, pressing her cheek against the top of your head.

She didn’t say anything.

She just held you.

Because right now, that was all you and Wanda needed.

Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @justarandomreaderxoxo @yelldontwhisper @raven-ss @chickenlittlsblog @username23345 @justyourwritter69 @ayrtonwilbury

[masoncantthinkofaname]

Hello Mason! How are you doing? I absolutely loved your answer to my last ask. I can’t help but feel like a wide-eyed child hoping to hear more from you! If you’re comfortable in sharing, could we have a story-time from your twilight shifting? I was re reading the book today and couldn’t keep you out of my mind!

Hi! Oh my, it's literally been ages since I shifted there. Luckily enough I wrote my experience down in my notes when I did, so most of the recalling will be based on what I wrote down and the things I remember!

For a little backstory. It was not my intention to 'seriously' shift to Twilight. I lost a dare to my best friend, and she likes daring me to shift to random places. So she told me that I had to go to Twilight, where I had to replace Bella, and Daeron had to replace Edward. The plot had to stay somewhat similar to the books, but obviously with us being two completely different people, it was fine for it to lead into a different direction (which it did).

I also shifted there before I actively started shifting with the exact same version of my husband. I did 'meet' him multiple times already, but he was very patient and let me decide on it myself. In that period in most cases whenever I shifted somewhere, Daeron in that place didn't know that I shifted there.

Reading through my notes I'm also just realising how unhinged I was while writing this, so prepare for a ride!

The storytime:

I won't go into detail on everything I experienced, as this post would be extremely long. But I was listening to a Noah Kahan song when I first shifted, and I was still in the plane. I remember feeling happy about scripting Hozier and Noah Kahan's music in.

My dynamic with my dad, Charlie, was a bit less awkward than the one he had with Bella. I feel like my personality helped to give a bit more flow to it. I can be a yapper, whereas he's more of a listener, and happy that he doesn't have to say anything.

But after meeting up with him he gave me the most awkward shoulder pat ever and we were just standing there like 😃

I wrote down the dates as much as I remembered as well, but I'm not gonna add them to this post.

Over the next like 10 messages I wrote down;

''Bella is so valid for loving the truck cause I do too girly''

and then I complained about hating school and especially anything math related.

Me being a man, even if I look like the biggest bottom ever, got more female attention than male attention, mainly at the first few days. And despite me not planning to share it this quickly, people learned that I'm gay quite quickly. Specifically, I wrote down;

''During lunch that first day Jessica asked me what my type is in girls, so I was like ''Men 🧍‍♂️'' ''

I also wrote down that, Mike absolutely is the type of guy to think I'm into him. And that he tried to make it extremely obvious that he's straight, especially after he learned that I'm gay.

The next like 20 messages basically include me simping for Daeron, describing how beautiful the Cullens looked, how I made eye contact with Daeron and felt equally embarrassed and giddy about it, and me wondering how anyone believes that he's a high schooler.

Daeron's self control seemed, at least a little, better than Edward's. But it was still very obvious that he was struggling during Biology, and although outwardly he didn't show it that much, I can only imagine how much he was struggling on the inside.

It was a little sad to see him look at me more neutrally/passively, considering I'm so used to this man softening up around me a lot. It hurt a little knowing that, in that moment I wasn't anything special to him yet.

But I still tried to be assertive, and start a conversation, because unlike Bella I wasn't going to let that chance slide. So I told Daeron I love his hair (because really who wouldn't love that luscious hair of his)

''and for some reason a little tension just left his body as he laughed, and thanked me we made a little small talk but he was very careful with his words, and because I actually knew why he was struggling I also tried not to push him but regardless of that there was no denying that we got along''

My biasness shone through when I was writing about meeting Jacob later that day. And I wrote down;

''I'm so sorry, but like next to Daeron and his hair you look kinda pathetic HSHSHSHSH''

I guess I can't blame him because he was only 15 at that point, and aside from that he wasn't a bad guy. During my time in Twilight I didn't get to see Jacob that much, because I only stayed for a couple of weeks.

Let's all thank past Mason for being helpful like always with my notes;

''the next few days Daeron wasn't at school, which was sad I don't care to remember much from that time no Daeron = no memory''

Okay I think I'm going to cut it soon, I'm not even halfway through my notes. But let's discuss the car accident first.

When Daeron came back to school he was nice to me, smiled at me in the hall, and we had some small talk during Biology.

During one class I had asked him some stuff about the homework they had before I came to school, and after school he came up to me when I was at my car, mentioning something about it. Which is when the accident happened.

''I really thought I was gonna throw up my heart''

Daeron saved me, of course, and I saw everything happen. Apparently I was very proud of being better than Bella, because I didn't hit my head unlike her, and although an ambulance was called, Tyler was in a much worse state than I was, and in the end, because Daeron's dad worked at the hospital, he said he would drive me. Which like, you wish, Bella.

I also wrote down a little rant about how cold he actually is.

Also, when I was in the car with Daeron, there was a lot of tension between us, as obviously he knew what I saw, and he couldn't make any excuses about it, and I already knew he was a vampire, even though I pretended not to know. So I decided to be a good future husband, and I told him that, although I don't know how he did that, I trust him, and I won't ask about it. Which visibly relaxed him a little, and we went back to talking about everything and nothing afterwards.

And this is where I'll leave it for now, I might make another part if anyone is interested. I'm sorry I'm not super detailed with this, it's a long time ago, so I'm relying a lot on my notes, and my notes are really long. So it would've been a whole fanfic if I tried to write it down in even more detail.

Thank you for reading!💚

[bertoltblecht]

On Call - Three

Characters - Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x OFC , Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Frank Langdon, Dana Evans, Jack Abbot

Summary - Rose Reilly is a surgical resident specializing in trauma medicine under Drs Robinavitch and Abbot. A series of scenes involving Robby and Rose.

Word count: 1912

Rated: Mature

Tags: Angst, Mutual Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Tension, Very Light Suicidal Ideation, Sex, Mutual Pining

A/N: Here's part three! I'm really partial to this one and the next one! Let me know what you think!

When the majority of your social contact is at work, your coworkers really matter - because in order to have a work-life balance, you have to have a life outside work. 

Rose didn’t really have that.

She was the first to volunteer to pick up shifts and the last to leave if the place was understaffed. More than once she’d just parked herself in an on-call room for the 8 or so hours she didn’t need to actually be there. 

Her near constant presence in the ER meant that she knew everyone regardless of shift and she tried to make meaningful connections with anyone who wanted to talk to, or, as was often the case, at her. Rose was a fantastic listener and being there gave her a sense of purpose that vanished as soon as she changed out of her scrubs. 

There was one other near constant in the Pitt and that, of course, was Dr. Robby. They had been good since their slip up in the hospital, kept their hands to themselves and their debates professional. No romance was happening at all. At least, nothing that was intended to be romantic. 

That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Even before they’d muddied the waters at that bar across town, Dr. Robby had made her feel understood in a way that only felt intimate because hardly anyone had ever bothered. He out-mirrored her – in a battle for who could shape-shift faster into someone the other person needed most, he’d been the first to ever best her. 

Rose found value in her utility. She was a future surgeon for fuck’s sake. She’d put herself through all the school and debt and work because saving lives was an objectively valuable skill. It had been an easy and concrete motivator for much of her life. And not just for her career. If she was useful to the people she cared about, they would care about her in return. The noisy, messy parts of her mind often pressed the inverse of that logic when she wondered about people’s motivations for getting to know her. 

What exactly was her utility to Dr. Robby beyond her competence at work? If he was only making sure she didn’t jump off the roof, he could just keep an eye on the stairwell door. He didn’t need to do such a good job pretending they’d never been anything more than an attending and resident. It almost would have been better if he had decided to treat her differently. If he had suddenly foisted her education off on Abbot, who was more than capable, or if he’d stopped showing her the small kindnesses he had made part of his own acts of utility. Rose had a hard time filing away the feelings that his gestures stirred in her, couldn’t stop herself from associating them with the myriad other acts that she’d let herself get used to. 

Rose had the Bering Sea raging inside of her and she left it just outside the doors of the ambulance bay. Sometimes leaving work she could get swept away in the waves and end up on the bench outside for a while. Her legs felt heavy and the list of necessary actions separating sitting on the bench from lying in her bed seemed daunting and endless.

It was cold and damp - not freezing but the sticky kind of cold that made her fingers and toes ache. The fresh air was doing good work on her nervous system though, so she wanted to steal another few moments before getting in her car. And anyway the sun was going to rise soon and seeing a sliver of that before going back inside would be good for her too. 

Shift change had happened over an hour earlier and Rose had taken some extra time to finish charting her last procedure of the day, preferring to let people get their things and leave the locker room before her. 

She felt her stomach pulse insistently and realized she was insanely hungry. It had been hours since she bothered to put anything in the tank. The last two hours of the shift had actually been the 16th and 17th hours of Rose’s day. She came in early to scrub in on a surgery and then made her way to the trauma center to start her actual day. By the time 5 am rolled around and she parked herself on that bench, she was completely dead on her feet.

If she sat there another 60 minutes, she could stop and get a breakfast sandwich from the coffee place on the corner by the hospital and check that off her list. It was getting colder though and she wanted a hot shower more than anything.

“Lose your car?” Robby's mild voice came from over her shoulder as her internal debate continued. She hadn’t seen him around when she left and she wondered if he’d already skedaddled. 

Rose huffed a laugh. “You know I just smash the lock button until it beeps and I find it.” She didn’t turn or elaborate further. He had found her out here before. Sometimes it took a little while to take the day off before she left, so she didn’t bring the icy sea back home with her. 

“It’s cold.” His voice was beside her then as he sunk onto the bench. It meant nothing to her at all that his backpack was placed between them. “No one else to help out here.” It was a good try, but ultimately that wasn’t why she was glued here. 

“You give yourself too little credit, there’s tons of help we could both use.” Rose didn’t mean for there to be so much bite to the sarcasm, but her tone came out less light than she meant it too. Out of the corner of her eye she could tell he was frowning, his brow furrowed. “I just really want a sandwich and Terry doesn’t open for another 40 minutes and he’s not going to get around to making me a bacon egg and cheese for at least another hour.” 

“There are a lot of ways to come by a sandwich, ya know?” Robby pressed, his elbows meeting his knees as he hunched to try to catch her eye. 

Rose held in a sigh. She didn’t have the energy to explain, but more than that she knew he knew he was deliberately missing the point. 

“I like to support a small business,” she said, turning her head to let him look at her. She was determined not to cave to those almost pleading brown eyes of his, pairing her steely expression with as effortless a shoulder shrug as she could manage. He looked skeptical and tired. What did he want from her? He’d stopped here of his own free will. She didn’t ask him to witness this. 

Rose felt a twisting frustration thinking that he’d never seemed exasperated by her before. As soon her mind placed that framework around his imploring look, she had to drop his gaze. He didn’t have to sit on this bench and if he wasn’t going to meet her where she was then…

“You should go home.” The words left her quietly. “I’m gonna be here for a minute and we’ve both had a long day.” 

“You should go home.” Robby sighed, shaking his head. “Just go home and shower and order a bacon egg and cheese and go to bed. Let the day be over.” His tone had none of the lightness he usually reserved for pep talks of the mental health variety. She witnessed him talk multiple wavering med students back into being doctors, but his patience for this tendency of Rose’s had apparently run out. 

It felt like lidocaine being injected into her chest, watching him react that way. The burning discomfort of the sensation was almost enough to compel her to action, but she couldn’t untangle the mental knot of who exactly she’d be spiting by staying or going. She pictured the finger on a monkey’s paw curling when she remembered her earlier musing about feeling better if he’d just treat her differently. Not exactly what she had in mind really. 

The burning sensation faded though, leaving an almost pleasant numbness in its wake. 

“Look, I’m not a liability. I am fine. I will be at work again in… 12 hours, give or take. You don’t have to get it, but you do have to respect me and if you aren’t going to do that, then… go.” Rose sounded as tired as she felt as she gestured out to the parking lot. 

Robby’s posture stiffened a little. If his thoughts were a radio station, she was certain she’d hear him counting backward from ten. 

“I’m just trying to help.” 

All the annoyance from a minute ago seemed to have faded from his tone, replaced by something worse - guilt, desperation. Like this was somehow his doing. It was not his best trait, his desire to fall on the sword - to wear the burden of responsibility even when there was no fault to be placed. 

“I know, but now you’re in it to feel better about you, so it isn’t going to work for me.” She knew she was being too honest now, but she cut him off as he opened his mouth to refute her. “You didn’t break me, Michael. This is just me. I’m just going to be here until this passes and it didn’t used to make you mad at me.” 

Robby clenched his jaw as he sat with her observation. It made him feel worse that she was right. He blamed himself for her pain, assuming that he was at least a contributing factor. He set about trying to navigate the new boundaries by pretending nothing had changed. He centered himself and his guilt when it came to making sure she was okay, because if she was visibly doing well that meant he hadn’t hurt her. He wanted her to leave the bench because he didn’t want to be the reason she was there. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” The sighed admission surprised Rose enough to look at him again. “I’m not mad at you. I just used to be able to help, I thought.” Robby shrugged and looked down at his hands. 

Rose wished she had the energy to pretend she was fine. He couldn’t help his impulse toward guilt anymore than she could help hers toward despair. “You did and I’m sure you will again, but today... I’m waiting for the sandwich. Not for you.” 

His shoulders sank slightly but Robby nodded, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Okay, I understand.” He didn’t. “I guess I’ll see you later then.” 

“You will.” Rose made sure to confirm in the most assuring voice she could muster. It was the least she could do, he genuinely didn’t need to worry. 

Robby stood and picked up his backpack from between them, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder for a moment so short she wasn’t sure it had happened. She offered him a faint smile as she looked up and he nodded again before heading out into the parking lot. 

The sunlight coming over the horizon didn’t feel warm yet but Rose knew it would in a little while. It’d be worth the wait to tip her head up into it while she ate that sandwich. It would be good enough.

previous/next

[ecstaticactus]

Fangs and Flames (Vampire!Aegon Targaryen x Witch!Reader x Vampire!Aemond Targaryen)

Chapter Two: Rimae in Vitro

Summary: In a world of supernatural creatures, magic is no surprise. In fact, it is what defines you. As a witch, you feel like you have control over your life—until that day arrives. On their 21st birthday, everyone receives a golden envelope. No one knows where it comes from, and no one dares to question it. Inside lies the name of your destined soulmate, the person you’re meant to share the rest of your life with. For most, it’s a moment of wonder. But for you, it’s anything but magical. The moment they entered your life, both Targaryen brothers turned it upside down—though one of them seemed more determined to do so.

Word count: 3k

Chapter warnings: mentions of sex, aegon being aegon again

author's note: I literally forgot about this sitting in my drafts.. It's been 3 months? sorry I guess??

chapter one

When maids draw the curtains open and the sunlight spills over your face, you open your eyes and everything seems normal. Mellory is here, holding steaming cup of coffee on a silver tray, smiling at you like you're the most precious thing she has ever seen. You sit up and thank her as always as she gently places the tray on the nightstand beside your bed.

"Slept well?"

Suddenly, you see nothing but snippets of your dream vividly. He's here, in your room, digging his calloused hands into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you in place firmly while he feasts upon your body. You're nothing but flesh and bones, a body to satisfy his carnal hunger. You try to push the thoughts away, but Aegon's bloodied face floods your mind to the point it sends shivers down your spine.

Yesterday was not a fever dream but reality. The possibility of being married to Aemond Targaryen still seems foreign and distant to you. Perhaps it's natural, considering the fact that you had never spared him much thought before. He was just another faceless person until he came into your life and whisked you away from your dreams. Dreams of unearthing the truth about your betrothed in the most magical way possible. You wanted to laugh at your own foolishness and when faint smile tugged at your lips, Mellory raised an eyebrow.

"Everything alright, Cerise?" it was the nickname she gave you when you were a little girl, eating cherries to the point your stomach hurt, waking her up in the middle of the night to help you soothe the pain.

"Yes, I just feel little.. disappointed about yesterday" there was no point in lying to her. She was your best friend, your confidant and your protector. Sometimes it felt like she was the one who gave birth to you.

"I know you wanted this to happen differently," she said, gently brushing the hair from your face as she continued in her soft manner. "But Aemond is a good man. He has proven himself worthy—that's why he's the one inheriting the Targaryen dynasty, not his imprudent, imbecile older brother. Did you see the way he was eyeing Connie yesterday? I had to drag her away from the dining hall… Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes. Aemond is decent, he's honorable, and he deeply cares for his family. He might seem somewhat cold and reserved, but keep in mind he's just as nervous as you are. You have to give it some time, Cerise. He's the right man for you—I can feel it in my bones. You may not have noticed, but I saw the way he was looking at you. He already holds a certain affection for you. I could see it in his eyes."

"You mean his eye?"

"Now you're being cruel!" she gasps, and you giggle, shielding yourself with a fluffy pillow. "I think it makes him more... charming."

"You're right. I have nothing against it; it makes him more unique."

"Don't you worry yourself, as I always say—"

"Let time do its work," you finish for her with a smile.

You wonder if time ever eased her deepest wounds, the scars she'd been carrying long before she started working for your family. She was just a few years older than you when she lost her daughter to an illness. Sometimes, you feel like she's looking at you, but you're not the one she sees.

"Now drink your coffee and get ready for a day!"

She leaves you with a cheerful voice and once again you're left alone with your thoughts. Thoughts that are occupied by white-haired man you're supposed to give your heart to. You try to remember him, recall small details you disregarded last night. You ignored how his expression warmed once you mentioned Helaena's name. How he looked at you with a soft, hesitant longing. There's a quiet vulnerability beneath his stoicism that ignites your curiosity. You want him to become something more than just distant betrothed in your mind.

You want to unveil Aemond Targaryen with all of his flaws, darkest secrets, and desires. And you are determined to do so.

You're standing in front of the Targaryen mansion. You weren't hesitant to come; you never saw any shame in taking a first step. Yet, your palms are sweaty, and you feel heat spreading all over your body. When the maid informs you that Aemond is not at home, you try not to show disappointment and accept her invitation with a soft smile. Once again you're proven how dedicated Aemond must be to work on Sunday.

Alicent is happy to see you. She takes a seat next to you on the couch and orders her maid, Talya, to bring you tea and fresh pastries, even if you insist not to.

"How are you, dear? Last evening must have been.. a lot to you."

"I suppose" you don't deny it—no one would judge you for it "But I'm alright, I've grown happy, in fact"

You aren’t sure who you’re trying to convince more: Alicent or yourself.

"I'm delighted to hear it. It was kind of you to come. I'm sure my son will appreciate the gesture. He was going to take you out for dinner after finishing work."

You are pleased to hear you were not wrong about him. He really is a gentleman. You grin widely and Alicent chuckles at your reaction. Despite her bright smile you notice that her eyes seem tired

"Is Mr. Targaryen alright?"

"Oh yes, he is" her tone is supposed to be reassuring but she does not sound certain to you "He's strong"

"He is" you agree, not because you think so, but because she expects you to. She needs to hear that her husband is going to be alright, that she does not have to go through everything all alone.

You nibble on biscuits that Talya has brought and Alicent’s voice flows smoothly as she shares stories from Aemond’s childhood. There’s a story you’re desperate to uncover—a memory she seems to purposefully leave out. You don't dare to question her any further.

Suddenly someone staggers into the room, and when you're met with Aegon's gaze, your laughter fades. He's wearing unbuttoned shirt and you notice that his shoes are missing. He is surprised to see you, and you're surprised to find yourself uncomfortable. You're at his house, and even with his mother sitting beside you, you feel as though you're in a cage. Something about last night's dream makes you timid of Aegon. You grow irked at yourself for feeling this way, for letting a dream dictate your emotions.

"Ah, sister!" his tone is light and you resist the urge to roll your eyes when he calls you sister and takes one of your hands to kiss it. You don't look at Alicent, knowing she’s struggling to endure her son’s antics just as much as you are "I am so glad you decided to visit us. I've already grown quite fond of you."

"I thought you two knew each other from academy?" Alicent inquires with a soft smile, though her patience is clear.

"Oh yes, mother, we do. Unfortunately we didn't have much time to get to know each other"

"And yet somehow, we managed it only last night" when he doesn’t release your hand, you glance down at your untouched cup of tea, now cold, and take it as an excuse to pull your hand away and lift the cup.

"She has come to see your brother" his mother explains, her voice proud of your decision "How unfortunate that he had to be at work"

"Ah yes, he's at work, sure" something about his tone is suggesting otherwise. You try not to give it too much thought—Aegon thrives on stirring drama and watching it unravel.

"Why don't you go and.. freshen up?"

"I'm fine, mother. Incase you've forgotten, we don't get drunk"

He's right, vampires aren't supposed to get drunk and you wonder how much has Aegon indulged to be acting this way. He looks a little more than tipsy and for a second you question if he's acting on purpose.

"You seem to be an exception to the law, brother" your tone is deceiving but he reads through you.

"What can I say? I'm an exceptional man"

"Sure you are.. in your own ways"

Alicent notices the tension and tries to change the subject by continuing reminiscing about Aemond's childhood. When another maid comes and informs her that Viserys wishes to see her, she excuses herself and leaves you with her eldest, offering an apologetic smile.

"Stop smiling, your face must be hurting"

"Only when I have to look at you"

"It was one of my favorite shirts, you know" you don't know what he's talking about for a moment "And now it's ruined, thanks to you"

"I didn't know you were capable of having favorite things.. well, except when it comes to making drinking and whoring around as your life priority"

"Right, because I'm only capable of disappointing others" he remembers your every word, you realize. A twinge of guilt creeps into your bones, but you refuse to avoid his gaze.

"Yes"

"That's not very nice of you" he shakes his head in disapproval and a frown tugs at his laps.

"And why do I have to be nice to you? You have done nothing but earn my disrespect"

"You're such a hypocrite"

"Me?" you attempt to laugh but you're unsure where this conversation is leading

"Yeah, you, miss perfect" his tone is usually mocking, but the look in his eyes suggests something deeper—he’s mad at you. Mad for making him feel small and insignificant last night. He wants you to pay, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Aegon Targaryen over the years, it’s that he never holds back "Suddenly you're all about respect and honestly, when all you do is lick pretentious douchebags' boots because it's expected of you."

You can’t say anything, because you know he’s right. He knows it too, and he continues his little speech, savoring every drop of his small victory.

"You’re not hesitant to play nice with these awful people you meet on a daily basis, but when it comes to me? Suddenly, I have to earn your respect. Tyland Lannister does nothing but stare at your tits, yet you’re happy to compliment him at every chance you get."

When he leans closer, you avoid his gaze. His next words are whispered, barely registering in your mind.

"Can’t you be a little nice to your… brother?"

You look at him, his eyes glowing with newfound power. Before you can open your mouth, your body reacts on its own. The silence in the room shatters as your palm strikes his cheek.

Your eyes widen in shock. Before you can fully process what happened and withdraw your hand, he catches it gently. He brings it to his lips and kisses it like you’re a porcelain doll—fragile and destined to break at any moment.

"You just proved my point."

Then he stands and leaves the room without a second glance.

Your heart races, your palms are sweaty, and tears collect at the corners of your eyes—not because you’re scared or ashamed, but because you lost control. You let Aegon win.

You rise from your seat and leave the room without waiting for Alicent. On your way out, you inform the maid that you have urgent matters to attend to. She doesn’t press for details, merely nodding as you walk past.

Once outside the Targaryen manor, you take a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs. The tears of frustration you’ve been holding back finally break free, streaming down your face in silence.

Hours have passed, yet his words still echo in your mind. You scold yourself—you should’ve seen it coming. He turned your own words against you, and it was humiliating. No one should care about Aegon Targaryen’s opinions. That’s what everyone always said, what you often reminded yourself. But it still hurt, because he was right—and, deep down, you agreed with him. You’re not sure what stings more, the truth itself or the fact that, of all people, it was Aegon who pointed it out.

Nothing lifts your spirits—not even when Aemond brings you a bouquet of flowers, compliments your dress, and takes you out to dinner. He asks you questions, genuinely trying to get to know you, and while the thought of him making an effort pleases you, it does little to brighten your mood.

"You like to draw?"

"Yeah"

"And what do you usually draw?" he asks, taking small sips of red wine. A smile spreads across his face, curious about this newfound side of you.

"Things that I find beautiful"

"Such as?"

You glance around, searching for inspiration. Dimly lit room is decorated with flowers and candles. It’s tender and pretty, but nothing new—nothing that stirs your soul, electrifies your senses, or makes you long to pick up a pencil. Then your gaze shifts to him. His sharp, prominent features, his white, softly braided hair. Without thinking, a small smile tugs at your lips.

"You," you say it to him like a challenge.

"Me?" he chuckles, attempting to play it cool, but the faint flush rising to his cheeks betrays him.

"Yes, you, Aemond," you say, savoring the effect your words have on him. Your voice grows more certain, confidence blooming in the way his usually composed demeanor falters. "I find you exceptionally beautiful."

His lips part slightly, caught off guard by your boldness. He recovers quickly, though his voice is softer when he speaks. "I should be the one telling you that," he says, his gaze lingering on you now, as if he’s seeing you in a new light.

"And I'm not the only one who deserves to be complimented."

"It feels as though you can never cease to amaze me."

"I’m definitely not that interesting," you say with a laugh, shaking your head. Now, it’s only Aemond who holds your attention, his sharp features softening as he watches you. The shadow of his petulant brother, once looming over your thoughts, is cast aside entirely

"I think I’ll be the judge of that myself," he replies, his tone calm but edged with a hint of amusement. His gaze lingers on you, steady and searching, as though he’s already uncovering layers you’ve yet to reveal.

As the evening goes on, you’ve consumed a little too much wine, the warmth radiating from your skin like a gentle flame. Your grin stretches wide, and laughter bursts from you in unpredictable waves—loud, unrestrained, and contagious. Enjoying your mood, you reach out for another glass of wine, but Aemond’s hand stops yours, tight smile playing on his lips.

"I think it's enough for today," he says, chuckling softly as though trying to brush off his interference. "You'll have hundreds of years to enjoy the wine."

"Hundreds of years?" you repeat, your brows furrowing as genuine puzzlement flickers across your face.

"Yes," he replies, his gaze steady, almost amused by your confusion. "You'll be my wife."

"And how does that make me immortal?" you snort at his response. "I know they like to say witches don't age, but that's not really the case."

He hesitates, his posture stiffening as though weighing his next words. "I don’t think we ought to have this conversation while you’re in this condition."

"What condition, Aemond?" you snap, your voice rising just enough to draw the attention of the viola players nearby. The music falters slightly, but you don’t seem to notice. "Surely you don’t think a little wine can cloud my judgment."

"I don't know why is what I've said so upsetting, but I don't wish to engage in thoughtless argument with you," he's careful with his words, trying not to distress you any further, but it only fuels your anger.

"You're casually telling me I have to give up my own powers and let you turn me into a cold-blooded creature and you find it hard to believe that I'm upset?" you shake your head in disbelief. "You don't even care about how I feel?"

"Of course I care about how you feel." His tone is patient, as if explaining the most obvious thing to a child. "But we're soon to be a family. Sacrifices have to be made."

"You're asking too much of me."

"I suppose." He reaches out, fingers brushing against yours before lacing them together. His palm feels cold against yours, but you don’t pull away. "I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you."

"I think it's time to go home." Your voice is soft, resigned. He doesn’t argue.

The ride home is quiet, but the silence is heavy, uncomfortable. Aemond feels like a stranger again. What started as a pleasant evening has unraveled into something bitter, something broken. You wish you could blame the wine for exaggerating your anger, your disappointment—but deep down, you know better. You should have seen this coming. Families are meant to grow old together. You are meant to grow old. But Aemond never will. Years will pass, and he will remain untouched by time while it carves itself into your skin.

When he finally pulls up to your home, you thank him, forcing a polite smile, though you never once look at him. Your body aches—feet sore from the heels, shoulders tense from the weight of the night. Mellory is waiting inside, and the moment she sees you, she draws a bath, filling it with essential oils and herbs. Though you can tell she's desperate to hear about your date, she doesn't ask questions.

That night, you dream of him again. He is in your room again. But this time, he is not sinking his fangs into your flesh. This time, his head is between your legs. Shame seeps from your pores, but you do not push him away. When a soft moan escapes your lips, you move to stifle it but Aegon stops you. Fingers curling around your wrist, he tugs your hand away, his grip firm yet.

"Let me hear you," he murmurs against your skin.

And you do.

[superiorkenshi]

If vampire Daniel definitive eye color is orange that would mean that every time Louis will look at Daniel he will only be able to think at Armand and the pain that come with it

[brunchable]

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

Part Two Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie. Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt. A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.

tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound

The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.

It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know. 

She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.

You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.

It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.

Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.

And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.

Tonight, he finally looks away.

When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.

“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.

He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.

“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.

“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”

The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you. 

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.

Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you. 

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”

And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.

You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.

And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.

And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.

It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.

Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.

Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.

When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.

“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.

Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold. 

“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.

It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.

You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.

As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”

The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.

“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room. 

“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”

You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.

“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”

There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.

As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.

“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.

You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.

But he lets his hand fall back to his side. 

“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.

Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded. 

“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.

He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

× × × × 

Present

It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.

Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder. 

“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”

The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back. 

“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”

He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question. 

“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.

“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.

And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.

Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.

He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.

You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.

“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.

He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.

As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.

The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.

After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways. 

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.

You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips. 

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”

For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.

And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”

“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.

His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”

You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. 

“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.

“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance. 

Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more. 

You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.

A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous. 

“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”

Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself. 

“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.

“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.

You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.

“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer. 

“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.

But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.

× × × ×

As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.

Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.

Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.

Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.

As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.

And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.

You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.

Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality. 

“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin. 

“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile. 

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”

Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.

“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.

You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear. 

“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.

× × × ×

As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”

He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”

Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder. 

“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.

You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”

Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.

The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength. 

You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.

But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.

You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.

Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:

"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”

A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.

“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”

Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.

“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”

You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”

You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

“Yeah… something like that.”

He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.

And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.

× × × × 

Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.

He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.

Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.

The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him. 

“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes. 

“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door. 

“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes. 

“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”

You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside. 

As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.

A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.

He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.

In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.

Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh. 

“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”

He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else. 

“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”

You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.

Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.

You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.

After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore. 

“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm. 

“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.

You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back. 

“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.

"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes. 

“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”

Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.

But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.

He misreads it entirely.

Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”

Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.

“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.

And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.

× × × × 

The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.

You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh. 

“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.

Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm. 

“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.

You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually. 

“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”

He chuckles softly, nodding. 

“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.

You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room. 

“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”

As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.

You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch. 

“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.

Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you. 

“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.

A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.

Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile. 

“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”

× × × ×

Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.

The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.

You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets? 

God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.

Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.

Fuck.

You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.

You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip. 

You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure. 

Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.

You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little. 

He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.

You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still. 

Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.

And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.

Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light. 

Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.

Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.

You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.             

“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”

“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.

He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.

“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.

“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.

You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”

A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.

“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”

“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.

You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep. 

Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.

“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.

“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.”

He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.

“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.

You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”

In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase. 

His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.

“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”

How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?

“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”

Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words. 

“What’s that?”

“This.” 

He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.

You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.

You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.

You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.

Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body. 

You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.

You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply. 

The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.

As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.

The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.

His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.

"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."

Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.

You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel  yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.

“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”

He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting. 

You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.

As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.

You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.

"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless. 

For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.

You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front. 

He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”

Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”

“I won't last long. . .”

“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.

He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”

“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.

“I'll have to fuck you.”

“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.

Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.

“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”

“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.

“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.

"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.

“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”

"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."

His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours  masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.

You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon  yourself to him. 

Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.

You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.

You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.

With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours  while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.

“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you. 

He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed  you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.

His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire. 

He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.

He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.

"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."

He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.

"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."

And whatever strength he had left vanished.

"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."

He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside  you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.

You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.

You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.

“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.” 

He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.

“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”

You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.

You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed  you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.

“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”

Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder. 

“Oh—like that? You like that?”

He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.

His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy. 

“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.

You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.

Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to  you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.

"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.

He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside  you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him. 

He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.

He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.

“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.

“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.

“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.

You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.

You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.

[nezuscribe]

gojo never imagined an arrange marriage with you, but now you’re all he can think about.

he thinks about you when he’s training, when he’s seated at his round table, when he’s in his bed, everywhere, every time, you’re all he can think about.

and you’re oblivious to it.

you heard the gossip everywhere you walked, about the girl gojo was pleading with his family to marry. how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how much more elegant she was compared to you. you knew you were never his first choice, not even his fifth, but it hurt even more when everybody acknowledged it.

you stopped wearing your wedding ring, started acting like you were just another person there. luckily gojo didn’t seem to be in any hurry about making heirs, so pretending like you two were working things out didn’t even matter anymore.

you find yourself alone most of the time. your maids were kind and patient, but they had so many things to do throughout the day that you felt awful pestering them to walk around the estate with you.

eating dinners with gojo became normal, but most of your other meals were in silence, always feeling like a speck of dust in the large dining hall.

one day when you’re walking around aimlessly you stumble across the training grounds, the open space below you filled with men swinging wooden swords back and forth at each other.

it wasn’t difficult to find your husband, his white hair hard to miss in a crowd of others. he didn’t notice you watching from above, and so you stayed hidden, not knowing if the men were picky with who watched them.

he was swift and agile. everything he did was precise and with meaning. no wonder he was named the best warrior of the north.

you found this to be more entertaining than walking around the gardens for the tenth time or watching the cooks assemble the next meal, so you didn’t even notice how gojo looked up to see you, somehow slipping away without you knowing.

you were in a state of watching but not really thinking, almost jumping out of your skin when you heard his voice behind you.

“didn’t know i had an audience,”

you yelp, flinching as you look behind you to see your husband all sweaty, panting slightly as he moves his hair away from his face. you eye the stairs that led him up here, wondering how you could’ve missed that.

you laugh sheepishly, giving him an apologetic smile as you pick are your nails.

“i’m sorry,” you scratch behind your ears, feeling heat rise to your cheeks under his intense gaze. it’s unfair how pretty somebody can look, especially after training for an hour straight, “i was just walking around and i saw this.”

he waved it off, shaking his head as he leaned his sword on the wall.

“not a problem,” his eyes shine, “i just would’ve tried harder if i knew my wife was watching.”

my wife.

the words fall so smoothly from his lips you wonder how many times he’s said it before. with malice, hatred, necessity?

you smile a little bit, eyes crinkling around the edges as you look away briefly, not noticing the way gojo chased after your cheerful face.

“how’d you get up here? where are your ladies?” he asks suddenly, looking around at the fact that it was just you up here.

“my what?” you say, looking up at him through furrowed brows.

“you know,” he waves his arm around as if that would help, “you’re ladies in waiting,”

you scrunch up your nose a little bit, something he noticed you did when you were confused.

“oh, well, my maids are working right now,” you tell him, noting that he still didn’t look any less confused.

“no, not your maids, your ladies,” he tilts his head to the side, “the girls your family sent them up to help you around.”

you stare at him, unblinking.

“the girls that are your friends, the ones that help accustom you…” gojo trials off when he realizes he’s not getting anywhere with you.

you feel even more embarrassed than when he caught you watching him, hating the way you were clueless at yet another thing in this life that no one explained to you.

“the girls you hang around with?” he finally lands on, hoping this jogs your memory.

you shake your head, eyes wide as you fidget with the fabric of your dress. his eyes fall onto your finger, lingering on the fact that you’re not wearing your ring.

“who do you spend your time with throughout the day?” gojo seems even more lost than you. he’s seen you with…? well surely that one time…?

“by,” you swallow, embarrassed, “by myself. i walk around a lot.” you admit sheepishly.

“your family didn’t send…?” he answers his own question with his silence.

this entire time you’ve been alone?

he opens his mouth to speak but somebody beats him to it.

“satoru! get down here! we’re still not done!” his friends shouts from below, and you look over your shoulder to see all the men staring at the two of you.

gojo stares at you, unblinking.

“i,” he swallows but can’t find any words.

you can’t either.

he leaves you there, running down those stairs as he shouts at the other guys to resume what they were doing. that entire day he was off his balance because he kept looking up to see you there, but you weren’t.

maybe you were just walking around, like you said.

[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