#and she will keep it as a secret for as long as possible

[multi-fandom-imagine]

My little girl || Jason Todd ||

A/n: 6am, can't get girl dad Jason out of my head.

It was an accident, on how he found out. I mean it's not like he knew the little slip of paper had it written out.

A girl

Jason froze. The words on the paper hit him harder than he expected. A girl. He was having a daughter. His chest tightened, his throat felt dry, and before he could stop himself, tears welled up in his eyes. He quickly rubbed at them, embarrassed by his own reaction, but the realization overwhelmed him.

Sitting on the couch, his hand trembling as he slid the paper away he couldn't stop thinking.

A little girl. His little girl.

The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. He thought of all the things he wanted to protect her from, all the ways he would be there for her the ways no one had been there for him when he was young. He thought about you, and how their daughter would undoubtedly inherit your warmth and strength. And for the first time in a long time, Jason let himself cry not out of anger or pain, but out of pure, unfiltered joy.

Jason had always been good at keeping secrets. It was practically part of his job description as Red Hood. But this? This was different. Knowing you two were having a girl was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and keeping it from you felt like torture.

While at home you had noticed something was off almost immediately. Jason was fidgety, overly attentive, and kept sneaking glances at your belly with a grin he couldn’t quite hide.

“What’s going on with you?” You asked one evening, narrowing your eyes as you caught him staring. “You’re acting weird.”

Jason froze mid-bite of his sandwich, quickly covering. “Weird? Me? Nah, I’m fine.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “Jason Peter Todd, I know you. Spill.”

He shook his head, standing abruptly. “I can’t! I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He practically fled to the kitchen, leaving you staring after him, your suspicions growing.

A few days later, Jason’s excitement finally got the better of him. They were lying in bed, you curled up against him as you two talked about baby names. Jason had been trying desperately to keep the secret, but when you mentioned the possibility of a boy, he couldn’t help himself.

“Okay, but what about girl names?” he blurted out, his tone too enthusiastic to ignore.

You tilted your head up to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you so focused on girl names all of a sudden?”

Jason froze, realizing his mistake. “Uh no reason? I mean, just you know, in case.”

You sat up, your smirk returning. “Jason. You know, don’t you?”

Jason groaned, running a hand down his face. “Damn it. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait. Are we having a girl?”

Jason sighed, then smiled, his joy impossible to hide. “Yeah. We’re having a girl.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, tears springing to your eyes. “Jason why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he admitted, pulling you into his arms. “But I couldn’t help it. Y/n, we’re having a little girl. I’ve always wanted a daughter. I didn’t even think I’d get to have a family, let alone this.” His voice cracked slightly, as you kissed him softly.

“We’re so lucky,” you whispered, your own tears mingling with his. “She’s going to have the best dad in the world.”

Jason held you close, his hand resting protectively over your stomach. “And the best mom,” he said quietly. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she knows how much she’s loved.”

As you two sat there together, the secret finally out, Jason felt an overwhelming sense of peace. He was going to be a dad to a little girl, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly whole.

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

preview one

TWO

Days, perhaps more, have passed. You and Hanno have been meeting in secret, seizing moments when there was no sign of General Acacius. All that you were permitted to know was that he was recovering in the company of his beloved wife, Lucilla, who made it clear she wanted no trace of your presence near her husband. The absence of Acacius weighed upon you more than you cared to admit. To be denied access to him felt akin to holding your breath for far too long. Yet, your clandestine encounters with Hanno had proven to be a welcome distraction, enough to keep your mind from lingering too deeply on what you could not change.

"Your gladiator is requesting your care, Y/N. And while we are on the subject, your encounters under the pretext of physical care will soon spark rumors," Ravi remarks as he steps into the chamber where he keeps his healing tools. "General Acacius will be the first to rage if he learns of your escapades. Should Emperors Geta and Caracalla grow suspicious, they may presume you are seeking a new lover. Not to mention the possibility of Macrinus taking offense at your growing closeness with his gladiator." You remain crouched, organizing a collection of herbs, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Hanno needs you—or rather, he has summoned you for yet another session of personal defense training.

"Ravi, believe me, I am well aware of the risks I take in daring to draw close to Hanno. Yet, I choose to take them—something no one of sound mind would do. General Acacius will not always be there to save me in the future. Lucilla has made her stance on my involvement with him abundantly clear. You do not see him here, concerned for me, do you? Precisely for that reason, I must think of the future." You speak as you search for the garment General Acacius once left at your disposal, should you ever need to fight.

"Since you are so determined to take such risks, be cautious. The guards will bring Hanno to be treated, and you will have only that time to practice—whatever it is you two practice," Ravi warns, much as he does each time you and Hanno meet, repeating the same cautions.

"I shall change my attire. If you would, dear friend, make Hanno comfortable until I return," you say, rising and moving toward the exit of the space where you and Ravi have tended to countless gladiators. "If all goes well today, I shall be one step closer to becoming more than a healer or a lover. I shall be the closest thing to a warrior I can aspire to be." Ravi nods, though a hint of worry lingers in his expression. He is the closest thing to an ally you have.

Time rushes by when one is on the brink of doing something forbidden, but you no longer concern yourself with the consequences. You are resolute to take control of your destiny, even if that control is but a sliver. Once dressed, you secure the dagger Acacius once gifted you in a hidden compartment of your attire. It is your small but vital secret, and you are steadily improving in its use.

With purpose in your stride, you make your way swiftly to where Hanno is awaiting you. When you arrive, his eyes brighten at the sight of you. "I see your delay is justified; you look prepared for battle. Let us see if you can land a blow," Hanno says, advancing toward you with a predatory gait meant to intimidate.

You meet his gaze with an unflinching smile. "Save your words for when we’re truly facing off, gladiator," you reply, following him to the familiar training grounds. It is the very arena where countless gladiators sharpen their skills, preparing for the moment they will stand before the emperors in the grand coliseum.

As soon as you step into the center of the training grounds, Hanno strikes without warning. His sword arcs toward you, narrowly missing as you instinctively step back. At the start of this combat practice, both of you wield swords, though your grasp on its use remains novice.

"Have you lost your sanity, Hanno? I wasn’t ready," you exclaim, fixing him with a glare of irritation. He advances on you again, silent and relentless, as if transformed into a stranger intent on attack. His gaze is unwavering, his resolve sharp.

"When you’re defending yourself, no one will wait for you to be ready, nor will they show you mercy. I want you to see me as you would see any foe who dares strike at you," Hanno declares, his sword slashing toward you again. You react, relying on your defensive maneuvers, retreating step by step until a strategy for counterattack begins to form in your mind.

"I’m not so sure; you seem to be enjoying this far too much," you retort, timing your movements before landing your first offensive strike. It catches him off guard, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face. The gap between you narrows, charged with the thrill of the fight and something deeper, more electrifying.

"I am enjoying it just as much as you enjoy patching me up with that brute strength of yours, healer. Now, focus," Hanno says, parrying your blow with unnerving precision. It’s like a dance—each movement perfectly countering the other. You attack; he defends. He strikes; you block. The rhythm between you is almost hypnotic, an eerie harmony born of tension and skill. But then, in a risky maneuver, Hanno manages to disarm you. Your sword flies from your grasp, landing far out of reach. Now standing mere steps apart, your eyes meet, both of you breathing heavily. It feels like the end for you, so why not take a chance?

With a surge of reckless determination, you rush toward him, channeling all your strength into an attempt to topple him. In your mind, it isn’t Hanno you’re facing—it’s an enemy, someone who would do you harm. Your unexpected move catches him off guard, and he falls to the ground. By sheer luck or fate, his sword slips from his grip as well. Now, you find yourself on top of him, both of you unarmed. The air between you is charged, your breaths mingling as silence envelops the space.

"It seems I have bested the great gladiator of Macrinus," you say, pressing your body lightly against his, a triumphant smile on your lips. Hanno smirks, his hands firmly gripping your waist as he swiftly reverses your positions, pinning you beneath him with effortless strength.

"Do not be deceived, healer," he murmurs, his piercing gaze locking with yours. But you are not so easily subdued. With a practiced movement, you draw the hidden dagger from your vestments and press it against his neck, the blade gleaming in the dim light. "Your presumption is touching, gladiator," you retort, your tone both teasing and sharp.

"What will you do next, healer?" Hanno asks, his breath warm against your face. The tension between you ignites instantly, palpable and undeniable. Before you can respond, he pulls your face closer to his, his lips capturing yours with a fervent intensity, as though he means to consume you entirely. At first, you almost resist Hanno’s kiss—it feels forbidden, a boundary you should not cross. Since your husband’s passing, Acacius was the only man you had kissed. Yet, as Hanno’s tongue ventures into your mouth, you find yourself surrendering, the kiss quickly becoming mutual.

In truth, Hanno is devouring you, but you refuse to let him take the upper hand so easily. You tug at his hair with force, pulling him closer, demanding his full attention. The kiss deepens, its intensity increasing to the point of no return. You want him to feel your hunger, to know that you wish to consume him just as much. For all its forbidden allure, you crave this moment—not because of duty or obligation, but because you want it. You want to know what it feels like to kiss someone you shouldn't, to rebel against every expectation tethering you. Your husband was not forced upon you, but your marriage had been a safeguard. Becoming Acacius’ lover served a similar purpose. But with Hanno, nothing feels safe. And perhaps that is why you let this moment unfold. There is no security here, no veil of protection. If you and Hanno are caught, Acacius could kill him, both the Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla could execute you, and the repercussions would be endless. Yet, none of that matters as your lips clash with his in this reckless, intoxicating dance of defiance.

The kiss is all-consuming, so intense that, for a moment, it steals your breath. You pause, pulling away to recover the air you desperately need. Yet Hanno seems unsatisfied, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that threatens to unravel your resolve.

His hand cups your face, fingers tracing over every detail as if committing you to memory. When his thumb brushes over your lips, he murmurs softly, "Your lips remind me of hers, my beautiful Arishat." Reality strikes like a sharp blade. He is with you, yet his mind lingers on his late wife. The weight of that truth is unbearable. As he leans forward, seeking your lips once more, you push him away, creating the distance you now desperately need.

"I will not be her replacement," you think, your resolve firm. "Nor Lucilla’s substitute." Avoiding his gaze, your shame and frustration burn within you. Rising quickly, you make your way toward your quarters. You and Ravi must always be prepared to tend to the wounded, so your rooms are close to where the gladiators train and where Ravi keeps his healing tools.

"Healer," Hanno calls out behind you, his voice firm yet laced with something softer. He follows after you, refusing to let the moment end so abruptly.

"Gladiator," you say, turning to face Hanno. Your body nearly collides with his, but you take a step back, halting the chase that had ensued. "Our training is done. I think it would be wise for us to part ways now, so as not to confuse..." You pause, searching for the right word to define what you might be confusing, only for Hanno to step abruptly closer, almost closing the space entirely.

"I am not confused about anything, healer," he says, his tone firm yet sincere. "I was lost momentarily in a memory, but I assure you, I knew exactly who I was kissing." He takes another step forward, his presence overwhelming.

"The act itself is already a problem, gladiator," you reply, struggling to maintain composure under his intense gaze. "We should not have kissed." Before he can respond, both of you hear footsteps approaching. In an instant, Hanno’s hand moves to your waist, pulling you behind him as though to shield you from whatever danger may come. Ravi appears, nearly running toward you, his face etched with worry.

"General Acacius has been seen heading this way," Ravi announces, his voice hurried and panicked. "The guards are murmuring that he’s coming to see you, Y/N. I suggest we get Hanno out of here immediately, and you prepare yourself to receive him."

The mention of Acacius sends a cold dread through you. Him encountering Hanno now would spell disaster. "Tell the guards who brought Hanno to retrieve him from here," you instruct, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. "Hanno and I will change out of these combat garments, and I’ll distract Acacius while the guards take Hanno back to his cell. Ravi, I’ll need your speed."

Without hesitation, Ravi nods and rushes off to summon the guards. You, in turn, push Hanno toward a secluded area where he can change out of his training gear. "Change in there and wait for me," you instruct firmly. Noticing the swords in his hands, you swiftly take them from him despite his protests. With no time to spare, you carry the weapons back to your quarters while Hanno remains in the area where you and Ravi usually tend to injured gladiators. In the quiet urgency of your chambers, you hastily change your attire, your mind racing with the precariousness of the situation. Hanno waits silently, the gravity of the moment clear to both of you.

"Do you fear what might happen should General Acacius discover your association with the gladiator who recently sought his life?" Hanno asks as you enter the room where he waits patiently to be taken back to his cell.

"I do not fear for myself," you reply, adjusting your tunic with calm precision. "I fear that if you and he meet, there will be unnecessary bloodshed. As I’ve told you before, if you wish to kill him, do so in a duel—before the people of Rome. Sate the appetite of Emperors Geta and Caracalla as they watch you strike at each other in a frenzied battle for glory in the name of the gods."

Hanno listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he steps closer. Without a word, he helps you smooth the folds of your tunic, his touch deliberate yet gentle. "Will you tell him of our association, then?" he asks, finishing his adjustments and letting his hand linger briefly as it grazes your cheek.

"What is there to tell?" you counter, meeting his gaze with resolve. "Our association is no one’s concern." A smile spreads across Hanno’s face, slow and satisfied, as if your answer pleased him greatly.

Moments later, Ravi appears, his expression tense. "The guards are near," he informs, his tone clipped. His gaze shifts between you and Hanno, briefly noting the closeness between you, though he chooses to remain silent. With a small nod, Ravi turns to Hanno, gesturing for him to follow. Hanno casts you a lingering look before allowing Ravi to lead him toward the guards, leaving you behind with the weight of the encounter still pressing on your chest.

You wait patiently for General Acacius to arrive, though his delay stretches longer than anticipated. The thought suddenly strikes you—he might already be in your quarters, as he has been on previous occasions.

"Would you care to explain," his voice calls out, smooth and laced with quiet reproach, "what reasons led my beloved healer, whom I hold in such high regard, to abandon me to the care of Ravi instead of tending to me herself?" Turning toward the source, you find him stepping into view, pulling back the mantle that had concealed his face and form. His approach is measured, deliberate, and his gaze briefly flickers to the swords you had left behind without considering they might draw his notice.

"You should have sought explanations from your wife, General Acacius," you reply, your tone calm but firm, though the effort to keep it so is greater than it seems. "It was she who instructed me, in the presence of the guards no less, to withdraw from tending to your care." His footsteps pause near the swords, his attention drawn to their gleaming edges. The air between you grows heavier as his eyes shift back to yours, narrowing slightly as he regards you. You remain steadfast, though the distance you keep from him feels tenuous, as if he could close it with the simplest of steps.

"I was not informed of such a decision; I would never have allowed my care to pass from your hands to another's," General Acacius speaks softly, his tone a mixture of calm and yearning as he moves toward you with deliberate caution, yet there is a palpable hunger in his eyes.

"General, whether you authorized it or not is irrelevant," you reply, holding your ground though the weight of his presence begins to press upon you. "Lucilla no longer wishes for us to remain close. Surely, you remember that when all this began, you told me that if your wife were ever to object to our association, even if it was merely for appearances, it would end."

Your words are firm, yet the truth they carry sinks heavily into your own heart. You know now, with certainty, that the chapter of your life entwined with Acacius is nearing its inevitable conclusion.

"Those words were spoken before we became what we are today," Acacius responds, his voice steady yet filled with a quiet intensity. "Surely you know I have no intention of abandoning you." He steps closer, his gaze unwavering, his nearness suffocating in its allure.

"Do not worry for me. Your pity is no longer necessary, Acacius," you say, though the ache in your chest betrays the pain these words bring. Deep down, you have long feared that what he felt for you stemmed from nothing but pity.

"I have never pitied you," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with conviction. "Perhaps I felt empathy for your pain in the beginning, but after that—everything was real. Your presence makes me a better man." His hand reaches up to touch your face, tenderly tracing its contours as if to soften your resolve. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, an intimate gesture meant to draw you back to him, to coax you into his embrace once more.

"You owe your loyalty to your wife, not to me," you say, your voice faltering slightly under the weight of his gaze and the warmth of his touch. "We must no longer allow ourselves to feel anything beyond what is proper, Acacius." Even as you speak, your resolve weakens beneath his touch, his words a balm and a temptation all at once. He seems heedless of your protest, intent only on closing the distance between you.

"Lucilla has my loyalty, but you... you have my protection. I will not leave you unguarded," Acacius says, his lips almost brushing against yours, his voice weighted with emotion.

"Then you should know that my loyalty is no longer yours exclusively," you reply, steadying yourself as you deliver the words. You feel the sharp recoil in Acacius as he steps back, his expression hardening, though disbelief flickers in his eyes.

"I am involved with another," you continue, forcing the lie to your lips with a strength you did not know you possessed. "It may mean that I will no longer require your protection in the future." Your words are a dagger you wield with precision, for you know that to continue as his lover would jeopardize his marriage—a risk you cannot allow, no matter the desires that linger within you.

"Who would dare attempt to claim you, knowing that you are mine?" General Acacius demands, his voice edged with irritation that betrays a rare crack in his calm demeanor. His gaze narrows, his presence no less imposing, but the fury brewing beneath his words sends a shiver through you. You realize the fire you have kindled within him may burn brighter than you anticipated.

"Someone who does not fear the wrath of General Acacius," you say, your voice steady despite the undeniable pull of his proximity. You desire him, undeniably so, but you know you must not have him.

"It is clear that our involvement must end—now. Before it concludes in disaster," you declare, watching as Acacius processes your words, his gaze shadowed with an intensity that seems both pained and unyielding.

"Then let it be clear to you," Acacius responds, his tone laced with an unwavering authority, though no threat lies in his words. "Whoever dares to encroach upon what is mine will meet the edge of my sword without delay. Our bond will not be severed while either of us draws breath, Y/N. Keep that in mind." His declaration is resolute, not spoken as a plea but as a statement of his immutable commitment to you. It leaves you breathless, the weight of his words pressing against the fortress of your resolve.

"You cannot protect me forever, Acacius. Just as I cannot heal you forever," you murmur, stepping closer, your desperation palpable as though silently begging him to release you—to let you go before you both reach a precipice from which there is no return.

"Mea domina," he whispers reverently, stepping closer and pulling down the fabric covering your shoulder with deliberate care. His lips press softly against the exposed skin, lingering as if to seal a silent vow. The tenderness in his touch conveys more devotion than desire, a gesture that leaves you caught between longing and regret.

"I would die if necessary, but I will not abandon those I hold in the highest esteem. You and Lucilla are my priorities, and I will relinquish neither of you. If you place so much faith in this new interest of yours, let him come to me bearing a sword, and he shall find his end," he declares, his voice unwavering and resolute, his words resonating like a solemn oath.

Acacius lifts his hand to gently cradle your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as his lips trace a path of soft kisses along your temple, down to the curve of your jaw, and finally your forehead. His lips linger as if memorizing each contour of your face, avoiding your mouth deliberately—a clear boundary, or perhaps his way of expressing silent reproach for the words you have spoken. The kisses feel like a claim, yet also a farewell—his way of both cherishing and punishing, of reminding you of his commitment while withholding the one intimacy he knows you yearn for. The intensity in his gaze as he pulls back speaks volumes, as though he is willing you to see the depths of his resolve. "At times, it feels as though battle is all you truly understand, Acacius," you say, holding his gaze with a penetrating look, as if unraveling the depths of his thoughts.

"I am a man of honor," he replies, his tone firm yet measured. "I will not seek out the man who dares to involve himself with you, but neither will I stand idle should he attempt to take what is rightfully mine." His presence remains close, commanding and resolute, as though he seeks to claim not just the space but the moment itself. With deliberate care, Acacius reaches out, his hand brushing your face in a touch that is at once gentle and laden with unspoken meaning. It lingers, as if he wishes to commit every contour of your features to memory.

Without another word, he steps back, retreating from your chambers with the disciplined stride of a general accustomed to carrying the weight of empires. His departure leaves the room heavy with unresolved tension, the air thick with the echoes of what cannot be spoken. Alone, you are left to ponder the tangled web of emotions and loyalties binding you to both Acacius and Hanno. The weight of your entanglement bears down upon you, as inevitable as the arena’s call to blood and glory.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blurred Lines 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: He is a baby, we know it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You were married with a bouquet of sunflowers. Your mother hated them. You didn’t care. Nothing about your wedding was typical or traditional. Just in the backyard with a belly full of Josephine already growing. 

You have a similar bunch of yellow petals in hand that day. As you come to the headstone, you see a bottle cap on the corner. Joey must have come before she left town and had a soda with dad, like old times. You lay the flowers down and groan as you lower yourself to the grass. 

“Hey honey,” you rub your hips, “ugh, getting old sucks.” You sigh and stare at the letters of your husband’s name. “Wish you were around to realise that.” 

You laugh sardonically as a tingle of tears threatens behind your eyes. You sniff but don’t let them free. You still cry for him but now isn’t the time. It was easier to let it all out when he was around to make you laugh. 

“So, did Joey tell you everything? She always gave you more secrets than me. Did she tell you about the girl? Of course she did,” you tut and shake your head. “She won’t even tell me her name.” You look down and twist the blades of grass together. “You would be proud. I know you are. She’s going to be a lawyer.” 

You quiet and let the silence mull. You flick the tips of the green blades and let out another heave. You don’t want to ruin the visit by talking about work. 

“You remember when she decided to show up? I didn’t even know my water broke and you went and slipped in it...” you pause and touch your eyes. Stop. “And the grocery store thought you were going to sue.”

You cackle through the wall of tears, threatening to topple. I had to drive to the hospital because you couldn’t sit or stand straight.” You click your tongue as you remember, “but you were there. You say in that wheel chair and shared my pain. And my joy.” 

Your cheeks wet and you curse your heart. 

“She’s a great girl. No, a great woman. I love her so much,” you mop your face with your sleeves. “I love you.” 

A breeze stirs and ruffles the long petals of the sunflowers. You stare at the brown centres. You’re back standing in the backyard, his hand around yours... Then it’s gone and you’re back in the dirt. 

You sit a little longer. The first year after the funeral, you didn’t come back. You couldn’t. Then it got easier. It was a comfort, not a fear.  

“Well, you know, I'll be back. I always needed you around to keep me accountable, huh,” you get to your knees and your lower back buckles. “I wish you were here to tease me and call me old. My back.” 

You stand and stretch. You touch a kiss to your fingers and touch the headstone. “See ya round, stud.” 

You take your time leaving. The cemetery is beautiful, contrary to its purpose. The grass is green and well kempt, the stones are lined up perfectly, and the paved walkways wind through like a fairytale road. 

You come to the gates and feel the void return. Right there in your chest. You exhale and face the world. Alone. 

You dig in your purse, looking down as you fight to untangle your keys from the cheap wired earbuds you use for your walks. You lift your chin as you come up to your car and stop short. You barely keep a frown from creasing your face. 

Nick leans on your car, arms crossed, watching your approach. How did he find you? Maybe you should have checked your phone. 

“I called,” he says. 

“Sorry, sir, I was busy,” you shrug. He doesn’t seem impressed as his cheeks dimple. 

“Your contract is on-call,” he insists. 

You take another breath. Why is he here? You don’t get how he found you. Well, didn’t he say that’s part of his job? He can know everything if he wants. 

“You dismissed me, sir, so I thought--” 

“I didn’t fire you. I was out of town,” he pushes his shoulders wider. 

“Understood. I’ll go right over--” 

“Did I ask you to?” He unfolds one arm and shows his palm. 

You shake your head. He’s still in a mood. You’ll let him get it out. You do not good assuming his intentions. 

“So, who were we visiting?” He asks. You wince. 

“Sir,” you answer bluntly. 

He huffs, “fine. Doesn’t matter. I don’t got time to argue with a maid.” 

So why are you here? The retort is bitter as it stays on your tongue. You’re not easily flustered, you do your best not to get annoyed, but he’s managed to tweak your nerves. 

“I have a thing. Need a suit.” 

“I brought clean ones the other day, sir--” 

“New suit. It’s work. Big guys are gonna be there.” 

You don’t mention that his last ‘work event’ unfolded like a frat party. It’s not use arguing. You just need to do your job and then you can go home. Just be grateful you aren’t sprucing up your resume. 

“Right. Where would--” 

“There’s a place down the block. You have an eye for detail.” He interject. 

“Oh, okay, sir. I’ll go get you a suit--” 

“You’ll come with me,” he stands straight, dropping his arms. 

“Yes, sir,” you shove your keys back in your purse. 

He stares at you for a moment before he moves. He pivots on one sole and you follow after him. He keeps a lazy pace so you catch up. You walk in silence. 

You glimpse the tailor’s shop. The windows display a group of mannequins dressed in varying states of  work casual to formal. A particularly svelte female form wears a satiny silver gown with a slit to the thigh. 

He steps ahead of you and opens the door. He waits for you to go ahead of him. As he follows, you feel a brush against you and quickly move out of his way. A man with a groomed mustache greets you from behind the counter. 

“Sir, Madame,” he sweeps around in a three-piece suit, the vest cute in elaborate floral, “how can I help you today?” 

“A suit. Work dinner. Black tie.” Nick states. 

“Of course, short notice?” The man asks. 

“Tonight.” 

“Ah, we can meet that deadline, for a fee.” 

“I’m not worried about cost,” Nick turns and browses the mannequin nearest him. “And my date will need something to wear.” 

You stand as you are, glancing around in disinterest. As you turn back, you find the tailor staring at you. Nick continues to peruse the selection. 

“Who’s your date, sir?” You ask, thinking it might be the woman from the other morning. 

His brows arch as he looks at you, “she’ll need her measurements.” He flicks his fingers in a lazy point. You blink and shake your head. You? 

“Of course, madame, would you prefer the privacy of a fitting room?” 

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll need all that,” you insist. “I have dresses at home.” Buried somewhere in your closet. 

“You do,” Nick insists as he feels a brocade jacket between his thumb and index. 

“Um,” you peer around. You can’t afford any of this. “I could give you my size,” you offer the man. 

“Go with him.” Nick commands, “stop trying to control everything.” 

“Sir?” You look at him in desperate confusion, “I could call that woman--” 

“I don’t need some ditzy barbie, I need someone with maturity,” he sniffs. 

Ah. That’s it. No, that’s not it. It doesn’t make sense. Mature? Sure, but a bit over the hill. 

“Go,” he snips. 

You don’t chance another act of resistance. It’s not in your contract but you’re not worried about the terms and conditions in that moment. You’re worried about a paycheck and keeping your daughter in college. You can’t let her down. Or your husband. 

You follow the man around the counter as he takes you the women’s section. He walks you along a rack and stops to consider you. He smiles and curls the tip of his mustache. 

“You have beautiful colouring,” he praises. That’s sweet. You’re sure he can’t think of anything else to compliment. You’re not built like one of his dress forms. “A plum would look marvelous.” 

He turns and reaches to pull a swath of fabric forward, the hangers clacking together. He shows you the chiffon eagerly. You examine it with dread. It will show all your lumps and bumps. 

“Do you have anything... thicker? Stiffer?” You wonder. “I do like that colour.” 

Are you really going along with this? You glance over your shoulder as the tailor searches the rack. Nick’s eyes meet yours and he tilts his head. You stare back for just a moment before he turns to look at his reflection and tug on the lapels of the shiny blue jacket. 

You know what he’s doing. He’s making a point. You overstepped in some way and he’s putting you in your place. He’s showing you that he can make your job harder. He can make you work. Any way he wishes. And he knows, you need the job. 

You understand all the questions now. He was getting leverage. He was doing reconnaissance. 

This will be a lesson. A reminder for you. After tonight, you will know you are just the maid. You will know where you belong. A worn out old woman sweeping in the shadows. 

“Madame, it is velvet,” the tailor draws your attention back to him as he shows you the gown. You can’t see much of the detail but the fabric will bolster you better. 

“I’ll try it,” you agree. 

“Bonne,” he remarks in French. He is an eccentric character. 

He leads you around to the fitting rooms. He hangs the dress for you and steps out to let you shut yourself in. You can’t remember the last time you went dress shopping. There’s not need for it. 

You figure out how to step into the dress. It’s tea length, just above your ankles. You don’t mind the length but oh, the top. You’re about to spill right out. The deep vee shows quite a bit of cleavage, the small strap holding it together rather precarious as your tits swell out. And the back is almost entirely exposed. 

“Madame, are you well?” The tailor calls through. 

“Uh, I think a different neckline--” 

“Get out here,” Nick demands curtly. 

You cringe and look at your reflection. Jesus. This is the lesson here. The humiliation. You are beneath him. 

You face the door and steel yourself. You push back the latch and ease open the door. You step out, keeping your chin set and your gaze distant. 

“Oh, madame, that is wonderful on your figure,” the tailor steps forward, “and it fits you...” he gives a smooch to his fingers. “Look at the hips, sir.” 

Your cheeks burn and you dare to look at Nick. You’re mortified to find him staring back, exactly where the tailor emphasizes your curves. His brows draw up thoughtfully and he tilts his head. You want to cover the vee down your chest as his gaze creeps up. 

“Hm,” Nick hums. “put it on the bill.”��

[butlervibesonly]

Hi! I absolutely love your writing and I have this idea you could do! Since I love dad Austin fics as probably you do, can you do one where reader is pregnant with their first baby, and she already has a bump but Austin and her decided to keep it secret from medias as long as it's possible. But one day Austin's away at some meeting and reader goes out for some reason where she runs into paparazzi, freaks out cause they get photos of her and bump and she then calls Austin and they work it out together? Might be too demanding, write only if you like it 😅🫶🏻

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡 | Austin Butler

• NOTE: Hiiii and thank you! Love this idea and I hope it’s as you imagined! 💕

• PAIRING: Austin Butler x pregnant! reader

• WARNINGS: pregnancy, paparazzi, slight angst, panicking, …

Your hand rests on your growing belly, and you feel the baby kick. This baby is so far a secret you and Austin keep from medias and fans to enjoy these moments as a family. You both do everything to keep this little life growing inside of you hidden.

But that’s not always very easy, especially when you and Austin are constantly under a microscope of paparazzis and medias. And now, with a baby on the way, you both know the frenzy that awaits you once the news gets out.

Austin has interview and some meetings today, so you’re home alone. Not that alone if you count your baby in you, of course. You suddenly think of making some good dinner for Austin when he comes home. “What should we do for daddy’s dinner, huh?” you rub your belly, not expecting any answers.

After a while of brainstorming and thinking you think of doing some good lasagne. You get up from the couch and go to see if you have everything for the meal to be done. And well, your pantry, however, isn’t cooperating.

“I’ll just make a quick shopping,” you mumble to yourself, grabbing the coat and scarf. You tug it tightly around you, hoping it would be enough to hide the small, but now undeniable, bump.

The grocery shop isn’t so far from yours and Austin’s home, just a few blocks away actually. You hurry down the aisles, picking the needed ingredients. A small part of you feels a hint of unease — the kind you often feel while stepping outside without Austin. Luckily no one recognized you so far. You not a celebrity after all, you’re just a wife of your husband.

Or at least you thought. As you step out of the store, carrying your bag and keys, the flashes came like a sudden storm.

“Y/n over there!”

“Are you and Austin expecting?”

“You are pregnant, Y/n?”

Your heart is racing as the paparazzi surround you, their cameras clicking furiously. Panic flows through you as questions are bombarding you from every direction.

“Please, I—“ you stammer, before pushing your way through the paparazzi and walk away down the street.

As soon as you get back home, you start trembling and shaking, tears spilling from your eyes. Your phone starts buzzing in your pocket — texts from friends, notifications from news websites. You don’t even dare look. Instead, you text Austin immediately.

As soon as Austin arrives home, he finds you crying on the couch. “They know,” you whisper, voice breaking. “The paparazzi... they saw me. They took pictures of me,”

Austin’s face is a mixture of worry and determination. He pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly as you let the tears fall. “I’m so sorry,” you choke out. “I didn’t think— I just wanted to cook for you but there wasn’t enough of stuff so I went shopping and—”

“Shhh, no,” he murmurs stroking your hair. “It’s not your fault, honey .” Austin’s free hand travels to touch your belly and rubs it in soothing circles. “We should expect this could happen, Y/n,” he says gently.

“What do we do now?” you ask, your voice voice shaking.

“We will handle this together, okay?” Austin looks into your watery eyes. “The most important thing is that you and the baby are alright. We can do a statement on Instagram if you’re comfortable with it. No media gets to ruin how we share this happiness.”

Austin’s words were gentle, reassuring, and exactly what you need to hear in this moment. You nod, squeezing his arm. As soon as you calm down Austin gets his phone and picks a picture that would be best to share.

He posts a simple picture — his hand resting on you growing belly — he took this photo no too long ago while the both of you were sharing some sweet time.

austinbutler posted

Liked by ashleytisdale, bazluhrmann and 823 493 more

austinbutler Our biggest roles yet: mom and dad. We love you so much already little bean. ❤️

ashleytisdale Best roles! Can’t wait! 🥹❤️

fan1 OMG!! PARENTS 🫶🏼🥹

fan2 I saw the paparazzi pictures and im disgusted, leave them alone they clearly weren’t ready to post this. Congrats anyway!

The response is immediate, and the support very much overwhelming. The media craziness was horrible, but for the first time that day you feel peaceful and happy.

“I love you and our baby so much and I wouldn’t let anyone to ruin this.” he kisses you gently, his hand never leaving your bump. And you feel so lucky that Austin is like this. Because with Austin nothing feels impossible.

[bgwlsmahf25]

If She Could, She Would pt2

pairing: Natasha x reader

Warnings: mentions of HYDRA; mentions of the Red Room; nat almost breaking your heart; bits of angst

Genre: fluff; sprinkling of angst

a/n: here is part 2 as requested! Hope you’ve enjoyed this story :)

“Hi.” You stared worriedly at Natasha then sighed. “That bad, huh?”

“Clint…” Her jaw was clenched and she had worry lines on her forehead. She was pacing up and down, deep in thought, occasionally glancing up to make sure you were still there.

“...is going to be fine,” you finished calmly. “I just checked in on him. Helen is confident. She’s the best at what she does.” You paused. “The mission?”

“Difficult.” Natasha chewed her lip. “HYDRA’s got two enhanced with them: a boy and a girl.”

You looked up as Maria walked in, Tony in tow. Natasha went straight to him and they began conversing in low voices. Maria walked over to you, handing you a tablet. “Find them. Anything you can.”

Several nights passed, each one longer than the last. You were the last to bed and one of the first to rise. You were mainlining coffee and sandwiches, afraid to leave your computer for a second in case valuable intel arrived at any second.

Papers were scattered across your desk, your floor and most of your bed. The papers started to grow in height, unwieldy stacks appearing across your room. You had long ago given up on team movie nights.

Tony persuaded you to briefly show your face at his party, but then Ultron emerged and the Avengers were no longer concerned with galas and gatherings. You started to delve into Ultron, tracking him through databases and mainframes, often ending with a burnt out battery, your computer smoking in protest.

One afternoon (or it could have been evening, you neither knew nor cared) there was a knock on your door. Startled, you looked up then awkwardly maneuvered your way to the door. Opening it, you found Natasha on the other side and you could tell from her face that she wasn’t happy.

“Come in.” You stepped aside, as much as you could, and she entered your room. “Forgive the papers. Research.”

“Y/n, how long have you been in here?” she said quietly.

“A while.” You stared at Natasha. “Why? What’s happened?”

“A lot.” Natasha sighed. “We’re… scattered right now. What have you found on the twins?”

You turned back to your laptop, groaning as you noticed smoke trickling out the side. Wrenching it open, you pulled the extinguished battery out and replaced it with a fresh one from the stack on your desk. You picked up a piece of paper and turned back to Natasha. “I was coming to find you, actually.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever heard of the Red Room?”

Natasha seemed to freeze, her shoulders tensing and a far-away anxious expression appearing on her face. She clenched her hands tightly into fists, the knuckles going white and let out a short, sharp breath.

“You have heard of them. Who are they?”

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me that, y/n. W-why are you asking about them?”

“Natasha, what’s going on?” you said, dropping the piece of paper and putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Tell me.” Her voice was harsh and cold and you reeled backwards in surprise.

“I, uh… I was in contact with someone. They were talking about the Red Room, they said to ask the Black Widow if I wanted to know more. It came up as a possible source of comparison for what HYDRA have done to the Maximoff twins - that’s the enhanced you saw at Strucker’s base.”

Natasha glanced at her phone as it began lighting up with messages. She ignored it and stared at you. “Give me the name of your source.”

“N-no, I can’t do that, Natasha. I promised to keep their identity secret.”

“Y/n, I’m not asking. Give me the name of your source.”

“No.” You felt suddenly afraid that Natasha might harm you, but you stared her down. “I’m not releasing that information to you.”

“I will find it,” she said, turning and leaving your room. “When I am back. We are off to Seoul.”

***

“Y/n! I don’t care what you’re doing in there, get your ass out here now!” Furious hammering began at your door.

“Alright, alright, jeez, I’m coming.” You opened the door to find Maria and some SHIELD agents on the other side. From Maria’s expression, you knew it wasn’t good. “What happened?”

“It’s Natasha. She’s been captured by Ultron. We need to find where he’s keeping her. I’ve got every resource on it, but I thought you should know.”

You stared at Maria in barely concealed horror. “Y-yes. I’m on it.” Sweeping papers aside, you sat down at your desk and began typing furiously, filling your screen with lines of code. Ultron’s sources began to attack back and you realised you were in for a long battle. “I’m coming, Nat,” you murmured. “I will find you. Whatever it takes.”

***

“They’re in Sokovia. They’ve got three minutes to suit up and we’re going there.” Steve looked at you, Maria and the rest of the SHIELD agents he’d assembled. “I need you here. Check all communications. If anything changes by one second, you tell me.” He started to leave the room, then put a hand on your shoulder. “Clint’s got a bearing on her. We’ll bring her back safe, y/n.”

You nodded, wondering why Steve was taking time away from his mission to tell you. You were worried about Natasha, but you’d barely seen her and her reaction to the news about the Red Room still played in your mind. She didn’t trust you and she was angry at you. And she was still in the hands of Ultron…

***

“It’s taking off!”

“The whole thing is moving!”

“There are people on it!”

“People. People, calm down!” Nick’s voice sounded amongst the chatter of the SHIELD agents, as you all watched Sokovia lifting into the air. “We will be going to their assistance. You.” He pointed at an agent hunched over a computer. “How many multi-person carriers have we got?”

“I, uh, sir…”

“Seventeen,” you said calmly. “At first count.”

“Seventeen? This is Sokovia we’re talking about. Find me more!”

“I’m on it, sir.” You reached over and prodded the other agent. “Look alive, Anders, we need quick fingers and even quicker minds for this job. Divert all non-essential traffic to other services. Then re-direct all carriers to SHIELD usage. Destination: Sokovia.”

“Right.” Anders seemed to be in a daze and you sighed.

“Guess I’m doing it myself,” you muttered, flexing your fingers and beginning to type. “If you’re not helping, Anders, then find me someone who will. Move it!”

He nervously jumped and scurried off across the room, frantically talking to other agents and pointing at you.

***

“You know,” another agent slid into a seat beside you, “the Black Widow wants Dr Banner.”

“What do you mean?” You felt fear creep into your mind. Had you lost your chance with Natasha?

“You don’t know? Something happened between Romanoff and Banner, I don’t know all the details, but I know that they’re an item.”

Your heart sank. She was gone and you’d never had a chance to respond to her gesture with the scrapbook. What were you supposed to do now?

“Agent?”

“Get on with your work,” you snapped. “I need a coffee.” You pushed your chair back and strode out of the room, feeling angry and sad at the same time.

Heading into the break room, you burst into tears, sinking to your knees on the ground, taking great gasping breaths. Your heart felt like it had been shattered into a million pieces and you cursed the day you met Natasha Romanoff.

***

“Ultron destroyed. Sokovia was also destroyed,” you said grimly. “Maximoff twins recruited. Not too many lost. I’d say that’s a win, sir.”

“Of course it’s a damn win,” Fury ground his teeth. “And I’m alive again.” He sighed. “I’ve been watching you, Agent y/l/n. You’re a quick learner. How ‘bout a promotion? Come and work in my office.”

“Sir, I - thank you, sir, I’d be honoured.”

“Alright, that's settled.” Fury followed your gaze to where Natasha was standing, staring blankly at the wall ahead of her. “Go on. My news for her can wait.”

You headed over, unsure what you wanted to say. Then you remembered that she was with Bruce Banner now and you started to walk away. You weren’t going to talk to her, you weren’t going to interact with her anymore. It hurt too much.

“I know you’re there. Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“I don’t know if I should.”

Natasha turned, taking you in. She bit her lip, a knowing look in her eyes, and took a step towards you. “Y/n.”

“No.” You put your hands up, whether protecting yourself or pushing her away, you didn’t know which. “No. You don’t get to - no. No more.”

“Y/n.” She continued to walk towards you. “Let me explain.”

“No.” You turned and began to walk away. “You don’t get to come close anymore.”

“This is about Dr Banner.” You froze. “This is about the rumours going around about me and him. You know how you feel about me, but you won’t say it because it looks like I’ve moved on.”

“You have,” you whispered.

“No.”

“Yes, you have,” you insisted. “I don’t have a chance anymore, and I’m not sure I ever did.”

“As if you were with me. As if you were beside me.”

“No. Don’t. Don’t say that, it’s not true.” Hurt flashed across Natasha’s face. “It’s not true.”

“As if you were walking right beside me. Watching the same movies. Eating the same food. Sleeping in tiny motels. Chasing leads that end in nothing. Taking photographs because you want the memories of travelling across Europe and Africa with me.”

“Natasha… no. You don’t get to worm your way in anymore.” Tears were starting to run down your cheeks. “My heart doesn’t belong to you.”

“But mine belongs to you,” she whispered.

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s not true.”

“Will you let me decide what’s true?” she snapped, her patience finally breaking. “Let me explain, y/n.”

“No,” you whispered, walking away. “Not anymore. I won’t take it anymore.”

***

“Romanoff’s been training me.” Wanda eyed you curiously. “There’s something there, isn’t there?”

“Wanda, don’t push it,” you sighed, furiously beating some eggs. “Not if you want breakfast.”

“You’re doing it all wrong.” She leant forwards, taking your hand in hers and guiding your hand in a circular motion. “This will make eggs fluffy. That,” she mimicked your old movement, “will not do anything.”

“Whatever,” you sighed, handing her the bowl. “How’s training going?”

“You’d know if you joined us.”

“It’s not for me. I’m not an Avenger, I’m just a field agent.”

“Who works for the management of this place.” Wanda looked at you. “Your thoughts are loud.”

“Hey, get out of my mind!” you said, annoyed but not angry. “Leave my thoughts alone.”

“Y/n, even without reading your mind, I can see you’re unhappy.” Wanda’s tone was gentle and you sighed. “I know that you miss her. Why won’t you talk to her?”

“Wanda, she doesn’t want to hear from me.”

“Yes, I do.” You spun around to see Natasha walking into the common room, staring at you with an intense gaze. “You shut me out, not the other way around.”

“I didn’t - no, that’s…” You spluttered then sighed again, knowing she was right. “Whatever. Hello, Natasha.”

“Ooh, so formal,” she gently teased, sending you a brief smile. “Hello, y/n. I miss you. Why don’t you come to training?”

“You know why.”

“No. I don’t.” She leant on the counter beside Wanda and watched you, an amused smile playing around her mouth. “You’re the one who walked off.”

You grabbed Natasha’s arm and pulled her from the room.

“Hey!” Wanda called out, a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. “What about these eggs?”

“They’ll keep until I return!” you called back.

***

“You’re not an easy person to talk to nowadays,” Natasha remarked.

You unlocked your room and pushed her inside, shutting the door behind you. She looked around, intrigued to see what your room looked like without the stacks and stacks of papers. Spotting a photo of you and her on the wall, she stepped towards it.

“Leave that alone,” you said quietly.

“I’ve made you angry.”

“You didn’t have to accuse me of being a horrible person in front of Wanda. I’m not that bad, I’m just busy. I keep making time for you and then either you don’t show or you’re off on a mission.”

“First time I’m hearing about it.”

“In my head, Nat. I keep making time for you in my head,” you said impatiently.

“Why not ask me in person?”

“Because,” you whispered, and suddenly Natasha understood.

“Because you’re afraid I’ll reject you,” she said quietly. “You regret what you said all those months ago.”

“Of course I regret it!” you burst out. “I wish I’d stuck around and listened to what you were going to say but I missed my chance.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” She looked at you. “My heart belongs to you, y/n, whether Banner’s around or not.”

“But you’d pick him. For appearance’s sake, for the good of the Avengers, for the good of publicity… you’d pick him.”

“I have seen so much. So much of the world, of what it can give you but also what it can take away.” Natasha pointed at the photo of the two of you. “That was the first time I saw myself like that. Happier. Carefree. With no weight on my shoulders.” She stared at you. “I want that back, y/n, but you’re the only person who can give it to me.”

“Give… I have nothing to give you, Nat.”

“Love,” she burst out. “You have love to give me.”

“You’re making it really hard to say no,” you whispered, a smile creeping onto your face. “All I want is to say no, but you’re making that very hard right now.”

“I’m going to keep talking until you say yes,” she whispered. She sat down on the edge of your bed and watched you carefully.

Then she began to talk about her upbringing, her favourite book. The fact that she still read that book even now because it comforted her. About leaving Russia and the heartache that had caused. About meeting Clint’s family for the first time and being called ‘Aunty Nat’ and realizing life wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it was.

Then she started talking about you. The first time she’d met you and realised she was falling. The Christmas you’d gone ice skating together and you’d burst out laughing as you fell over. The way you made her feel inside. How she knew she could be herself with no fear of rejection.

“Natasha.” You reached out, placing a finger on her lips. She kissed your finger, making you smile. “Okay. I’ll try something with you.”

“You will?” Her smile was big and happy and you couldn’t help but smile back, taking in the green eyes that were staring so intently into yours.

“Yes.” You leant forwards and kissed her softly. “I will.”

“Now,” she murmured against your lips, “about the name of that source…”

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova!”

[henrycangelbaby]

Before she can even react to his arrival, he throws himself at her, half perching himself in her lap; she giggles at him while he throws his arms around her tightly, burying her face in his chest while the flowers in his hands hit her gently on the back; he rocks them back and forward for a second before pulling back. 

Or

Fred Hechinger loves his wife and his babies more than anything.

Late nights aren't exactly a foreign concept in the Hechinger household. Back when he was young(er), he can recall the many nights he and Y/N spent lying awake into the early hours of the morning, staying up late more for novelty than anything. Now it feels like more of a necessity than anything. 

It's not every single night, but more often than not, the late hours of the evening after everyone else has gone to bed are the only times when he and Y/N can spend time (mostly) uninterrupted by small human beings. 

Family life had changed Fred, he liked to think that it was for the better. He could say with full certainty that starting a family with the love of his life was a change that was most certainly for the better; he knew that he was biased considering that she was his wife, but he would testify in court that she somehow managed to get more and more beautiful every single day. He thinks back fondly to when they were young, when he was merely a slightly awkward teenager and had fallen for the prettiest girl in the back of his English class. He had sworn that she was the most beautiful girl he could ever possibly lay his eyes on; now, as she sat next to him in the dim lighting of the living room, she seemed impossibly more beautiful. 

Two kids later and a third one on the way, everything seemed to be perfect. A beautiful wife, two lovely daughters, and a career that was finally going his way, things seemed to be going the way that he and Y/N would stay up late dreaming about. 

This night is another late night. He had been working all day and had missed his family terribly; he tried desperately to get home early, and most nights he did. Getting in during the afternoon so he could help with dinner and bedtime was one of the most scared parts of his days. He didn't make it home till dark tonight; the long day had tired him out and began to get on his nerves the longer that it went on. Of course, he had stayed polite, waving everyone off when it had finally ended, rushing to his car. 

He had a plan in his mind since he had found out he was to be staying late; he had texted Y/N apologizing many times over, but she had just brushed him off like the angel she was, assuring him that it was fine, texting with a few updates throughout the evening. The last text message featuring a photo of his youngest daughter curled up sleeping in her bed, her Christmas teddy (that she kept with her all year round after being gifted him a few Christmases ago). He stops briefly at the supermarket; he knew that Y/N didn't care, that she would never hold this against him, and any problem that they could have would be resolved. They had promised each other a long time ago that they would never keep secrets, any problems they ever had would always be talked about, and they could tell each other anything. 

The flowers sitting in his passenger seat make him feel a little better; he knew he didn't really need to, but in his eyes there is never a wrong time to get his wife flowers. 

He pushes through the front door quietly, well aware that too much noise would wake one if not both of his kids. He spots Y/N instantly, sitting on the couch with her eyebrows furrowed, looking down at something presumably puzzling on her phone. Before she can even react to his arrival, he throws himself at her, half perching himself in her lap; she giggles at him while he throws his arms around her tightly, burying her face in his chest while the flowers in his hands hit her gently on the back; he rocks them back and forward for a second before pulling back. 

“Hi, Freddy.” Y/N says, smiling up at him. 

“Hi, dove,” he responds, leaning down to kiss her softly on the lips. 

He pulls back after a second of lingering in the kiss. He plops himself down next to her, dramatically pulling the flowers out from behind his back and placing them in Y/N's lap. 

“for you,” he smiles cheerily. 

Y/N looks at them, her face dropping slightly. 

“Hey, you didn’t hav—“ she starts. He cuts her off before she can finish, placing his finger over her mouth and mockingly shaking his head at her. 

“I know, but I wanted to, okay?” Fred explains gently, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it home tonight; did it go okay?” He asks. 

Y/N shuffles closer to him, tucking her feet underneath her legs, allowing her husband to place his arm around her shoulder. 

“Yeah, it was mostly fine; Immy threw a fit about having to go to bed at the same time as Lucy.” 

Fred snorted at this; Imogen had taken to being an older sister enthusiastically until she realized that it would mean more than a few changes around the house. 

“but nothing completely out of the ordinary, I suppose,” she finishes.

Fred moved his hand down to her stomach, gently rubbing over it in what he hopes are somewhat soothing movements.  

“How are you? They've been giving you trouble today?” he asks, referring to the newest little one currently still being housed in his wife's stomach.  

They had left a gender a mystery for this one, but deep down Fred had been hoping for another little girl; of course, he would be happy with anything as long as they were happy and healthy, but he was already so severely outnumbered in his home, and it was the best thing to ever happen to him. What was one more? 

“I mean, my back is a little sore, but what is new?” Y/N jokes, going into her third pregnancy, back pain had become a way of life.  

“Did you eat enough?” Fred asked  

He knew it was patronizing that Y/N could take care of herself as well as their two children, but he worried; he couldn’t help it, especially when she had been very sick with her last pregnancy, feeling far too nauseous to eat much for the majority of her pregnancy. Everything had worked out fine in the end, and Fred had never eaten so many crackers in his life; the worrying had persisted (like it usually did) through her postpartum and onto the next one.  

“Sometimes I think that you will end up worrying yourself sick.” Y/N comments it's half serious. 

“Don’t worry about me, angel; I’m fine. I just want to make sure you’re fine.” Fred replied, smiling a little bit; all this talk of worrying was going to send them both to an early grave. 

“I ate a late breakfast, felt a little bad this morning, but it cleared pretty quick.” Y/N said truthfully, 

She had felt sick this morning, but it had gone away faster than expected. She wasn’t even trying to make her doting husband feel better. Fred cocked an eyebrow, smirking slightly as if he didn’t believe her. Y/N opened her mouth again to defend herself but was instead interrupted by Fred leaning down for another kiss.  

“That's good,” he said between a few quick kisses.  

They don’t make it much longer; midnight has passed, and Y/N’s yawns had become more and more frequent. Fred looked around the room, quickly spotting the dirty dishes and unpacked dishwasher. 

“Dove?” He asks, and she only hums in response, meeting his eye drowsily. “Go up to bed; yeah, I’ll pack the dishwasher and be up soon, okay?” He promises pulling them both up to stand,  

He knew that she would usually go to fight him on this, but she didn’t have the energy today, having spent all day looking after the girls while being multiple months pregnant, tiring her out fully. Y/N only nodded in agreement, placing a soft kiss on Fred’s neck before moving towards the stairs. 

The dishwasher took no time at all, and Fred was upstairs showering quietly before he knew it. His dove had passed out cold in their bed. She looked very beautiful even in sleep, clean and comfortable. He crept quietly to check on the girls. Anabel was asleep peacefully, Christmas plushie still clutched tightly in her grip. He leaned down, pushing her fringe back to kiss her forehead gently. He fought the urge to pick her up and pull her close to his chest; he didn’t want to wake her, but he had missed her so much, a kiss would suffice for now. 

He moved along to Lucy’s room, pushing the door open slowly, his eldest seemingly sleeping peacefully in her big girl bed. He did the same as he had done before, kissing her lightly on the forehead before moving to leave. He was about to push the door closed behind him when a small voice spoke out.

“Daddy?” He turned around at the sound of his “name” to see Lucy awake and now sitting up in her bed.  

“What’s up, baby?” He asked, turning back towards her, sitting down on the bed, allowing Lucy to snuggle into his side.  

“I missed you today,” she pouts up at him; she looks sweet, but she also breaks his heart. He hates the sentiment, hates that his family has to miss him while he’s off working; he loves his job but not the commitment.  

“I missed you too, baby, more than you know,” Fred promises, gently pulling Lucy impossibly close. 

He allows them to cuddle for a while; Lucy should most definitely be asleep, but he can’t resist having her close for a little longer. She babbles for a while, yapping about her day to her ever-loving father. Eventually she begins to tire herself out, yawning frequently and her eyes drooping more and more. Fred put her back now in the bed gently; she attempted to protest weakly, sweet “no daddy’s” falling from her lips, but it was all futile. She gave in to sleep easily, pulling her daddy's hand close to her chest much like she would with a plushie. Fred pried his hand out from her surprisingly firm grip, using it to brush over her forehead. 

“Love you, baby,” he whispered, pulling himself up and gently closing the door. 

The entire house was asleep as he crept into his own bed, his lovely wife already sleeping soundly, much like his girls. Pulling his wife under his arm, his hand resting over her swollen stomach. He soothed over a small kick that made him smile. 

“Goodnight, angel, love you endlessly,” he whispered to a sleeping Y/N.

Even if she wasn’t listening, it didn’t matter; he would say it anyway; it brought a warmth to his cheeks. This was his everything, the love of his life, his family, and they were perfect, so perfect, he would never love anything more.

a/n: yayaya! Ily Fred hechinger I need you so bad. This took so long to finish one. But it’s finally here! Idk if it kinda sucks or not but who cares because I’m having his baby!!!! Anyways much love! Talk to me in my inbox I miss u guys. #fredhechingergotmepregant??

[moonselune]

Hi! I love re-reading all of your work, especially all the Halsin, Gale and Jaheira ones!

In that vein, could I request these three with a Tav that is a lycanthrope? Maybe Tav is telling them, and they’re like, ‘really? It wasn’t obvious at all’ but they totally knew. 😅 Maybe Gale has read up on lycanthrope magic? I dunno, it’s just spooky season, and werewolves deserve love too 😂

I hope you have a great rest of the week! 🌟

Ahh this sounds so good! And thank you I hope you have an amazing week xox

Jaheira:

The sun was setting over the woods, casting long golden rays through the trees. You had been pacing nervously in a quiet clearing, rehearsing what you were about to say to Jaheira. She meant the world to you—her wisdom, her strength, her kindness—and the thought of losing her because of the secret you had kept sent chills down your spine. But it was time. If your relationship was to thrive, she needed to know.

When Jaheira finally joined you, her presence was like the earth itself: grounding and steady. She approached with her usual calm confidence, her green robes swaying slightly with her movement.

“You look troubled,” she said, her voice warm but curious. “What’s on your mind?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Jaheira, there’s something I need to tell you. Something… important.”

Her brow arched slightly, but she didn’t interrupt, giving you the space to speak. You fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot as you gathered your courage.

“I’m… a lycanthrope,” you finally said, your voice trembling slightly. “A werewolf.”

You waited for her reaction, expecting shock or anger, maybe even fear. Instead, Jaheira tilted her head, her expression calm and unbothered.

“Yes,” she said simply.

You blinked, completely thrown off. “Yes?”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “I’ve known the entire time.”

For a moment, you were stunned into silence. “You knew?” you finally sputtered. “How could you possibly know?”

Jaheira chuckled, the sound light and almost teasing. “You think I wouldn’t notice? I’ve seen the signs, dear one. The heightened senses, the way you avoid the moonlight when it’s full, the occasional… furry footprints that don’t belong to any beast in the area.”

You gaped at her, feeling a mixture of bewilderment and slight indignation. “And you never thought to say anything?”

“It didn’t seem necessary,” she said with a shrug. “You are who you are, and I accept that. But,” she added with a sly smile, “it is amusing that you thought I wouldn’t notice. Do you truly think so little of my observational skills?”

You crossed your arms, half-pouting. “I’ve been agonizing over how to tell you, and you already knew the whole time? That’s not fair.”

Jaheira laughed, a rich, warm sound that eased some of your frustration. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your cheek. “I didn’t mean to make light of your feelings. If it’s important to you, I’ll pretend I didn’t know.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “You’re going to make me do this again, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, her tone playful. “Start from the beginning. This time, I’ll act surprised.”

You sighed dramatically but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. But you’d better make it convincing.”

Jaheira leaned back, folding her arms and adopting an overly serious expression. “Very well. Tell me, oh mysterious one, what dark secret have you been keeping from me?”

You rolled your eyes but decided to play along. “Jaheira,” you began again, doing your best to sound somber, “there’s something you need to know. I’m… a lycanthrope.”

Her eyes widened in exaggerated surprise, and she placed a hand over her heart. “A lycanthrope? You don’t say! I never would have guessed. This is shocking news indeed.”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you love me,” she teased, pulling you into a warm embrace. “Thank you for trusting me, even if I may have stolen your thunder a bit.”

You leaned into her, the tension you had been carrying finally dissipating. “I do love you. Even if you’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

“And I love you,” she replied, her voice soft but sincere. “Wolf and all.”

Gale:

The evening in the Inn was quiet and cozy. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. You sat together on a plush chaise, Gale engrossed in a leather-bound book, while you nervously fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve.

For days, you’d been building up the courage to tell him your secret, and tonight felt like the right time. Gale was kind, patient, and understanding—a rare soul who made you feel safe. But this was no small revelation, and a part of you feared what he might think.

Taking a deep breath, you placed a hand on his arm. “Gale, can we talk?”

He looked up immediately, his brows knitting with concern. “Of course, my love. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. His gaze was so earnest, so filled with affection, that it almost made the admission harder. But you pushed forward. “There’s something about me that you deserve to know. Something I’ve been keeping to myself.”

His expression softened, and he set the book aside, giving you his full attention.

“Go on,” he encouraged gently, his voice warm and steady.

You swallowed hard. “I’m… a lycanthrope. A werewolf.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Gale smiled—a small, understanding smile that made your heart ache with relief.

“Ah,” he said softly. “That explains a few things.”

You blinked at him, startled. “You’re not… shocked? Or upset?”

“Shocked? No. Upset? Never,” he replied, his tone reassuring. “If anything, I’m honoured that you trust me enough to share this with me. I can only imagine how difficult it’s been to keep such a thing to yourself.”

His words sent a warm rush through you, and you couldn’t help but smile. Without thinking, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. He returned the embrace without hesitation, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back.

As you held him, your eyes wandered to the small table beside the chaise. There, partially hidden beneath a stack of scrolls, was a book with a title that caught your eye: Lycanthropy: A Study of Cursed and Chosen Shapeshifters. Next to it was another volume titled Lycanthropic Magic: Harnessing the Beast Within.

You pulled back slightly, glancing between the books and Gale.

“What are those?” you asked, pointing to the tomes. Gale’s eyes followed your gesture, and for the first time that evening, he looked genuinely flustered.

“Oh, those? Merely… coincidences,” he said, a little too quickly. “You know me, always delving into esoteric subjects. Purely academic curiosity.”

You raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Coincidences? Really? Gale, these are very specific books to have lying around.”

He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze. “Well, I might have had an inkling,” he admitted, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. “A few signs here and there. And I thought… if it were true, I should be prepared. Just in case.”

You stared at him for a moment, a mix of exasperation and affection swelling in your chest. Then you laughed—a warm, heartfelt laugh that made his blush deepen. “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “I suspected. But I didn’t want to push you. I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you leaned in to kiss him gently. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossibly devoted to you,” he countered, his smile softening. “And for the record, nothing about this changes how I feel about you. You’re still the person I fell in love with—wolf or not.”

You hugged him again, this time with even more warmth.

“Thank you,” you murmured against his shoulder. “For being you.”

“And thank you,” he replied, his voice full of affection. “For trusting me. Now, should we delve into these books together? I’ve found some fascinating theories about lycanthropic magic.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to enjoy being here with you.”

Gale smiled, pulling you closer. “As you wish, my love. As you wish.”

Halsin:

The forest clearing was serene, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above as birds sang in the distance. You and Halsin had chosen this spot for a quiet respite, away from the bustle of the grove and the endless responsibilities that seemed to follow him. He was reclining against a mossy log, his golden-brown skin glowing warmly in the sunlight as he worked on carving a small piece of wood into an animal figurine. You sat nearby, nervously picking at a blade of grass, your heart racing with the weight of the secret you were about to share.

“Halsin,” you said hesitantly, breaking the silence.

He looked up, his amber eyes filled with gentle curiosity. “Yes, my heart?”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something about me.”

Setting his carving aside, Halsin shifted his full attention to you, his expression turning serious but still soft. “Of course. Whatever it is, I am here to listen.”

You hesitated, your fingers twisting the blade of grass into knots. “I’m… I’m a lycanthrope. A werewolf.”

For a moment, Halsin’s face went still, his brows furrowing in what seemed like thought. Then, with a dramatic inhale, he placed a hand on his chest, his eyes widening. “A lycanthrope? You? I… I had no idea.”

His words sounded genuine enough, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. You tilted your head, narrowing your gaze. “Halsin.”

“Yes, my heart?” he replied, his voice still laden with feigned surprise.

“You knew, didn’t you?” you accused, though there was no real anger in your tone—only exasperation.

His lips twitched, and he tried valiantly to maintain his shocked facade. “Knew? Why, of course not! How could I possibly—”

“Halsin,” you said firmly, cutting him off. You fixed him with a knowing glare, and his resolve crumbled almost instantly.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as a sheepish grin spread across his face. “I knew.”

You groaned, running a hand over your face. “The entire time?”

“The moment we met,” he confessed, his voice tinged with laughter. “Your scent gave it away. It’s unique—wild, untamed, with a hint of the forest and the moon. It’s beautiful, really.”

Your jaw dropped. “And you didn’t think to tell me you knew?”

“I didn’t want to pressure you,” he explained, his tone turning earnest. “It’s a deeply personal thing to reveal, and I wanted you to come to me when you were ready.”

You shook your head, half-annoyed, half-amused. “So all this time, you’ve been waiting for me to tell you something you already knew?”

Halsin chuckled, reaching out to take your hand in his. His large, calloused fingers enveloped yours, grounding you. “I’m sorry if it feels like I deceived you. That was never my intention. I simply wanted you to feel safe and in control of your own truth.”

You sighed, your irritation melting away under the warmth of his sincerity. “I suppose I can’t be too mad. You were only trying to be kind.”

He smiled, squeezing your hand. “That is all I ever want to be with you.”

awh so wholesome, hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[sunny-mercya]

Not so Subtle

James Maguire x Male Reader

Fandom -> Derry Girls

Requested by -> Anon

Masterlist

»Obviously, we knew about ya two, James.« Michelle said it as if it had been some already worldwide known fact—chewing her gum obnoxiously loudly—and crosses her arms as she leans against the counter, looking at her cousin with such a smug, wickedly, grin that James (only in this moment) wants to throttle her, because Michelle really knows how to be a annoying ass—or more shake her like some salt shaker—a bit, just a bit.

»Excuse me?« James was flabbergasted, in all honesty.

And this is a sort of moment for James to feel mortified distraught, because he really had thought, actually believing himself that he's so witty smart—and truly cunning like a english men, which he proudly is after all—to make his relationship with [Name] as much subtle as possible and fool everyone else into thinking it's nonexistent.

»Yeah, so obviously like the Polar bears on the South-pole« Orla's input of commentary certainly didn't help the situation—James momentarily dilemma—his god blessed friend snacking on some sweets, like always, like a nonstop task to do.

Not that James is of anything ashamed or that being with [Name] is embarrassing—this sounded wrong and if Michelle hears such, she would kick James hard in the butt or rugby slam him onto the ground—it's just, it's none of their business who he has a romantic relationship with.

But these girls are so nosy sometimes, like so hella nosy that it creates some chaotic energy, that keeping a secret is not so easy.

»North pole. Orla. North pole. Polar bears are on the north pole.« Erin starts with correcting her cousin, which got her in a back and forth with Orla, to than adding her own two pennies to the already known not so new news.

»Doesn't matter now! Besides, it's a good thing ya actually telling us though and not keeping it a secret for life long.«

So it turns out, when James did decided to finally tell the girls, it apparently wasn't that subtle enough to even warrant a surprising reaction.

»Well! I think James and [Name] are really cute together and I'm giving them my blessing!« Claire fumbling a bit with her words in the end, giving a thumbs up and smiling encouraging—and really, Claire is such a sweetheart.

Although Claire's comment created a whole new level of discussion between the girls, forgetting momentarily about James and his bravery about telling them that he and [Name]—his boyfriend a tad bit late with the promised pizza and fish and chips—are together and James didn't knew if the girls knew that his relationship is nearing a two year anniversary or not, but he won't mention it.

»Girls! I've brought our dinner!« your calling from the front door, broke off the discussion—all four looking towards the kitchen door, it had slipped for some minutes their mind for what they're actually being in the [Surname] house—and James quickly walked out of the kitchen to help you—he really just wanted an excuse not to be in this warm environment of teasing.

~~~•~~~

»So, how did you know we're together?« it's a question James had asked, because he really itch for a answer, during the movie of their saturday girls night—Erin's mom would've asked if it even could be called „Girls Night“ with two boy being there and then her Grandpa would say, of course with this wee english fella its still considered a girls night.

»Well, ya english aren't so sly as ya believe to be.«

»She's right, I saw ya holding [Name]'s hand during the whole walk to school and home.«

»See! English are to terrible when it comes to secret romance!«

»James also terrible at giving gifts. He had gifted [Name] a British flag tea cup. Candy would've been the better choice.«

These answers aren't answers at all and neither helpful nor logical, James should've known better than to voice his question.

»Oh, I've told them like a week ago,« you said it so casual as if it's an obvious thing to say—and when James had felt distraught before than he feels distressed now, because why did you told them? Oh right, because these girls are your best friends.

»[Name]?!« James whines, bending forward and hiding his face in his hands—feeling betrayed, kinda, for what did he put so much effort and confidently courage in himself to tell them—just go have it all go in vain, because you already told them and now James felt like a fool (Orla's well meant reassuring pats on his back, didn't help at all) probably even looked like one.

»Oh, now you've made the poor english fella cry, [Nickname].« your dads commenting, when he passed by the living room—to check if everything still doing okay, as sometimes these girl nights could turn out into disaster and chaos, like last month when they have accidentally set the table on fire—really wanted to make James sob, because please, give him a rest from such tease.

As an apology, James had gotten—after leaning back at the couch—a few quick smooches on the cheek from you and the world for James feels right again.

[nyt1ba]

     It seems hypocritical of him to tuck away the truth when he wanted to forsake all lies,   flawed ideologies had built a view of the world that only served in escalating its downfall,   his many attempts to overlook the truth in order to create his own was merely a dream of idealism,   a far off world where anything is possible he once believed he could create if he'd tried hard enough.   He never saw the fault in his ways until it was too late,   the world he loved killed by his own hands.   Once again the truth rears its ugly head,   tears apart what little goodness he'd found after many years in darkness.   He hadn't intended for it to come between them,   would have sufficed with what he could gain on the surface,   choking out all feelings to keep the illusion alive.   Although he'd learned much of the truth,   his punishment is to remain in the ichor of falsehood,   to live by the reality his dreadful ambitions had created,   something cruel   &.   Inhuman.   There were many instances where he wished he could be as earnest,   to lay out his heart for her as she had,   but vulnerability was a risk that would threaten the safety of his people,   it's what he tells himself,   now regretful for not trusting her as she did.   Despite all the destruction that had befallen earth,   it still granted a faint hope of redemption,   to save something from within the ashes.   It isn't a comfort for him however,   nowhere near the solace she had found in a world that had finally embraced her,   only to be torn from it by none other than him.   It was clear to him she wouldn't bear earth after their fallout,   her choice to return was one he couldn't quite understand yet,   perhaps it was the simple fact that she had nowhere else to go.

  Her question catches him off guard,   with everything that had passed,   she would ask such a thing of him,   still considerate despite his own deceit.   It prompts an uneasy sigh,   trying to compose the clash of thoughts in his mind into something comprehensible.   It was an easy answer laced with many risks.   He wanted her to stay,   yes.   Their separation had proved to be a new breed of loneliness he couldn't quite bear.   But could he truly ask that of her ?   When he tried to fight against her stubbornness to die,   this isn't what he meant,   she deserves to live somewhere better,   alongside others who may love her with as much heart as she has,   not the soulless,   barren thing he offered.   And what if she stayed ?   If somehow she found the happiness she was seeking here by some chance ?   He doesn't wish to deny her of that possibility,   and yet   ...   as much as that would sooth him,   there's an undeniable fear that sprouts in his chest,   a forgotten ache overshadowed by solitude,   now back in full force to plague him again.   All that he ever loved,   all those he wanted to protect,   they suffered greatly because of him,   all this death is because of him,   will his love become her long awaited murderer ?

       ❛❛   I've   ...   thought about it,   when you and Artemis had settled in.   I didn't want to be known,   and at the same time I had foolishly hoped I could find a friend without having to tell the truth,   that was wrong of me,   I'm sorry.   ❜❜        he confessed,   features half concealed by the shadow of an open palm,   held out to the moon as if it would give light to the stains etched onto it,   but no matter how much he looks,   there's nothing.   Fingers curl into a fist,   dropping into his side as he realized how pointless it was.        ❛❛   Everything ends,   that's the nature of life,   it's a truth I had learned long ago.   You,   Artemis,   you'll become no more than memories I carry with me until my time comes too.   It's a risk,   yes,   even so,   I would want to have known and lost you than none at all.   ❜❜        it's no secret the grief he carries within him like a second heart,   his sorrow without remedy for all the loss he was responsible for,   friends   &.   family he can hardly remember their faces now.   He can't promise that he wouldn't blame himself,   that losing her too wouldn't slice open that ancient wound,   he won't be able to save her,   but he would still want to have whatever time he's allowed in getting to know her.        ❛❛   If it's an honest answer you're seeking,   then yes,   it's worth it,   for me.   However,   I don't want your decision to be made out of obligation.   I can't offer you anything,   earth is where I'll be until the very end.   If you think there might be a better life for you out there then,   well   ...   just make sure to call,   I've missed our talks.   ❜❜        I've missed you.

For all of their differences, Elektra and Adam share a primal ferocity and a willingness to do what must be done regardless of the consequences, but while he has Earth – a beacon of brightest hope and darkest despair – she has lost her moorings. Adrift in a sea as vast and empty as space itself, there is nothing tethering her to life; even this body feels foreign, mind snared in razor wire. What she had found here was sanctuary – a place to breathe easier, a kindness she hadn’t known in years, a sense of belonging that no longer seemed possible. But in the aftermath of the truth, those feelings melted away – now she worries that returning may only ruin things once more. Their separation proved to be easier than enduring the awkward nature of the fact that Elektra didn’t know Adam … not in the same way he knew her. Their chemistry is still muddled by the fallout of their fight; he’s stiff and she’s vague. It will take time and energy to get back to where they had started, but even so – she wonders: is it even right of her to entertain what they have … if death is her ultimate goal?

Clearly he has suffered – perhaps even more than she has. If she allows this to continue … Elektra will only hurt him in the end. The thought of doing so makes her hum slightly, brow furrowing as she thinks. Even if she’s no longer alone … even if she has Adam and Artemis to ease her pain, the decision isn’t any easier. Does she stay and give herself a chance at happiness if only to risk hurting the people she cares about? Or does she leave and allow them to experience the heartbreak she is certain will spread in her wake? It’s an impossible decision, one that will merit many hours of thoughtful consideration that she’s not able to spare at the moment. Instead, she folds her arms across her chest with a slight shiver – it really is cold here, especially at night beneath the pale of the moon.     “ Can I ask you something? ”     Voice is steady, but fingers dig into the softness of her own flesh,     “ Do you want me to stay … even if it means I might be gone someday? ” 

In accordance with the silent promise between the two of them, she hadn’t been seriously injured in some time … but that doesn’t make her invulnerable. Elektra’s skill doesn’t preclude her from dying – even if she stays, she can still be lost. Even if he’s able to heal her from a lethal injury … it may not be enough.     “ You know better than anyone that I’m not in the best health. Even if I avoid injury, this body was meant to break in ways you may not always be able to mend. ”     A sigh escapes her nostrils, teeth sinking into the wall of her cheek; she believes in their ability to right the wrongs of their past, but it’s difficult for her to imagine it will be well worth it when death looms closer with every breath.     “ If something happened to me I wouldn’t want you to blame yourself so … I need to know if it’s worth the risk to you. ”     Eyes flicker in the dark as her mind races, pulling free of her skin to avoid mindlessly injuring herself, “ I won’t be hurt if it isn’t, but I can’t make my decision until I know for sure. ”

[sea-buns]

Holy fuck, man. What a trip Fearne has been on, huh?

You tell her how grateful you are to have her in your life, you flatter her, you tell her you need her, that you have to do this together. You have her make a promise that has this woman, born of chaos and fey, agreeing through shaking hands and a trembling voice.

You make her deceive your friends; you make her follow where they cannot know; you make her help you into this contraption; you make her feed this thing into you despite the fact that you both have been warned extensively of the risks. You make her watch you crumble and splinter and shatter and fracture and burst and implode. You make her watch you die, over and over and over and over, for a minute in agonizing bullet time.

You make her do all these things, because when she tries to back out, when she tries to not be the one who let you do this—how could you do this—

you tell her, "YOU PROMISED."

Because if there's one thing you know, it's that the fey do not break a promise.

[odietamox]

my mom told me to keep a secret from my little sister but now my sister told me that out dad told her this exact thing and to keep it secret from me. what the fuck.

[muninnhuginn]

having to make myself just pull back a second and go for "simplest explanation that fits all the facts and isn't accidentally inferring beyond the facts we do have".

[ghostbsuter]

"So," she drawls, handing over a chocolate bar. "What's a little guy like you doing here? Metas aren't supposed to.be here you know?"

Danny accepts the bribe and sits down next to her, she seemed to.be.going after Condiment King a lot more, hence them meeting and actually talking.

"Well, grandma," he drawls like her, grinning when she squawks at his comment. "You don't act much older than me, Missy. I'd say there is a good 1 or 2 years between us."

Spoiler looks at him with a glint he gladly ignores.

"I'm visiting. My sister works at Arkham and I needed some fresh air is all."

The vigilante snorts next to him. "Fresh air? Gotham? You're a lunatic." She shakes her head. "Also, arkham?" Now she whistling, Danny flushes with pride. "Yes arkham."

"Your sister is ballsy for that, I give it to you."

"She is very strong."

They leave it at that.

(Jazz doesn't mention the way spoiler seems to escort her home every other day or so, doesn't even look up the building to catch her eye. She simply walks home.)

—

After numerous meetings, does this one resemble the most to the one where family was brought up.

"You mentioned needing fresh air." Spoiler prods lightly, handing him a sandwich this time.

"Yeah," biting into the sandwich, Danny hesitates.

Did he trust her? Yes. Their little arrangement turned into hangouts afterwards the.whole fighting. It was nice.

He looks down to gotham. "I only found out recently that my parents aren't... good people. Needed to get away, you know?"

Her eyes follow his to the city, and she relaxes. "I do know, yeah."

Spoiler meets his eye and answers the questioning look. "My sperm donor used to be a pretty bad guy, hated him for what he did. Got justice now."

Her eyes crinkle in the way Danny knows she is smiling. "Became Spoiler, had a short run as Robin and Batgirl, became Spoiler again but with a supporting system."

He eats his sandwich silently, listening.

"All I'm saying is, it will get better."

Their eyes meet again.

"I hope it does."

—

(On his way home, Danny bumps into a blond girl. It ends with him nearly falling to his butt if she didn't catch him in time.

"Oh," he hears her. "I'm Stephanie, but call me Steph, yeah?" The blond- now steph- grins, holding out her hand once he wasn't in the danger of falling again.

He takes it.

"Danny Fenton.")

Stephanie had hit the jackpot. She had been heading back to base to get cleaned up after a fight with Condiment King, grumbling all the while. She stopped on a rooftop after some mayo from her hair had fallen into her face.

Suddenly, there was no mayo. All of the condiments that she was covered with were now on the rooftop around her feet. She didn't even see this kid approach. "Huh?" She said without thinking

"Sorry." The kid, who looked like adoption bait smiled sheepishly as he used the hand that had density shifted the food off of her to rub the back of his neck. "I thought you would like that stuff off of you."

Somehow she convinced him to help her with the aftermath of fighting messy villains in exchange for snacks, but in a move of petty revenge she refused to tell the other bats how she managed to get clean so fast and not smell like mustard for a week after.

This, of course, leads to the whole bat clan attempting to stalk her to figure out her secret.

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[yanderestarangel]

♡˚₊‧⁺˖ headcanons arcane — sevika x reader

— tw: soft!dom sevika, fluff, wife sevika, soft sex, praise kink, biting kink, hexstrap, fingering, dirty talk, marriage, mommykink, oral fixation, afab reader, eat out, dp, vibrators, breedkink, smut, anal, sub!reader, no pronouns used.

♡⁠┊Sevika is a caring companion, and even though her behavior is different when she is Silco's henchwoman, she has a soft spot for you and the life you two have built together. It wasn’t easy for her to accept her feelings for you. In the beginning, you two were just friends with benefits, and Sevika only enjoyed the sex you had. She would get bored and think. "At least I don't have to pay for someone else at the brothel." She knew it was a horrible thought and was ashamed of having such a selfish mentality. This would be a secret she would keep forever and take to the grave—she would never hurt you by admitting what she thought before developing feelings.

♡⁠┊ As time went on, she gave in to the feelings that persistently warmed her heart and soul. Your smile was the first thing to make her blush—and she hadn’t even thought that was possible. She had always been so controlled and objective that it genuinely shocked her to feel the overwhelming need to have you by her side 24/7. Soon, the word "passion" echoed through her mind like a haunting melody. She found you more addictive than the nicotine that coursed through the cigarettes she smoked.

♡⁠┊Before long, what started as "friends with benefits" naturally evolved into "lovers."

♡⁠┊There was a Sevika before you and a Sevika after you. She had never been the kind of woman who worried about getting home or keeping track of dates. Her life revolved around late nights in the casino’s accounting department, playing poker, grabbing meals from nearby vendors, and caring little about commitments that didn’t involve Silco.

♡⁠┊But after you came into her life, she started making an effort to be an acceptable girlfriend. At first, the change in routine felt strange to her. The loud music she once thrived on was replaced by soft conversations with you about each other's day, accompanied by chaste smiles. She even found herself helping you in the kitchen—passing ingredients and stealing glances at you, looking so adorably domestic to her. Adorable as hell, she’d think, trying to hide the silly smile that crept onto her lips as you continued chatting about your day while she was at work.

♡⁠┊Everyone noticed how much the "big mama" had changed. She was still the tough, no-nonsense woman everyone knew, but there was a new spark to her—a contentment, as if she were finally 100% happy with herself. She began taking better care of herself, and though she wouldn’t admit it outright, she loved when you noticed the little changes she made. A new hairstyle, a fresh haircut, a different lipstick or gloss, or even a change in the eyeshadow she wore—your compliments made her day. "Do you like it? Thank you... I decided to look prettier for you, baby." she’d say with a soft smile, handing you a bouquet of your favorite roses before pulling you into a tight hug. She’d carry you inside, ready to spend hours talking with you, only for the evening to melt into passionate kisses on the couch.

♡⁠┊Sevika expresses her love through acts of service and heartfelt compliments. She’ll do anything to make you comfortable. Though she never imagined sharing her home with anyone, she started taking better care of the space for your sake. When you can’t handle the household chores, she steps in without hesitation—bringing you breakfast in bed and lingering for a moment to make sure you’re okay—"Let me know if you need anything; I’ll come running." she says protective, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead and giving you one last look before leaving the house. Her presence is felt throughout the streets in her actions and reputation, but no matter where she goes, her mind always drifts back to you.

♡⁠┊The marriage proposal came naturally to Sevika. You two had been living together for a while, and she knew without a doubt that you were her great love. At forty, she had no patience for games anymore—it was all or nothing. You were lying in bed when the moment came. "We've been together for a while, right? How about we make things official? Me, you, a nice wedding..." she began, her words a little hesitant as she reached into the drawer with her mechanical arm, pulling out a beautiful red velvet box. She opened it quickly, revealing two rose gold rings. She had carefully chosen a design that suited both of you, seeking help to find the perfect pair. In the end, the cost didn’t matter—it was worth every penny. "You know I love you more than anything. Will you marry me, angel face?" Sevika finally asked, her voice filled with sincerity as she held the ring engraved with her name and gently slipped it onto your finger. It was a simple proposal, shared in the intimacy of your bedroom on an ordinary weekday. Yet, for Sevika, it became an extraordinary moment—a day that would forever hold a sweet place in her heart, the day you said yes and accepted her as your wife.

♡⁠┊Your wedding was simple, just as Sevika had suggested. Money was tight, so she proposed a civil ceremony at the registry office, followed by a quiet picnic in the park where you could spend the day together. She wore a black suit, sharp yet understated, and happily let you make flower crowns for both of you to wear. Lying with her head resting on your thighs, she spoke softly about your future plans, weaving dreams of the life you’d build together. She promised that once your financial situation improved, she’d throw you a grand ceremony—regardless of whether you told her it wasn’t necessary.

♡⁠┊ "Don’t talk nonsense, sweetie. Just wait until I have some good money, okay? Mama's here will give you everything you deserve. Those weddings for rich people are really expensive." she’d say with determination, her voice firm yet tender. As you played with her hair, she smoked leisurely, her gaze alternating between the sky and you. "Just wait for the money to come in, okay? I promise things will get better for us, one day..." she murmured, exhaling smoke through her nose. Sevika didn’t know exactly when things would change for the better, but she held tightly to hope and faith. Until then, she gave you all the love and support she had, pure and unwavering. For her, it wasn’t about the money—it was about showing you, in every way she could, just how much you meant to her.

♡⁠┊And this romanticism transforms into touches of heat on your honeymoon. Sevika adores you as if you were a deity, laying you down on the bed and kissing every inch of your skin. She gently removes the clothes you wore at the wedding, whispering sweet words that send shivers through both of you: "I've waited so long for this, honey... I love you so much it hurts." She kisses your belly, trailing down to your intimacy, leaving soft kisses over your still-clothed pussy. Pushing aside the already damp fabric, she presses her nose against your clit.

♡⁠┊"I will always adore you. You are my world, my most precious thing in this life..." Her green eyes shine as they meet yours, and she carefully removes your panties, returning to kiss the inside of your thighs. Finally, her full lips meet your cunt, a hoarse grunt escaping her as she closes her eyes, savoring your taste. It doesn’t take long for her to lose herself in you, a comfortable heat blooming within her as you pull her hair and rub your hips against her face. Both of her hands hold you firmly in place while the older woman pushes her tongue into your hole, fucking you slowly and savoring every moment of your essence.

♡⁠┊She would slide two fingers inside you, making you feel every inch as they filled and caressed your spongy walls, drawing you tighter around her touch. "Do you want a third finger, darling? Are you that needy, huh? You're making me so proud... Taking me so well." she whispers with a teasing grin. When she adds a third finger, the sensation is overwhelming—you've never felt so full in your entire life. Her tongue lavishes attention on every inch of your bundle of nerves, her lips and tongue working in harmony to send waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your wife becomes utterly pussy drunk, grunting in excitement as she urges you to give her more of your juices, moaning for you like it’s her greatest pleasure. She doesn’t stop until she makes you squirt, her relentless mouth and fingers ensuring her face is soaked. "Fuck... Holy hell, my angel. You should see your face right now, you know?" she murmurs with satisfaction, wiping some of your wetness from her face with the back of her hand. Her fingers drip with your essence, the sight so erotic it leaves her wet and desperate to make you cum over and over, determined to keep you crying out for her all night long.

♡⁠┊She quickly searches for the strap-on she bought especially for that night—one designed with two attachments for double penetration. The second dildo was crafted for anal play, a vibrating device made of the same material as her mechanical arm. Sevika chose this because she didn’t want to use her arm directly on you, knowing its hard, metallic structure might hurt you. Instead, she always finds creative ways to surprise you, just like tonight.

Carefully, she prepares your body. Her skilled fingers, warm tongue, and plenty of lubricant ensure that both your holes are ready for her. Once you’re comfortable, she lines up the dual-function strap-on, slowly impaling you with precision and care. Her hips move in tandem with the vibrations from the anal dildo, creating an overwhelming wave of pleasure you’ve never felt before.

"Shit, baby, look at this—wet as fuck... You're so greedy, always asking for more. My fuck toy holes are never satisfied, huh?" she teases, her voice low and dripping with desire. She slides two fingers into your mouth, coaxing you to suck on them while she fucks you slowly, savoring every moment. Sevika holds back her own orgasm, her pussy aching and dripping between her muscular thighs as she watches you, beautifully open and writhing for her. Her restraint only heightens her desire, every movement and sound you make driving her wild as she focuses on bringing you to heights of unimaginable ecstasy.

♡⁠┊Sevika activated the function to release a hot liquid from the strap-on, similar to semen. It was a type of hot, translucent lubricant designed to stimulate you and feed her fantasies of shaping your body. "That's it... love, I want to get pregnant so much, you know? You're going to look so beautiful full of my cock. Moan for mommy, moan loudly." she moaned hoarsely, biting your shoulder and making you bite hers too. It was a fair exchange; you would mark her, and she would do the same. She slapped you hard on the ass, moving her hips back and forth quickly while holding your neck and joining your lips in a kiss that mixed your moans. Her breasts pressed against yours, making both your nipples hard as she went harder, finally making you squeeze the silicone cock as the hot artificial liquid rewarded you, leaking from your holes and leaving you dizzy with the specially made substance. "I love you so much... you are mine forever..." Sevika gasped, resting her head on your breasts, kissing the soft flesh and biting gently as she pulled out of you.

♡⁠┊After the mess, she will clean you up and give you a bath, along with herself, not letting you fall due to your legs being weak from the orgasm. She dresses you in one of her loose blouses and puts clean sheets on the bed, placing you to lie in her strong arms, giving you a kiss on the forehead, sighing, also tired, but satisfied. "Go to sleep, so when you wake up, I'll still be here to enjoy our honeymoon." Sevika promises, calming you down as she waits for you to fall asleep so she can rest peacefully. It was a small new beginning among so many others, but she swore to herself to always make you happy, and the moon was the witness to that, bathing the two of you in silver on that night of peace and love—everything you needed, everything she needed, and now, there was you."

★ ! yanderestarangel©

[shadowkat2000]

I must add that Anoraen has one sided beef with Mëohen, because I thought it’d be funny she hears about the weird errands he sends her sister on and she thinks most of them are stupid and needs to make sure he knows this. Can go through the Girdle of Melian because she’s only half noldor and we thought it’d be funny. Is a little shit who desires Knowing Things just because and definitely has Secrets™️ but is the most normal of everyone in comparison probably !

I don't think you realize how invested I am in your campaigns. Plz tell me things about the gondolin crew

HIHIHIHI THANK YOU.

oh man HAVE i introduced tumblr, formally, to the gondolin campaign crew? ANYWAY. we have:

my problem of an oathsworn would-be-a-paladin-if-aime-would-let-me, Antar, a fanatically loyal member of turgon's royal guard, who has been serving as idril's personal bodyguard since saving her life in the battle of the lammoth. everyone sure did see them on the ice that day!! pay no mind to why they're having weird tension with maedhros that suggests that they might have been around when he was captured!!! they were definitely on the ice and not in beleriand at the time for sure!!! has been lying through their teeth while also genuinely meaning every word they have said this entire time. this does not negate them lying through their absolute teeth. has a rivalry with a literal teenager (the teenager deserves it (the teenager is mëohen (you understand))). MAY have been overheard shittalking said teenager to maedhros BY said teenager,

@thymo-leonta's terrible spoiled boyprince, Mëohen, ie. the teenager in question, whose stated description and character desire on his official sheet are simply - and i quote - "smug brat" and "get turnt", respectively. technically a lord, but like, a minor unimportant one. mostly can be counted on to cause massive problems for everyone but mostly himself. The Entire Noldorin Royal Family is now aware of the time when he, in order, agreed to a 6am cross country race without stopping to ask what he was even getting himself into out of spite, went to a giant rager the night before and showed up hung over, failed all of his constitution rolls and did really badly, got stranded in the woods outside of barad eithel for most of the day, and then rolled up to court in front of Actual High King Fingolfin still hungover and covered in mud from said woods. (antar might be actively helping this become a topic of gossip for the entire noldorin royal family). there is an ongoing joke about his presence in this campaign rendering maeglin as a character entirely obsolete,

@potatoobsessed999's hypocrite of a kinslayer, APPARENTLY, NOT THAT ANY OF OUR CHARACTERS ACTUALLY KNOW THIS, Niquessë, who very loudly disowned her parents, disowned the entirety of fingon's host, kidnapped her baby sister, ran away to vinyamar, and got hired by mëohen, not necessarily in that order. tried to hide from said parents in a thornbush. failed at hiding anyway. (mëohen didn't help). agreed to take damage if she could look dignified while getting out of the thornbush. failed at looking dignified anyway. clearly has the most wet cat energy of the group. is maybe responsible, just a little bit, for stranding mëohen in the woods. developing a very catlike friendship with antar, who she will definitely absolutely not have any reason to have conflict with in the near future not at all (incorrect (this is going to go so bad for them)),

and @shadowkat2000's Anoraen, ie. THE BABY SISTER IN QUESTION WHO NIQUESSE KIDNAPPED. is baby. is adorable. definitely ALSO has Secrets, which if history is anything to go by WILL be kept from the party for MUCH longer than antar's!! possibly has weird elf magic shit going on?? talked Actual High King Fingolfin into officially, in court, declaring that niquessë kidnapping her was chill actually. did so successfully enough that even mëohen couldn't ruin it, which IS saying SOMETHING!!

because we are all noldor, our beloved gm @jaz-the-bard can make us fail doing anything at any time!!! everything is fine and is going to go great!! if we just gondolin enough the doom of the noldor surely won't get us!! :D