#are the seven fishes gonna burn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mcrdvcks · 2 months ago

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i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 2003 - who are we to fight the alchemy? pt.2

chapter summary: Things are back to normal at the X-Mansion, other than the new, permanent addition of Logan. But he's not here for anything other than you.

word count: 18.4k+ (total 36.6k+)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: here's part 2! (tags and summary are the same)

warnings/tags: fluff, reader is a mutant with time manipulation powers, reader wears glasses, shy!reader, logan pining, soft!logan, slow burn (like... slow. burn.), one bed, brief sickness, brief insecurities, almost too much fluff holy sh-, reader has slight backstory, mention of twirling hair, brief injury

series masterlist - chapter 8 → chapter 9

The sound of rain pattering against the windows filled the room, the occasional roll of thunder causing the lights to flicker faintly. You glanced at Theresa, who was huddled close to the arm of the couch, clutching a stuffed rabbit in one hand and her cards in the other. Across from her, Jones was grinning mischievously, clearly enjoying the game despite the storm outside.

“Got any sevens?” Theresa asked, her voice wavering slightly.

Jones narrowed his eyes dramatically before sighing and handing over a card. “You’re lucky,” he muttered. “I was gonna use that to win.”

Theresa smiled faintly, her fear of the thunder momentarily forgotten. You couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride for how brave she was being—storms were hard for her, but she was hanging in there.

“You’re doing great, Theresa,” you said, offering her an encouraging smile. “And Jones, don’t think I didn’t see you sneak that card earlier.”

Jones’s eyes widened in mock offense. “I did not!”

You raised a brow, a hint of a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Before Jones could come up with a witty retort, the door creaked open, and Logan stepped inside, shaking rainwater from his jacket. His presence immediately shifted the atmosphere, the kids sitting up a little straighter while you felt your chest tighten with a mix of nervousness and warmth.

“Storm’s pickin’ up out there,” Logan remarked, his eyes briefly scanning the room before landing on you. His gaze softened almost imperceptibly, and his lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Didn’t think I’d find you playin’ Go Fish, darlin’.”

You adjusted your glasses, trying to ignore the way his nickname made your heart skip. “Theresa didn’t want to be alone during the storm, so we’re keeping her company.”

Logan’s attention shifted to the young girl, his expression losing its usual gruffness. “Smart call, kiddo. Storms can be rough.”

Theresa nodded, clutching her rabbit tighter. “It’s really loud.”

Logan crouched down to her level, his tone unusually gentle. “Tell you what—next time it gets too loud, you just look at me. I’ll make sure it’s nothin’ to worry about.”

Theresa gave him a tentative smile, and you felt your chest ache at the sight. Logan had a way of being unexpectedly tender when it mattered, and it always caught you off guard.

“What about me?” Jones piped up, clearly fishing for the same attention. “Can I look at you if it gets too loud?”

Logan ruffled Jones’s hair with a scoff. “You? You’ll be fine, tough guy.”

Jones grinned, puffing out his chest like he’d just been handed a badge of honor.

“Wanna join us?” you asked, gesturing to the game. “We’re about to see who’s got the best poker face.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. “Not sure Go Fish is what they mean by a poker face, but sure.” He pulled up a chair, settling in beside you. His arm brushed yours briefly as he leaned forward, and you had to fight the urge to shift closer.

As the game resumed, you found yourself glancing at Logan more often than you intended. He was surprisingly good at keeping the kids engaged, his gruff teasing making them laugh despite the storm raging outside. Every so often, his eyes would meet yours, and the corners of his mouth would lift in a way that felt like it was meant just for you.

Eventually, the storm began to die down, the thunder growing more distant. Theresa yawned, her eyelids drooping as she leaned against your shoulder. Jones followed not long after, slumping into the armchair with his deck of cards scattered around him.

“Looks like they’re done for the night,” Logan murmured, his voice low enough that it felt intimate in the quiet room.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, brushing a strand of hair from Theresa’s face. “I’ll take her up to bed.”

“I’ll get Jones,” Logan said, standing and scooping the boy up effortlessly. He carried him with the ease of someone used to it, his movements careful not to wake him.

You followed Logan to the hallway, each of you heading to a different room to settle the kids in. When you returned to the common room, the storm had died down, leaving behind only the faint sound of quiet rain.

Logan was waiting for you by the couch, his hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re good with them,” he said, his tone quieter now.

You shrugged, feeling a little shy under his gaze. “They’re good kids. Just needed a distraction.”

His eyes lingered on you, something unspoken passing between you. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Guess you’re good at that, too.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you settled for a small, grateful smile. Logan seemed content with that, his lips quirking into a faint grin before he gestured toward the door.

“C’mon. You’ve been cooped up all night. Let’s take a walk.”

Your eyes widened as you looked out the windows, the rain still drumming steadily against the glass. “It’s raining.”

Logan smirked, shrugging one shoulder as he leaned against the doorway. “You scared of a little water, sweetheart?”

You gave him a look, though the slight flush creeping up your neck betrayed your flustered reaction to his teasing. “I’m not scared. It’s just—what’s the point? We’ll get soaked.”

“That’s the idea,” Logan said, his grin widening. He pushed off the doorframe and gestured toward the hall. “Go grab a jacket. Fresh air’ll do you good.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the couch where you’d been sitting with the kids not long ago. The room was quiet now, and the remnants of the storm had left it feeling oddly still. Maybe he was right—a little walk might be nice. Plus, the way he was watching you, half-smirk and half-something else, made it hard to say no.

“Fine,” you relented, adjusting your glasses and heading for the hallway. “But if I catch a cold, it’s on you.”

Logan’s chuckle followed you. “Deal.”

---

The air outside was crisp and cool, the rain having softened to a misty drizzle that clung to your skin. You stuffed your hands into the pockets of your jacket, trying not to think about the way Logan’s pace matched yours so easily or how his presence seemed to chase away the lingering chill from the storm.

“You always this quiet?” he asked after a moment, his voice cutting through the soft patter of rain against the leaves.

You glanced up at him, your glasses misting slightly in the damp air. “What do you mean?”

Logan tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “You’re always thinkin’, darlin’. Like your head’s miles away.”

You looked down, a little embarrassed. “I just… think a lot, I guess. It’s not a bad thing.”

“Didn’t say it was,” he replied, his voice softer now. “Just curious what’s got you so wrapped up.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “It’s nothing, really. Just… trying to make sense of everything, I guess.”

“Everything, huh?” Logan glanced at you, his sharp gaze lingering. “That’s a lot to figure out.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. “What about you? Do you ever think about… everything?”

Logan let out a low laugh, though there was something almost bitter behind it. “Not much point in it. Most of the time, everything’s just a mess.”

You stopped walking, turning to look at him fully. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

He met your gaze, his expression softening just slightly. “Used to,” he admitted. “Not so much anymore. Guess I’m just used to it.”

There was something about the way he said it that made your chest ache. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you reached out and brushed a raindrop off the sleeve of his jacket without thinking, the movement small but oddly intimate.

Logan’s eyes flicked to your hand, then back to your face. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You blinked, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I don’t know what to do with you half the time,” he said, his tone low but not unkind. “You’re shy as hell, but you’ve got guts when it counts. Makes a guy wonder.”

“Wonder what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan didn’t answer right away, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than felt comfortable—and yet, you didn’t want to look away. Finally, he shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I’ll figure that out.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you quickly looked down, pretending to adjust your glasses. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

The two of you continued walking in silence, the quiet between you feeling less like an absence and more like an unspoken understanding. Every so often, your arm would brush his, and while you told yourself it was just the narrow path, a small part of you wondered if Logan wasn’t making the space smaller on purpose.

By the time you circled back toward the mansion, the rain had stopped entirely, leaving the air smelling fresh and clean. Logan held the door open for you without a word, and you stepped inside, your cheeks still warm from the walk.

“Thanks,” you murmured, glancing back at him.

Logan gave you one of his faint, lopsided grins. “Anytime, darlin’.”

As you headed down the hallway toward your room, you couldn’t help but wonder if he meant it. Something told you he did.

---

“Just as in the kinetic theory of gases, it is not merely the average effect of a large number of atoms that comes into consideration in the electromagnetic interpretation of optical phenomena. Thus, in the scattering of light the random distribution of the atoms makes the effects of the individual atoms appear in such a way that a direct counting of the atoms is possible. In fact, Rayleigh estimated from the intensity of the scattered blue light of the sky the number of atoms in the atmosphere, obtaining results in satisfactory agreement with the counting of atoms obtained by Perrin from a study of the Brownian motion. The rational mathematical representation of the electromagnetic theory is based on the application of vector analysis- ”

Hands gripped your shoulders and startled you, making you look up from your book.

“What’ve I told you about walkin’ and not payin’ attention?” he asked, his voice tinged with both amusement and exasperation. His eyes flicked down to the book in your hands.

Caught off guard, you stammered, “I wasn’t—I mean, I was paying attention. Just… not to where I was walking.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to be at dinner, not wanderin’ the halls like some kinda ghost.”

“You aren’t there either,” you pointed out, your cheeks warming as you adjusted your glasses.

“Touché,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting. “What’s got you so wrapped up you skipped eatin’?”

“It’s a book by Niels Bohr,” you said, holding up the slim volume. “Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature. I got caught up in the section on the kinetic theory of gases and the Rayleigh scattering of light.”

Logan gave you a look that was part curiosity, part bewilderment. “You realize most folks wouldn’t understand a word of what you just said, right?”

You smiled sheepishly. “It’s not that complicated once you break it down.”

“Go ahead,” he said, his tone turning softer. “Break it down for me.”

You hesitated, unsure if he was serious, but the genuine interest in his eyes convinced you to start. As you explained the connection between the scattering of light, the composition of the atmosphere, and how Bohr linked it to atomic theory, Logan listened intently at first, nodding occasionally.

But as your excitement grew, so did the gloss of your lips, drawing his attention. The soft sheen shifted as you spoke, catching the light in a way that teased at his focus. Logan’s thoughts started to drift. Cherry or strawberry? He’d caught faint hints of sweetness before when you were close, but he’d never been able to place it.

As you continued talking, your voice animated, your shy demeanor falling away in the face of your enthusiasm, Logan’s restraint finally snapped. Without warning, he leaned in and kissed you, cutting you off mid-sentence.

The kiss was firm, heady, and left no room for doubt about what he’d been holding back. His hand cradled the side of your face, the other sliding to your waist as if anchoring you to the moment. Your book slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud, but neither of you noticed.

When Logan finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, he muttered against your lips, his voice gravelly and low, “fuck, it’s cherry.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. “W-what?”

“Your lip gloss,” he clarified, his tone almost amused but still rough with lingering desire. “Been drivin’ me mad for months.”

Your face burned as you tried to process his words, your lips still tingling. “You— I—”

Logan smirked, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Guess I should’ve asked sooner.”

You blinked at him, flustered beyond words, but the warmth in his gaze settled something deep inside you. He straightened, his hand lingering at your waist before reluctantly stepping back.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he said, his smirk softening into something gentler. “Let’s get you to dinner before I forget how to behave.”

Still dazed, you bent down to retrieve your book, but your fingers brushed his as he’d bent to grab it too. You both froze for a moment before he chuckled softly, handing it back to you.

“Careful with that,” he teased. “Can’t have you losin’ Bohr to my bad manners.”

You managed a shy smile, clutching the book to your chest as you walked beside him toward the dining hall. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop your lips from curving up every time you caught him glancing your way.

---

For a day or two after the kiss, you found yourself unconsciously avoiding Logan. It wasn’t that you regretted what had happened—far from it. If anything, the memory of his lips on yours lingered like the faint taste of cherries that always lay on your lips, setting your heart racing every time you replayed the moment.

But that was exactly the problem. It had caught you so off-guard, had unraveled you so completely, that you didn’t know how to face him without your cheeks burning or your words tangling into incoherence.

Logan, for his part, seemed to respect the space you were giving yourself. He didn’t corner you in the hallways or push for your attention like he might’ve done with someone else. Instead, he found quieter ways to remind you he was still there.

On the first morning after the kiss, when you arrived at your desk in the mansion’s small but cozy library, you noticed a steaming mug of tea waiting for you. The ceramic was warm beneath your fingers, the faint scent of chamomile and honey wafting up. A note rested beside it, the words scrawled in Logan’s rough handwriting:

Didn’t see you at breakfast. Figured you could use this.

You smiled despite yourself, fingers brushing over the paper before tucking it into the corner of your notebook. That same morning, during a meeting with the team, Logan casually pulled out the chair beside him before you could sit, earning a teasing look from Jean.

“You’re being awfully polite today,” Jean remarked, her tone light but curious.

Logan grunted nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat. “Just tryin’ to set an example for the kids.”

Jean’s eyes flickered between the two of you, her lips twitching as though she wanted to say more, but she held back. You busied yourself by adjusting your glasses, thankful for the distraction when Scott started talking.

But even as Logan kept his distance, his presence was everywhere. When you left your jacket in the lounge, it somehow reappeared on the back of your chair in the lecture hall. A book you’d misplaced turned up on your desk with no explanation. Small gestures, easily overlooked by anyone else, but each one sent your heart into overdrive.

---

It wasn’t until the third day after the kiss that Logan finally had enough. You’d been walking back to your quarters after finishing a late tutoring session with Rogue and Bobby when you turned a corner and nearly collided with him.

“Whoa there, sweetheart,” he said, his hands steadying your arms before you could step back. “You been dodgin’ me, or am I imaginin’ things?”

The warmth of his touch seeped through your sleeves, and you cursed the way your pulse quickened. “I—I haven’t been dodging you,” you lied, adjusting your glasses to avoid his gaze.

Logan tilted his head, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “Right. And I’m Cyclops’ biggest fan.” His voice softened, the gruffness easing. “C’mon, darlin’. Talk to me.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “I just... I needed time to think.”

“To think about what?” His tone wasn’t demanding, just curious, almost gentle.

“About what happened,” you admitted, finally meeting his gaze. “It caught me off-guard, Logan. I didn’t know what to say, and I guess I panicked.”

His brow furrowed slightly, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face before he nodded. “Fair enough. I’m not exactly known for takin’ it slow. If I pushed too hard—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice firmer than you expected. “You didn’t. It’s just... no one’s ever done that before. And I—”

You stopped yourself, biting your lip as you searched for the right words. Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then flicked back up to your eyes, his expression softening further.

Logan’s gaze stayed locked on yours, his voice soft but insistent. “And you?”

Your fingers tightened on the strap of your bag as you glanced at him. The hallway felt quieter than it should, the usual distant chatter and footsteps replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears. Logan’s expression was open, patient in a way that left you unsure if you wanted to explain or simply step closer.

“And I…” You faltered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what to do after.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. His thumb brushed your sleeve, a barely-there gesture, but it steadied you somehow. “That all?” he asked, his tone calm but his eyes sharp, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed your face.

You nodded, your gaze dropping to his chest. “I’m not used to— I mean, no one’s ever—” You cut yourself off, frustrated at your inability to form a complete sentence.

“No one’s ever kissed you?” he guessed, his voice tinged with surprise. His brow furrowed slightly, but there was no mockery, only quiet curiosity.

“No!” you blurted out, mortified. “I mean, not like that. Not…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Not like it mattered.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his eyes softening. “It mattered, sweetheart.” The words were simple, but they carried enough weight to make your breath catch.

You looked up at him then, and for the first time, you didn’t try to hide the uncertainty in your eyes. “I don’t know how to… do this,” you admitted softly.

Logan let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm. “Ain’t a test, Y/N. You don’t gotta have it all figured out.”

The way he said your name sent a shiver down your spine. You took a slow breath, summoning a flicker of courage from somewhere deep within you. “What about you?” you asked, your voice trembling but steady enough. “What does it mean to you?”

His hand slipped from your arm, brushing down to linger at your wrist. His thumb grazed your pulse, and he seemed to take a moment before answering. “Means I finally stopped holdin’ back,” he said, his voice rough but honest. “Been tryin’ to stay outta your way, let you figure me out on your own. But that night…” His jaw tightened for a moment before he continued. “You were talkin’ about light scatterin’ and atoms, and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss you. So I did.”

The admission left you stunned. You stared at him, searching his face for any trace of hesitation, but there was none. Only the raw honesty that seemed to define him.

“I should’ve asked first,” Logan added, his tone quieter. “But I ain’t sorry I did it.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, the tension easing slightly. “I don’t think I would’ve known how to answer if you had.”

“That so?” His lips quirked into a small smirk. “How about now?”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, but you couldn’t look away from him. Instead of answering, you took a step closer, closing the already small gap between you. His hand didn’t leave your wrist, and you felt the slight increase in his grip as you hesitated, your gaze dropping to his lips.

Then, before you could lose your nerve, you leaned in, your lips brushing his. It was softer than you expected, tentative and shy, but Logan didn’t let it stay that way for long. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss just enough to coax a response from you. His free hand slid to the small of your back, steadying you as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

When you pulled back, breathless and flushed, Logan didn’t let you go. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the faint curve of his smile.

“Guess that answers that,” he murmured, his voice teasing but warm.

You managed a faint laugh, your cheeks burning. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

Logan’s hand lingered on your back, his thumb tracing slow circles that made your skin tingle. “You still plannin’ on avoidin’ me, or can we put that behind us?”

You bit your lip, unable to stop the smile creeping onto your face. “I think we can put it behind us.”

“Good,” he said, his tone firm. “’Cause I ain’t goin’ anywhere, darlin’.”

The words settled something deep within you, their certainty grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. Logan stepped back just enough to let you regain your balance, though his hand stayed at your waist.

“Now,” he said, his smirk returning. “How ‘bout we grab somethin’ to eat before you start recitin’ atomic theory again?”

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself. “Deal.”

As the two of you walked down the hall, side by side, Logan’s hand brushed yours, lingering for a moment before he finally laced his fingers through yours. It was such a simple gesture, yet it left your heart racing all over again. You didn’t let go.

---

“Outta the way, Scott,” you said, nudging him aside gently with your hip as you crouched down in front of Jean’s desk. He was halfway through wrestling with the stubborn drawer, tools scattered around his feet, his expression somewhere between frustrated and determined.

Scott glanced up, one eyebrow arching over the rim of his ruby-quartz glasses. “Oh, so now you’re a carpenter?”

“Not a carpenter,” you replied, pulling your gloves tighter, “just someone who knows a lost cause when I see one.” You gave the desk a quick once-over before prying at the stuck drawer with careful precision. “You’ve been at this for how long?”

Scott grumbled something under his breath but moved aside, folding his arms. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You’re right. It’s worse.” Your lips quirked in a faint smile as you reached into the drawer, feeling for the jammed mechanism. “Jean asked me to look at it, didn’t she?”

“She mentioned it,” Scott said, emphasizing the word. “I didn’t think it required a second opinion.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve got a knack for fixing things that don’t want to be fixed,” you teased lightly, sending him a sidelong glance. The moment hung between you for a beat before the sound of heavy footsteps announced Logan’s approach.

“What’s this?” Logan’s gruff voice cut through the room as he leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. His dark eyes flicked to you, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t know desk repair was part of the X-Men training program.”

“It’s not,” Scott said dryly, shooting Logan a sharp look. “What do you want, Logan?”

Logan didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on you, crouched by the desk, your sleeves pushed up and your glasses slipping slightly down your nose. He sauntered in, ignoring Scott entirely, and crouched down beside you.

“You need a hand, sweetheart?” Logan’s voice was quieter now, his attention focused entirely on you.

Scott made a noise of protest. “I’m right here—”

“Yeah, yeah, I see you,” Logan muttered dismissively before leaning closer. “What’s the issue?”

You tried to ignore the way his presence seemed to command the space, the warmth radiating from him even though he wasn’t touching you. “The drawer’s stuck. I think the rail might be bent.”

Logan reached past you, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “Let me take a look.”

“I’ve got it,” you said quickly, more out of reflex than anything else.

Logan just gave you that amused, slightly exasperated look of his, the one that somehow managed to make you feel like you were the only person in the room who mattered. “Humor me.”

You huffed but shifted slightly, letting him inspect the drawer. His hands, calloused and sure, worked the mechanism with ease, and within seconds, there was a soft click. The drawer slid open smoothly.

“Fixed,” Logan said, sitting back on his heels and flashing you a smirk. “Told ya.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. Thanks.”

Scott cleared his throat, his irritation palpable. “Are you done?”

Logan didn’t even glance at him, his attention still on you as he stood, offering you a hand to help you up. “Looks like I am,” he said, his tone nonchalant, but his smirk betrayed him.

You took his hand, standing and brushing off your knees before looking at Scott. “The drawer’s fixed, so you’re welcome.”

Scott muttered something under his breath that you didn’t catch, but Logan chuckled as if he had. “Don’t strain yourself with gratitude, Summers,” he quipped, stepping closer to you.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile as you nudged Logan’s arm lightly. “Stop antagonizing him.”

“What? I’m just helpin’,” Logan said, his tone all faux innocence.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly done with the both of you. “Thanks for fixing the drawer,” he said, pointedly not looking at Logan.

“Anytime,” you replied, flashing a quick smile before grabbing your bag from the floor. Logan was already holding the door open for you, his stance casual but his eyes watching you closely.

As you stepped past him, you murmured, “you’re impossible, you know that?”

Logan’s smirk widened, and he leaned in slightly, his voice low. “You love it, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks heated, but you didn’t deny it, focusing instead on walking down the hallway with Logan falling into step beside you.

“Why do you always have to get under his skin?” you asked, glancing at him.

“’Cause it’s easy,” he replied with a shrug, his hand brushing yours as you walked. “And it’s fun.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re going to push him too far one day.”

“Nah,” Logan said, his tone confident. “He’s all bark, no bite. Kinda like a Chihuahua in red shades.”

You laughed, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet hallway. “You’re terrible.”

“Yeah, but you’re laughin’,” he pointed out, his eyes glinting with amusement.

You bit your lip to stop the smile spreading across your face, but Logan noticed anyway. His hand brushed yours again, this time lingering, and you hesitated for only a moment before lacing your fingers through his.

“Thought you didn’t like public displays,” Logan teased gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You gave him a sidelong glance, your voice soft but steady. “Maybe I’m getting used to it.”

Logan’s smirk softened into something warmer as he squeezed your hand. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on keepin’ my distance.”

The ease of his words, the certainty in them, settled over you like a blanket. You weren’t sure when exactly things had shifted between the two of you, but you weren’t complaining.

---

Later that evening, you were sitting in the mansion’s kitchen, a mug of tea cradled in your hands, when Jean walked in. She looked tired, but her smile brightened when she saw you.

“Burning the midnight oil?” she asked, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and pouring herself some water.

“Not tonight,” you replied, taking a sip of your tea. “Just needed to unwind for a bit.”

Jean leaned against the counter, studying you for a moment. “You seem… lighter lately,” she said, her tone curious but kind.

You felt a blush creeping up your neck but tried to play it off. “Do I?”

Jean’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “You do. And Logan seems—well, let’s just say he’s been a lot less grumpy.”

Your grip on the mug tightened slightly, but you kept your expression neutral. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” Jean hummed, taking a sip of her water. “Whatever’s going on, it suits you.”

You glanced at her, searching for any hint of teasing, but her smile was genuine. “Thanks, Jean.”

She nodded, setting her glass down. “Anytime. Just don’t let him get too cocky, okay? He’s insufferable enough as it is.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound light and easy. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jean gave you a playful wink before heading back out of the kitchen, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the quiet warmth blooming in your chest.

---

You hummed to yourself as you finished folding your clothes in the laundry room, the gentle rhythm of the task giving your mind a rare moment of quiet. The warm scent of freshly dried fabric lingered in the air as you placed the last neatly folded shirt in the basket.

Just as you reached for the basket, Logan appeared in the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, his signature smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Didn’t peg you for a laundry hummer,” he teased.

You glanced over your shoulder, a shy smile forming. “It’s either that or risk falling asleep mid-task.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he pushed off the doorframe and walked over. Without a word, he grabbed the basket from the counter.

“I’ve got it,” you protested, reaching for the basket. “It’s not heavy.”

Logan arched a brow. “Didn’t say it was. But why carry it when I’m right here?”

You sighed, not entirely annoyed but still a little flustered. “You know, I can handle a laundry basket, Logan.”

“Never said you couldn’t, darlin’.” His voice softened as he tilted his head to look at you. “But you don’t have to. Not when I’m around.”

Your stomach did a little flip at the way he said it—easy, matter-of-fact, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was, at least with him.

He carried the basket out into the hall, and you trailed after him, not sure whether to keep arguing or just accept it. You opted for the latter, though you did mutter, “you’re something else.”

Logan smirked again but didn’t respond, his focus on navigating the hallway with the basket balanced easily in one hand. When you reached your room, he set it down just inside the door and turned back to you.

“Anythin’ else you need carried?” he asked, the teasing lilt back in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “I’ll let you know when I need a bodyguard for my groceries.”

Logan’s smirk softened into something warmer, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than usual. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly busied yourself with the basket, pulling out the first stack of clothes to put away. Logan didn’t move to leave, though. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, watching you with an expression that was almost... content.

“What?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“Nothing.” He shook his head slightly, his lips curving into a small, private smile. “Just like watchin’ you.”

Your face grew warm, and you ducked your head, focusing on shoving your socks into a drawer. “You’re weird.”

He chuckled, low and deep, before pushing off the frame. “Maybe. But you like it.”

You didn’t respond—mostly because he wasn’t wrong—and Logan seemed satisfied with your silence. With a nod, he stepped out of the room, leaving you alone with the faint trace of his laughter still lingering in the air.

And the unmistakable feeling that you’d never get used to the way he made your heart race.

---

You flipped the page of your notes, underlining a key point to emphasize in tomorrow’s class. Logan sat on your bed, supposedly reading a book, though you doubted he’d turned a page in the last fifteen minutes. He was too quiet, and you could feel his gaze flick to you every so often.

“Something on your mind?” you asked without looking up, your pen tapping against the margin of your paper.

“Nah,” Logan drawled, though the corner of his mouth lifted. “Just wonderin’ how long you plan on workin’. Feels like you’ve been at it all night.”

You glanced at the clock on your desk. “It’s barely nine.”

“Still too late for work.” He set the book down—one you were now convinced he wasn’t reading—and leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows. “Y’know, you don’t have to keep yourself buried in this stuff.”

“It’s not like I’m overworking,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I’m just... organized.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, and you could feel his gaze softening. “Yeah, you’re somethin’ alright.”

You were about to make a quip back when he nodded toward your desk. “Why’s your room so... empty?”

The question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?”

He gestured vaguely around. “I mean, there’s barely anything in here. No pictures, no knick-knacks. Hell, even my room’s got more personality.”

You set your pen down, glancing around the room as if seeing it through his eyes for the first time. He wasn’t wrong. Your walls were bare save for a single calendar, your shelves held only books and a lamp, and your desk was as spartan as a professor’s office.

“I guess I’m just used to it,” you said quietly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear.

Logan sat up fully, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you. “Used to what?”

You hesitated, fiddling with the corner of your notebook. “Not having much. Growing up, my parents didn’t really... care to keep me around. My grandmother raised me, and she did her best, but we didn’t have a lot. I guess I never got used to decorating or buying stuff just because I wanted it.”

Logan’s brows furrowed, a shadow crossing his face. “Your folks didn’t want you?”

You shrugged, trying to make it seem like it didn’t bother you as much as it used to. “They had their own lives. Grandma was amazing, though. She always made sure I had what I needed. It just... wasn’t a lot.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw working as he processed what you’d said. Finally, he leaned back, his voice softer than you’d expected. “Sounds like she was a hell of a woman.”

“She was,” you agreed, smiling faintly. “She passed away when I was eighteen, but I owe her everything.”

Logan nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he spoke again. “You ever think about makin’ this place feel more like home?”

You blinked at him. “I don’t even know where I’d start.”

“Start with somethin’ small,” he suggested, his tone almost casual, but there was something deliberate in the way he spoke. “Picture frame, maybe. Couple of knick-knacks. I don’t know—whatever makes you feel good.”

You tilted your head, giving him a curious look. “Why do you care if my room’s decorated?”

“‘Cause it’s yours,” he said simply. “And you deserve to have a place that feels like it.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and you had to look away, suddenly feeling shy. “I’ll... think about it.”

Logan leaned back again, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar smirk. “Good. And if you need help, you know where to find me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re just looking for an excuse to boss me around.”

“Damn right,” he replied, the teasing glint in his eyes making your heart skip a beat.

As you returned to your notes, Logan picked up his book again, but this time, he actually started reading. Still, every so often, you caught him glancing your way, that same soft look on his face.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself wonder what it might be like to make a place feel like home—with someone like him in it.

---

You, Logan, and Ororo were tasked with this month’s grocery shopping. Ororo tasked herself with picking out the fruits and vegetables, saying something about ‘not being confident in Logan’s abilities.’

You grabbed a few large boxes of rice while Logan pushed the half-full cart. You marked off ‘rice’ on your list as Logan turned the corner into the next aisle. As he walked ahead, you paused for a moment, your attention caught by a display in the bedding section. A soft white throw blanket was folded neatly on the shelf, its texture inviting. You reached out, brushing your fingers across it briefly before shaking your head and hurrying to catch up with Logan.

By the time you rounded the corner, Logan was already halfway down the aisle, scanning the shelves with casual disinterest. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you approaching. “What took you so long, sweetheart? You get lost?”

“Just got distracted,” you said, tucking the list back into your pocket.

His brow quirked slightly, and you knew he was about to say something teasing. Instead, he just gave you a small, knowing smile. “Figured as much. Ready to finish this up?”

You nodded, taking hold of the cart’s edge and steering it toward the canned goods. The rest of the trip passed in a comfortable rhythm—Ororo rejoined you both occasionally, dropping things into the cart with precision while Logan grumbled about the increasing load. You couldn’t help but smile as the two bickered lightly over produce, Logan insisting that his choices were ‘perfectly fine’ while Ororo shot him unimpressed looks.

When the shopping was done, you found yourself back in the parking lot, helping load bags into the van. Logan insisted on carrying most of the heavier ones despite your protests.

“You don’t need to play the hero every time we carry groceries,” you pointed out, balancing a bag filled with bread and snacks.

Logan smirked, slinging another bag over his shoulder. “Ain’t about bein�� a hero. Just don’t trust you not to drop the eggs.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he quipped, brushing past you to load the last of the bags. His voice was light, but there was something softer in the way he glanced back at you.

Ororo stepped in before you could reply, clapping her hands together. “Alright, let’s get back. I have a feeling the kids have already raided the pantry while we were gone.”

The drive back to the mansion was quiet, the evening sun casting long shadows across the road. Logan sat in the passenger seat, his arm resting on the open window. Occasionally, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection. You tried not to think too much about the way your heart skipped when you met his gaze.

When you pulled into the driveway and began unloading, Logan’s pace slowed near the back of the van. As Ororo carried a few bags toward the mansion, Logan reached into the trunk and pulled something out, holding it behind his back.

“What’s that?” you asked, stepping closer.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothin’.”

You arched a brow, suspicion creeping in. “Logan…”

With a small smirk, he revealed the soft white throw blanket you’d admired earlier in the store. Your mouth opened in surprise, words failing you for a moment.

“You were lookin’ at it,” he said, his voice gruff but quiet. “Figured you might like it.”

Your cheeks burned, and you fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t say I had to.” He held it out to you, his expression softer than usual. “Just thought it’d be nice to have. That’s all.”

You took the blanket from him, your fingers brushing his briefly. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say, but the warmth spreading through your chest was undeniable. “Thank you,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper, as you leaned up and kissed the corner of his lips.

Logan blinked, clearly caught off guard, but his lips quirked into a soft smirk as you stepped back. “That’s all I get?” he teased, voice low. “A quick peck for goin’ outta my way like that?”

Your face warmed, but you mustered a little courage, shrugging. “Well, you didn’t have to get it.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to,” he countered, his tone somewhere between gruff and teasing. He stepped closer, the corner of the van offering a bit of privacy. His hand brushed your arm, thumb skimming just below your sleeve. “That blanket looked like it had your name written all over it. Figured it’d be a crime not to grab it.”

You ducked your head, your shyness bubbling to the surface, but you couldn’t fight the smile creeping across your lips. “You’re too much sometimes, you know that?”

“Nah.” He tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “Just enough, I’d say.”

Before you could respond, Ororo’s voice cut through the moment. “Logan! Y/N! Are you two planning to move in back there, or are you going to help me with the rest of these bags?”

Logan straightened, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Guess we’re holdin’ up the whole operation.”

You laughed softly, hugging the blanket to your chest. “Come on, hero. You’ve got groceries to save.”

He smirked at that, grabbing another bag as the two of you made your way toward the mansion. The rest of the evening passed in the usual controlled chaos—students helping unload the van, food being sorted and tucked away, and Logan grumbling about the “damn kids” taking the snacks before they’d even been put away.

Later that night, after dinner and a quiet stretch of grading papers, you found yourself curled up on the couch in the common room. The new blanket was draped over your lap, its soft fabric warm against your skin as you flipped through a physics journal. You didn’t hear Logan enter until the couch dipped slightly beside you.

“Comfortable?” he asked, nodding toward the blanket.

You glanced up, pushing your glasses higher on your nose. “Very. I think you made a good choice.”

“Damn right I did,” he said, leaning back and stretching an arm along the back of the couch. “You looked like a kid in a candy store when you saw it.”

You chuckled, setting the journal aside. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

He snorted, his lips twitching. “Darlin’, I notice a lot more than you think.”

There was something in his tone—a quiet sincerity that made your stomach flutter. You didn’t look away this time, meeting his gaze and finding that familiar intensity there. It was the same look he gave you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, the one that made you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“What?” you asked softly, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips.

Logan shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into that signature smirk. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ about how much trouble you are.”

You laughed, leaning against his side. “Pretty sure you’re the one who’s trouble.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice rumbling low as he shifted to drape an arm around your shoulders. “But you don’t seem to mind too much.”

And you didn’t. Not one bit.

---

You had vaguely realized you slipped on one of Logan’s flannels he left in your room, only because it was a little chilly tonight, and your robe was too thick.

You grabbed a lighter and lit one of your candles, one Jean saw you eyeing in the mall when you went out with her a few days ago. And instead of brushing it off like usual, you bought it. The scent was simply ‘blueberries’, but it reminded you of when your grandma made blueberry pancakes on your birthday or special occasions.

Sitting down at your desk, you pulled out your pen and started sorting through the extra credit assignments your students had turned in earlier. You weren’t a workaholic, but you liked to stay organized, and with a quiet evening ahead, it was as good a time as any to get ahead. The soft scent of the blueberry candle filled the room, its glow casting a warm light on the pages. Logan’s flannel draped over your frame was cozy, slightly oversized, and it carried the faintest trace of his scent—woodsmoke and something clean, distinctly him.

You flipped through the first assignment, marking a few notes in the margins. Just as you settled into a rhythm, there was a knock at your door, quick and familiar. Before you could call out, it creaked open, and Logan leaned against the doorframe, his usual smirk in place.

“Figured you’d still be workin’,” he said, his voice low but warm.

You glanced up, adjusting your glasses. “Just finishing up a few things. What’s up?”

He stepped inside, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Not much. Kids’re finally crashin’ for the night. Thought I’d check on you. See if you were gonna hole up in here all night.”

You smiled faintly, gesturing to the pile of papers. “Not all night. Just trying to get these done so I’m not scrambling tomorrow.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to the candle, then to the flannel you were wearing. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That my shirt?”

You blinked, looking down as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh. Yeah, sorry—I was cold, and it was just… there.” You grabbed the placket of his flannel and began to slip it off before Logan walked over, placing his hands over yours.

“Who said I wanted ya to take it off?”

His hands rested over yours, warm and firm, halting your motion. For a second, the room seemed still, the faint crackle of the candlewick the only sound breaking the quiet. Your cheeks warmed under his steady gaze, and you swallowed, suddenly unsure what to do with yourself.

“I just—” you started, only for Logan to cut you off with a soft smirk.

“Relax, sweetheart. Looks good on ya.” His voice was low, rough in that familiar way that always seemed to settle something restless in you.

You felt your grip loosen on the fabric, your fingers brushing lightly against his as you let the flannel fall back into place. “It’s just… comfortable,” you admitted softly, tugging the hem slightly as though to make a point.

“Damn right it is,” Logan said, stepping back but keeping his eyes on you. “Figured it would be, seein’ as it’s mine.”

You bit back a smile, leaning slightly against your desk. “You’re not gonna make me give it back, are you?”

He snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. “Not a chance. Looks better on you anyway.”

The compliment hung in the air, unspoken but clear in his tone. Your lips twitched upward, the shyness that usually crept in around Logan giving way to a bit of playfulness.

“Careful,” you teased lightly, “if you keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me or something.”

His brows rose, and the smirk widened just enough to send a flicker of warmth through your chest. “Oh, darlin’, you already know I do.”

There was no teasing in his voice this time, and the sudden weight of his words made your breath catch. You glanced down, fiddling with the corner of a paper on your desk, not quite able to meet his gaze.

“I like you too,” you said quietly, the words simple but sincere.

Logan straightened slightly, his arms dropping to his sides as he closed the small gap between you. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered just a second longer than necessary, and when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, but before you could say anything else, Logan’s hand dropped to his side, and he nodded toward the pile of papers on your desk. “You finishin’ those tonight?”

You glanced at the stack, then back at him. “I was planning to, but…” You hesitated, gauging his expression. “Why? Did you have something else in mind?”

Logan grinned, a flash of teeth that was more mischievous than intimidating. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to take a break. Couch downstairs is lookin’ real empty without you on it.”

You laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the air. “Tempting offer. Let me just finish a couple more, and I’ll meet you down there?”

“Deal.” He turned, heading for the door, but paused in the frame, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t keep me waitin’ too long, darlin’. That blanket of yours isn’t gonna hog itself.”

Your smile lingered long after he disappeared down the hall.

When you finally made it to the common room, Logan was sprawled on the couch, the remote in one hand and a half-empty bottle of beer in the other. He glanced up when he heard you enter, his expression softening as he took you in—glasses perched on your nose, his flannel still hanging loosely around you, the white throw blanket tucked under your arm.

“’Bout time,” he said, shifting to make room for you. “Thought you’d fallen asleep on me up there.”

“Not quite,” you replied, settling beside him and pulling the blanket over your lap. “Just had a few things to wrap up.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, draping his arm along the back of the couch so it brushed lightly against your shoulder. “What’d ya light up there? Smelled like somethin’ sweet when I walked by.”

“Oh, just a candle I got the other day,” you said, adjusting the blanket. “Blueberry. It reminded me of…” You trailed off, hesitating.

Logan tilted his head, his gaze curious but patient. “Of what?”

“Of my grandma,” you admitted quietly. “She used to make blueberry pancakes when I was a kid. It was kind of… our thing.”

His expression softened, the usual sharpness in his eyes giving way to something warmer. “Sounds nice. Bet she made a hell of a pancake.”

“She did,” you said, smiling faintly at the memory.

For a while, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the low hum of the TV filling the room. Logan’s thumb brushed absently against your shoulder, a small, steady movement that felt grounding. You leaned into him slightly, the weight of the day slipping away in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “You doin’ okay?”

The question caught you off guard, but you nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the TV, though you could tell his attention was elsewhere. “Just… you’ve been workin’ hard. Wanted to make sure you’re not overdo—”

You cut him off, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to make him pause, his eyes flicking to yours with something close to surprise.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, your voice gentle. “But thank you for asking.”

Logan held your gaze for a long moment, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. He didn’t respond right away, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. And as his arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling you closer, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you were finally starting to let yourself enjoy this—enjoy him.

---

Movie night was cherished by everyone; loads of popcorn popped in the microwave, an obsessive amount of butter used, and the candy and sweets supply gone in a matter of seconds before the movie even started. The younger students had fought over the best spots on the floor while the older team members claimed the couches. The mansion’s common room, usually buzzing with activity, had settled into a cozy calm as the opening credits rolled.

You sat nestled into Logan’s side, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. It wasn’t the first time you found yourself in this position during a movie night, but it was the first time you didn’t feel the familiar tug of self-consciousness. Logan’s presence had a way of grounding you, the steady weight of his arm an unspoken reassurance that you didn’t have to overthink it.

He twirled a strand of your hair around one of his fingers absentmindedly, his attention ostensibly on the screen but his actions telling another story. The motion was small, gentle, and oddly soothing. You caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips when he realized you hadn’t pulled away.

“You comfortable, darlin’?” he murmured, his voice low enough not to disturb the others but still carrying that familiar warmth.

You tilted your head slightly to look at him, a soft smile of your own forming. “Very,” you admitted quietly. “Are you?”

He chuckled under his breath, his fingers brushing against your hair again. “Yeah. Got everything I need right here.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t look away, feeling a newfound boldness stirring within you. You leaned a little closer, letting yourself relax into him completely.

The movie played on, a mix of action and humor that had the room alternating between bursts of laughter and quiet concentration. Logan seemed mostly indifferent to the plot, but you could tell he was enjoying the rare downtime as much as you were. The younger kids whispered among themselves, sneaking extra handfuls of popcorn while Jean and Scott shared occasional glances from the other side of the room.

By the time the credits rolled, a few of the younger students had already started to drift off, their sugar highs fading fast. Logan stretched slightly but didn’t move from his spot, his arm still draped around you.

“You about ready to call it a night?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing against your shoulder.

You nodded, stifling a yawn. “Yeah, I think so.”

He stood, offering you a hand. You took it without hesitation, and he pulled you up gently. As the others began cleaning up the remnants of snacks and blankets, Logan guided you toward the hall with an ease that felt entirely natural.

“I could’ve walked myself, you know,” you teased lightly as the two of you strolled toward your room.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But where’s the fun in that?”

When you reached your door, he paused, leaning casually against the frame. “You sure you’re good?” he asked, his voice softer now that it was just the two of you.

You nodded, fiddling with the hem of his flannel that you were still wearing. “I’m good, Logan. Thanks for tonight.”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. Then, with a faint grin, he reached out and tapped the side of your glasses lightly. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

You smiled, but before he turned to leave, you tugged on his sleeve, the soft fabric catching slightly between your fingers. Logan stopped immediately, his eyes dropping to your hand and then back to your face, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

Leaning up on your toes, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. It was tentative, shy in a way that made your heart pound, but you didn’t pull away too quickly. When you finally stepped back, his expression was unreadable for a beat—then his lips curved into a slow, unmistakable smirk.

“Well, look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing but with an edge of something deeper. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a way that made you melt. “You’ve got no idea what you just started.”

You felt a giggle bubble up, and before you could stop yourself, it escaped. “Oh, really?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light despite the heat blooming in your cheeks.

Logan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned down, capturing your lips again, but this time there was nothing tentative about it. His kiss was deeper, slower, and it stole the breath from your lungs. His other hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction closer as his fingers pressed into the flannel you still wore.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his breathing as steady as ever, though his voice was huskier now. “You’re not gettin’ away with a kiss like that without me makin’ it count.”

Your laughter came easier this time, softer, as you felt yourself relax fully into his presence. “I wasn’t trying to get away with anything,” you whispered, your fingers lightly curling into the front of his shirt.

“Good.” His lips brushed against your forehead as he stepped back, his hand lingering at your waist for a moment longer. “’Cause I’d have to come after ya if you did.”

The teasing edge in his voice was enough to make you roll your eyes fondly, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at your lips. Logan caught it, of course, and his own smirk softened into something warmer.

“I’ll let you sleep,” he said, his hand finally dropping away. “But don’t think I’m not gonna remember this.”

“Goodnight, Logan,” you replied with a laugh, shaking your head at him as you opened the door.

“Night, sweetheart,” he said, stepping back into the hallway but pausing for just a second longer, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he finally turned and walked away.

You closed the door behind you, your heart still fluttering in your chest as you leaned back against it. The soft glow of the blueberry candle flickered on your desk, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, a small, private smile still on your lips.

You couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you were getting the hang of this whole affection thing after all.

---

The TV flickered softly in the dark room, casting a warm glow as the classic Western played. You had half your attention on a stack of physics homework, pen in hand, scribbling notes in the margins of your students' assignments. Logan sat beside you, his arm draped over your shoulders, a cold beer in his other hand. His body heat, the soft scent of his cologne mingled with leather and something ruggedly him, and the steady rise and fall of his chest were grounding.

“You know, for someone who manipulates time, you’re awfully slow at grading,” he teased, his deep voice rumbling through you.

You nudged his side with your elbow, not looking up from the paper you were marking. “Patience, Logan. It’s a virtue.”

He chuckled. “Not one of mine.”

As the minutes passed, your focus wavered. The warm room, Logan’s comforting presence, and the low hum of the movie were a potent combination. You stifled a yawn, trying to blink away the sleepiness creeping over you. When Logan felt you shift against him, his arm tightened just slightly.

“Hey,” he said, glancing down at you. “Why don’t you call it for the night? You’re about to start drooling on my flannel.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed at his teasing. “I’m fine. Just a little—” You yawned again, more pronounced this time, betraying your attempt to play it cool.

Logan smirked knowingly. “Sure you are, darlin’. C’mon, just crash here. Not like you haven’t before.”

His casual tone carried an edge of tenderness that made your stomach flutter. You hesitated, though, fiddling with the edge of his shirt sleeve. “I don’t want to intrude. It’s your space.”

Logan raised a brow at you, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement. “You’re already takin’ up half the bed with your papers and that death grip you’ve got on my flannel. How much more ‘intruding’ could you do?”

You tried to stifle a laugh but failed miserably. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he shot back, setting his beer down and turning to face you more fully. His voice softened. “Stay, Y/N. I sleep better when you’re here anyway.”

Your chest tightened at the honesty in his words, and you gave a small nod. “Okay. But only because you insisted.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how it went,” he deadpanned with a smirk, reaching to collect the stack of papers in your lap. “Gimme those. You can terrorize the kids tomorrow.”

You let him take the work, watching as he set it on the nightstand before grabbing your glasses and gently slipping them off your face. “There. Now you’ve got no excuses.”

His hands were careful, deliberate, as he folded your glasses and placed them beside the papers. It was such a simple gesture, but it made your heart ache in the best way.

Sliding under the covers, you sighed as Logan turned off the TV, the soft hum of static fading to silence. When he joined you, the mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and he wasted no time wrapping an arm around you, pulling you flush against his side.

“You’re warm,” you murmured, your voice sleepy as you snuggled into his chest.

“Good,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Means you’re not gonna freeze on me.”

You smiled against him, your fingers curling lightly against his shirt. The quiet settled around you both, comfortable and familiar, as Logan’s hand traced lazy circles on your back. His presence was grounding, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a lullaby.

“Logan?” you murmured, your voice heavy with sleep.

“Yeah?” His tone was low, patient.

“Thanks... for everything.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your temple. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t long before sleep claimed you, the feeling of safety and Logan’s steady presence the last thing you remembered.

---

The sunlight seeped into the room through the thin cracks in the blinds, casting soft, warm patterns across the bed. Logan stirred slightly, the shift of your weight against his chest the only thing keeping him from falling back into a deeper sleep. Your head was tucked under his chin, one arm draped lazily across his waist, and he could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against him.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. This—this quiet, peaceful moment—was rare in his life. It wasn’t just the calm, though. It was you.

His hand, resting lightly on your back, moved of its own accord, tracing absent patterns along the flannel you wore. It was one of his, of course—worn, soft, and just a little too big for you. The sight of you in it had done something to him, a mix of pride and affection that he hadn’t let himself analyze too closely. Not that he needed to; Logan had always been a man who trusted his instincts, and every instinct he had screamed to hold on to you for as long as he could.

He sighed quietly, his thumb brushing over the fabric as his thoughts began to wander. He didn’t sleep much, not deeply, and the nights when you stayed with him were... different. The nightmares didn’t hit as hard. The gaps in his memory didn’t haunt him as much. You didn’t fill the holes left by what he couldn’t remember, but you gave him something better: hope.

Hope. The word sat heavy in his mind. He didn’t dare to speak it aloud, not even to himself. But as his gaze drifted down to you, the way you clung to him in your sleep, his chest tightened. He’d been through this before—five times before. Five versions of you, each so much like the one before, and each one lost too soon.

His jaw clenched at the thought, a protective surge flaring in his chest. He wouldn’t lose you again. He couldn’t. This time... this time had to be different.

Logan let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as his fingers continued their unconscious movements on your back. It wasn’t just the hope that you’d stay this time—it was the hope that maybe he could be enough for you. You deserved more than a man like him, a man with bloodied hands and a past he couldn’t even piece together. But you didn’t seem to care about any of that. When you looked at him, there wasn’t judgment in your eyes, only trust.

The thought scared him. It thrilled him, too.

You shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible as your fingers tightened against his side. Logan glanced down, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you bury your face against him, clearly not ready to wake up yet.

“Cuddly little thing,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a low rumble. His hand came up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. “Should’ve warned me before you moved in and took over my damn bed.”

You didn’t respond, of course, but a soft hum escaped your lips, and Logan swore he felt something crack in his chest. He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, holding you in his arms, waking up to your warmth pressed against him—but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to question it.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the stillness, and Logan’s gaze snapped to the door, his body instinctively tensing. But the steps moved past without pause, and he relaxed again, his hand coming up to cradle your head against him.

His fingers brushed lightly against your temple, his touch tender despite the strength in his hands. “You’re gonna stick around this time,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You hear me, sweetheart? You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

You stirred slightly at the sound of his voice, your lashes fluttering as your eyes cracked open. Blinking up at him, you gave a sleepy smile, one that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Morning,” you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep.

Logan smirked, his hand coming up to tap the tip of your nose. “Morning, darlin’. Sleep okay?”

You nodded, letting out a content sigh as you snuggled closer to him. “Best sleep I’ve had in ages.”

His smirk softened into something warmer, his gaze lingering on you. “Good,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re stayin’ here more often, then.”

You laughed softly, your cheeks flushing as you looked up at him. “Bossy this morning, aren’t we?”

“Always,” he shot back, his tone teasing but his eyes serious. He reached down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for just a moment. “But only when it comes to you.”

You didn’t reply, but the way you smiled up at him, your hand curling lightly against his chest, told him everything he needed to know.

---

The halls were empty, the muffled hum of distant voices and the occasional scrape of a chair faintly audible through the closed doors. Logan walked beside you, his arm resting comfortably around your shoulders. The warmth of his hand against your upper arm sent a reassuring calm through you, grounding you in the moment.

You weren’t heading anywhere in particular. There was no class for you this period, so it seemed natural to just wander. Logan’s presence had a way of easing the tension you often carried. His steps were steady, his casual confidence contagious.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, glancing down at you, his voice soft enough not to break the stillness of the hall.

“I’m always quiet,” you replied, teasing him as you nudged his side lightly.

“Not with me,” he countered, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. Around Logan, it was easier to let your guard down.

As you reached the end of the hallway, he slowed, turning to face you. His arm slipped from your shoulders, and his hand found yours instead, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The way he looked at you—steady, unwavering—still had the power to make your heart race.

“Got somethin’ on your mind?” he asked, his tone gentler now.

You hesitated, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing serious. Just… glad we have these moments. It feels normal.”

His expression softened, and he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I get that.”

Before you could respond, Logan’s hand moved to your waist, tugging you closer. The kiss that followed was slow and deliberate, a quiet promise in the way his lips moved against yours. You felt the warmth bloom in your chest, the world narrowing to just the two of you for a fleeting moment.

A faint chuckle broke the silence, making you both pull back abruptly. Turning toward the sound, you saw Charles in his wheelchair, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Apologies for the interruption,” Charles said, his tone light. “I was simply passing through.”

Your cheeks burned as you stepped back slightly, though Logan didn’t move far, his hand still resting at your waist.

“Didn’t think you needed to apologize, Chuck,” Logan said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Charles smiled knowingly. “I see the two of you have been enjoying each other’s company.”

You opened your mouth to respond but faltered, unsure what to say. Logan, as always, was quicker.

“Yeah, we have,” he said simply, his gaze unwavering as he looked at Charles.

“Well,” Charles said, his smile growing as he nodded toward you, “carry on, then. But do try not to block the hallway.” With that, he moved past, his wheelchair gliding smoothly down the corridor.

Once he was out of earshot, Logan glanced down at you, his smirk returning. “You’re blushin’, darlin’.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands, being careful of your glasses. “Of course I am! We just got caught—”

“Kissin’ in the hall?” he interrupted, clearly amused. “Not exactly a crime.”

“It’s not about that,” you said, peeking up at him through your fingers. “I just—”

He cut you off with another kiss, his lips brushing against yours in a way that melted your embarrassment. When he pulled back, his smirk was softer, his voice quieter. “Relax. It’s just us.”

You nodded, the tension easing from your shoulders. As he laced his fingers with yours and guided you further down the hall, you couldn’t help but smile. Logan had a way of making everything feel simpler, even when it wasn’t.

And as you walked together, you realized you didn’t mind if people noticed. Being with Logan—his hand in yours, his presence steady at your side—felt right. And that was all that mattered.

---

The radio played softly in the background, some classic rock tune filtering through the medbay as you and Jean worked. The scent of disinfectant lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the faintly metallic tang of medical supplies. Jean stood by one of the cabinets, carefully stacking bandages, while you sorted through a box of various medications and supplies.

“So then,” Jean said, a smile in her voice as she spoke, “he gets back up, brushes himself off like it didn’t just happen, and tries to give me this look—you know the one—like he’s still in control.” She laughed lightly. “Scott can be so smooth until he’s not.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you placed another vial into the correct drawer. “He tripped over the toolbox again, didn’t he?”

“Third time this week,” Jean confirmed, setting down the stack of gauze she was holding. “It’s like his visor blinds him to anything below knee level.”

“Maybe he needs a warning system,” you joked. “Like a little beep every time he’s about to trip.”

Jean laughed, but it turned into a small, sharp intake of breath. Her hand shot to her temple, and she winced, nearly dropping the bottle she was holding.

“Jean?” You stepped forward, concern pulling at your features. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, waving you off with a tight smile. “It’s just a headache. Probably from not drinking enough water—or Scott stressing me out.”

You didn’t look convinced. “That looked more like a migraine starting than just a little headache.”

She brushed your concern aside, her voice steady but with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place. “I’m fine. Really.” She turned back to the cabinet, her movements deliberate. “Let’s just finish up here.”

You hesitated, but when she didn’t elaborate further, you decided not to push. Instead, you returned to sorting through the supplies, though you kept an eye on her. The quiet between you stretched for a moment, filled only by the sound of bottles and boxes being moved.

“So,” Jean started again, her tone lighter as if trying to steer the conversation back to normal, “how’s Logan?”

Her question caught you off guard. You glanced at her, feeling heat creep into your cheeks. “What do you mean?”

She arched a brow at you, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, come on. You two are… spending time together.”

“Spending time together,” you repeated, deadpan.

Jean rolled her eyes and turned to face you, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed. “Fine. You’re dating. And don’t try to deny it, Y/N; I’ve seen the two of you.”

You sighed, feeling a mix of embarrassment and warmth at the thought of Logan. “We haven’t exactly been keeping it a secret.”

“No, but you’re not shouting it from the rooftops, either.” Her smile softened, and she tilted her head. “You seem happy.”

“I am,” you admitted, unable to keep the smile off your face. “It’s… it’s nice. Being with him feels natural.”

Jean nodded, her expression thoughtful. “He’s good for you, you know. I mean, Logan’s not exactly the easiest guy to figure out, but with you—” She trailed off, her gaze flickering toward the window as if something had distracted her.

“Jean?” you asked gently, watching as her brows furrowed slightly.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I lost my train of thought.”

You frowned, but before you could ask more, she straightened and reached for the clipboard on the counter. “Anyway,” she continued briskly, “we’ve got about half an hour before the next group comes in for their check-ups. Let’s finish this up.”

Her shift in tone was enough to signal that she didn’t want to dwell on whatever had distracted her. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off. You nodded, deciding to let it go for now, and returned to your task.

The quiet settled over the two of you again, broken only by the occasional rustle of supplies. But in the back of your mind, the image of Jean’s wince lingered. You made a mental note to check on her later, even if she insisted she was fine.

---

The steady rhythm of your sewing needle was oddly soothing, the soft swish of thread through fabric blending with the distant murmur of voices from the common room. You sat in the library, a warm lamp casting a golden glow on your hands as you carefully repaired one of the kids' shirts. The hole wasn’t too big, but enough for Theresa to complain about it after snagging it during a game of hide-and-seek.

Logan leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched you. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips. You’d known he was there for a few minutes now, but his silence didn’t bother you. Logan wasn’t the kind of man who needed to announce himself. His presence was as steady and grounding as the floor beneath your feet.

“Don’t know why you’re doin’ that,” he finally said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Kid’s just gonna tear it again.”

You glanced up, the corner of your mouth twitching into a smile. “And I’ll sew it again,” you replied simply, not missing a stitch. “It’s what she asked for.”

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “You’re somethin’ else, darlin’.”

Your focus remained on the shirt, though you felt the weight of his gaze. You didn’t need to look up to know the expression on his face—the soft fondness that had crept in over the last few months.

A low tsk broke your concentration, followed by the unmistakable sound of Logan clicking his tongue. You looked up, your brows furrowed in confusion, only to find him patting his thigh. The gesture was casual, but the look in his eyes was warm, almost coaxing.

“C’mere,” he said, the gruffness in his tone softened by a hint of amusement.

Your cheeks warmed, and you hesitated, glancing down at the shirt in your hands. “Logan, I’m sewing—”

“You can sew sittin’ here,” he interrupted, patting his thigh again. “Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, the shyness you thought you’d been shedding creeping back in. But Logan didn’t rush you, his patience as steady as his presence. After a moment, you set the shirt and needle aside, standing up and crossing the room. He didn’t say anything as you approached, just slid his hands to your waist to guide you onto his lap. His arms wrapped around you loosely, holding you steady as you settled in.

“There,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple as you reached for the shirt and needle again. “That’s better.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “I can’t believe you wanted me to sit here just so I could keep sewing.”

“Not just for that,” he said, leaning back slightly, his hands resting on your hips. “I like havin’ you close.”

The simplicity of his words made your heart stutter, and you ducked your head, focusing intently on the fabric in your hands. Logan chuckled, his chest rumbling softly against your back.

“You’re cute when you get all shy,” he teased, his voice low. “Still tryin’ to figure out why, though. It’s just me.”

“Exactly,” you muttered under your breath, earning another chuckle from him.

For a while, the two of you stayed like that, the silence between you comfortable. Logan’s thumb traced absentminded circles against your side, a grounding presence as you worked. You were nearly finished when a voice broke the quiet.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?”

You startled, nearly pricking your finger as you turned toward the doorway. Jean stood there, arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. Her eyes flicked between you and Logan, her amusement obvious.

Logan didn’t so much as flinch. “Got a problem, Red?”

Jean raised her hands in mock surrender, her grin widening. “Not at all. Just wondering how long you two were planning on hiding in here.”

“Not hidin’,” Logan replied easily, his tone daring her to argue. “Just relaxin’.”

Jean arched a brow, her gaze settling on you. “Relaxing, huh?”

You groaned softly, the warmth in your cheeks betraying you even as you tried to focus on your sewing. “Jean…”

“What?” she said innocently, though her smirk suggested otherwise. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with mild irritation. But the way his hand tightened ever so slightly on your waist betrayed his protective instinct.

Jean rolled her eyes but didn’t push further. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you two alone. But don’t forget, we’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.” She glanced at you with a pointed look. “Both of you.”

You nodded, though you didn’t trust your voice to sound steady enough to respond. Jean gave you one last smile before disappearing down the hall, leaving you and Logan alone again.

“Meeting, huh?” Logan murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “Guess we better get movin’ soon.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a small smile playing on your lips. “In a minute. I’m almost done.”

Logan hummed, his arms tightening around you slightly. “Take your time, darlin’. I’m not in any rush.”

And for once, neither were you.

---

It was unusual for you to not feel a weight around you when you slept with Logan, either from his arms around you or his body pressed to your back.

You turned around to face him when you noticed a bead of sweat on his forehead and him mumbling something you couldn’t make out. His brow furrowed in distress, and his body shifted restlessly under the covers, his breaths shallow and uneven. You leaned in closer, brushing a hand against his arm.

“Logan?” you whispered gently, your voice soft enough not to startle him. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He didn’t respond, his mumbling growing louder, words spilling out in broken fragments. “No… stay back… can’t…” His hands gripped the blanket tightly, his knuckles whitening as a low growl rumbled from his chest. The sound sent a shiver through you—it was feral, almost pained.

“Logan,” you said again, louder this time, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Wake up.”

Before you could react, his claws shot out with a sharp snikt, slicing through the fabric of the blanket and grazing your forearm. You flinched as pain flared, a thin line of blood welling up across your skin. But you didn’t pull away.

“Logan!” you said firmly, your free hand cupping his face. “It’s me. Wake up.”

His eyes snapped open, wide and wild, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he even recognized you. His chest heaved as he took in his surroundings, the tension in his body slowly melting as reality settled back into place. His claws retracted with a metallic hiss, and he reached for you almost instinctively.

“Y/N?” His voice was hoarse, guilt already thick in his tone. His gaze dropped to your arm, and he froze. “Shit… I—did I do that?”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, covering the cut with your other hand. The sting was already fading, and honestly, you were more worried about him than the injury. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

His jaw tightened as he sat up, shaking his head. “Don’t give me that. I hurt you.” He reached for your arm, carefully pulling your hand away to inspect the cut. The sight of the blood made his expression darken. “I could’ve done worse.”

“Logan—”

“No,” he cut you off, his grip on your wrist firm but gentle. “This ain’t fine, Y/N. I could’ve—”

You exhaled softly, pressing your free hand to his chest. “Logan. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did, his eyes meeting yours, guilt flickering beneath the surface. “I’m okay,” you said firmly. “And I can fix this.”

Before he could argue, you focused on the cut, a faint shimmer of energy surrounding your hand as you slowed time around the wound. The blood seemed to retreat, the torn skin stitching itself back together until it was as if the injury had never happened. When you looked back at Logan, his brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” he muttered, his voice low. “You shouldn’t have to use your powers just ‘cause I can’t keep my shit together.”

“Logan,” you said softly, taking his hand in yours. His palm was rough, his fingers warm as they curled around yours. “You had a nightmare. That’s not your fault.”

He shook his head, his eyes dropping to where your arm had been cut. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t deserve to get hurt ‘cause of me.”

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I’m not scared of you,” you said, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling in your chest. “I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”

His gaze softened, though the tension in his shoulders remained. “Doesn’t mean I don’t worry about it,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve hurt people before… people I care about.”

You squeezed his hand, leaning closer until your forehead nearly touched his. “You’re not that man anymore. And even if you slip up, I’m still here. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Stubborn as hell, aren’t ya?”

“Someone’s gotta keep you in line,” you teased gently, earning a soft chuckle from him.

For a while, the two of you just sat there, the weight of the moment slowly giving way to a comfortable silence. Logan’s hand lingered on your arm, his thumb brushing over the now-healed skin as if to reassure himself it was really gone. His other hand moved to rest on your back, pulling you closer until you were tucked against his chest.

“You should sleep,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I will,” he said, though his tone made it clear he had no intention of letting go of you anytime soon. “Just stay here.”

“Always,” you whispered, the word barely audible but enough to make him tighten his hold on you.

And for the rest of the night, neither of you let go.

---

After cleaning up the kitchen, Ororo had mentioned that the ice trays needed to be refilled tonight for the next morning.

The water faucet hissed softly as you tested the stream with your fingers again, patiently waiting for it to warm. A stack of five empty plastic ice trays sat next to you on the counter, neatly arranged like a to-do list. You dipped your fingertips under the flow and frowned when it still wasn’t quite hot enough. Behind you, the quiet creak of heavy footsteps announced Logan’s arrival.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, stopping just a few feet away. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“Filling the ice trays,” you answered without looking up. “Ororo mentioned they needed to be ready for the morning.”

“And why,” he said, stepping closer, his tone tinged with amusement, “are you waitin’ for the water to heat up for that?”

You turned, already gearing up for an explanation, and saw Logan leaning against the edge of the doorframe, arms crossed. His expression was bemused, but there was that familiar glint in his eyes—the one that told you he was in no rush to stop poking at you.

“Well,” you started, pushing your glasses up on your nose, “if you use warm water instead of cold, it freezes faster because of the Mpemba effect.”

“The what-now effect?” Logan tilted his head, his smirk growing. “Y’gonna tell me you’ve got some science magic that makes hot water turn to ice quicker?”

“It’s not magic,” you said, exasperated but smiling. “It’s physics. Look, it’s counterintuitive, sure, but the Mpemba effect happens when warmer water loses heat more quickly in certain conditions because—”

He stepped closer, watching your face as you gestured, your explanation picking up steam. “—warmer molecules have a higher average kinetic energy, and that affects convection currents. Plus, there’s evaporation at the surface, which reduces the volume of the water, and—”

Logan let out a soft laugh, cutting you off with a simple, “You’re cute when you ramble, y’know that?”

Your words stumbled, and you blinked at him, thrown by the sudden warmth in his voice. “I—what?”

“I said you’re cute,” he repeated, stepping into your space until the counter pressed against your back. His hand found your waist, fingers brushing lightly through the fabric of your shirt. “Real cute. And too damn smart for your own good.”

Your cheeks heated, and you tried to turn back toward the sink, but his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, keeping your attention on him. “Logan, the water—”

“Let it run,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your cheek. His expression softened, the teasing edge slipping away. “I love you.”

The words landed so easily, so naturally, that for a moment, you thought you’d misheard him. But the look in his eyes—the steadiness, the certainty—left no room for doubt.

“You… love me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” he said simply, his hand slipping back to your waist to pull you closer. “I love you, Y/N. Been waitin’ a long time to say it.”

Your heart raced, your mind spinning as you processed his words. He loved you. Logan loved you. You opened your mouth to respond, but all you managed was a faint, breathless laugh, your hands curling against his chest.

“That funny to you?” he teased, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“No, no, it’s not—” You shook your head quickly, a wide grin breaking across your face. “It’s just—Logan, I love you too.”

His grin softened into something warmer, something private, as he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You reached up, sliding your hands along his shoulders. “Even if you don’t believe in the Mpemba effect.”

That earned a real laugh from him, low and rough and filled with so much affection it made your chest ache. “Don’t need to believe in it,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “I believe in you.”

And when he kissed you, warm and sure and so full of love, you knew you didn’t need anything else.

---

The mansion was unusually quiet for a Sunday afternoon, the calm settling like a blanket over the sprawling halls. Most of the students were outside enjoying the sunny day, their laughter floating faintly through the open windows. You’d been curled up in the living room, reading one of your well-loved books on the couch, when Logan strolled in.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he said, the rough timbre of his voice wrapping around you like a warm coat.

You glanced up from your book, smiling at the sight of him. His shirt was slightly rumpled, his hair doing that effortless thing where it looked messy and perfect all at once. “What gave me away?”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a habit, darlin’. You disappear every Sunday around this time. Figured you’d be here, buried in a book.”

“Guilty,” you admitted, shifting to make room for him on the couch.

Logan didn’t sit at first. Instead, he hovered, leaning over you to catch a glimpse of the title in your hands. “Pride and Prejudice?”

You arched a brow. “Surprised?”

“Not really,” he said, his smirk softening into something fond. “Figured you’d be into that kinda thing.”

You gave him a mock glare. “That ‘kinda thing’? It’s a classic.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, his arm draping over the back so his hand could rest on your shoulder. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “I love you.”

Your heart fluttered, the now-familiar warmth of his words spreading through your chest. You tilted your head to meet his gaze, your lips twitching into a playful smile. “Again?”

“What?” Logan said, his grin widening. “You expect me to stop sayin’ it?”

“Never,” you teased, leaning into him. “I just don’t think you’ve gone more than an hour without saying it since last week.”

“Can’t help it,” he said simply, his voice low but earnest. “I love you, and I like sayin’ it. You got a problem with that?”

You shook your head, your cheeks warm. “Not even a little.”

Logan chuckled, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns over your shoulder, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear grounding you.

“Y’know,” he began after a few moments of comfortable silence, “I used to think this kinda thing wasn’t for me.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “What? Lounging on a couch with someone while they read Jane Austen?”

He snorted. “That too. But mostly… this. Bein’ close to someone like this. It’s different with you.”

His words settled over you, weighty and sincere, and you felt your throat tighten. You reached up, your fingers brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “I’m glad it is,” you whispered.

Logan’s lips curved into a small smile, one reserved just for you. He leaned down, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that was soft but unhurried. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I love you.”

Your laugh was quiet but full of affection. “That makes four times today.”

“Not keepin’ score, are ya?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Well,” he said, his tone turning playful, “better get used to it, darlin’. I’m not stoppin’ anytime soon.”

You didn’t think you’d ever want him to.

---

You were standing in the kitchen, brushing crumbs off the counter after dinner when Logan walked in. His presence was as effortless as always, but his eyes softened when they landed on you.

“You cleanin’ up again?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Habit,” you replied, tossing the crumbs into the trash. “Stormy made dessert earlier, so I’m just tidying up.”

Logan hummed, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. “Looks clean enough to me.”

“Logan,” you protested lightly, though your smile betrayed you.

“What?” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Can’t a guy hug his girl?”

“You’ve been clingy today,” you teased, though you leaned into him, savoring his warmth.

“Clingy, huh?” he rumbled, his voice low. “Thought I was just bein’ affectionate.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Yup.” He turned his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck before whispering, “I love you.”

You sighed, not in exasperation but pure fondness. “Five times.”

“Like I said,” he murmured, his lips curving into a smile against your skin, “better get used to it.”

“I’m starting to think I might like it,” you admitted softly, tilting your head to give him better access.

“Good,” Logan said, his voice a quiet promise. “Because I’m not stoppin’. Ever.”

You didn’t think you’d ever want him to.

---

You watched Jean walk down the hall from her classroom to the medbay, almost unaware of her surroundings. You didn’t follow her—didn’t want her to lie to you again about a ‘headache’ or ‘stress.

You let out a soft huff as she went into the elevator. As the door closed, footsteps sounded out from your side, “she’s been off… hasn’t she?”

Scott’s question hung in the air between you, a subtle inquiry wrapped in a shared concern. He glanced at you, a quiet weight behind his gaze, but it was the way he waited for your response that made it clear he was looking for validation.

“You think she’s off too?” you asked softly, not quite meeting his eyes but feeling the truth of it in your own chest. Something was definitely different about Jean lately, though it wasn’t easy to put a finger on. She was always a little intense, but the past few days had felt like a quiet storm was brewing behind her eyes—something just out of reach.

Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to find the right words. “Yeah. She’s not… herself. And I’ve noticed she’s been acting distant.”

You nodded, folding your arms across your chest as you leaned against the wall. “I’ve seen it too. She’s been more withdrawn, like she’s not really… there, y’know? Like she’s somewhere else in her head.”

Scott let out a breath, his eyes darting to the elevator as if hoping Jean might come back out any minute. “I don’t know, Y/N. It’s like she’s on edge, and I can’t figure out why.”

“I think… I think it’s more than that,” you said, your voice low, uncertain. “She’s been different for a while now. It’s not just today or this week. I think it’s been building up, and I don’t think she even knows what’s going on.”

Scott frowned, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t argue. “You think it’s something with her powers?”

“I’m not sure,” you said, shifting your weight and glancing down the hall as if expecting Jean to walk out from one of the rooms. “Her abilities have always been intense, but now it feels… unbalanced. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Scott ran his hand through his hair again, a habit of his when he was anxious or frustrated. “I just wish I knew what was going on. I don’t want to keep pushing, but I don’t know how to help her.”

You could hear the frustration in his voice, and while you didn’t blame him, you knew there was nothing you could offer in terms of answers. Only… a feeling. A gut instinct telling you something deeper was at play, something neither you nor Scott could quite put together.

“Maybe,” you began, pausing to choose your words carefully, “maybe she needs space. But… if it were me, I’d want someone to ask. I don’t think she’d come to either of us unless we made the first move.”

Scott looked over at you, eyes thoughtful. “You’re right. Maybe I should go talk to her. I just don’t want to push too hard.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of helplessness settle in your chest. “You know her better than anyone. Just be gentle. She’s not the same Jean anymore. Not like she was before.”

Scott glanced down the hall again, his brows knitting together as he thought. “I’ll talk to her. But if it gets worse…”

“I’ll help,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. You didn’t know exactly what was happening with Jean, but you would always do your best to stand by her.

“I’m not sure what to think about it,” Scott admitted. “But I appreciate you being here to talk it through.”

The moment hung for a second longer, both of you lost in the uncertainty of the situation. Then, as though to lighten the mood a little, you added, “You’re a good friend, Scott. You’ll find a way to help her. Just… don’t let her push you away too much. She needs you.”

Scott offered a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Y/N.”

Before either of you could say more, the soft click of the elevator doors opening interrupted the conversation. Jean stepped out, her expression distant but trying to mask it with a smile.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a little too light, a little too forced. She turned to you both, but her eyes lingered just a fraction longer on you. “Everything okay?”

Scott nodded quickly, offering her a polite smile. “Yeah, we were just talking. About the team. How are you feeling?”

Jean’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, and for a heartbeat, you caught a glimpse of the fatigue in her eyes. “Fine,” she replied, but the word didn’t quite sound right. “Just... a little tired.”

“Maybe you should get some rest?” you suggested gently, your voice quiet but full of care. You hated how fragile she looked, how thin the veil of normalcy felt when she was around.

“I will,” Jean said, her gaze flicking between the two of you. “Thanks for checking in.”

As she moved past you both, heading back down the hall toward her room, Scott watched her with a pained expression. You could feel the same worry in your chest.

But neither of you said anything as Jean disappeared down the hall. You both knew that sometimes, despite your best intentions, people had to find their own way to deal with what was coming. And with Jean, something was coming. Something none of you were prepared for.

When the silence stretched out, Scott finally broke it. “I’ll talk to her later,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’ve got to try.”

“I know you will,” you said softly, your words quiet but full of reassurance. “And just… be patient. She might not even know what’s going on.”

Scott gave a short nod before walking off down the hall. You stayed behind, lost in your thoughts, wondering what Jean was really hiding. And, more importantly, why it felt like it was all tied up in something far bigger than any of you realized.

But for now, you knew that your role was to be there when she needed you. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

---

The bedroom was quiet except for the faint rustling of the wind outside. Logan leaned back against the headboard, arms loosely crossed, watching you with that familiar, steady gaze that always seemed to settle your nerves and set them alight at the same time.

You sat at the edge of the bed, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your sweater. The shy smile tugging at your lips didn’t escape him—nothing ever did. His brow arched slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he tilted his head.

“What’s on your mind, darlin’?” The low rumble of his voice carried more warmth than teasing.

You shifted, exhaling softly before crawling over to him, knees sinking into the mattress. His arms uncrossed, hands resting lightly on your hips as you settled yourself across his lap, straddling him. The move caught him off guard; it wasn’t something you did often. You felt his body tense briefly, then relax as his hands instinctively held you steady.

“Just… you.” The words came out soft, almost bashful, but your grin grew when his lips quirked in response.

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingertips brushing against the fabric of his shirt before tracing their way to his jaw. His stubble was rough beneath your touch, a texture you’d grown to love. Without a word, you leaned in, pressing a light kiss to his cheek.

Then another.

And another.

“Hey,” he murmured, a quiet laugh in his tone. “What’s this about?”

You didn’t answer right away, instead brushing your lips along the curve of his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. He turned slightly, trying to catch your lips with his, but you pulled back just enough to avoid it. The playful glint in your eyes made him grin wider.

“I’m repaying you,” you finally said, punctuating the words with another kiss, this time on his nose.

Logan’s hands flexed against your hips. “For what?”

“For saying ‘I love you’ thirty-four times this week,” you teased, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “I counted.”

That earned a genuine laugh from him, deep and unguarded. His head tilted back slightly, the sound rumbling through you. “Thirty-four, huh? Sounds about right.”

You hummed, leaning in again to press another kiss to his cheek, then his temple. “I’m not gonna say it thirty-four times back,” you admitted, your lips brushing against his skin as you spoke. “But… this works, right?”

“It works,” he assured, his voice softer now, a hint of reverence in the way he looked at you. “Keep goin’. I’m not complainin’.”

Your laugh was quieter than his, but just as genuine. You pressed another kiss to his forehead, then to the spot just above his collarbone where his shirt didn’t quite cover his skin. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer as you kept at it, the lingering shyness in your actions melting into something more natural, more you.

By the time you finally leaned back to meet his eyes, his expression was a mix of amusement and something much deeper. His thumb brushed a light circle over your hip.

“Thirty-four’s got nothin’ on you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low but sure.

Your face warmed, but you couldn’t stop the smile. “Good,” you said, leaning in to kiss him one last time, this one slower, more lingering. “It’s supposed to.”

Logan’s hand slid up your back, the other tightening slightly on your hip. The kiss deepened, his lips pressing firmly against yours, not rushed but deliberate, as though savoring the moment. By the time you both pulled back, breath mingling, he was smiling in that way he reserved just for you—a little lopsided, a little boyish, and entirely endearing.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’,” he murmured, voice thick with affection.

You didn’t have time to respond before he shifted beneath you, his hands moving to the backs of your thighs as he rolled you onto your back with ease. A soft gasp escaped your lips, and Logan’s grin widened at the sound. He hovered over you now, the weight of him just enough to feel safe and grounded without being overwhelming. His arms bracketed you, caging you in gently but firmly.

“Now, what’s this about me sayin’ ‘I love you’ too much?” he teased, lowering himself just enough to nuzzle his nose against your cheek. His stubble grazed your skin, and you couldn’t help the breathy laugh that bubbled up.

“I didn’t say ‘too much,’” you countered, your hands instinctively moving to his shoulders. “I just said you’ve said it thirty-four times this week. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, his lips twitching with amusement as he kissed the corner of your mouth. “Sounds like someone’s keepin’ real close tabs on me.”

“Of course I am,” you replied, your tone softer now. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re worth keeping tabs on.”

That earned you another smile, this one less teasing and more tender. He stared down at you for a long moment, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your side. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward—it never was. It was full, warm, and unspoken words lingered in the air.

“You know,” Logan began, his voice quieter now, “I don’t just say it to hear myself talk.”

“I know.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jawline. “I like hearing it.”

Logan huffed a small laugh, then dipped his head again, this time pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you, Y/N,” he said, low and steady, the words carrying all the weight they always did.

You smiled, your hands sliding up to cradle the sides of his face. “I love you too, Logan.”

At that, he sighed—a deep, contented sound that rumbled through his chest. Then, slowly, he shifted again, resting his weight beside you rather than on top of you. His head found its place against your stomach, his arms wrapping around your waist as though he needed to anchor himself to you. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and you instinctively combed your fingers through his hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp.

Logan closed his eyes, the tension that always seemed to linger in his shoulders finally melting away. “Y’know,” he muttered after a moment, “this might be my favorite spot in the whole world.”

You felt your cheeks warm again, but the smile that tugged at your lips was unstoppable. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s yours,” he said simply, his voice muffled slightly against the fabric of your sweater. “And I figure if I’m here, then I’m good.”

Your chest tightened at the simplicity of his words, at how effortlessly he could turn you into a puddle. For someone who carried so much weight on his shoulders, Logan always had a way of making you feel light, cherished, even when you didn’t think you deserved it.

“You’re definitely good,” you murmured, your hand still carding through his hair. “Better than good.”

“Don’t push your luck, sweetheart,” he said, but the teasing tone in his voice made you laugh softly.

The two of you stayed like that for a while—his head on your stomach, your hands in his hair, and the world outside your bedroom fading into irrelevance. Eventually, Logan let out another contented sigh.

“Thirty-five,” he muttered, barely loud enough for you to hear.

You frowned slightly, glancing down at him. “Thirty-five what?”

“‘I love you,’” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he tilted his head to look at you. “Said it thirty-five times now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “And counting,” you teased.

“Damn right,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. He nestled closer against you, his arms tightening around your waist. “Gonna say it every chance I get.”

As the wind continued its soft rustle outside, you couldn’t help but think that, in this moment, everything felt exactly as it should.

next chapter is the last stand!!

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

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grapejuicestyless · 3 months ago

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Stupid F-ing Tattoo

JJ Maybank x Fem!reader

Summery: Y/n and JJ both had a few things in common. One, love didn’t exist. And two, they both wanted her dead.

She wasn’t dead, but sometimes, he wished she was.

It was honestly fucked up, there was no silver lining. She hadn’t wronged him, or cheated, or lied. She was as guilty as a fish, and he was the shark. But he still wished she was dead.

Sometimes, JJ wondered if she wished the same thing. If some nights, if she ever were to by chance hear his laughter in a passing moment, maybe with his head hung out the back window of the Twinkie like she used to do, or in a lazy jog away from the cops, he wondered if she wished he would also, drop off the face of the earth to give her some peace.

Then he would remember that even though it didn’t feel like it, he had won. Because she had no peace, and he was certain she never would. While he was up all night wishing her to be gone, she was up all night praying for the same thing.

She often told him that the only things keeping her going were him and her dog, but mostly her dog. An old white dog, a stray she’d taken in when she was merely seven. He was as crusty as they get, and while he and his friends often joked about how gross the old thing was, she happily scratched behind his ears and reminded him of how good he was always.

But the dog was getting old, and JJ had long been extracted from her life. Sometimes he wondered if his prayers meant something, and then he would get on his knees and take them all back in a guilty sob. Because JJ didn’t want her to die, he just hated the fact that he had fallen in love with someone who couldn’t fathom love more than he ever doubted it.

JJ felt like an asshole. What kind of person prays for another persons death? Especially someone like her?

He figured he liked her so much because they were so alike. Like the seasons, they were the coolest winters and the sweltering summer all at once. They were so close, yet so far. Like January and December. Born with the same love and loyalty, but destined to fall apart, prophets forced to be divided.

His finger hovered over her contact every night, but every time he thought of how she would answer, and his tongue would go dry. She would probably only say hello, and he would say it back, and the line would go quiet for a few minutes, just breathing in each others inhales, aligning his breath to hers, and then she would ask him why he was calling. He would say he didn’t know, but he hoped she was well, and she would wish the same for him because she always did, and she always meant it more because she never wished that he was dead. Then, she would ask if it was okay to let him go, and he would ramble about something and how it was all dumb to begin with. She would listen and then the line would go dead. Dead like how he sometimes wanted her.

He couldn’t bear the idea of letting her go again, even if he didn’t realize he had the first time.

They had just gotten matching tattoos. “P4L” poked into their ankles until the skin swelled red and even air burned. They were fucked, and it was a dumb idea.

JJ said it was the stupidest fucking tattoo he’d ever gotten. She had laughed, playfully pushing his arm away and setting the needle down.

“You don’t have any other tattoos.” She reminded him softly, eyes shining in the moonlight. The twinkles reminded him of the north star, and he felt that he too found home in the same way.

“Not yet.” He promised her, his fingers slotting between hers. “I’m gonna get your name tattooed right across my palm so I can hold you eternity.” JJ smiled, proud at his use of larger words. He’d felt like a poet then, smiling from ear to ear at himself, a dork by textbook definition.

“Well, then I’m going to get your name tattooed on my lips, so I have every reason to talk about you.” She promised him, and JJ remembered the look in her eyes, he knew it from the way John B looked at Sarah and the way Pope’s dad looked at his mom. He knew it was love.

He should never have confessed it.

He knew better than anyone that her mothers neglect had beaten her heart black and blue, and her cousins hatred towards her and her friends who had bullied her, he knew that much like him, love was a construct of some sort of fantasy, a promise of forever that could never be fulfilled, because eventually, someone has to leave.

She laughed, and then she cried. She promised JJ that she also loved him, loved him like a dog loved its owner, unwavering and loyal. But there was no way in hell she could ever love him the ways he wanted, and that hurt JJ because he had spent weeks working up the courage to even come to terms with his very real feelings.

“I can’t love you, JJ. I do, but I can’t because I can’t even promise myself that forever. I’ll break my own heart and I’ll blame you.” She had explained with tears streaming down her face. He regretted the way he yelled at her.

They never spoke again. His best friend, and the love of his life, her voice became a concept in his mind, and he swore that he had forgotten the sweetness of her smell. He hated that because that meant he was just like everyone else. Just another person who would miss her when she went.

So, he started wishing death on her. More for himself, until it became a prayer for her. She never laughed anymore, never smiled. When he saw her from afar, he’d noticed that she’d gone back to her friends she hated because suffering is better than loneliness when all you can think about is the quickest way to go.

He saw a girl floating in the ocean the a few days into the summer, her hair resembled Y/n’s and her eyes did too. It was only when he saw the way she seemed to fold herself into the water he knew it was her because only she would have the drive to try and let the ocean swallow her whole.

JJ ran as fast as he could out, wading through the crashing waves until he could wrap his arms around her. She was wet, cold, and limp. A hollow version of the woman she once was. It reminded JJ that she was just a girl, the same age as him, and he once again, felt guilty for ever wishing death on her.

When he laid her in the sand, he knew two things.

One, on her skin, she had another small tattoo scribbled down to memorize her love forever. His name, just two little letters, the same one, poked into her shoulder in the same font as their matching tattoo.

“Stupid fucking tattoo.” He cried, gritting his teeth together, his hands searching her body for any warmth he could cling to, a sign that maybe he hadn’t seen her too late.

The second thing he knew, through his salty tears and guilty heart, was something he prayed he would never have to witness, but something he had always wished for.

His prayers had been answered.

#jj maybank x y/n #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank fluff #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank x you #jjmaybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jjmaybankangst #jj maybank x pogue!reader #maybank #pogue!reader

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daytaker · 11 months ago

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fatallyfalling · 2 months ago

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Bitter Water 0.09 ~ ♆

“ maybe it was better that way. “

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, time skip, unshared feelings, nightmares, unintentional self-injury, alcohol, sexual harassment, character death, gore/blood, etc

{{ word count }} 3.8 k

{{ prompt }} Following the conclusion of the 70th Games, emotions are tense, and the weight of being crowned Victor weighs heavier than ever.

{{ a/n }} The ending of this chapter is a bit rushed I'm sorry :( also, we're not gonna talk about the time I post these at....

Annie Cresta was the lone survivor of The 70th Annual Hunger Games.

When she returned to District 4 a few months later, she wasn’t anything like the timid girl you’d met while mentoring Trout. The Capital medical teams had kept her longer than they usually held Victors due to the severity of her traumas. The wickedness that had sunk its talons deep inside her memories was less than favorable in their eyes. A tarnish to the reputation of The Games.

She’d taken victory by pure luck. The Gamemakers had chosen to cause an earthquake roughly two days after Trout died - having grown bored of the remaining Tributes hiding from one another in different corners of the Arena. The quake destroyed the large dam where the Cornucopia had been set, flooding the Arena. The remaining tributes couldn’t swim as well as someone from the Fishing District could. She’d outlasted without taking a single life - but that didn’t make the fracture in her thoughts any less tormenting.

She was only a year younger than you at eighteen. Her age made her experience of being Reaped almost as depressing as Trout’s name being drawn. She’d nearly gotten by without ever having to face the Arena.

Almost.

You weren’t even allowed time to grieve the small red-headed boy after you returned to the nautical District.

The closest thing to closure you’d given yourself was tracking down Trout’s family. You’d discovered he had been the middle child of a seven - now six-person household. His mother was an angular woman who managed the busy home by herself. You recognized her from the shipyard where she washed sails and nets with other older women in the large washbasins filled with filtered seawater and bubbling soap. You’d never spoken to her till now. She stood straight-backed and stoic, her apron stained and the scent of sage and linen wafting off her as she pulled open the front door. She had struck you as hard as she could with her palm when you’d tried to offer your condolences. She screamed in your face that you should have tried harder. That you should have protected Trout. The words were strained and broken - just like her heart. Her voice was grief-stricken and harsh - but you’d expected nothing less. She was right in your failures. Even if she was using you as the outlet for her grief and anger for the death of her son when you’d done everything you could, nothing would make up for sending her son into that Arena to die. Nothing would compensate for her contempt for The Games - For The Capital.

You still left small bundles of wildflowers on her porch once a week.

Trout’s mother never touched them.

You didn’t expect her to.

They stayed there to rot and be replaced with something new each week, the cycle of life continuing.

Sometimes you left seaweed bread instead. But the green-tinted, fish-shaped buns were left to rot just the same.

Trout’s funeral service was small - funerals always were. Despite District 4 being the fourth wealthiest district with the seventh largest population in Panem, their funerary traditions were kept private, with only close family and friends in attendance. There wasn’t much of a procession, nor a public wake, but the shipyards and boardwalk would be silent as dusk settled on the damp sands of the coast. The silence came as a sign of respect. Funerals were hosted at sunset to see the sky spread in a beautiful array of color, a beacon calling their loved one home. You’d only attended a handful of funerals in your lifetime - the last one having been your Mothers.

The citizens of District 4 honored their dead by returning them to the sea.

The ritual was elaborate, but not at all luxurious or gaudy. The deceased loved one would be dressed in white, often the same soft, lightweight linen material they wrapped around newborns right after delivery. A symbol of safety and new beginnings. They would then be wrapped in a specially woven net, handmade by their loved ones and often intertwined with mementos like ribbons, locks of hair, shells, pearls, photographs, letters, and more between the ropes. The net was made to protect and aid the deceased on their journey to the afterlife. Their body would be carefully cradled in a wooden longboat atop a bed of dried tall grass and seaweed. Sometimes grieving families gave them blankets to lie upon for their voyage. The boat’s prow is carved with their name, lest they forget it in their journey onward. Their crown is surrounded by a fan of cattail stalks, a symbol of survival and protection, with the prospect that their loved ones will follow them to the sea when their time comes. The rest of the shallow hull of the longboat holds wildflowers, heirlooms, and personal belongings the family chooses to send with their loved one.

Goodbyes are said individually, between hushed voices and tears, with as much love and care as they can manage. This way nothing is left unsaid to the deceased before they begin their journey home. The speech before the send-off is brief, usually made by the head of the household if there is one or the next best substitution. There are slight variations in the rituals between the Northern and Southern ports.

The send-off is accompanied by a song older than even the Districts of Panem. The melody is languid, and peaceful, speaking of a sailor’s final voyage home to rest the remainder of his days. The tune is sung by whoever gathers for the send-off. It’s tradition to teach the songs of the District’s rituals from an early age. The lyrics are bittersweet. Finally, the longboat is gently pushed from the shore, guided forward by six members of the family, who wade into the salty water with the boat till a current catches. It's a way of giving one last embrace to the deceased. A final warmth of touch and farewell filled with heartache and love. Once the members of the family return to shore an arrow is lit, the flames a small orb of flickering light as the sky above darkens overhead, casting shadows on the attendees’ faces as if that small flame was the very soul of the person they’d lost. The head of the household knocks the arrow and draws back, the flame is a welcome warmth to their shaking hands. With a sealing, permanent farewell the arrow flies.

The boat sails on as the flames catch the dried grass beneath the body.

Those in attendance remain on the sand till the longboat burns through, another sign of respect for their dead.

Some stay long after the flame disappears and the darkness of night cloaks them in shadow.

You weren’t permitted to attend Trout’s funeral.

Maybe it was better that way.

You visited the cove where the funerary boats were launched a week after he’d burned. You hadn’t set foot there since your Mother's funeral. And you couldn’t say how long you stayed on that beach either - staring out at the waves with only the sound of their crashing on the coast and the distant call of seagulls to fill the silence. You’d whispered your goodbye alone and to the wind that day.

There was no answer as the waves crashed.

Life continued - nothing stopped as the world kept turning and your heart begrudgingly kept beating.

The process of helping Annie adjust to Victor’s Village was difficult.

She was placed next door to Mags, which made her two doors down from Finnick and across the street from yourself. The three of you tried to help her adjust, taking shifts to monitor her considering the extent of her traumas and unstable condition. If she had family, they hadn’t moved with her. Annie was alone. You’d asked Marjorie for help as well, but the elder couldn’t give the poor girl any tonic or natural aid to quell or repair what The Games had broken. Your heart broke for Annie, but sometimes even you were too overwhelmed to stay with her during her episodes due to the unpredictable nature triggering your own symptoms.

Her episodes were fierce and sporadic. One minute she’d be sitting quietly trying to read with you beside her, Finnick in an armchair nearby as the two of you monitored her. And the next she’d be sobbing while clawing at your arms, desperately trying to hold onto something as her gaze turned far off and she screamed. All because the wood in the fireplace cracked. Or because a door shut too abruptly or she had to close her eyes under the showerhead. Both of your aversions to water were similar in that way. But the angry red scratches that her nails left stretched over both your and Finnick’s arms only grew in number as her episodes worsened. Her grip had drawn blood once or twice now - both of those times leaving you to deal with poltergeists of your own after Finnick had pried Annie off of you, furiously blinking back memories of a ravine and a river and the way your fingertips had clawed into a girl’s arms as she’d attempted to drown you almost four years ago now. The same way she’d clawed into yours as you’d drowned her instead. Bile had threatened to rise in your throat as you had forced yourself out of the room, panic and adrenaline seizing your chest and constricting your throat to what felt like suffocation. Your heart hammers in your ears, drowning out your ability to focus as your breathing grows hyper and you crumple in a hallway of Annie’s house. You fight the panic attacks alone. Finnick asks if you’re okay when you return, concern constricting his features, and you say you’re fine - even though you’re not.

He doesn’t pry.

The Darling has his fair share of moments that he has to step out as well - the way he recoils from Annie as if she were burning him with just the pads of her fingertips elicits a pang of something in your chest that you can’t place. It’s a feeling you don’t recognize and that scares you. So you shove it so far down that you’re almost able to forget it. Sometimes you feel that strange tether again, almost like an urge to reach out to him, but you’re quick to smother it. You don’t allow yourself to even think of the implications of the internal tether. You ask if he’s okay when he returns - he says he’s fine. He isn’t.

You don’t pry.

The two of you were just two damaged people who were equally sinking. Opposites - pulled together by shared traumas and guilt. Nothing more - nothing less.

Your role as Desirable was once again hanging its guillotine over your neck as well.

One misstep and it was all over.

Because of the high demand you and Finnick had garnered as Mentors, the onslaught of clients and sometimes back-to-back events was strenuous - leaving you barely any time to grieve your Tribute, let alone think.

Finnick appeared to be doing the best between the two of you.

If he was struggling - he didn’t show it. Nowadays it seemed he wore his mask as The Capital’s Darling more often than not, leaving you unsure of how many of his words were truths.

The responsibilities of being Desirable to the Capital had picked up right where they’d left off after the two of you were released from mentorship before The Games had even finished. Neither of you had any semblance of peace till the demand eventually slowed months later. You barely spoke - not that there was much to say. The two of you had been kept in the Capital for the same period they’d kept Annie in the medical bays of the Tribute Center. Finnick wasn’t even sure what he’d have said to you if he’d gotten the chance. How do you casually ask about the well-being of someone who is grieving a person they’d been forced to send to their inevitable death against their will?

Certainly not over tasteless hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

Definitely not.

He was back to being held at arm’s length. Unallowed to get anywhere near close.

Maybe it was for the best.

But Finnick had spent the last several years teetering over an edge he couldn’t see the other side of. Meticulously toeing the line between stranger, acquaintance, and sometimes friend. Though, he doubted he was ever really your friend. The verbal waltz the two of you had tediously crafted through both passive and direct interactions over the years had brought the Darling peace. He’d even found himself looking forward to whatever witty remark you’d say in response to his instigating. Maybe a part of him craved it. Your attention, the way you looked at him. But any shred of your attention he’d once held was gone, swallowed by the gluttoned maw of the Capital. He tried to ignore the itch that crept up under his skin when you glanced his way across the crowded halls and parties. Still acknowledging his existence but unable to slip away. Peacekeeper security had increased in the last few months due to rumors of a riot in one of the lower Capital neighborhoods. An artist’s collective protest as they’d burned their gallery and studio after displaying multiple works of treasonous anti-capital rhetoric. The artists all but ceased to exist from Capital records and their work was removed and destroyed from establishments across the city. The incident was quickly, and efficiently removed from the public eye. There had been no news coverage - the rumors only spreading by word of mouth. Secrets shared between sugarcubes and wineglasses to listening ears and prying eyes. The added security made the secret meetings that you and Finnick used to share nearly impossible. He tried to feign nonchalance, to keep his cooled exterior and charming wit in check. Hell, he really did try. But despite his best efforts to remain cordial - to quell the snapping thread in his chest that tethered some part of him to you, a part of him yearned for something he couldn’t name. Something he couldn’t have. He’d patiently waited till you’d opened up to him through your small trade of secrets. He’d gotten to know pieces of you that only made that thread in his chest snap harder.

He’d tried to forget the thread, or at least move past it.

Multiple times - actually.

He’d tried being logical - chalking it up as a foolish infatuation of youth. Overthinking and over-rationalizing that whatever it was, had been the result of some shared Victor trauma bullshit. He’d even warred with himself that it didn’t matter, that it was unattainable and foolish. Finnick wouldn’t allow himself - no he couldn’t, allow himself to ponder the meaning of the thread. He’d drilled it in his head that it would fade, that the painful yearning would cease as time went on.

But it hadn’t faded.

Not even a little bit.

As much the two of you had gotten on one another’s nerves, as much as you’d hated him, It felt like a routine at this point. He’d let you do what you had to, to get through your Games, The Victory Tour, then that first year of being Desirable, and then the next, and then Mentoring, and now this. The push and pull of drawing near enough to almost step afoot the shores of your thoughts only to be dragged back out to sea by the tide of the ever churning life of a Victor.. He’d started smothering any flicker of that tether in his chest somewhere along the way after your initial announcement as a Desirable. It was pointless considering the life he led. The life both of you now led. Doomed to walk beside one another on similar paths with different destinations. He could handle the sharp edges as the thread frayed. He could handle it. Survive it.

His mind was swimming, unable to focus on whatever his client was squawking about in his ear as she dug her talons into his forearm. There’d be marks there tomorrow. A muscle in his jaw pulses as he grits his teeth, forcing a coy smirk and a nod as if he were listening to anything she said. He wasn’t. The Darling’s mind was elsewhere. He’d spotted you across the pleasure hall about a half hour ago. You’d already settled into your timid demeanor, the role of the Capital’s Doe, and hadn’t spared him a glance. You were linked arm and arm with a regular client, Mr. Sarginski. He was an older Capital Broker who wore too-tight suits and drank too much for his own good. It was an effort not to glare toward the older male as Finnick was all too observant of the man’s wandering hands, or “grubby paws” as you’d referred to them on multiple occasions.

“Bastard.”

The curse echoes through Finnick’s thoughts as his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

A firm pinch to the Darling’s bicep has his attention whipping back to his client. It’s an expensive effort not to recoil or pull away from her. She scolds him for looking at anyone besides her, her angular face flushed with irritation as she sticks her nose up at the other guests. That muscle in his jaw pulses again as he slides his arm around the vulture’s waist, tucking her into his side just to shut her up with a sly, feigned smirk, crossing his lips. He gives her an apology sugar-coated with his signature charm to make up for it. Her feathers smooth and she continues to yap his ear off, though her grip on him tightens painfully again.

The touch burns.

Tonight would hurt.

The revelry continues. The music swells, and the Capital aristocrats overindulge themselves in food and drink to make themselves sick and overindulge again. Finnick tries his best to keep up his act. Despite his client’s scolding, he caught himself still turning his gaze your way on occasion. Your dress was a gauzy, muted pink that whispered when you moved, the delicate movement of the fabric made it seem as if you were floating each time you were twirled on the dance floor. That thread in his chest snaps against his heart and he forces his gaze elsewhere.

“Stop it.”

The thought clamps down on the thrumming in his chest like a vice. Like it did everytime his thoughts began to stray. Everytime they flowed to close to you. It was like drawing back an empty net, the hope of something fruitful only to be disappointed. He still tried to convince himself things were better this way.

Better for both of you.

Not that he’d ever allowed himself the pleasantry of even hoping if not down right praying for something different.

Finnick tried not to think about what that meant, what different meant.

It didn’t matter.

None of it did.

In the end, all of it did.

Its another excruciating hour before the honey tanned victor finally finds a moment to himself, leaning against one of the marble pillars in the hall pretending to sip the drink in his hand.

He didn’t even notice your approach till the familiar, sweet yet earthy scent of your perfume fills his senses.

“I think If I have to spend another moment smiling my face is going to get stuck.”

Your voice was soft, despite the resignation in your tone. His gaze snaps to your features in an instant only to force his sea-green eyes elsewhere not a moment later, trying to feign indifference but somehow failing miserably

“Tell me about it,” Finnick almost scoffs and he can almost feel the way you roll your eyes at him. Hes trying to play it cool, swallowing thickly as if that’ll quell the acceleration of his heartbeat against his ribcage. “I’m surprised Sarginski loosened your leash this far,” he attempts to jest, hoping you don’t pick up on the slight hitch in his breath. You dont, instead scoffing while crossing your arms over your chest while casting the honey-tanned Victor a sidelong look. “He’s too drunk to care.” you muse with a small shrug. Atleast your whit and sarcasm remained intact. A slight smirk tugs the corner of his mouth as he allows his gaze to meet yours again. You’re still looking at him, your gaze intent yet unconcerned. He can’t help the brief once over he gives your form, trying not to let his vision rake too long over the planes of your face.

“You’re staring again,”

You arch a brow as your look turns knowing. Finnick looks away again.

“Am not,”

“Are too,”

“Nope.”

“You’re insufferable,” You huff, fighting the urge to roll your eyes again.

“You love it,” Finnick rebuttals, his tone teasing and he almost doesn’t catch the words till they’re tumbling off his tongue faster than he can even try to reign them back in. He’s stuck in a stunned silence, not daring to move even a fraction of an inch as he stands mortified with what he’d just said. Not to mention the possible prying eyes and ears around every corner.What they wouldn’t give to feed the propaganda machine that festered the most heinous rumors concerning the Victors and Districts.

You seem almost just as shocked by his claim at the moment.

But you don’t reply, and he doesn’t apologize. Neither of you say anything at all, actually, for a moment or two.

“Shut up, Peacock.” You mutter, and its clear the slight hush to the words are both in jest and subtle warning. Despite your usual sarcasm you really were telling him to shut his trap. And he does, shaking his head and shoving his hands in his pockets.There isn’t a chance to say anything more as you’re approached by one of the party goers, both of you almost immediately going rigid.

“Greetings, Victors. Apologies for the interruption, but I believe it to be time I finally introduced myself,” The stranger begins. His voice is deep and he appears to be about middle age. He could almost appear to be district if it weren’t for the finely trimmed suit he wore. Most members of the capital favored cosmetic enhancement. He’s a tall but stocky fellow, not quite strong but not flabby. His posture is straight as well and his overall demeanor rings authority - which immediately has warning bells going off in your mind. The stranger outstretches a hand to Finnick before stating his name, The bronze haired male hesitantly accepting the handshake as the name forms on his lips.

“Plutarch Heavensbee, I’ve been looking for you.”

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore @nexxus13 @takanparadiae @yourdailymemedelivery @wozabowza @c4ttheart @lizzo-del-jailraka @inanimate-icarus @thestrals-and-firewhiskey @honethatty12 @goldencolorrock @cherrsnut @el25 @sienaxgerali

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helpimstuckposting · 1 month ago

Text

Alright MILF lovers, come get yalls juice

I’m a ghost and you are a shadow

—

Abort, abort, abort, his mind was screaming now to try and drown out the danger, turn back before it’s too late.

The silence that followed could drown a fish, and Steve felt like drowning right along with it.

Eddie nodded his head, knocking his knuckles against the wooden table.

“Well, I can’t do two all-nighters in a row anymore, so I think I’m gonna head up to bed,” he said. Steve couldn’t relate, he’d had more all-nighters in his adult life than he ever had as a teenager, he was used to running on a few hours of sleep at a time.

“You should, too. You need to sleep,” Eddie said, looking at him with far more concern than Steve could handle at the moment. He looked away and nodded, not intending to follow through. Eddie seemed to know that, though, and stayed at the table for a few more seconds. Steve could feel the weight of his eyes on him but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the man’s face.

“Right,” Eddie sighed, finally getting to his feet.

Steve didn't watch Eddie leave the kitchen. He just listened to the soft footsteps disappear up the stairs, the gentle creak of the floorboards at the top landing. He sat at the table, no intention of going to bed like Eddie had suggested. He knew he still wouldn't be able to shut his mind off enough to slip into unconsciousness.

He was tired, exhausted, and he knew he should listen but he also knew he wouldn't. Maybe he'd be able to take a nap tomorrow. He didn't think the kids would be showing up for the day again, knew they had work and lives to get back to while they figured out next steps.

Christ, they weren't meeting up for another four days. What was he going to do for four days? He was a dead man walking, literally. There wasn't anything he could go out and do.

So, instead of going up to bed like he should have, he sat in the dimly lit kitchen and let the hours pass as he spiraled. He'd felt reassured earlier that day, by Eddie's insistence that he could stay here, that he didn't have to leave if he didn't want to, that they'd fight for him to stay. But what would happen if he did? He didn't have a life he could step into, he couldn't use his birth certificate or even use his name, what kind of life could he possibly have?

Maybe when he wasn't so panicked, when he had his head on straight and he was actually safe and permanently on this side of the dimensional tear he'd be able to collect himself and talk to Hopper. Did this Hopper also come back from the dead? Would he know what to do? Would it even be right to come back from the dead, to replace the Steve of this world, or should he start over from scratch? Though, he wouldn't be able to explain having the same face and fingerprints so maybe starting over was out of the question.

The thoughts and questions wouldn’t leave him alone, rattling around in his head like he’d expected. His eyes burned, but they never drooped, too high off the nervous anxiety that accompanied all his questions. When he heard the creak of the upper landing again, he expected Robin to come stumbling in like the previous morning, or Eddie storming in to check if he’d gone to bed or not.

Instead, the dainty figure of Linda Harrington stepped quietly into the kitchen. Her hair was up, but not in a tight bun — all flyaways slicked back into perfection — it was messy and drooping, stray hairs trying to flee the confines of her elastic. She wore sweatpants and an old white t-shirt, no silk robe tied neatly around her waist. She looked cozy. Steve wanted to reach out and hug her again, commit the feeling to memory, but he held back and stayed in his seat at the table.

Quietly, softly, she took the place Eddie had vacated across from him. He watched her, she watched him, and he wondered where she’d been for the past 24 hours. He hoped she wasn’t avoiding him, uncomfortable in her own home. His confidence in staying wasn’t exactly unwavering if he’d already caused two people to lock themselves away to avoid him, like he was some kind of lurking monster, creeping in the shadows.

Linda looked around, tapping her nails on the table. Her eyes locked with the clock above the stove, a muttered “oh jeez,” slipping from her lips. Steve kept watching as she did what Eddie had, looking all around to avoid Steve’s eyes. She tapped away at the table, glanced from the teapot, to the empty mugs, to the honey bear. She reached out to turn it, little button eyes sliding off of Steve and onto Linda instead. She stared at it, still tapping away, and he wondered if she was gathering up the courage to say something, to tell him that she couldn’t handle him here, that he should go back to where he belonged, or if she had something else to say.

“Do you know why they picked a bear for the bottle shape?” She asked, still looking the honey in its eyes.

“No, why?”

She blinked, finally flicking her gaze to meet his, and quirked one corner of her mouth up into a smile — a little dimple popping out in the low light.

“Oh, I don’t know, I was hoping you would," she shrugged, as if she hadn't just baited him into that response. It startled a laugh out of him, sharp in the dark and quiet kitchen, but his mother didn’t flinch from the sound. She seemed to preen a bit, sitting a little straighter in her chair. He was awed once again, by the figure in front of him — so familiar and yet the least familiar person he’d come across so far. If anything in the world could convince him of alternate dimensions it wasn’t Eddie’s longing smile, it wasn’t the photos hung in every corner, it wasn’t even the sudden resurrection of everyone he loved. It was her. It was her smile and her soft laugh lines, the warmth in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks as she chewed on her lip, searching for something to say.

She was everything he ever wanted in a mother, and yet nothing that he was ever capable of imagining. The Linda he’d daydreamed as a child, arms out for a hug and icy eyes melted with adoration, was nothing more than a cardboard cutout compared to the person in front of him. He didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling like that little boy in her presence.

The silence dragged on as they both continued to take each other in; just watching, just looking, just being present with someone they never thought they would have again. Eventually, Linda broke the moment, eyes sliding away to the bear bottle as she chewed on her lip once more. She fidgeted a little in her seat, soft wrinkles in her forehead creasing with her downturned brows.

She cleared her throat. Steve watched as she pulled out a folded paper from under her leg. No, as she pulled it into the dim light Steve realized it was an envelope. It was white or yellow, hard to tell in the dark, and she flipped it over and over in her hands. Linda took a few deep breaths, staring at the letter like it would burst into flames, but unable to look away.

He was nervous, like somehow whatever was in that envelope would seal his own fate. He knew she wasn’t the same, he knew she wasn’t his mother from his universe, but that didn’t stop his heart rate from ratcheting up like a chronic flare-up. He’d dampened his own emotions for so long, everything he felt here was thick enough to choke on. If his father knew how many times he’d cried in the last two days, Steve would have been sent to a shrink or maybe even an asylum. Richard would ship him off, finally free of his pansy-ass disappointment of a son.

But the look in Linda’s eyes wasn’t angry or vengeful, it was contrite. She was sad about something, something she thought was her fault. And wasn’t that just the theme of tonight? He hoped Eddie wasn’t crying alone in a spare bed upstairs. He should really talk about switching rooms, it wasn’t fair that he was taking Eddie’s, even if it was technically Steve’s as well. He could take the spare, the room didn’t mean anything to him.

“I wrote this letter before you were even born,” Linda started, cutting through his thoughts.

He looked down at the paper in her hands. She was still staring at it, like she could read right through to the words underneath. It was pristine for a letter written nearly 24 years ago, no bends or creases, no tears or stains. He wondered if this was where she’d been hiding all day, searching the attic for a small square letter that had never been opened.

“I was so excited to have you. I wrote down every name I could think of, I spent hours and hours going through baby name books trying to pick out the perfect one,” she laughed. He didn’t think it was that hard to settle on Steven. Pretty generic. But his mother was smiling down at the letter like it held every good memory she’d ever experienced, so he kept his mouth shut. Who was he to question the baby name process? He didn’t have children, and it didn’t seem like he’d ever get there. So.

“Your father wanted a junior. Another Richard running around to stake his claim on,” she muttered, a bitter lilt to her words. His eyebrow twitched, picking up the flat tone. That was interesting. He’d figured she would have some kind of nostalgia wrapped around the Richard of this world, the distance of time enough to dampen whatever kind of man he was before Steve came along. He didn’t think he would have been that bad. He thought — guiltily — that he’d been the reason his father was the way he was. That Steve just wasn’t good enough, didn’t try hard enough, couldn’t be enough to please him. That, somehow, it was Steve’s fault.

Linda rolled her eyes. “Your name was the only compromise he ever made, now look where he is.” She was still mumbling, like she’d forgotten why they were talking about Richard in the first place, or his name itself was enough to snap her into gossip-mode. Steve politely cleared his throat, urging his mother forward, and she shook her head like an etch-a-sketch clearing the thoughts away.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Robin filled me in about where it seems like our timelines split. I’m not really sure how any of this works, really, but she said Dustin was very adamant, and he certainly was while he explained the parallel worlds… thing.” She lightly clapped her hands as an imitation of Dustin — eyebrows drawn tight into a confused glower — and Steve couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched. ‘It’s his tone, right?’

“Yeah, he’s a real butthead sometimes,” Steve mumbled back.

Linda laughed, eyes briefly softening as she looked at him. She shook her head again, blinking down at the envelope, “Well, it seems like this letter was written before that, so… your mother probably has this same one somewhere in your world.”

She swallowed a few times, blinking her eyes nervously, like she wasn’t sure where to go from here. She looked again at the clock above the stove. The words seemed harder now, as if she could choke on them if she wasn’t careful, and the blinking seemed less like she was clearing her head, and more like she was holding back tears.

“This letter…” she paused, clearing her throat, “I never showed it to my Steve, but I want you to have it. We were the same woman once, and she could have been me. You could have had a mother who was there for you, a mother you deserved,” her voice cracked and even in the dimly lit kitchen, Steve could tell her eyes were red-rimmed and only a second away from tears, now. “You should have had that,” she whispered.

Steve tried to blink his own tears away, clenching his jaw to ease the sting in his eyes and the stiffness in his throat. He thought back to Eddie’s breakdown just hours before, the way his hiccups sounded like knives and hoped he didn’t have to witness another breakdown so soon; hoped this time that squeezing his nose and willing the tears away would work and he could keep some thread of composure.

This almost felt more painful than anything his own mother had inflicted on him. Somehow, blatant neglect was easier to swallow than the emotions currently clogging his chest. He wished Robin or Eddie were still here to pull his head above water. Linda cleared her throat and wiped gently under her eye. No tears for either of them, yet.

“And as much as she could have been me, I could have been her. I could have been absent and rude and indifferent, and I can’t erase that. I’d like to think we’re different people, but honestly I don’t know what kind of person I would be if Richard was still breathing down my neck. That’s no excuse, I know, but Steve, I just… I just wanted to say,” she took another deep breath, reached out to grab his hands and held them tightly in her own, “I am so, so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said.

It was his turn to look away, now, unable to take the intensity swimming in her eyes as she stared him down, pleading for his forgiveness though she wasn’t even the one who’d done anything wrong. He’d wanted this. He’d wanted an apology for the way his parents treated him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it like this. It wasn’t this Linda’s fault. She was right, she could have been his mother, under different circumstances, and Steve experienced first hand what she was capable of, but that Linda would never beg his forgiveness. That Linda was too broken to acknowledge what she’d done, that Linda was going to take her silence to the grave whether that grave be her’s or his father’s.

He took the letter. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually open it, wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was inside, but he couldn’t just leave it there. That felt like he was rejecting her, turning away from her sincerity, and he didn’t want to do that. So, he took hold of the soft paper envelope, felt the edges of the folded letter within, and looked back up at her. She smiled softly at him, and he didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She nodded, squeezing his hands. He squeezed back.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, thankful to have gone at least one day here without more tears, “I should probably go to bed before Eddie finds out and kills me.”

She sagged into the table, giggling softly. “We wouldn’t want that,” she whispered back.

—

Guys, I gotta say, it was a struggle trying to make it not sound like Steve was in love with Linda because *I'm* in love with Linda. I've had the letter handoff of this part written since like... june of last year lmao I'm so excited it's finally out here

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@likelylad @aellafreya @wxrmland @shunna @howincrediblysapphicofyou

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#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #parallel universe au #steddie fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #fanfiction #stranger things fic #steddie fic #helpimstuckwriting

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sadhours · 1 year ago

Text

scumbag blues: 1) first it giveth

gator tillman x f!original character

contents: 18+ minors dni, sex work, mean!gator, slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut, oral (m receiving), p in v, rough, anal play, choking, lots of dirty talk, unprotected sex, lots of spitting

The sheets are fresh, it’s the first thing Gator smells as he and Daisy walk through the doorway. She leans against the closed door, locking it and batting her lashes up at him. Big blue eyes behind false lashes and a scattering of sun sprouted freckles dusting the apples of her cheeks and bridge of her nose. Gator feels a little dizzy at the sight but his dad doesn’t approve of her, tells Gator he better stop paying for her services but he can’t help himself. Winds up at the Inn at least twice a week. Bills fresh from the ATM tucked neatly in his wallet, burning a hole in his pocket. Gator’s hands find her hips, holding her in place while his body crowds her tiny one. He’s a good seven inches taller than her. He gets off on the size difference, likes knowing he can easily throw her around.

Daisy’s fingers find the zipper of his utility vest, her pink stained lips parting as she tugs it down and smoothes her hands under it, pushing it off his shoulders. Gator lets it fall to the floor, cringing at the thud it makes as it hits the hardwood. Daisy then moves her hands to make purchase over his chest, making his skin chill with goosebumps. She gently squeezes his hips, blinking up at him with those coquettish eyes. Turns Gator to putty in her hands like that. Wills himself to stop thinking about how much dick she’s ran through today. Tells himself she don’t look at those men the way she’s looking at him. Daisy promises so, has Gator believing it like it changes anything.

Roy wouldn’t let him and even if he did, Daisy ain’t gonna stop turning tricks. Her dad thinks this is an Inn, but they make money ‘cause his little girls turned it into a brothel. Her mothers scarce, like his own. Gator doesn’t ask her personal questions like that. They keep it professional. Though he knows it ain’t, knows Daisy brings him to her personal bedroom and not one of the rooms for rent. Lets her rest her head on his chest after and tell him about her dreams. Kisses her stupid before he inevitably leaves.

“S’nice dress you got on,” he mumbles, “Put it on just for me?” It’s a white one, short with big flowy sleeves and her cleavage just about pours from it.

“Bought it just for you,” Daisy replies, fishing her manicured fingers in his pocket and retrieving his lime green vape. She holds it up, “You know the rule.”

“Dumb fuckin’ rule,” he grumbles but takes it from her, taking a deep pull from the little box and tilts his head back to exhale the smoke out towards the ceiling. He passes it back to her and Daisy side steps him to put it in her desk. Gator’s got a not so good habit about reaching for it while they’re in the throws of passion, Daisy ain’t a fan of the acidic fruity vapor in her face during sex. So she made a rule, it stays in her desk drawer until after he’s paid her.

“Gator,” she scolds, furrowing her brows as she looks at him.

“I’m just saying,” he raises his hands in defense before trailing to the bed. He sits on the foot of it, clicking his tongue and nodding to the ground before him. Daisy complies, getting on her knees and starts unlacing his boots with her French tip nails and looks up at him with those big eyes again. “Good girl,” he praises, placing his palms on the comforter.

Sometimes he makes her lick ‘em but he’s feeling sweet tonight. She looks a little too innocent for that right now. So he just watches carefully, humming in approval when she gets one boot off and massages his sweaty, socked foot. Daisy smiles, flush rising up her neck which has Gator thinking this part gets her real excited. Has half a mind to reach between her legs and find out. Daisy rubs her face against his knee, bouncing a bit where she sits before she moves onto the other boot. She doesn’t spend as much time in massaging that one before she’s reaching for the button of his cargos, Gator moves to unclip the strap on his thigh but Daisy stops him.

“Keep it on for now,” she pleads, pulling his cargos down as far as they’ll go with the strap on.

“Yeah? Got yourself a cop kink?” Gator teases.

“More like a Gator kink,” she mumbles and immediately looks like she regrets it, eyes wide and cheeks ruddy. She bites her lip and moves her hand to palm him through his underwear. He can’t dwell on what she said for long after that, hot pleasure rising up his legs as his cock twitches from the attention. A long, low groan pushes from his throat and she shushes him. Her daddy’s bedroom is next to hers.

“C’mon, stop teasing,” he hisses.

Daisy raises a brow, lips quirking into a smirk before she’s nudging her nose against his clothed cock. Gator gasps and his hips lift off the mattress for just a second. And then Daisy sniffs and Gator’s a little self conscious, knows he’s been sweating in these cargos all day. But Daisy groans softly and takes another whiff, squeezing the bottom of his thighs and lets out a moan.

“You’re nasty, ya know that?” Gator exhales shakily and Daisy rubs her face against his boner and tells him he smells so good. Pheromones or someshit, he doesn’t know but he knows it turns him on that she likes his scent. His cock fills out even more and he grabs a hold of her head, pressing her face flush against his briefs. Daisy mouths at his length through the fabric, digging her fingers into his thighs. “You fucking love that cock, don’tcha, darling? C’mon, show daddy how much you love it,” Gator groans out, loosening his grip on her head.

Daisy takes a breath as she pulls away, immediately hooking her fingers into the waistband of his briefs and pulls ‘em down to get his erection out. Gator has to bite his lip to stifle the moan rising up his throat as she grips the base of him in her hand and licks a broad stroke up the underside of his cock. Daisy’s a real pro when it comes to head. Experience, Gator knows but she acts like she needs to suck it. Like she’s hungry for his cock. Daisy delivers kitten licks to his slit, moving her head with the motion before she wraps her lips around the head, giving a hard suck before taking him as far as he’ll go, hot and wet enveloping his cock. It twitches in her mouth and Gator pathetically moans out a “Oh, dear lord.”

He can feel her smile around the mouthful of him, has his hips rolling up on their own volition. For fucks sake, it feels so good. All the stress from work and his dad just dissipates like a switch. Gator’s sure that Daisy was put here on earth to service his cock, that’s what God made her for. And fuck, if he could marry her he’d do it in a heartbeat. Daisy pulls his cock out of her mouth with a pop before slapping it against her tongue and swallows before she asks him, “S’that feel good, daddy?”

“Yeah it does, sweetheart,” Gator bumbles out, “Get your mouth back to work.”

Daisy obliges with a giggle, running her pouty lips against the tip before slipping it between them. She sucks on his head, stroking him with her hand. Keeps her eyes locked on his face, like she’s eager to watch him fall apart. Like her whole self worth depends on whether or not she can make Gator cum. And he’s a fucking asshole.

“Aw, darlin,” he laughs softly, “You can do better than that, can’tcha?”

Daisy huffs through her nose, eyes squinting at him as she squeezes his cock in her hand but she clearly can’t help herself, as stubborn as she may pretend to be, she really just wants to please him. So Daisy sinks her mouth down on his cock, takes him until the head pushes against the back of her throat. She blinks quickly and Gator can see the tears prickling the corners of her eyes, slipping out and down her cheeks. Watches with his breath held as she exhales through her nose. He scoops her blonde hair up in his hands and holds it like a pony tail at the crown of her head, using the leverage to move her mouth as he pleases. Fucks her pretty little mouth until his balls are covered in her drool. Bucks his hips with it, reveling in the gagging sounds she makes around his length.

Gator’s real close to pulling her off, feels his orgasm is inching in quicker but it’s just too good to make her stop. He ain’t leaving here without filling her pussy though, it is what he pays for anyhow.

“Slower,” he whimpers out, hating the way it sounds on his ears but Daisy complies, pulls off of him and strokes him languidly in her hand. She blinks up at him, those eyes wide like she’s never done this before. The mortgage being paid for this place says something else though.

“Such a sweet girl,” Gator coos, “Do whatever you’re told.” He pats her bicep, “Up. Show me how wet y’are.”

Daisy flushes, standing up on shaky legs and lifts her dress above her waist. Her thong is white, slick soaked through and glistening on her thighs. Gator reaches forward and presses his fingers against the damp material. He moves them firmly up and down, Daisy rolls her hips into it and Gator lets out a low chuckle.

“Reckon you’re a good whore or… it’s only my cock that gets you soaked like this,” Gator muses, tilting his head as he pushes her panties to the side and gets his fingers against her folds. “Huh? You get this wet for those other fuckers?”

Daisy gasps, fingers grasping at the bunched material of her dress as she gazes down at his face.

“Answer me,” Gator demands when Daisy’s eyes glaze over from pleasure, his fingertips moving against her aching clit.

“No,” she whines, because it’s the truth. There’s bottles of lube hidden away in every single room. It’s nothing but men her fathers age and then there’s Gator. Handsome and around her age. Fucks her like he owns her. She won’t tell him he does. That she’s looking forward to their scheduled appointments. Cleans her room for him, wears clothes bought just for him and is soaking wet in anticipation. Hell, he’s the only client who gets to fuck her raw.

“That’s right,” he purrs, pulling his hand back and leans back against the bed, “Touch yourself for me.”

Daisy puts on a show, pushes her panties down mid thigh and spreads her lips with her fingers, giving him an eyeful of glistening folds. Rubs her pretty little clit in slow circles for him. Makes these breathy, quiet moans as she does it. Gator watches with an unimpressed expression that has Daisy insecure and eager to please. She slaps her pussy and inhales sharply at the way his eyebrows raise, moving to sink her fingers into her warm core. Fucking herself all slow and exaggerated, walls clenching around the digits and the desire to have his cock stretching them starts to get unbearable.

“Taste yourself,” Gator instructs.

She obliges instantly, shoving her fingers in her mouth and humming around them. Gator grins, eyes crinkling and Daisy clambers on top of him. Smashing their lips together desperately, grabbing his face and rocking her hips against him. Gator grabs her ass, squeezes it before delivering a harsh smack to the right cheek as he licks into her mouth. Daisy has a strict no kissing rule, but most of her rules go out the window when it comes to Gator. As much as she despises who he is, she’s overwhelmingly attracted to him. It’s carnal, animalistic the way they make out and rut against each other. Gator gropes her wherever he can, pressing his cock against her dripping cunt and rolling his hips. The most delicious slide, slick coating his shaft as he drags it through her folds. Their muffled moans fill the room as they writhe against each other. Daisy’s so goddamn wet Gator can feel it dripping down to his balls. He grabs her hair and tugs her back, breaking the kiss with strings of salvia still connecting their lips.

“Take that fucking dress off,” Gator demands, “Now.”

Daisy fumbles to pull the hem up and over her head, body exposed to him and his hands take advantage, smoothing down her sides and then back up to unclasp her lacy white bra. She tosses it aside and rolls her hips into him as his hands cup her breasts, thumbs grazing against her pert nipples. Daisy elicits a loud moan and Gator’s pinches her nipple and tugs it.

“Shh,” he scolds, “Don’t want your daddy knowing what an easy slut his little girl is.”

“Fuck,” Daisy gasps, hands moving to grab Gator’s wrist and forearm. His words produce a wave of euphoria laced shame, coating the length of his cock in even more slick. He uses her secret to blackmail her all the time, get dirt on her clients and get free services from her when he gets power hungry.

Gator hums, smirking up at her and says, “Does that make you wet? Screwing for money when daddy’s in the next room? Fuck, you’re such a whore. Picked the perfect profession.”

“Shut up,” she pleads in a moan.

“Ah ah,” Gator purses his lips as he smooths his hand up to wrap around Daisy’s neck, “I know you don’t wanna spend the night behind bars again. Soliciting a deputy and all.” Gator tsks, “Better behave.”

“Yes, sir,” Daisy gasps, feeling light headed with the pressure Gator’s got on her windpipe. Tells herself it’s part of the service, that she isn’t massively turned on by the power Gator truly holds. “I’m sorry, Deputy Tillman… I’ll be a good girl.”

“Music to my ears, darlin,” Gator drawls before giving a squeeze to her throat and letting go.

“How do you want me?” Daisy asks, breathlessly as her fingertips ghost down the swell of his biceps. She ignores the dumb tattoo peeking out of his sleeve.

“Ass up, face in the pillows,” Gator instructs and Daisy moves quick to get into position, thong still draped at her knees. Gator gets up, she can hear him undo his thigh strap and carefully placing it on the dresser before she feels him peel her underwear the rest of the way down. When she feels Gator’s hips pressing the globes of her ass, she knows he’s undressed. The tip of his cock grazes her fluttering hole, causing a whine to raise out of her throat and she pushes her ass back at him, desperate to catch the head of his cock in her hole and sink down on it. But Gator has other plans, grabs handfuls of her ass and spreads her cheeks before jiggling them in his hands. Watches her asshole flex from the motion and he spits on it, moving his thumb to spread his saliva against the hole she doesn’t let any other man touch. Hasn’t told Gator he’s the only man whose fucked her ass.

Gator spits again, uses it as lube to slip his thumb inside her asshole and groans lowly as Daisy’s toes curl.

“That’s it,” he coos, “Such a good little whore for me.”

Daisy keens, grabbing onto the pillows as she pushes her ass back at him. He spanks her with his right hand, so hard she’s sure she’s got an angry, red print of Gator’s large hand on it. Then he’s grabbing the base of his cock, swirling the head of it around Daisy’s clenching, dripping hole. He slips it in, but keeps it shallow. Just the tip.

“C’mon, Daisy,” he says condescendingly, “Fuck that dirty hole on my cock.”

Daisy’s head is swimming with just the tip, the notion that this is work completely vacated her thoughts. This is pure pleasure, all play and no work. Daisy fully believes in this moment that she exists to be used by Gator and God’s a real kind son of a bitch for giving her that purpose. She rolls her hips back, sinking down on Gator’s cock and he gasps. Her eyes are rolling back as he fills her up, all the way down to his tight balls. His cockhead presses into her g-spot so deliciously Daisy cannot hold back the guttural moan punching through her lips. He’s the only client to make her cum, to make sex enjoyable.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he exhales, “Tight little cunt, no matter how many dicks you take.”

His filthy words make both her holes clench around him. Gator wiggles his thumb and then uses the grip he’s got on her to drag her up and down his cock. He’s so thick and she’s squeezing him so tight. Can’t imagine not taking Gator raw. Needs to feel him without the stinky, thin layer of latex.

“Christ,” he moans softly, “Just keep squeezing that dick. You love it so much.”

Daisy fucks back against him, her nipples brushing against the bedspread as her tits sway with the motions. The sensation spreads hotly down her spine. The wet sounds of Gator’s cock sliding in and out of her cunt fill her ears, sprouting goosebumps over her skin as desperation starts to take over her. With each thrust of their hips, their skin meets with a sweaty slap and the tip of his cock brushes against her g-spot. Gator keeps letting out these low grunts, right hand gripping her hip tight enough to leave bruises. All the marks on her skin are left from him.

“So wet,” he chokes behind clenched teeth, “My little whore, all fucking mine.” He slaps her ass, “Yeah? I own this tight fuck hole, don’t I?”

“Yes,” she cries out, the slapping sounds of their skin gaining in tempo as Gator pounds into her relentlessly.

“Say it, bitch,” Gator seethes, moving her hand between her shoulder blades and pushing her harder against the mattress, “Tell me who owns this fucking pussy.”

Daisy turns her head, though her voice is still slightly muffled as she whimpers out, “You own this pussy, Gator owns me…”

“Damn fucking right,” he grunts. And just as he slips his thumb out of her ass to grip her hips, his radio goes off.

“Gator, do you copy?” that static laced voice rings throughout the room but the deputy ignores it, drilling into Daisy at breakneck speed, pushing involuntarily little yelps from her.

“Gator, you there?” Again, the voice comes through. “Gator,” in a singing tune.

“Fucking useless pricks,” he pulls out from Daisy and climbs off the bed. She sighs as she flips onto her back, rubbing her pussy as she watches his plump ass while he walks over to his vest.

“I’m fuckin’ busy,” he says into the radio and drops the vest, turning and grinning from ear to ear as he sees Daisy laid back, running her fingers through her folds as she eyes his hard cock.

“Fuckin’ busy or busy fuckin’?” The voice replies as Gator makes it to the edge of the mattress, stroking his cock while his eyes rake over Daisy’s body. “You with that whore again, ain’t ya, Gator?”

He rolls his eyes and climbs back on the mattress, gets between Daisy’s legs and slaps the head of his cock against her pussy, “Ignore ‘em, they’ll leave us alone.”

Daisy is used to what everyone says about her. Hell, the majority of Stark County Sheriff’s Department has paid for her services. She’d be amiss to ignore the realization that Gator talks about her to them, though.

“You tell ‘em about me?” she giggles, moving her hands up to play with her nipples while Gator drags the tip of his cock through her folds.

“Sure do,” he mumbles, “Tell ‘em you let me fuck your ass for no extra charge.”

“You get a flat fee,” Daisy admits, looking up to see his gelled back hair coming undone, the longer strands flopping out. He’s so frustratingly good looking, can’t help herself to grab his arms and pull his lips to hers. As Gator kisses back, he slips his cock into her hole which makes Daisy moan against his lips. Her legs come up to wrap around his waist and her arms drape around his shoulders.

He grinds into her cunt nice and deep before snapping his hips, head of his cock hitting her cervix in a way that has her body jolting and nails dragging down his back. Tears fill her eyes at the sharp sensation but Gator doesn’t relent, pounding into her pussy with abandon. Daisy has to bite his lip to stifle her cries but the assault makes Gator growl and break the kiss, pulling back and wrapping his fingers around her neck. Not applying too much pressure, but pressing her into the bed while he hammers his hips impossibly faster and harder, face all contorted in frustration and pleasure.

“Ya wanna bite me, bitch?” he grunts out.

Daisy whimpers, eyes rolling back in her head as Gator drills into her. Euphoria radiating all over her body as Gator slams against her g-spot repeatedly, turning Daisy into a drooling, incoherent mess as her voice attempts to apologize. Gator pouts, his thumb stroking her cheekbone as he slows his thrusts.

“Poor girl, make you cockdrunk already?” his voice is just a tad shaky, like he’s struggling not to fuck her into oblivion. “We just barely started, darlin.”

That’s another thing different about Gator as a client, the sex lasts hours. They usually do it more than once. Rest of her clients can barely last five minutes. Daisy wouldn’t complain though. Four hundred bucks for five minutes of laying on her back isn’t bad. Course, Gator gets a discounted price. Half off. It started because she actually enjoyed herself, had a rough time considering it work. Until he would leave, drop the cash on her dresser and not talk to her until he showed up for their next appointment. Gator makes her remember its work.

He drags his fingers down her arms before grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head, leaning down to connect their lips again. Daisy whimpers against it, squeezing her legs tighter around his waist and trying to chase the europhoria she felt just seconds ago. If he hadn’t slowed down she would’ve came. Gator likes to take his time, really drag it out of her. He can’t do anything without making it convoluted and difficult. Which he proves by shoving his cock as deep as it’ll go, their skin flush and then stills his hips. Pants into the kiss, moves his free hand up to squeeze her tit again. Daisy flicks her tongue against his and he wraps his lips around it, sucking on her tongue as he attempts to penetrate her even deeper. Fruitless, his cocks into the hilt, balls pressed against her ass.

The kiss quickly devolves into the pair of them moaning into open mouths, Gator thrusts but barely pulls back. And his cock is so hard and firm, Daisy’s squeezing around it with all she’s worth. Fuck, they’re libel to get stuck like this. Animals in heat. Pleasure swirling around in her stomach, bleeding down to all her nerves. They’re as connected as they’ll ever be, in the most raw and guttural way they can be. She opens her eyes as he pulls back, whimpers when his cock goes with him and she’s left feeling empty. Gator spreads her legs, looks down at her cunt and let’s a line of spit drip from his lips to her pretty, fucked bright pink pussy.

“Think it’s time you earned your money,” he pats her thigh, “Ride me, cowgirl.”

Daisy knows she’s well earned her money as is but she isn’t gonna say no to riding Gator. Gains a bit of her power back in that position. She nods enthusiastically and straddles Gator once he’s on his back, smoothes her hands through his chest hair and grazes her fingertips against his nipples. It earns her an almost pathetic moan from the man and Daisy’s giddy on it. She grinds her slicked up pussy against his hard cock, the slide easy from how soaked he gets her.

“C’mon, now,” he quirks an eyebrow, “Get on that cock and show me what you’re worth.”

Daisy licks her lips, lifts herself up and grabs hold of Gator’s erection, the head easily catches on her hole and she sinks down on him. Her puffy lips fall open as he fills her, a saccharine moan pouring out of her. He hums, eyes locked on where their bodies connect.

Then he directs her, “Slow. Wanna see it all. Need to see your pussy swallowin’ that cock.”

Holding onto his thighs, she leans back and slowly lifts her hips. Up until just the tips inside. She watches Gator’s expressions intently, his brown eyes blown wide with this hazy lust in them. Cheeks flushed and breathing heavily. His lips are swollen from the kisses.

“Take that cock, baby,” he mumbles out, sounding so delightfully dazed.

Baby. The word goes right to her head, makes her stomach fill with butterflies. Daisy complies, sinking back down on it and repeating the languid motions a few more times before she can’t take it anymore. Needs it faster and harder. Gator turns into a bumbling puddle, moaning out as he encourages her, “That’s it, yeah. Fuck yourself on my dick. Oh, yeah…”

“Gator,” she whines out, milking his cock with her tight cunt. Bouncing on his cock, squeezing his thighs for leverage. Her eyebrows pinch together and her mouth hangs open, chasing that burst of ecstasy only Gator can give her.

“Yeah, you filthy little slut,” he seethes, teeth clenched as his eyes dance around from their sexes up to her eyes and down to her tits.

Daisy huffs, moving a hand so she can rub erratic circles against her throbbing clit. Balancing herself on the one hand still plastered on Gator’s thigh. Feels the way her legs burn from exertion but she’s too focused on chasing the orgasm teasing her insides. Rides him like a woman gone mad. Gator’s moans turn breathless and border on whimpering, be it by her cunt quickly working his cock or her animalistic determination to get herself off, it’s doing something to him.

“Really workin’ for it, yeah?” Gator babbles out, “Gonna make yourself cream all over my cock, baby?”

“Feels so fucking good,” she heaves through pants.

“Mmm,” Gator’s hands snake around her hips, his own legs spreading which makes Daisy falter and she lets out a frustrated whine. “Don’t stop,” Gator tells her, fingers digging into her skin.

He begins thrusting up at her, the pair of them relentlessly humping each other. It’s a little sloppy, but the force of Gator’s hips pushes her over the edge. Intense waves of absolute heaven rippling through her, mouth open in a silent scream as she writhes against Gator. Vision gone absolutely white, riding out her orgasm blindly. Gator growls a laugh while he watches, reveling in the way her face scrunches and contorts as her body starts to buzz all over. He’s following close behind, before Daisy’s orgasm even finishes she feels his hot, thick seed filling her and leaking down the sides of his cock. Makes her cry out, body collapsing on top of him as he wraps an arm around her and fucks up into her, emptying all he’s got in her sore, used hole.

“Gator, Gator, Gator,” she chants breathlessly in his ear, tears trailing hotly down her cheeks as the aftershocks of her orgasm have her rolling her hips against him. Imagines he’s her husband. Imagines this is a marital love. That when they’re out in public they don’t hate each other.

He hums, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek before he’s pushing her off of him. Daisy lays on the mattress beside him, panting as she tries to catch her breath. Gator’s panting too, turns on his side and grabs her hip to pull her close. Drapes his arm around her as his lips find hers and they share lazy kisses.

“You let anyone else cum in ya?” he wonders aloud, lips dragging along hers. He hopes not. Can’t be too sure of her answer anyhow. She is a working girl after all. He pays her to be what he wants her to be. He still fantasizes about knocking her up, telling his dad he’s got no choice but to be with Daisy and keep filling her up with babies. She’s on birth control though, has that chip in her arm he hates so much.

“Gator,” she sighs as she presses her hand to his jaw and kisses him softly, “You’re the only one I let fuck me raw. Therefore… you’re the only man who's nut in me.”

He cringes, “Don’t talk like that. S’not ladylike.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m not much of a lady,” she kisses him again, can’t stop kissing him.

#gator #gator tillman smut #gator tillman #gator tillman x oc #gator Tillman x original character #gator tillman fanfiction #gator tillman x original female character #gator tillman fic

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amberskywrites · 5 months ago

Text

Brewing Storms

Fic Masterpost | Ao3 Link

Fandom / Genre: Stardew Valley / Kinda fluff?

Pairing: (Pre)Sebastian/Elliott, Sebastian & Elliott

Prompt: Requested by @cooltuna69 :

My idea is that Sebastian goes to beach on a rainy day but slips and falls in the ocean, and Willy isn't home and his house is way too far away so he has no choice but to ask Elliott for help.

Warnings: Very mild injury, storms, lmk if I need to add anything else!

Summary: Sebastian is on the beach during a rainy day, as he often does, but this storm turns out to be worse than normal. He's forced to take refuge in Elliott's cabin, but really, is that such a bad thing?

Today had already been a pretty shitty day, even though it was raining.

His mom had barged into his room early in the morning no less than seven times, Demetrius had made yet another comment about Sebastian potentially moving out, and Maru had gotten a raise from Harvey which just led to being compared to her even more by both his mom and Demetrius.

This really felt like the last straw, and Sebastian isn’t even entirely sure how it happened.

One moment, he was standing on the docks, smoking a new pack of cigarettes, his umbrella clenched in his other hand doing little to shield him from the onslaught of rain, providing just enough cover to keep his cigarette and face dry. The next moment, he was in the water, being dragged under and was narrowly slammed into the pillars of wood supporting the old docks.

Sebastian grappled until he felt something and yanked himself up, sputtering and coughing when he was able to push his head over the water’s surface, and he just barely managed to secure his hold before another wave tried to push him away again.

He shuddered against the wood he was clinging to, looking around frantically. He was under the docks, kinda. From the looks of it, he had been swept from the pier closest to the Lonely Stone to the pier closer to Willy’s shop.

Bracing himself, Sebastian grit his teeth and pushed himself further above the water’s surface, and just as his head brushed the wood above, he propelled himself back enough to grab at the edge of the dock with both hands.

One slipped and he cursed, feeling the burn as salt water hit the broken skin, but he reached for the wood again, getting a better grip before another wave could push him back under the water or docks again. He pulled himself out and up, using the surging water to at least save some of his energy.

By the time he flopped onto the wet wood, he was panting heavily and his hoodie was seemingly trying to glue him to the docks. He groaned into the paneling below, forcing himself onto hands and knees, and then shakily onto his feet. The wind and rain seemed to get worse—at least it felt worse, maybe because his umbrella had been lost to who knows where—and he hugged himself despite how his clothes were already growing colder and clinging to his skin.

He treaded as quickly as he could to Willy’s shop, slumping against the wall under the overhang. Knocking as hard as he could on the door, he shuddered as the overhang only slightly saved him from the biting wind.

Nothing. Sebastian couldn’t hear much over the wind and crashing waves anyway, but he’s pretty sure he couldn’t hear anyone inside.

Frowning, he knocked again, hopefully louder.

It wasn’t until the third knock did he finally notice the note in the window and groaned.

Closed until Saturday - On fishing trip.

“Just great,” Sebastian muttered, glaring at the little paper before huffing and looking out at the restless water.

Home was too far—at least in this weather without better rain gear. And it was definitely getting worse—the water was sloshing through the wood of the docks occasionally, and Sebastian figured it was only a matter of time before it became a constant submersion. With how soaked he was, he also wasn’t gonna be getting anywhere quickly, that was for sure. Already his clothes were growing heavy, almost like they were trying just as hard as the wind to drag him back into the water.

He’d still have to trek farther than he probably could at the moment to get to the Saloon—and Gus might not even be open at the moment. He usually closed earlier when the weather was this bad.

He thunked his head on the shop wall with a loud huff, glaring up at the water dripping off the roof.

Well. There was one place he could probably manage dragging himself to.

Ten minutes later and no less than three stumbles and two actual near-faceplants into the wet sand and Sebastian found himself in front of Elliott’s cabin. The windows were fogged and blurry from the rain and cold, but he could see a faint light emitting from inside, and so with one hand steadying himself against the wall, Sebastian knocked hard on the wooden door.

Sebastian once again didn’t hear anything and was about to knock again or curse his fate when the door swung open, and Sebastian was suddenly face to face with a frazzled-looking Elliott.

Elliott blinked down at him, his brows furrowing for a moment as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing, but before Sebastian could even open his mouth to say, well, anything really, it seemed the older man got a hold of himself, jolting and reaching for Sebastian.

“What in the name of Yoba are you doing?!” Elliott demanded as he hauled Sebastian inside, the door practically slamming closed behind him. “Are you mad? Weather like this could be considered a death sentence!” Sebastian had to put his hands out to stop himself from barreling into Elliott’s chest, blinking in momentary shock as his brain reoriented itself.

Suddenly he felt even colder than just a few minutes ago, while also feeling like he was burning, it was so warm in the cabin. Sebastian shuddered harshly at the dual temperatures, and the next thing he knew, Elliott was helping him out of his hoodie.

“Sebastian, truly, what happened? I know you are not so foolish as to brave this weather without some protection against the elements.”

With the hoodie alone gone, Sebastian feels hotter but melts into the heat, welcoming it for a change. His shirt, pants, and shoes are still soaked too, but at least he doesn’t feel quite as constricted anymore. He watches Elliott hang his hoodie over a chair to dry and is beckoned to enter the cabin further.

He shucks off his shoes as he answers, wrapping his arms around himself even more. “I was enjoying the rain, having a cigarette, and I guess I didn’t notice the water getting so high, and I think a wave knocked me in?” He doesn’t mean it to sound like a question, but he really isn’t completely sure how he fell into the water. It’s his best guess, though.

Elliott looks him over more critically after that, and the concern in his eyes is almost palpable. “You aren’t hurt, are you?” he asks, though Sebastian doesn’t miss how his eyes linger on his hands, tucked beneath his arms and out of sight.

Sebastian cringes and holds out the injured hand, getting a look at it himself for the first time. Elliott approaches and takes it into his own, and Sebastian is surprised by how large Elliott’s hands are, even more so by the callouses that scratch lightly against his skin as Elliott tilts his hand around, examining it closely.

It’s not a bad wound, but the skin broke deep enough that it was clearly bleeding at some point, and when Elliott traces a finger over it gently Sebastian hisses.

Elliott looks him head to toe and back up, tilting his head down at Sebastian before looking around his cabin.

“You’re still quite cold,” he observes. “If you’re comfortable, I may have some spare clothes that would fit you, if you wish to get into something dry. I can look for my first aid kit in the meantime.”

“Dry clothes sound great now, actually,” Sebastian nodded, and Elliott smiled slightly at him before walking to his dresser to pull whatever he had in mind out.

The next few minutes passed in relative quiet, and when Sebastian was done changing and Elliott nudged him towards his bed to sit, the silence between them was more comfortable than Sebastian thought it would be. Elliott worked diligently to disinfect Sebastian’s scrape, and Sebastian watched him work.

It gave him time to think.

He was quite comfortable, actually, despite the burn of the alcohol on his palm. Elliott had handed him a maroon knitted sweater and some sweats that, while pretty large on Sebastian, were easily adjustable—Sebastian was just stunned that Elliott, who he had never seen in anything besides a suit or nice dress shirts, even owned. The cabin itself was small, and the storm was still raging outside, but it was quite cozy, lanterns and candles creating a yellow and orange haze.

It wasn’t terrible either, Sebastian mused, that he’d been getting to know Elliott a bit more before this.

Really, it had been Sam’s fault. Sam had wanted to get to know the farmer more, and the farmer hung around Leah and Elliott most of the time at the saloon, though Leah hadn’t been coming lately according to Elliott. Sam didn’t want to just approach alone though, and with Abigail grounded at home, it fell on Sebastian to be there for him. It was the first time in a long while that Sebastian had seen his best friend so nervous to get to know someone, which he’d refuse to admit aided in Sebastian being less grudging to hang out with the farmer and Elliott for the night. He had bit back his teasing of Sam, if only because Sam seemed genuinely really invested.

Sebastian was not expecting to actually really enjoy spending time with the farmer and Elliott—or rather, mostly just Elliott since Sam hoarded much of the farmer’s time.

They’d gotten to talking about their careers, and Sebastian had been surprised by just how much their jobs made them alike. How much they liked doing what they did.

Elliott had been fascinated to learn that Sebastian was a programmer, and asked dozens of questions, and Sebastian… Sebastian had never had more fun talking with someone.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved hanging out with his friends, but there were some things they just didn’t quite get. Really, Sebastian hadn’t really found anyone who understood what he did for work, or why he did it.

He was surprised by just how much of it Elliott understood.

Sebastian was even more surprised by how much he liked hearing Elliott talk.

He enjoyed hearing about the progress of his novel, the way he spoke about the structure of plots or character arcs or world building reminded him much of how he had to program things sometimes. And the creativity itself… Sebastian really enjoyed when Elliott would bounce ideas off him, because each scenario was often more unique than the last.

And then it happened again and again. Either he, Sam, and Abigail would join Elliott, the farmer, and sometimes Leah at their table, or they’d wander over to the saloon’s side room and join them on the arcade games or in a round of pool. And it wasn’t until once he was in bed that Sebastian realized he spent so much of the time talking to Elliott, and just Elliott.

“Something on your mind?” Sebastian was brought out of his thoughts by Elliott’s voice, and blinked down at his bandaged hand.

“Nothing important, really,” he lied easily—he would not admit he was coming to some conclusions about some new feelings for the man sitting right beside him, not right now. “This just got me thinking, what were you doing before I crashed in here?”

Elliott tilted his head, studying Sebastian’s face. Sebastian could feel his ears heating up under the scrutiny this close, and hoped his damp hair was enough to hide the blush. Whatever Elliott was looking for, Sebastian wasn’t sure if he found, but the writer shrugged and turned away, settling more comfortably onto his bed beside Sebastian.

“I was working on my novel,” he said with a sigh.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. That was a decidedly not a happy sigh. “Something wrong?”

“I’ve been stuck for the past week!” Elliott exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and slumping back to the cabin wall. “I don’t know, the words are just not coming. Every time I try and reorient the story, it’s like the characters are demanding to go into a different direction, into a different story.”

If it weren’t such an undignified term for such an expression, Sebastian would have said Elliott was pouting. It was almost surreal, to see him this disheveled and frustrated.

He shook his head, thinking back. Elliott was trying to write a romance, last Sebastian was told—and it had been going quite well, according to last week’s little talk. At least that’s what Sebastian had assumed, after seeing how enthusiastic Elliott had been to talk about it. He’d finished plotting everything out, finally figured out an ending, and seemed quite happy with what he had come up with.

What could have changed?

“What kind of direction are the characters trying to take it?” Sebastian asked, settling more into Elliott’s bed as well, pulling his feet up and leaning against the wall. “Like. Was there a tone change somewhere?”

Sebastian dealt with that a lot, when playing Solarian Chronicles with Sam and Abigail. The game would shift in tone depending on the day or what they were focusing on, and Sebastian would have to adapt the story to fit the tone. And it was infinitely easier to go along with the change rather than trying to force things to remain as planned.

“Well, I don’t know, I keep writing the characters speaking cryptically, or observing things that seem at first glance fine but when I reread, it seems ominous or strange because I’m dragging attention to it. But I want those details included as well.” He sighed, heavier this time than before. “Maybe it’s the books I’ve been reading…”

He said it in a murmur, but Sebastian still caught it, and it was his turn to tilt his head at Elliott, brows furrowing slightly.

“What kind of books have you been reading?”

Sebastian was treated to the pretty picture Elliott made when he blushed—and he would shove those thoughts away later, when he was safely tucked into his own bed and not thinking about today, thank you, but for now, he just enjoyed the flush that crossed over Elliott’s tan skin. The man seemed embarrassed over the genre at first, and Sebastian couldn’t imagine why, unless he was reading erotica or something, but Sebastian highly doubted that would lead to him writing cryptic dialog and ominous details.

Well, Sebastian thought, briefly remembering the few times he’d explored that genre himself and ended up being thoroughly creeped out, those aren’t the intended implications.

Elliott cleared his throat. “Um, actually, after you mentioned last week enjoying the mystery and thriller genres, I decided to pick up a few of your recommendations. Since then, I suppose I couldn’t get it out of my head about trying my hand in the genre myself.”

It took a second for Sebastian to realize what Elliott had said at first—the fact that he remembered what Sebastian liked reading, the fact that he found and read those books as well, sent a happy flush through Sebastian’s entire being, as cheesy as it may seem. And then the last part of his statement hit, he wanted to try writing a mystery or thriller because of him—indirectly most likely, but still.

Again, not the time to evaluate how that made him feel.

“How far are you in the book?” Sebastian asked.

“Not as far as I’d like, I’m afraid,” Elliott practically grumped.

“Well, why not turn it into a mystery or thriller?” When Elliott just raised a questioning brow at him, Sebastian smiled slightly, turning more towards Elliott. “We got into it last week, right, debating which genre was better? Romance and horror edge a fine line, just shift the tone a little, and a romance can be turned into a horror story or a horror turned into a rom-com.”

Elliott blinked at him, and for a moment, the wind roaring outside was the only thing that filled the air.

Then Elliott was leaping to his feet, Sebastian barely moving out of the way in time as Elliott spun around and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him ever so slightly.

“My dear Sebastian, you are a genius!”

Sebastian watched the man dart to his writing desk, scooping up his phone, the notebook, and pens scattered across it. Elliott dashed back to the bed, and wordlessly the two got comfortable leaning against the wall, a respectable distance between them. Elliott passed him the phone and spread the notebook out on his lap, flipping to a blank page.

After texting his mom with Elliott’s phone — letting her know where he was, and that he’d likely only be able to get home in the morning — Sebastian shifted just a little closer to Elliott, enough where he could feel Elliott beside him even if he closed his eyes, and settled in to watch Elliott work through his writing process.

#amberskywrites #stardew valley #elliott x sebastian #elliott & sebastian #sebastian x elliott #sdv elliott #sdv sebastian #sdv #sdv fanfic #sdv fic #fanfiction #fanfic #amber's fic #request #fic request #stardew valley elliott #stardew valley sebastian #(ask to tag)

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mattzerella-sticks · 8 months ago

Text

if it cannot hatch from its shell, the chick will die without ever truly being born. (ao3 link)

Rated: T

Word count: 2,324

Pairing: Buck/Eddie (pre-relationship)

It's missing-Christopher-Diaz-hours at the Diaz House, party of one. Until Buck crashes his pity party with a little gift to help turn Eddie's night around for the better. Now stoned, Eddie convinces Buck to watch a television show with him that Eddie hasn't seen in years. The show dredges up old feelings for Eddie. He and Buck talk them out.

Eddie’s pushing dinner around when he receives Buck’s text asking to hang out. He answers immediately. No. Without further explanation or any uncertainty. That doesn’t stop Buck from following up, telling Eddie he’s already outside.

“Dammit, Buck…”

He throws his fork against the plate. Its clatter overpowers the scrape his chair makes as he stands and stomps towards the front door. Buck waits for him there. Phone in one hand, brown paper bag in the other.

Buck squints down at Eddie, a sheepish grin creeping across his face. “Hey, Eddie…”

“I’m not in the mood, Buck.”

“I know but… give me a minute. And – and if you still aren’t, I’ll leave.”

Eddie should turn Buck away. Return to his unappetizing, freezer-burned microwaveable meal puddling on his table and wallow, alone, like he had planned for the rest of his evening. But then Buck bat his eyelashes at Eddie. He bats them twice. Three times, and Eddie surrenders.

“Fine.” Eddie steps aside so Buck can squeeze past. “You have one minute. Starting… now.”

Buck guides Eddie into the living room wasting his allotted time to set him onto the couch before speaking. He reaches inside the brown paper bag and produces a large, shrink-wrapped, chocolate-chip cookie. Eddie spots the dessert’s label. He recognizes the tiny seven-tipped leaf printed on it.

“Is that –“?

“Figured you’d prefer this over a brownie,” he says. “Since the last time I brought brownies over was… not our most pleasant conversation.”

Eddie’s gaze drifts from the cookie to Buck. He looks all too eager for Eddie to lunge at the opportunity like a fish with bait, though his appearance is also suffused with poorly masked worry that he, perhaps, miscalculated. That Eddie would still deny him, send him away.

The idea is tempting. So is the cookie. He weighs both options in his mind as the minute he gave Buck runs out into overtime.

Buck squirms underneath his scrutiny. “So? Are you in?”

His answer was inevitable in the end. He sighs. Reaches out to Buck and, crooking his fingers, Eddie says, “Hand it over.”

They split the cookie between them. Each cookie half is about five milligrams. Eddie nibbles on his treat to wade into his high. The warm, tingling numbness starts at his ankles, climbs his shins, his knees, rising higher and higher until it reaches his head and then he’s fully submerged, floating in a gooey, imagined embrace. That happens around the thirty-minute mark.

Buck, the lightweight, was giddy after his first bite. His only bite.

“What the hell did we just watch, Eds?” He’s laughing. His fingers lazily ghost the hairs at Eddie’s nape as he speaks. “Seriously? I know we’re stoned but that felt like an acid trip.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at him. “No it didn’t.”

“Did too.”

“Shut up.”

The credits end and the video skips onto the next in the playlist; the second episode begins despite Buck’s giggled, stilted review of the first drowning it out.

Eddie pauses the video. “Are you gonna watch the show, or do you want to keep talking over it?”

Buck’s lips twitch and tremble against his smile while he schools his features into a heavy caricature of seriousness to apologize. Laughter hiccups from him regardless and, though he tries clearing his throat to hide it, Eddie notices. “Sorry, sorry,” he repeats. “I just… I’m still trying to wrap my head around what we saw.”

“What are you hung up on?”

“…Everything?”

“Buck…”

“Okay, okay – I guess the whole… dueling thing threw me. Where did the arena come from? The upside-down castle?”

“They’re just there.”

“And everyone’s cool with fighting there? With swords?”

“They have to. It’s part of the Contest for the Rose Bride.”

“That’s another thing! How is everyone so cool with a contest where the winner practically ‘owns’ this poor girl? I mean, even those other kids saw how badly that green-haired douche was treating her, and they let it happen because ‘he won’. What was that?”

Eddie sighs. “It sucks, but those are the rules. Whoever’s engaged to the Rose Bride can do what they want, and in return – at the right time – the Rose Bride will grant her betrothed the power to revolutionize the world.” Buck almost protests but Eddie cuts him off. “This was only the first episode. If we keep watching, they get into it – deconstruct it a bit, by way of the main character.”

“Is the sword the power they’re all fighting for?”

“No, the sword’s just a sword.”

“That happens to live inside a girl?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are they all fighting for?”

“Buck!”

Buck pouts at Eddie. It curbs the frustration bubbling beneath his surface, that threatened to kill his buzz. Eddie breathes deep and releases his jittery tension in a long exhale. Finished, he sags deeper into the couch as he casts a dull, half-lidded stare across where Buck had fully sprawled atop its cushions and the nearby coffee table.

“Do you want me to put something else on?” he asks. “Because if you’re not interested, I can.”

“No, no. I’m interested. I wouldn’t be asking this many questions if I wasn’t interested.”

“Promise?”

He nods. “Yeah, you can start it up again. I’ll stay quiet.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Eddie presses play, the screen unfreezes, and the episode continues.

Eddie has been watching Buck rather than the show for the past few minutes, more interested in how the television’s fuzzy glow softens the edges of Buck’s rapt attraction to the story. He looks younger in its light. Stubble hidden; eyes wider. Eddie could tell him to close his mouth, to keep bugs from flying inside it, but he can’t navigate his thoughts around the roadblock that is Buck’s adorableness to form a coherent sentence let alone gather the strength and shatter the enchanting silence by speaking.

True to his word, Buck hadn’t made a peep during the entire episode. Why must Eddie?

Why must Eddie look at Buck and, without meaning to, ask, “You really like it?”

Buck holds a finger to shush him, his eyes trained on the screen. Eddie fumbles for the remote and stops it midway through the obligatory dueling scene.

“Eddie!”

“You like it?”

Buck meets his gaze and blinks. “Uh,” he runs his tongue over his top lip, his bottom lip, his top lip again. “Yeah. I thought I told you that I was…”

“Interested? I know,” Eddie shrugs. “You could’ve been saying it to say it, though.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

Eddie realizes it’s the worst thing to have said because now Buck has forgotten the show and misplaced all his attention onto Eddie. Half his face is lost in shadow. The half Eddie can see he doesn’t like. The softness is tinged with sorrow, his parted lips turned down, and Buck’s eye had sharpened to better pierce him. Like it might probe all Eddie’s memories, every moment he shared an interest, let someone in, every attempt which ended in failure as they thought it, thought him, too weird to make an effort, until he stopped sharing those parts of himself, with one, mighty jab.

Not that it was remotely possible Buck could know all that from a single look...

…Right?

“Eddie,” Buck says. “I’d never lie to you about liking something. If I did, you’d still be a lousy cook.”

“Oh. Right.”

He’s not sure how to proceed, so Eddie decides his most prudent course of action is to pretend this hadn’t happened and resume watching the show. Except the remote had somehow ended up in Buck’s hands. Dammit.

“Does this show really mean a lot to you?”

“A lot?” Eddie doesn’t remember communicating ever being this hard. Was it the weed, or the conversation topic? His tongue sits awkwardly inside his mouth as he talks. “I like it, yeah. Have ever since I was a kid.”

“You watched this as a kid?”

“It was one of my favorite shows,” he says. “I… watched a lot of anime growing up.”

“You like anime? How do I not know this about you?”

“You like anime?” Eddie parrots Buck’s question back at him instead of answering.

“I… didn’t watch much television as a kid,” Buck admits. “My folks thought most cartoons airing back then would only make me dumber, so they limited what I watched. But I remember seeing a few episodes of Dragon Ball Z, when I’d hang out at a friend’s house sometimes.”

“I watched that. I wasn’t as obsessed with it like all the other kids at school were.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know… it just felt long. And there was a lot of fighting.”

“There’s fighting in this.”

“Yeah, there is.”

“What about this show’s different?”

Eddie looks at the screen, at where Utena is locked in battle with Saionji during their rematch. Utena winces while Saionji bears down on her. As he studies the screen Eddie reflects on why he’s so fond of this anime over so many that he’s seen. When he reaches a conclusion, he glances back at Buck, finds him waiting, and chooses to share.

“I guess I liked the main girl’s whole deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s this girl. And everyone has expectations about how she’s supposed to act, like they’re trying to box her in. Yet she doesn’t stand for any of that crap. She looks the world in the eye and says, ‘this is who I am. I won’t stop being who I am because it makes you uncomfortable’. It’s… it was inspiring, back then.” For a boy who always felt like the shoes he wore were bigger than they were supposed to be. Who was boxed in by the world from the very beginning, but who couldn’t stand as tall as her. Who can’t.

“I’d say it’s pretty inspiring now, too,” Buck whispers.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

Buck taps the remote against his thigh arrhythmically. “So you saw a lot of yourself in Utena?”

A prickling warmth creeps up Eddie’s face. “I guess.”

“Cool.”

He holds the remote out for Eddie to take.

Eddie grabs it, but he doesn’t press play yet. He’s on the right side of being stoned that this next admission wouldn’t hurt like it should. Eddie can talk about it like he would the weather or how the Lakers played in their last game. He doesn’t waste the opportunity. “I wanted to watch this with Christopher.”

“You – you did?”

Buck recognizes the gravity imbued within his speech, even in his inebriated state, and pulls closer to Eddie’s orbit to listen.

“Yeah.” And Eddie’s glad Buck is here, that he brought the weed-infused cookie. “I wanted to share it with him, show him a part of my childhood.”

“What were you waiting for?”

“For him to get older,” Eddie chuckles. “But I guess I waited a little too long, huh?”

“There’ll still be time, Eds.”

The most wonderful thing is that Eddie can watch the twinkle in Buck’s eye as he says that, and knows he means it from the very core of his being. Makes Eddie briefly believe it himself.

“Yeah. Yeah, there will be.”

They resumed the episode. At the end, as the credits began to roll, and a vocalist sang the closing theme in a language neither understood as the dub declined including subtitles for the music, Buck asks Eddie who he thinks Buck is like in this fantastical world, if Eddie is Utena. “Am I the friend? Waka – something?”

Wakaba? Eddie does not think so. She always reminded him of Shannon.

But Buck… “You’re more like Anthy.”

“Anthy?” Buck blinks at him. “You mean the girl everyone’s fighting over?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Eddie cannot parse through the vast number of reasons swirlimg around his fogged mind, so he shrugs and cops out by telling Buck, “If you watched the show, it’d be obvious.”

“I am! It’s not my fault we’re only on episode two!”

“Then we need to watch more.”

Buck groans, but he’s also flashing Eddie that special, private smile he has whenever they’re alone together that leaves him breathless. He blames it, and the resultant oxygen deprivation, on what he does next.

Eddie lays his hand flat over Buck’s heart. It thump-thump-thumps beneath Eddie’s palm at a slow, deliberate pace.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to pull a sword from your chest.”

Except that’s not quite true. As his one hand rests there, both men wholly consumed by the comfort in their contact, Eddie’s other hand slithers towards Buck’s neck and scrapes its blunt nails across a patch of skin forcing Buck to yelp, jump, and draw his shoulders high as he could to shield himself from another strike.

“Did you just tickle me?”

Eddie’s laughing. He gloats, “Yeah. I did.”

“Oh. Oh, it’s on.”

They miss the entirety of the third episode because of their tickle war. Eddie’s body aches worse than after suffering through Gerard’s tortuous drills he forces on them ever since returning to lord over the 118, and while he might have been tossed onto the floor by Buck’s long, flailing legs sweeping him off the couch, Eddie does not care. He feels too much like a kid to care about those sorts of things.

Not the kid he was. The kid he never got to be.

Eddie stares up at Buck, his back groaning in protest, chest heaving with every breath, face flushed and sweaty, and thanks him. “For tonight.”

Buck nods. “Thank you. For this.”

He must mean the show, for letting Buck view a part of himself Eddie hadn’t revealed in years, trusting him with this knowledge… because any other reason Eddie might suspect has to be imagined, brought on by the drugs roiling inside.

Buck helps Eddie back onto the couch and once they have made themselves comfortable, pressed against each other, not an inch of space between them, the two boys restart the episode.

#9-1-1 on abc #911 abc #911 on abc #911 fanfic #911 fanfiction #eddie diaz #evan 'buck' buckley #buck x eddie #buddie #buddie fanfic #pre-relationship #recreational drug use #post-s7 finale

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 1 year ago

Text

Lovers & Friends (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Keigo Takami x Black!Fem!Reader (Friends to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which you and Keigo have begun to realize the strange new feelings you both have for each other after one drunken night at a close friend’s wedding that ends with you in his bed, but because of your longtime friendship and committed relationships with other people, you’re more than happy to forget that night even happened and keep your mutual feelings in the dark…for now, at least.

Story Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GET AWAY); Cheating/Infidelity; Mating; Light Degradation; Spanking; Exhibitionism; Multiple Positions; Creampie; Unprotected PIV Sex; Facial; Scent Play; Marking; Spitting; Deepthroating; Cunnilingus; Begging; Edgeplay; Power Play; Wing-Stroking; Daddy Kink; Some Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Mild Violence

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Bonus Chapter.

Read on AO3 here!

***********

Chapter Eighteen: Heated.

When the limo stops, it parks right outside a charming club venue where you can already hear the music thumping from outside the doors.

You stare at the building like it’s the gate to Hell.

Though you pre-gamed in the limo ride with Rumi, Yu, and Nemuri, taking shots of champagne and singing along to the radio with them, you don’t feel the alcohol’s liquid confidence taking over yet.

All you feel is dread as you face the club venue, just a step away from Keigo’s face. Beside the glass doors to the venue is a red velvet rope holding dozens of guests and those who just want a piece of the celebrity life who will no doubt be thrown out by security.

Nemuri and Yu walk up to the guard who checks for their names on an iPad. He then smiles and opens the door for them to which they walk, hand in hand. Meanwhile, you stand outside with Rumi, your feet frozen to the ground.

Rumi whistles at the music choices and the guests waiting patiently to be let in. “Damn, he really did it up this time,” she giggles. “Well, come on so I can see you two kiss.” She gives you a teasing smile as she walks towards the guard, but upon noticing that you’re not following her, she turns around.

“Uh, in a minute,” you reply, giving her a reassuring smile. “Lemme just fix my makeup and I’ll be right in.”

It’s a bullshit lie, but it gets Rumi to leave you anyway. Other than spending the ride taking champagne shots to ease your nerves, you were busy primping yourself for Keigo, either putting on an extra slick of lipgloss or fishing a gummy piece of mascara from your lash line. You were also trying to come up with a good way to talk to him and get him alone:

“Hey, Keigo, can we talk real quick? I know things are awkward between us and I don’t want them to be.”

“Can we go somewhere more private? I just really need to talk to you. I’m sorry about earlier…”

“Rei and I aren't together anymore. You were right about him and I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

“You’ve been a great friend to me, but I don’t want to be friends anymore. So, if you wanna get something eat sometime or go see a movie…”

“Well, are you just gonna stand out here or go in and talk to him?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of a voice that isn’t your internal one at all. You were so lost in your thoughts and anxiety that you forgot you were standing outside in your Gala gown, looking crazy. The voice that interrupted you is deep, raspy, and undeniably familiar to you. It’s one you immediately put a face to.

You turn around, finding your old friend leaning against a sleek, black car parked a little ways away from the prying eyes of the guests. His burned hand works to light himself a cigarette, his thumb flicking the lighter and causing a tiny spark of a flame to ignite. He puts it up to his mouth and burns the end of the cig until it turns a bright red like a firefly in the night. “Dabi?” you gasp.

His icy blue eyes stare into yours across the way, his clothes and leather jacket as black as night. “The only and only,” he chuckles.

He turns fully toward you, opening his arms for you. “So you gonna give me a hug or what?” You stagger forward in your heels until you find the urge to run toward him.

So you do. You run in your heels to your friend and nearly tackle him into the street. He chuckles at your reaction to his presence and wraps his arms around you. As soon as you feel his embrace and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes, you begin to softly cry into his chest.

It feels so good to see him, to feel him. It’s difficult to describe, but it's almost like an ache that only grows the longer you hold him because you know in time you’ll have to let go again.

When you finally pull away, your eyes are wet and your mascara is suffering. Dab pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and hands it to you. “What’s poppin’?” he asks in his raspy voice, smirking down at you.

You take the handkerchief from him and dab at your eyes. “You’re lucky I haven’t seen you in months or I’d smack you for saying that,” you sniffle, earning another throaty laugh from him. “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

Dabi takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke away from you into the night air. “I’m guessing the bird man didn’t fill you in,” he says, raising an eyebrow. You blink at him, confused, and he sighs. “I figured not. The court found me not guilty of causing that prison riot, so I got my perks back. This is my outing for the month and I’m spendin’ it trying to get my two idiot friends to stop actin’ like they’re not crazy about each other.”

He gives you an intense, knowing stare that has your stomach flipping with fear. You sigh, done drying your eyes. “So he told you?” you mutter.

Dabi snorts at your reaction though all you wish to do right now is die. “He tells me everything, doll,” he chuckles. “You know that. Do you really think he wouldn’t?” He takes another drag, instead blowing the smoke out of his nostrils. “So you weren't gonna tell me you guys fucked?”

You shove at his chest hard, glaring at his brashness. “Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. “And I wasn’t gonna tell anyone. I was more than happy to take this to my grave and act like it never happened.” Dabi chortles at your reasoning, shaking his head. “Well, you can act like it all you want, but you know that your body remembers all too well.”

And God, does it. Your shoulders slump defeatedly and you sigh. You were fooling yourself thinking you could hide this or that Keigo wouldn’t say anything to your friends. You can’t be mad at him for that. You turn to one of your very best friends now, wanting to shift the conversation. “So how have you been?”

But Dabi isn’t having it. He takes a short drag of his cigarette before dropping it and crushing it beneath his sneakers. “I’m not interested in talkin’ about me right now, doll,” he sternly says, the smoke billowing from his mouth. “I’m way more interested in discussing you right now.”

He nods at the empty space beside you. “So where’s your man? He sped off and left you here?”

You quietly whimper to yourself in defeat, knowing that he’s not going to let this go. “We’re done,” you confess. “I realized he wasn't the one for me.” Dabi quirks an eyebrow of interest at your confession. “And you think Keigo is?” he questions.

His question renders you speechless. Your brain can’t seem to come up with a good answer. If you are to say yes, then he’d probably ask you why you think you’re so sure now. But if you say no, he’ll either call you on your bullshit or ask you why. You stare down at your heels, your heart pounding. “I-I don’t know,” you weakly admit.

"So what are you doin’ here then?” he pushes. “It can’t be to just shoot the shit with a bunch of people you don’t know.”

“Dabi, you know that’s BS,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Most of the people Hawks knows, I know. And what’s it to you why I’m here? A party is a party.” You can feel him staring at you regardless of whether you look at him or not.

You heavily sigh, throwing in the towel and looking up into his cool, blue eyes. “I’m just thinking, okay?” you huff. “It’s not that easy to talk to him about this. Things have been so complicated between us and tonight was pretty heated.”

You cringe inwardly at the horrible things you said and how hurt Keigo looked. “You tell him to jump off a bridge or somethin’?” Dabi asks, squinting at you. “Is that why he looked like he just saw his entire life crumble before his eyes tonight?”

That makes you feel even worse. “I might as well have,” you sigh. “Just know it was bad.” Dabi tilts his head slightly to look at you from another angle, sizing you up. “Bad enough to not face him and tell him how you feel?” he questions.

That’s when you break. The tears begin to fall, your makeup be damned, and all of your emotions fall flat out in front of your friend. “I just can’t, Dabi!” you sob. “There’s so much at stake here! Our friendship with each other, our friendship with you and Rumi, our careers, our–“

He stops you by placing a finger against your lips, his glare intense and intimidating.

“Shut up,” he demands. “You’re bein’ a fuckin’ idiot right now, and I can call you that ‘cause I’m your friend and I have a good reason to do so. You’re tellin’ me that you’re going to let your friend, someone who’s had your back for years and has held you down, go just because of one single night? You and I both know that’s the bullshit, Y/N.”

His stare is hard and knowing as if he can see every single layer of you as you stand out on the street. You can't even speak, too floored by his words.

“If you don’t wanna acknowledge how you feel for him, fine, but what you’re not gonna do is walk away and act like he doesn't exist when the man has already been through enough shit in his life. You know we’re his everything, Y/N.”

In his eyes, you see nothing but a fierce love for Keigo and for you. A love that made him use his free day to come here and fix your relationship.

You look down at your feet, harshly biting your lip. “So what I’m gonna suggest to you is that you take a shot of the bottle Rumi gave you, go in there, put on your big girl panties, and tell Keigo just exactly what you need to before you lose him,” Dabi sternly continues. “‘Cause you will lose him, doll. Keigo loves you, but not enough to stick around.”

“I know,” you sob, covering your face. “Dammit, I know!” You can’t stop the sobs that slip past your lips as all of your guilt and hurt overflows, covering you.

You then feel Dabi’s arms around you again, filling your nose with the scent of cologne and cigarette smoke. You press your face into his chest, fisting his shirt. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whimper. “I’m such a fuck-up.”

“We are all, doll,” he chuckles. “You ain’t special.” His large, burned hand begins to stroke the back of your head, calming you. “Plus, I need you to do this for me ‘cause I made a bet with Rumi on if you guys would get together or not.”

You immediately stop crying and shove him away from you. “You what?!” you gasp, shocked and irked.

Dabi shoves his hands in his pockets, not even looking the least bit guilty. “Well, first we made a bet on whether or not you two would fuck,” he explains. “She won. But now we’re betting on if you two will finally get together. She thinks no, I think yes. If I win, I got $50 on my commissary.” He shrugs, a lazy smirk on his face.

You gape at him, almost not believing how horrible your friends can be. He’s really deadass right now. “Oh, my God,” you groan. “You guys are assholes.”

“But you love us,” he replies, giving you a shit-eating grin. "So you gonna go in or what?” He nods at the club venue expectantly. You look too, picturing Keigo inside, being a good host, and dancing the night away. You want to join him. You want to be by his side.

You turn back to Dabi, poking him in the chest. “You were never the best at giving good advice,” you sigh, “but you’ve somehow given me confidence. How do you do it, Dabi Todoroki?” The white-haired man shrugs his shoulders, a twinkle in his eye. “Guess that’s just my charm.”

And so you take his advice and take a swig of the champagne bottle before handing it to him. “So where are you off to now?” you curiously ask.

He pauses to take a swig before licking the access liquid off of his upper lip. “‘Bout to go in here and watch this soap opera shit go down,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve got about twenty minutes left of freedom. Might as well enjoy it.”

He then walks you back to the club where the guard checks for your names. He doesn’t look all that hype to let Dabi inside, but he does nonetheless. As soon as you hear the blast of the music and see the warm, red glow of the strobe lights above, you feel your stomach fall into your ass. Your anxiety has returned, leaving you heaving as you stand at the threshold of the door.

But Dabi’s hand, finding yours, gives you comfort. “Can’t back out now, doll,” he whispers to you. And so, you don’t. Swallowing hard, you walk into the club with Dabi trailing behind you, a picture of comfort and strength.

The club is decorated with dozens of lounging areas, two bars, and a disco ball hanging from the ceiling that shines upon the guests down below. The music is bumping and the drinks are flowing as well as the weed smoke that wafts through the air.

You spot Rumi chatting up a couple of heroes immediately, a drink in her hand and her ears twitching from the music. “There’s Rumi over there,” you tell Dabi, nodding at the bunny hero. But as soon as you see her, you also see Keigo.

He appears from a throng of people that part way for him like clouds parting for a ray of sun. And a ray of sun he is––his eyes and smile radiate like the brightest stars in the sky in the dimly lit club, rendering you speechless. The entire room disappears when he enters, everyone else falling away into nothingness. You see no one but him. He is all that matters.

Dabi notices how you’ve frozen in place, already having taken a pre-rolled blunt out of his pocket and lighting it. “Need a drag to help you out?” he asks, offering you the blunt.

Though you tremble and feel your heart shake, you decline the offer, especially after having already drunk. “No,” you exhale. “I’ve got this.” You pass the bottle you’re holding to Dabi and give him a reassuring smile to which he returns with an encouraging wink. Go get ‘em.

And so you do. You walk over to Keigo who is still making his rounds, smiling and laughing with everyone, making them feel welcome. You feel as if you’re moving underwater, the tide rough and making you move slower than you realize.

But Keigo is like the warm sun rippling across the water, guiding you toward the light. Anyone he touches or talks to seems to react to his warm energy and beaming smile, laughing at his jokes or telling him about how amazing his party is. Your brain scrambles for something to say to him once you finally make it to him, your mouth dry and tongue heavy.

“Hey, Hawks!” an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice suddenly giggles. You and Keigo both look to the far side where two unfamiliar women in mini-dresses sit, excitedly waving Keigo over. Keigo walks over, his friendly, Colgate smile still plastered on his face. You stop in your tracks, standing frozen as you watch him waltz over to his guests.

You’re close enough where you can hear them talk, but not enough where they can see you. “Hey, ladies,” he says. “You two havin’ a good time?”

One of the girls, with long black hair down to her back and a mole on her chin, smirks up at him. “Mmm, now we are,” she purrs. Her friend, a redhead with fluffy cat ears and a tail swishing behind her, stands up with her drink and grabs his arm. “You’re back! Now you can give us that dance you promised.”

Keigo goes to protest, but the girls whine and pout, both taking him by the arm. “Come oooon, you promised us,” the redhead whines.

“Just one dance, Hawks,” the black-haired woman says, that seductive smirk still on her face. “Let’s see how you move those sexy ass wings.”

Keigo looks like he wants to say no and maybe toss in an excuse, but then his eyes trail across the room to meet yours. Your brain turns to fuzz and your body freezes like you’ve been hypnotized into doing so. He stares at you for a good couple of seconds that feel like hours to you, his golden eyes burning a hole in you.

Then he turns to the girls and smiles at them before letting them lead him to the dance floor. You watch, your mouth slightly agape and feeling stupid for not taking that drag of Dabi’s blunt when he offered.

Keigo stands in between the two girls as they dance on either side of him, one taking the front while the other grinds into him from the back. You watch, anger slowly creeping inside of you at the sight of their hands on his hips and the redhead’s ass grinding into his groin.

As if drawn to you alone, his eyes come back to yours, scaling over every other person nearest to him. Then you realize it: he’s trying to make you jealous. But two can play at that game.

Immediately, you begin scouting for your own conquest and find him standing by the bar with his friends. He is tall, handsome, and sporting tattoos. Perfect.

You strut over to him, titties bouncing and feeling like the sexiest woman alive, especially knowing that Keigo is watching. “Hey,” you call, gaining the stranger’s attention, especially after he gets a look at you. His friends stop dead in their tracks too, staring at you in awe.

“You wanna dance?” You give him a small, sexy smile as if a dance isn’t all you want. “With you?” he chuckles. “Hell yes.”

You grin and take his hand in yours, dragging him over to the dance floor. You stand across the floor from Keigo, only a couple of bodies separating you. You face away from Keigo as you begin to dance with the stranger, not touching at first. You only stand in close proximity to each other, moving in tandem with one another. It is fun and he can keep up, moving his body closer and closer to yours.

Finally, his big hands grab your hips and you let him, hoping Keigo sees. Against your better judgment, you turn your head as if flipping your hair and peer over at your friend in the corner of your eye.

There, you see Keigo slide his hands around the redhead’s hips, coaxing her to press her ass even farther into his hips. His eyes once again meet yours, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. ‘Oh, this bitch,’ you think.

Your blood has turned into liquid fire, heating up your body and warming the inner pits of your stomach. You can feel the alcohol and the thump of the music taking more of an effect now, causing you to turn around in the stranger’s arms.

Now you’re facing Keigo while your back presses against the stranger’s front. The winged hero is still sandwiched between the two girls who giggle and grip him like he is theirs, but all of his attention is on you.

His eyebrows are knitted together, creating a crease between them, and his feathers have become frazzled. Meaning he is very, very agitated. You smirk at him despite this, something you wouldn’t do if you weren’t tipsy. You love that you’re getting to him.

‘I told you two can play at this game,’ you think. You turn back around to face the stranger, noticing how hooded and dark his eyes have become as they rake over your form. “You know, you can really move,” he whispers. “What are you doin’ after this?”

You know exactly what that meant. And you think about it for a moment, wondering if you should take this stranger up on his offer for a night of pure, unadulterated, meaningless sex. No strings attached. No thoughts of Rei or Keigo or anyone else but you.

But when you think of your golden-haired friend just across the room watching you, you open your mouth to give the man a polite “thanks but no thanks”.

However, someone beats you to it. A hand gently grasps your shoulder, making you turn around to see Keigo standing in front of you. “Mind if I get the next dance?” he huskily asks.

Your heart leaps at the sight of him there and you don’t realize that a joyful smile has curled onto your lips until your cheeks begin hurting. You’re so glad he’s here. You go to give him a definite yes, but the stranger steps in front of you, a glare on his face. “Yeah, I do,” he snaps. “You see me dancing with her, don’t you?”

You see Keigo’s expression change immediately, darkening to the point where you’re frightened. You think of him that night at the club and plead with him with your eyes to not go down that road. The stranger turns his back on Keigo to begin dancing with you again, but Keigo stops him by forcefully whirling him around to face him.

The very angry, winged hero steps to him, anger radiating off of him in waves that you can feel. “Listen,” he says, his voice dipping down an octave, "I’m not havin’ a good night as it is, so I suggest you don’t make it worse for me or yourself. I’m not the nicest when I’m pissed.”

His wings ruffle and then, all at once, each feather sharpens to a point as if he is carrying dozens of knives on his back. The stranger’s angered expression melts into one of fear and intimidation as he stares at Keigo’s wings. “Back up,” Keigo growls, his eyes turning to slits. “She’s mine.”

This is all it takes for the stranger to finally back off of you and slink away from the dance floor. When he’s gone, Keigo composes himself. His eyes switch back to their normal size and color and his feathers soften. When he finally looks back down at you, all you want to do is kiss him. “Think he got the picture?” he asks jokingly.

You don’t speak. You don’t even think you can. For a moment, you both stand there in silence, the music and noise swelling around you. But none of that matters to you. Nothing matters to you but him right now. “So you came back,” he states, sounding surprised. His eyes travel over your form as if he can’t believe that you’re really standing there. And wanting him.

You swallow, finding your voice to speak. “I did,” you reply matter-of-factly. You place your hands impatiently on your hips and raise an eyebrow at him, feeling emboldened by the alcohol and what just transpired. “And I need to talk to you,” you continue. “Can we go somewhere alone?”

His eyes widen an inch at your bold response and question, but you also see a spark behind them. He is absolutely down for this. Though he still looks confused at your intentions, he agrees. “Sure,” he replies, already taking your hand and whisking you away. When his fingers interlock with yours, your body sings and your stomach flips excitedly from his touch. “I’ve got a place. Follow me.”

You let him lead you away from the party and through the venue to a staircase leading up upstairs to the second floor. There, he then leads you away from the guests occupying the second floor to an empty balcony. He let you step out into the night first, the cool air refreshing and the sky starry and clear above.

He shuts the door behind him and stands near it so no one will try to come out and interrupt…whatever this is. You aren’t even sure what this is: your apology? Your confession? All you know is that you have many words left unsaid that you need to release, and you won’t leave here tonight until Keigo knows just how you feel for him.

He stands in front of you now, arms crossed and not looking too thrilled to be here. “Why’d you come back?” he asks, getting right to the damn point because fuck beating around the bush at this point. “Things go bad with Rei so you come runnin’ to me?”

You wince slightly at his harsh tone and words, but you know you deserve it. He has every right to be pissed at you. And you have every reason to be honest with him.

So you take a deep breath and speak: “That’s exactly right,” you confess, and you nearly laugh at his bug-eyed reaction. “Keigo, I’m not here to convince you that we belong together or to tell you I’m sorry in an effort for you to take me as more. I’m just here to tell you that you were right.”

For a moment, Keigo pauses, processing your words and your intentions. He then raises an eyebrow, silently telling you to elaborate. With the silence, stars, and cool air encouraging you to speak, you do so.

“I realized that Rei can’t make me happy the way I wish to be,” you continue. “I need to be with someone who sees me for the messy, complicated person that I can be. Who makes me want to do and be better just because of their love for me. Who accepts me for who I am and doesn’t ask for anything more.”

You smile lovingly at him, your heart thumping harshly in your chest. “I’ve known for a while that this person is you,” you confess. “You’re the one I’ve been searching for. The partner I’ve been hoping to find. The man of my dreams.”

Your voice cracks slightly as all of your emotions begin to flood over you: your love; your pain; your sorrow; your want and need for the man standing before you. “I love you, Keigo,” you tearfully confess. “And I’m sorry it’s taken all of this for me to realize it.”

You watch, in under a minute, as a dozen expressions and emotions register across Keigo’s face: Confusion. Mild Irritation. Joyfulness. Relief. You continue to speak, refusing to let this be the end of your relationship.

“You don’t have to take me if you don’t want me, and I’m not going to convince you to. I’ve put you through so much and you deserve to be with someone who isn’t going to do that to you.” Tears begin to drip from your eyes, falling down your cheeks. “But I knew if I didn’t come here and tell you face to face, I’d never be able to look you in the eye again.”

And then you’re full-on crying. All of your hurt and guilt begin to tumble down, making all of your walls crumble. All of your layers peel back before Keigo, revealing the deepest, ugliest parts of you. Your neediness. Your need for him.

“I just want you in my life, Kei,” you sob. “I don't care if it’s just as friends or whatever the fuck. I just want you here. I need you here with me.”

And as you cry and embarrass yourself in front of your friend, he peels back every layer of himself as well. He shows you all of him as his eyes grow glassy and wet. “I need you too,” he whispers. “I’ll always need you, Y/N. That’s never changed.”

He then takes only two strides towards you and wraps you up in his arms and his wings, blocking you out from the outside world.

A needy, desperate gasp leaves your lips as you feel him wrap himself around you, engulfing you in a warm, tight embrace that fills you with joy and relief. You feel released from all the sorrow, guilt, and frustrations inside you.

None of that matters anymore. Not when your friend, your man, is here, feeling so warm, and solid, and real. So you hug Keigo back, pressing your face into his chest. He begins to stroke the back of your head, pressing you farther into his body.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes and lashes are wet with tears. “So is it safe to say I told you so?” he teasingly asks. You smile up at him, a joyful giggle leaving your lips.

You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you. “If you kiss me, then yes,” you whisper before you stand up on your toes and your lips finally find each other’s.

If fireworks are to appear somewhere in the distance tonight, this would be the perfect moment for them. The kiss you share with Keigo is explosive, pleasurable, and leaves you breathless. He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close as your lips dance together.

The more his soft lips move against yours, the more you fall deeper and deeper in love with him. You love kissing him. You love holding him. You love him.

A sudden bright flash of a camera ruins the moment and you two jump apart to find Rumi, Dabi, Yu, and Nemuri watching from the balcony door.

Rumi squeals happily, waving her phone around, very drunk. “Ha, ha, you crispy bitch!” she shouts proudly, bumping Dabi with her hip. “I told you so!” Dabi sighs, trying to look pissed but is obviously happy. “So much for the $50,” he sighs.

Keigo rolls his eyes, shielding you and your embarrassment from your friends with his wings. “Do y’all mind?” he barks. “I’m trying to show my girl some love and I need you drunk freaks watching.”

Yu is the one to hustle everyone away from the balcony. “Don’t mind us!” she giggles. “Please go back to your love fest.” She drags Nemuri away while she groans in protest. “Aww, but they’re so cute!” she whines.

You two are finally left alone and you begin to laugh together. “That picture is probably gonna end up on an IG story somewhere,” Keigo sighs.

You nod, agreeing and knowing how horrible Rumi is. “Just as long as it’s a private one,” you giggle. “But even if it isn’t, I don’t care.”

Keigo raises an eyebrow, a sparkle in his eyes that reminds you so much of sunken treasure. “And why is that?” he huskily asks, sending a shiver down your spine.

You stand up on your toes and stay a centimeter away from his lips, inhaling his cologne. “Because I want everyone to know that I’m yours,” you purr. “And you’re mine.”

A hand then encircles the back of your neck and all words cease to exist as Keigo presses his mouth to yours once more.

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