#as sick as it sounds i loved you first!!!

[moonstruckme]

may i humbly request our lovely steddie with a carsick reader on a roadtrip. i imagine it’s eddies poor driving that sparks it and i could so picture steve and eddie bickering about it but still being very sweet to reader until she feels better

ily feel free to change what you want or not write it at all! thank you either way <3

Thanks for requesting <3

cw: nausea

poly!Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 771 words

Steve is on to you. Glancing at you at first in his visor mirror and then by turning around in his seat, an uneasy set to his brows. You try to focus on the A/C blowing on your knees via the small plastic vent. 

Eddie swerves into the next lane, and your throat tightens. 

“Hey,” Steve says to him, agitated, “take it easy.” 

“What?” 

“You’re driving like you’re trying to kill us.” 

“If I was trying to kill you, I’d have done it back in Iowa.” Eddie gives Steve’s leg a jostle, firm but fond. “And if you’re gonna be a backseat driver, I’ll put you in the backseat.” 

You aren’t looking, but he must be too distracted to notice the car in front of you slowing until it’s close. Your body rocks forward as he puts on the brakes. 

“I’m gonna open my window,” you say weakly. The windows in the front seat of Eddie’s van have hand cranks, but yours in the back only has a latching mechanism that allows it to open barely an inch. It’s enough for a concentrated stream of wind to hit your face if you lean your head against the glass. 

“Baby, on the highway?” Eddie asks over the whistling of air. 

“You’re making her sick,” Steve accuses. 

“I am not.” Eddie glances back at you. “Am I making you sick?” 

“No,” you mumble. 

“Stop driving like a lunatic.” The range between the glare Steve pins Eddie with and the soft look he gives you is impressive. “Hey, try to look out the front window if you can, okay? Do you wanna switch seats?” 

“That’s okay.” You breathe in, focussing on the fresh air hitting your face. “I’m good.” 

“Is it the heat? Are you hot?” 

“She’s always hot,” says Eddie, earning him a shove. “Hey! No attacking the driver.” 

Steve frowns at you. “Do you want to stop? We can pull over for a while.” 

You shake your head, stopping when your nausea worsens. “It’ll pass.” 

“Okay. Look out the front window, honey.” 

You do. Eddie’s eyes continually dart to you in the rear view mirror. You meet them once, and he pouts. 

“You want some of my coke?” he offers. “It’s, uh, kind of warm, but…” 

“I’m okay.” You offer a wan smile. “Thanks.” 

Steve turns around again. “Are you sure you don’t want to pull over? We could use a stop anyway.” 

You lean into the wind blasting through your window, breathing deeply. “I’m fine.” 

Five minutes later finds you sitting on the curb of a gas station with your head to your knees. 

Eddie lifts your hair. The sun beating down on your neck is worth it for the cooling power of the breeze. He’s asked how you’re feeling about every ten seconds since you exited the highway. You’ve stopped answering in anything but hums and grunts. 

The crisp sound of a soda can opening is about the best thing you’ve heard all day. 

“Here.” Steve sits on your other side. “See if this helps.” 

Beads of condensation roll off the can of ginger ale, wetting both Steve’s palm and yours when you take it. You tilt your chin up to take a sharp, fizzy sip. 

Eddie grins when you exhale. 

“Good stuff, huh?” he asks hopefully. 

“It helps,” you agree. 

“I think we should wait a while before getting back on the road,” says Steve. “But when we do, I’m driving.” 

“Uh.” Eddie’s eyebrows raise. “No, you are not.” 

Steve gives him an unamused look. He mimics Eddie’s intonation. “Yeah, I am.” 

“No! It’s Eddie’s Van Halen. Eddie drives.” 

“Oh, grow up. We were going to have to switch out at some point between here and California.” 

“I don’t know what you were thinking, but I have a twelve-pack of Jolts in the back. I can go all night.” 

“Perfect, that sounds super safe. It was your driving that got her carsick in the first place.” 

Something dangerously close to contrition flashes across Eddie’s expression as he looks to you. 

You give him a sorry smile. “I’m feeling a lot better now.” 

His mouth tilts. “Yeah? Glad to hear it, beautiful. Hey, maybe when we hit the road again we can try something new. Obviously you’re a better candidate for the passenger seat than Stevie here, so you can play DJ.” He waggles his eyebrows. “We have an array of music in Eddie’s Van Halen, with vocal accompaniment by yours truly.” 

Steve huffs, an eye roll in audible form. 

Before they can start bickering again, you say, “Yeah, sure. A distraction might help.”  

Eddie grins. “That’s my girl.”

[mehwmidklpe]

hiiii, i have a request. So its a Percy x reader where reader and Percy meet up at the beach to go on a little date, but Percy arrived early and waits but starts to draw readere initial in the sand like a love sick puppy (and maybe starts talking about her to some sea creature) and then she comes and sees percy and just smiles and realized yup that's the love of my life:)

Thank you beforehand!!!!

that's so cute!!

Yes, Percy knows the date wasn't planned till after like 10 to 20 minutes. But what's wrong with being early to make sure everything is perfect?

After many years, Percy Jackson, the most oblivious demigod of all time finally got the courage to ask you on a date.

He hadn't expect you to call him out as an idiot for taking so long to ask that question.

But hey! At least you didn't judo-flip him. And he got a date on the beach out of it, too!

After Percy had set everything up, he was sitting on the picnic blanket, waiting for you to arrive. He was so happy, like he's litteraly a lovesick idiot.

So lovesick he found himself drawing your intial in the sand with a cute smile on his face.

But when he heard a sound and looked up, he didn't see anyone. When he looked back at the sand and the intial of the most beautiful name he'd ever heard, he saw a turltle.

"Ohh. Hey little guy! What's your name?"

He frowned as he heard the turtle answer. "No name yet? Well then I'll give you one!" He started thinking.

"Ooh! How about Leo- No, wait, not Leonardo. I know a boy named Leo. He's pretty cool, but you deserve the best ninja turtle name out there. Michelangelo." He decided.

"Yeah he's totally my favorite." He then said as he watched the turtle crawl towards the pizza he had set on the blanket.

"Woah there buddy. I know turtles love pizza. So do I. But that pizza is reserved for a special lady."

Percy felt a smile growing on his lips as the turtle spoke to him again. "Yeah.. I have a date with this amazing girl. It's our first one. I still can't believe she said yes."

The son of Poseidon hadn't even noticed a sea star coming up to him. "Oh, another friend! What's your name? Also none. Mhmm.." The boy started thinking of a name again.

"Patrick. You're definitely a Patrick." He nodded.

"Wait? About my date? You heard that?" He asked the sea star as the turle crawled atop of him.

A giddy smile rested on his lips at the thought of you. "Her name is Y/n." He looked at the turtle once he heard his voice.

"I know Mickey, that's a beautiful name. But not as beautiful as she herself." Once the star asked about you, Percy knew there was no way back.

So now he found himself talking to at least 18 sea animals. Some of them were in the sea, but you could still see them, others were sitting right infront of Percy.

And Michelangelo, of course, sat in Percy's palm.

Gods did Percy feel like a disney princess.

"Yes, Flounder, she took all of them out. Singelhandedly." Percy confirmed to the fish at the edge of the sea.

"Squidward! Language!" He said to the octopus. "But yeah she's a fucking badass." He silently agreed, but every creature heard it.

Percy turned to the other fish. "Nemo. What did I tell you? She's not going to marry you. I will be her future husband, okay?"

"Don't worry, Alberto. We'll do two weddings. One in land and one in the sea. You can all be there, I'm sure she'll love you guys!"

He then looked at the crab. "Yes Sebastian. Y/n is the most beautiful, gorgeous girl you'll ever see! She's breathtaking! Divine! Aphrodite loosk like shit next to her! I don't understand how she's not full goddess, but I can totally see her godly half."

"Why thank you, you don't look too bad yourself."

Percy froze at the sound of that voice. The voice he'd recognize anywhere. He gulped and turned around to see you in all your glory.

"Y/-Y/n." He stammered.

When he heard the voice you couldn't hear, he leaned in closer to Michelangelo on his hand.

"Yes Mickey, I told you she's breathtaking." He wishpered to the turtle, agreeing to what the turtle said about your appearence.

Oh yeah, this boy is totally your endgame.

You stiffled a giggle as you walked over to him.

It was only then that Percy let his eyes rank over your body, taking in your outfit, your hair, your eyes, everything about you.

"You look–" "I heard you the first sixteen times, Percy." You said as you sat down next to him.

You tilted your head, lookign at the sand. "Is that my name?" By now, the intial had turned into your full name with hearts and stars around them.

Percy had done that while he rambled on about you to his new sea friends.

"No? It's your dyslexia who's fooling you." Percy lied. "I can read, Percy." You state.

He stayed quiet for a bit, before his head turned back to look at you again.

"I uh.. I got us pizza! Well actually Connor traveled to new york and get me some for us. He wanted to go to Italy first, I don't really know why the plans changed." Percy said, adjusting the two boxes of pizza.

"And uh.. I got us some cola, too. Don't tell Mr. D that I stole the from him though.. Uhm.. And I got some other snacks if you–"

"It's perfect Percy. Thank you." You assure him, taking his hand in yours.

The son of Poseidon fel the heat rise up to his cheeks, and you didn't hear it, but the animals were all 'ooh-ing' and 'aah-ing'.

"Now back to the whole 'talking about me to some animals' topic. You said you wanna marry me." You recalled with a smile.

Percy froze, he had no idea what to do.

"Uhm.. Well- I didn't- I mean we're still young, a-and we're not even an actual couple so.." His voice trailed of, noticing how stupid he sounded.

You bit your lip. "If you ask me we might just be one."

Did you just say that?

Like actually?

"Uhm.. Y/n.. would you want to be my girlfrie– Wait. You're not messing with me, right??" Percy asked you. "I'm not, Seaweedbrain."

Percy shot a look at the octopus. "Shut up squidward! Only Y/n gets to call me that!"

And you giggled. "You're cute, Percy Jackson. And yes, I would like to be your girlfriend." You smile again.

His heart was racing faster than a black marlin can swim. "That–That's cool–yeah.. cool." He tried to play it off, but even the animals weren't buying it.

Then Percy's eyes randomly widened. "No, we're not gonna do that!" Percy shot back at Patrick. "What'd they say?" You ask him. "He said. that we should kiss."

You frown at that. "And you're not gonna listen to him? C'mon Perce, he's a star." You say to him.

The sea anmilas were probably encouraging him cause he looked around at them.

Then finally, he scooted closer to you. "Is this okay with you?" He asks you, tone soft. You nod. "Yeah."

And so his lips found yours in a soft, loving, sea-animal-proof kiss.

The animals cheered, but it honestly sounded like a ton of gibberish to you, especially the sound that came from the dolphin who's name you did not know.

It didn't matter though, cause Percy Jackson was kissing you.

When you pulled away, he smiled. "Was that okay?" You nod again. "More than okay."

This time, you both blushed.

"So..?"

"Yes Percy. They're invited to the wedding."

And the animals cheered again.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ rekindling

chapter summary: You and Logan celebrate your 5th wedding anniversary.

word count: 6.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: the ending of this chapter might be one of my favorite scenes

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, mention of sickness (not reader), fluff, logan is a lovesick puppy, gala mission, star wars reference

series masterlist - chapter 8 → chapter 10

Some years ago, right after the two of you got engaged, you tried making and fermenting your own beer for Logan. Turns out, beer doesn’t need to and shouldn’t ferment for more than a few months at the most.

So, you pivoted, and made homemade whiskey, which had been sitting in a secret part of your lab for the better part of 5 years.

And now, after Logan had taken you out on a date to an Italian place and a nearby observatory which he booked for the two of you, you dragged him to your lab, where you had the bottle of homemade whiskey.

You pulled out a drawer and grabbed the small, but hefty, gift bag. Its weight made your arm dip slightly as you turned to face Logan, who was leaning against the counter in your lab with a quizzical but amused expression. His hair was still slightly tousled from the wind at the observatory, his sleeves rolled up casually from dinner.

"What's this, sweetheart?" he asked, nodding toward the bag. "Another one of your science experiments?"

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your glasses as you handed him the bag. "Just open it. And no, it’s not radioactive or alive. This one’s safe, I promise."

Logan smirked as he pulled the tissue paper out, revealing a dark amber glass bottle sealed with a simple cork. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he held it up, reading the handwritten label: “Logan’s Reserve – 5-Year Aged Whiskey.”

"Wait a second…" His eyes narrowed, a grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. "Is this what I think it is?"

You nodded, clasping your hands behind your back nervously. "Yeah. Remember when I tried making beer for you right after we got engaged? And it… well, it exploded in the basement?"

Logan chuckled, the sound warm and rich. "How could I forget? Smelled like a brewery down there for weeks."

"Exactly. So, I switched gears and decided to try something a little more… sophisticated." You gestured to the bottle. "I distilled it, let it age, and hoped for the best. Five years later, here we are."

Logan stared at the bottle for a moment, then at you. His expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper. "You did this… for me?"

You shrugged, feeling the blush creep up your cheeks. "Of course. I wanted to give you something special. Something that lasts, you know? Like… us."

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the lab equipment. Logan set the bottle down carefully on the counter, then stepped toward you. His hands rested gently on your waist, pulling you closer.

"You’re somethin’ else, darlin’," he said, his voice low and full of affection. "Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before."

You smiled up at him, your shyness melting away under his gaze. "Well, there’s a first time for everything."

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a kiss that was soft but full of unspoken gratitude. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"Let’s crack it open," he said with a grin. "I’ve waited five years for this, after all."

You laughed, grabbing two small glasses from a nearby shelf. As Logan uncorked the bottle, the rich aroma of aged whiskey filled the room. He poured a small amount into each glass, the amber liquid catching the light.

"To us," you said, raising your glass.

Logan clinked his glass against yours. "To five years… and many more."

You both took a sip, and Logan’s eyes widened slightly as he savored the taste. "Damn, sweetheart. You’ve outdone yourself. This is better than anything I’ve had in a bar."

You beamed. "Really?"

"Really." He leaned in and kissed you again, the whiskey still warm on his lips. "Best anniversary gift ever."

As you stood there, sharing the moment and the whiskey you’d poured your heart into, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Life hadn’t been easy—especially the past few years—but moments like this made it all worth it.

---

You were making chicken noodle soup for Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee, who all somehow caught the same stomach bug at the same time.

The three girls sat at the table in the corner of the kitchen, after being asked by Logan to “move, or else you’re gonna get her sick.”

Now, while the three waited, they also watched. Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee sat bundled in sweaters with mugs of tea that Logan had insisted they use instead of touching anything else in the kitchen. The soup was still simmering on the stove, and Logan leaned casually against the counter near you, your perpetual shadow.

Jubilee nudged Rogue with her elbow and whispered, “Look at him. He follows her like a freakin’ lost puppy.”

Rogue, pale but still managing an amused smirk, turned her attention to Logan, who was wordlessly following you as you shuffled over to the pantry. All you had done was mutter, "need a new bottle of parsley," and Logan had immediately fallen in line, watching you like you hung the moon.

“He does,” Rogue said, shaking her head. “I swear, I’ve never seen him this whipped.”

"Right? Like, what does she do to him?" Kitty chimed in, half-giggling despite her queasiness. “The man’s basically walking PDA.”

The three of them stared openly now, watching how Logan stood slightly behind you, his hand instinctively brushing the small of your back as you reached up for the spice jar.

“See that?” Kitty whispered, her voice thick with poorly stifled laughter. “His hand is always on her. Shoulder, back, waist—doesn’t matter where, just as long as he’s touching.”

“Bet he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it,” Rogue murmured, propping her chin on her palm.

You turned back toward the counter, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose as you set the parsley down near the cutting board. Logan was immediately there, adjusting the spice rack for you, though it wasn’t even askew.

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, giving him a small, shy smile.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replied without hesitation, his voice laced with warmth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound that…” Jubilee paused, wrinkling her nose in thought, “...soft.”

Logan shifted closer, his hand brushing against your waist as he leaned in and glanced at the soup. “Need anythin’ else, darlin’?”

You glanced up at him, adjusting your glasses. “No, I think I’ve got it. Maybe grab a loaf of bread from the fridge for dipping?”

He nodded and moved toward the fridge like it was his life’s mission. Jubilee blinked slowly.

“He cooks now?” she whispered.

“Logan,” Rogue called across the room, “do you even know how to make soup?”

Logan didn’t even glance back as he grabbed the bread. “Nope. I just carry the bread. Y/N handles the rest.”

The three girls stared at each other, jaws slightly agape.

“He’s domesticated,” Kitty said in awe. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

You didn’t seem to hear any of this, far too focused on stirring the soup and rambling softly about the science of cooking. “The steam comes from the water molecules vibrating faster with the heat. They spread out, break apart from the surface tension…”

Logan’s low hum of acknowledgment interrupted you, his hand returning to rest lightly against the curve of your back. You leaned into the touch without thinking, comfortable in his presence.

Kitty let out a mock-dramatic sigh, dropping her head onto the table. “I can’t watch this anymore. It’s too cute, and I feel like death.”

Jubilee grinned slyly, glancing at Rogue. “What if we pointed it out to him?”

“Don’t you dare,” Rogue warned with a half-laugh. “Man’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. Leave ‘em be.”

The three shared a conspiratorial smirk but kept their remarks low enough to remain unnoticed. Even if Logan somehow picked up on their teasing with his hyper-sensitive senses, he showed no sign of it.

You turned back to the girls, smiling softly. “It’ll be ready soon. How’re you all feeling?”

“Like crap,” Jubilee said with zero hesitation.

“Marginally better,” Rogue offered, though it was mostly for your benefit.

“It helps watching Logan act like a lovesick Labrador,” Kitty muttered with a grin. Rogue elbowed her.

You glanced at Logan, eyebrows raised slightly. “What are they whispering about?”

“Not a clue,” he lied smoothly, focusing on slicing the bread.

You didn’t push it, simply chuckling and going back to your task. Logan leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“You’re good at takin’ care of everyone,” he murmured. “Never stops amazin’ me.”

You flushed under the quiet praise, your heart flipping in your chest. It wasn’t much—just one of his usual tender comments—but coming from Logan, it felt monumental every single time.

---

You paused walking again in the hall, adjusting your liner socks for your heels. Just a few months ago it was your birthday, and Scott got you the pair of heels you’d been wanting, probably only knowing about them from Jean.

It was too cold back then, but now it was warming up and you could finally wear them.

Other than the fact that blisters are probably forming on your feet from them fitting improperly. It wasn’t Scott’s fault; they were the right size and everything, they just didn’t fit your feet.

While you were bent down adjusting your heels in the hallway, Logan walked up behind you silently, his hand brushing gently against your back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.

You looked up briefly before going back to fiddling with the strap on your shoe. “The heels Scott got me for my birthday—they don’t fit as well as I’d hoped. They’re a little tight, and I think I might’ve miscalculated how much walking I’d have to do today.”

Logan let out a soft, knowing grunt. Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms effortlessly, one arm around your shoulders and the other under your legs. He shifted your heels into his hand with the same movement, holding them beneath you like an afterthought.

“Logan!” you exclaimed, instinctively gripping his shoulders. “What are you doing?!”

“What does it look like?” he replied, already walking. “If the shoes are botherin’ you, you’re not gonna wear ‘em.”

You sighed, flustered. “I can walk perfectly fine! It’s not that bad, I promise.”

Logan didn’t even slow down. “Yeah, sure. Tell that to the blisters you’re about to get. Don’t argue, darlin’—you’re stuck with me now.”

Your protest was drowned out when Logan rounded a corner and found Scott mid-lecture in one of the training rooms. The students turned toward the two of you with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Logan, come on,” you whispered, mortified, but Logan only tightened his grip.

“Hey, Summers!” Logan barked, his voice cutting through the room.

Scott paused, looking up with an annoyed but inquisitive frown. Before he could say a word, Logan tossed the pair of heels directly at him. They smacked him square in the chest before falling into his hands.

“Next time, get the right size,” Logan said flatly, turning back toward the door.

“Logan!” you gasped, half-horrified and half-apologetic, your face heating up. “I’m so sorry, Scott!”

Scott was still standing there, stunned, holding the shoes as his class erupted into barely stifled laughter. “What—” he started, but Logan didn’t stick around long enough to let him finish.

Logan carried you straight to the common room, ignoring your continued protests. He set you down gently on the couch, crouching in front of you. “Stay put,” he commanded, already moving toward the med kit nearby.

“Logan, seriously, I’m fine—”

“You’ll be fine when I say you’re fine.” He popped open the first aid kit and returned to kneel in front of you. “Now, lemme see.”

You sighed, defeated, as Logan gingerly took your foot in his hand, inspecting the reddened spots on your heels. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he applied adhesive bandages to the forming blisters.

“I don’t even feel it that much,” you muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Logan said dryly, not buying a word of it.

When he finished bandaging the other foot, he paused, still crouched with one of your feet resting on his knee. Instead of moving back, he began to gently knead the arch of your foot, his fingers deft and soothing.

“Logan…” You blinked, taken aback.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he said softly, not looking up. “You’re always takin’ care of everyone else. Lemme do somethin’ for you for once.”

The words, combined with the warmth in his tone, sent a wave of unexpected emotion through you. You leaned back against the couch, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His touch was firm yet tender, every movement speaking volumes about how much he cared.

As his thumbs worked over a particularly sore spot, you bit back a laugh. “When did you learn how to do this?”

Logan glanced up with a hint of a smirk. “Long life. Picked up a few tricks here and there.”

“Pretty sure you’re better at this than a licensed professional.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with mock seriousness, though his smile softened.

When he finally set your foot down, he stayed kneeling for a moment longer, his hands lingering on your legs. “Feel better now?”

You smiled down at him, your cheeks warm. “Yeah. Thanks, Logan.”

He nodded, pushing himself to his feet and bending down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Now you just sit here and relax for a bit. I’ll grab you some tea or somethin’.”

As he walked away, you couldn’t help the affectionate smile that spread across your face. Moments like this reminded you that, despite his gruff exterior, Logan had a heart bigger than anyone you’d ever known.

---

You realized you should’ve told Logan this before he found out for himself.

For the past 4—5 years?—you hadn’t worn your cherry lip gloss, only because you couldn’t find it anywhere once you ran out. Turns out, it was discontinued. So, you pivoted to regular nude lip glosses or chapstick.

But this past weekend when you, Jean, and Ororo went on a girl’s shopping trip to the mall to hang out, you found a cherry lip oil that in your opinion had a better texture, and a less artificial flavor, than your original discontinued one.

The hallways of the mansion were buzzing with the usual mid-morning energy: students rushing to classes, a few sparring matches audible from the training rooms, and the faint hum of voices echoing off the walls. You adjusted the strap of your satchel, balancing it against your side, and smoothed the hem of your cardigan as you made your way toward your classroom.

As you turned a corner, Logan appeared from the opposite direction, walking toward his next class. He spotted you instantly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes softened. This was routine by now—a quick kiss or two between classes, a quiet moment to ground yourselves in a sea of chaos.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, his voice low and rough in the way that made your heart flutter.

“Hey,” you smiled back, the warmth in his tone settling over you like a blanket.

He leaned in for the usual kiss, his hand brushing against your lower back as you tilted your face up to meet him. But instead of the brief, customary peck, Logan lingered. His lips pressed against yours with a sudden, deliberate intensity, and his other hand rose to cradle the back of your head.

You stiffened in surprise at first, but quickly melted into it, your hands lightly gripping the fabric of his flannel shirt. The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, with Logan angling your head slightly for better access. He tasted faintly of coffee, and the familiar warmth of him flooded your senses.

“Logan,” you managed to breathe out between kisses, your voice breaking the silence in short bursts. “We need—” kiss “to get—” kiss “to our—” kiss “classes.”

“Fuck, I missed that,” Logan murmured, his voice rough and filled with a longing you didn’t quite understand. Before you could respond, his lips captured yours again, his hold on you firm but careful, as though he was memorizing the moment.

The sound of a throat clearing broke through the haze, and you both froze. Turning your heads, you found Charles sitting in his wheelchair a few feet away, a bemused but patient expression on his face.

“I do hate to interrupt, but I believe there are a few dozen students waiting for their teachers at the moment,” Charles remarked, his tone light but pointed.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you stepped back, adjusting your glasses and smoothing your hair. Logan, unfazed as ever, gave a small shrug, though you could see the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Right,” you stammered, gripping your satchel strap tightly. “Sorry, Charles. We were just—uh—”

“Testing the laws of attraction?” Charles quipped, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Logan grunted, his hand still lingering on your back. “We’re goin’. Don’t get your wheels in a spin.”

Charles merely chuckled and rolled past, leaving you to shoot Logan a flustered glare.

“You could at least pretend to be embarrassed,” you muttered, adjusting your satchel again.

“Why?” Logan asked, his voice tinged with amusement. “You look cute when you’re all flustered.” He leaned in close, brushing a final kiss against your temple before stepping back. “See you later, darlin’.”

As he turned to walk away, you shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You brushed your fingers over your lips, still tingling from the intensity of the kiss.

---

Logan adjusted the cufflinks of his tux, muttering under his breath about how "these damn things are more trouble than they’re worth." The sound of his grumbling carried through the slightly ajar bathroom door, making you smile as you finished touching up your lipstick. Jean’s red shade was bold, but it worked, complementing your minimalist black dress.

You capped the tube and gave your reflection a once-over. The dress fit perfectly, the sleek design emphasizing your figure without feeling over the top. You adjusted your glasses and smoothed a hand down the fabric before stepping out into the bedroom.

Logan was by the dresser, still fidgeting with his cufflinks, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his hands stilled. His lips parted slightly, the earlier irritation on his face melting into something softer, something almost reverent.

“You clean up nice,” he said, voice lower than usual. His gaze roamed over you, lingering on the curve of your waist before meeting your eyes. “Real nice.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, feeling a heat creep up your cheeks under his scrutiny. You crossed the room, and as you did, Logan closed the distance between you in two strides. His hand found your waist, warm and steady, before moving to rest gently against your stomach.

“Turn around for me,” he said, his voice a mix of request and command. His fingers pressed lightly, guiding you into a slow spin. As you moved, his hand never left you, sliding from your waist to the small of your back, then back to your waist again when you completed the turn.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’,” he said, his words filled with quiet admiration. “Should’ve made you wear this dress sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile. “It’s not exactly standard mission gear.”

His other hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Maybe not, but you wear it better than anyone at that gala’s gonna.” His thumb grazed your jaw, and for a moment, the mission faded from your mind entirely. It was just you, Logan, and the soft pull of his presence.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back to reality. “We should get going. The sooner we get in, the sooner we can find what we’re looking for.”

Logan smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re the brains of this operation, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

---

The gala was held in a grand hotel in the heart of the city, the kind of place that practically dripped with wealth and excess. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. You and Logan entered arm-in-arm, blending seamlessly into the crowd of well-dressed elites.

The two of you moved with purpose, your fingers lightly resting against Logan’s arm as he guided you through the throng. You kept your movements casual, your faces relaxed, though beneath the surface, the tension of the mission buzzed like static. The target was somewhere in this room—or at least someone who knew how to access the server room where the sensitive information was being stored.

“Keep your eyes open,” Logan muttered under his breath, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Always,” you replied, offering a soft smile for the benefit of onlookers as you tilted your head toward him. “You see anything yet?”

“Just a bunch of rich assholes,” Logan said, his tone gruff. “No sign of the guy.”

You nodded subtly, letting your gaze sweep across the room. The gala attendees were exactly as you’d expected—wealthy, polished, and exuding an air of untouchable arrogance. The kind of people who could fund black-market experiments on mutants and still sleep soundly at night.

Jean’s voice crackled softly in your hidden earpiece. “Remember, the server room is two floors down, heavily guarded, and keycard access only. If you can get the host’s card, it’ll save us a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, we got it,” Logan grunted, briefly touching his ear to acknowledge the message.

You gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. Just follow my lead.”

Logan shot you a skeptical look, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smirk. “You’re the brains, sweetheart. I’m just here to look good in a tux.”

“And to punch people if necessary,” you teased, your voice light despite the weight of the mission.

Logan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That too.”

As you approached the bar, you caught sight of the host—a tall, broad-shouldered man with slicked-back hair and a predatory smile. He was surrounded by a small group of sycophants, his laugh too loud and his gestures exaggerated. On his lapel was the small, telltale glint of a security badge.

“There he is,” you murmured, leaning slightly into Logan as though sharing a private moment.

Logan followed your gaze and grunted in acknowledgment. “What’s the plan?”

You considered for a moment before replying. “We split up. I’ll distract him and see if I can get the keycard. You keep an eye on the exits in case things get messy.”

Logan’s hand tightened slightly on your waist. “Don’t get too close, darlin’.”

You smiled, the expression meant to reassure him. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I always do,” he said, his voice softer now.

With that, you slipped away from him, weaving through the crowd with ease. You approached the host with a disarming smile, your movements graceful and deliberate.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice carrying just the right mix of politeness and charm. “This is my first time at one of these events. You wouldn’t happen to be the host, would you?”

The man’s eyes lit up as he turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “Indeed, I am. Samuel Kane, at your service.” He extended a hand, and you shook it lightly, careful not to show any hesitation.

“Y/N,” you introduced yourself, tilting your head slightly. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the man behind all of this.”

Kane laughed, clearly pleased by the flattery. “Well, I do my best to keep things interesting. And you, my dear, are an absolute vision. Your husband must be a lucky man.”

You felt a flicker of unease at the comment but maintained your composure. “He’s around here somewhere,” you said with a laugh. “But he’s not much for mingling.”

As you engaged Kane in conversation, you subtly shifted closer, angling yourself to get a better look at his security badge. The clip was loose, the badge slightly askew—a small detail, but one that worked in your favor.

Behind you, Logan lingered near the edge of the room, his sharp eyes never leaving you. He sipped his drink, outwardly relaxed, but you knew better. His tension was palpable, even from across the room.

Kane was still talking, his voice smooth and practiced, but you weren’t really listening. Instead, you focused on the timing, waiting for the perfect moment to make your move. When Kane turned slightly to greet another guest, you acted quickly, brushing against him just enough to unclip the badge without drawing attention.

“Oops,” you said, feigning a stumble as you steadied yourself against his arm. “Sorry about that. These heels aren’t the most practical.”

Kane laughed, clearly oblivious. “No harm done.”

You smiled apologetically before excusing yourself, slipping the badge into your clutch as you made your way back to Logan. He raised an eyebrow when you returned, his expression a mix of amusement and approval.

“Got it,” you whispered, holding up the badge for him to see.

Logan smirked. “That’s my girl.”

He slipped the badge into his jacket pocket, and the two of you began weaving through the crowd toward the hallway that led to the restricted areas. You kept a pleasant smile on your face, casually nodding at attendees as you passed. Beside you, Logan's body was tense, ready for a fight if it came to that.

Reaching the hallway, you slipped through the door labeled Authorized Personnel Only. Logan glanced back to make sure no one was following before pulling the door shut behind you.

The ambiance changed immediately, the buzz of the gala replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional beep of security monitors. The luxurious carpet was gone, replaced by plain industrial tile.

“Where to, sweetheart?” Logan asked in a low voice.

“The server room’s at the end of the hall, on the left,” you whispered, nodding ahead.

Logan led the way, his posture relaxed but his hands loosely curled at his sides. You reached the server room without incident, and Logan swiped the badge through the reader. It flashed green with a soft beep, and the door clicked open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, racks of servers glowing faintly with green and blue lights. You stepped in first, your eyes scanning for the console you needed. Logan followed, closing the door quietly behind him and planting himself by it.

“You do your thing. I’ll keep watch,” he said, his voice steady.

“Got it,” you replied, already making your way to the terminal in the corner.

Sitting down, you pulled a flash drive from your clutch and inserted it into the port. Typing quickly, you navigated through the system, bypassing firewalls and locating the files you needed. Jean’s earlier instructions echoed in your mind—what to look for, how to find it, how to pull it without alerting any alarms.

Logan’s voice broke the silence. “How’s it goin’, darlin’?”

“Almost there,” you murmured, biting your lip as a particularly stubborn firewall slowed your progress. After a few more keystrokes, the file began to download.

“I’m in,” you said softly. “Just need a few more seconds.”

Logan didn’t reply, but you could feel his sharp gaze fixed on the hallway outside, ready for anything.

The download finished with a soft ping, and you quickly ejected the flash drive, slipping it back into your clutch. As you stood and turned to Logan, his head jerked up slightly, his ears picking up on something you couldn’t hear.

“Guards,” he muttered. “Two of ’em, comin’ this way.”

Your mind raced. “Okay, uh… we can do what they did in that movie we watched the other night. You know, the spy one!”

Logan frowned, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

“Logan,” you hissed, stepping closer to him. “We have to pretend we’re—” Before you could finish, you reached up, gripped his shirt, and tugged him down into a kiss.

Logan tensed for a split second before relaxing, his arms instinctively sliding around your waist. The kiss deepened quickly, his lips pressing against yours with a mixture of surprise and intensity. One of his hands rested at the small of your back while the other gently cradled the back of your head.

The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the server room.

“Hey!” one of the guards called out, his voice sharp.

You and Logan broke apart abruptly, panting softly as you both turned to face the guards. The red lipstick you’d meticulously applied was now smeared—not just on your face but faintly on Logan’s lips as well. One of the guards squinted, clearly caught off guard.

“This area’s off-limits,” the other guard barked.

Logan’s arm was still around your waist, and he stepped forward slightly, putting himself between you and the guards. “Sorry ’bout that. Thought we were sneakin’ off for some privacy. Didn’t realize we weren’t supposed to be here.” His voice was gravelly but calm, carrying just enough irritation to make the act believable.

The guards exchanged looks, then groaned in unison. “Just—get out of here,” the first one said. “Go back to the gala before we have to call someone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan grumbled, steering you back down the hallway. He kept his hand at your back, a silent reassurance.

You stayed quiet until you were back near the main gala floor. When Logan finally looked down at you, his lips quirked into a sly grin.

“You’ve got some guts, darlin’,” he said, his voice filled with approval.

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”

His grin widened as he rubbed his thumb against his mouth. “You sayin’ it’s not my color?”

“Not exactly,” you teased. “But it definitely makes a statement.”

He chuckled, slipping his hand into yours as the two of you rejoined the party, the flash drive safely tucked away.

---

Logan had given in, allowing you to finally trim his beard. You sat perched on the bathroom counter, knees brushing against his sides as he stood in front of you. His rugged face was in your hands, the razor gliding carefully over his jawline.

As you worked, you started rambling, like always when you were focused on something. “Did you know razors date back to the Bronze Age? They found tools that were basically sharp stones or metals people used to shave with. Imagine that—scraping your face with a rock.”

Logan gave a quiet, non-committal grunt, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

You weren’t deterred, though. “Then in the 18th century, straight razors became popular. Those were sharp as hell, like something out of a horror movie. Then King Camp Gillette comes in and invents the safety razor in—Logan?”

You suddenly paused, pulling back the razor to wave your hand in front of his face. His eyes snapped up to yours, startled.

“What?” he rumbled.

“You weren’t listening,” you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I was listening,” he argued, his voice dipping into a softer tone, almost playful. “Just… got distracted.”

You arched a brow. “By what?”

His gaze dropped, just slightly. His focus lingered for a second too long, and then it dawned on you. You glanced down and realized the problem. Since you were sitting on the counter, your chest was right at eye level for him.

“Oh my God,” you blurted, rolling your eyes as heat crept into your face. “Is that the only reason you agreed to let me do this?”

Logan’s lips curled into a small smirk, one that almost made you drop the razor. “Maybe,” he drawled, voice low and teasing. “I had a good view. Figured I’d let you have your fun.”

“You’re impossible,” you huffed, swatting at him lightly.

His chuckle was a quiet rumble in his chest, and for a moment, you couldn’t decide if you were more annoyed or charmed. Maybe both.

“Finish up, darlin’,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Can’t have half a beard. Not a good look for me.”

Shaking your head, you returned to your task, though the edges of your mouth tugged upward in a reluctant smile.

---

Later that day the two of you decided to watch a movie in the common room. The bowl of popcorn was already empty, thanks to Logan, but you were more than content to watch the new DVD Scott got you to replace the heels.

It was Star Wars: The Clone Wars: Season One, with director’s cut episodes, behind-the-scenes featurettes, and a few other things.

By the time the fifth episode came on, Logan had fallen asleep. His head rested face down against your stomach, his arm draped lazily over your waist, hanging off the edge of the couch. The quiet sound of his breathing filled the room, his broad shoulders rising and falling steadily.

You smiled down at him, your hands gently weaving through his hair. You couldn’t help but feel a certain tenderness as you sat there, watching the animated battle play out on the screen while he snored faintly against you. This was rare—Logan being so unguarded, so completely relaxed. It was a stark contrast to the usual gruff, sharp-witted man you saw most days.

For once, you were grateful he’d conked out. Not that you didn’t love spending time with him, but movie nights with Logan usually involved endless questions.

"Wait, who’s the green guy again?"

"What kind of idiot jumps into a fight with no backup?"

"So these clones just follow orders without asking questions? Sounds like bad programming."

Sometimes it was cute; other times, it was infuriating. Now, though? Peace. No commentary about Yoda’s battle strategies or sarcastic remarks about Anakin's life choices.

You shifted slightly to readjust, trying not to disturb him, though the weight of his head made it tricky. When you moved, he let out a small, contented grunt, his grip on your waist tightening just a little.

The scene switched to an intense lightsaber duel, and you caught yourself absently stroking Logan’s hair again. He groaned softly and nuzzled his face further into your stomach.

"Mm, warm," he mumbled, his voice gravelly, not quite awake.

"Logan," you whispered, shaking your head with an amused smile. "Are you seriously sleep-talking?"

"Not talkin'," he grunted, burying himself further against you like a sleepy dog finding the perfect napping spot.

"Uh-huh," you said, unable to suppress a laugh. Your fingers stilled for a moment, then continued combing gently through his thick hair. His faint snoring resumed, the small hitch in his breathing telling you he’d sunk back into whatever dreamland had him so quiet.

This—this was your Logan. The Logan who melted around you, softened in ways no one else ever saw. It made all the challenges—the struggles, the years of trying for a baby, the losses—feel worth enduring. You might not have everything you'd once wished for, but you had this. A quiet moment of contentment, wrapped in an old blanket on a threadbare couch, Logan safe and completely at ease in your arms.

For the first time in a long while, your heart didn’t ache for what could’ve been. Instead, you closed your eyes briefly and focused on the gentle weight of him, the comfort of his presence, and the sound of his steady breath.

When you opened them again, the episode was winding down. You grabbed the remote carefully, switching to the next before setting it down. Logan shifted again, his arm curling tighter around you.

“Y’can keep playing it,” he murmured groggily, not lifting his head.

"Thought you were asleep."

"I am," he muttered, eyes still closed.

"You mean you were," you teased.

"Same difference," he rumbled, the corner of his mouth tugging into a tiny smirk before he pressed closer. "Now stop talkin’. I’m comfortable."

You chuckled and let him settle again, absentmindedly tracing circles at the base of his neck. If this was Logan at peace, you couldn’t bring yourself to disturb him, not even for a galaxy far, far away.

that was 2010!

and i can't help but make a star wars reference whenever i can! especially a clone wars reference cause i'm a prequel girly... which is only because of anakin but-

if you don't like star wars literally just imagine anything else (no need to leave rude comments!)

[asheyxash]

ever heard of taking a break?

pairing: producer jihoon x reader troupe: already lovers genre(s): est. relationship, slight angst if you really really squint, fluff warning(s): like one f word in the whole thing word count: ~1.6k summary: taking care of a sick jihoon who refuses to blatantly admit he's caught a nasty cold when he's dying and struggling to breathe is not going to be easy, but you'll do anything for him, even if it means getting sick.

wanted to write this because i think jihoon is the type of person who would insist he's fine when he's not and also i MIGHT be getting sick so yeah, just a quick one that took me only 25 minutes HAHA :D

work all mine, no reposting without creds, no stealing of published work, copyrighted:D

pt 1 of jihoon short series, read pt 2, "love is the best medicine" here!

you panicked as you came from the nearby pharmacy, holding a bag full of healthy food and medicine, ready to play nurse to your sick boyfriend, only to be greeted by an empty house. jihoon had obviously gone to his studio even after claiming he would be at home lying in bed, resting. you sighed, knowing he was stubborn like that. like, if it was you, not that you wanted to be sick or anything, but if you just so happened to be down with something, you'd jump at the perfect opportunity to skip out on work, and here you had your boyfriend insisting he could go to work, yeah sure he could, with a massive headache and a 39 degree fever from this morning before you left to buy stuff, you wondered just how much progress he had made. grabbing your things, you rushed out to the hybe building, one hand full of bags for him and the other with your phone.

knocking on the door to universe factory, none other than his studio, you heard the faint sound of someone sniffling. "ji?" you whispered softly, as you heard the sound of the door click before it opened. "oh, babe, hi. what are you doing here?" his raspy voice gave everything away as you smirked, "i should be asking you that question. go home, you're obviously sick." he rolled his eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve, "i'm fine." his congested voice did not sound, "fine" but you followed him in anyway, shutting the door gently behind you. "hoon, have you listened to yourself? you sound like a dying cockroach." you crossed your arms as he shrugged, "an interesting way to put it , but it's just a little cold. i'll be fine." "whatever, at least eat your medicine and maybe i don't know, rest or something? ever heard of taking a break?" you shoved the bag of medicine into his arms as he hesitantly took it from you. you sighed, rubbing your temples, "baby, i know you don't want to, but it's for your own good." his voice sounded terrible as he went into a sudden coughing fit, making you grimace in sympathy from just how horrible they sounded. this time, you knew it was a bad cold and there was no way you were letting him off. "lee jihoon." uh oh, the full name was out as he glanced up at you, looking sheepish. "eat and i expect you to rest. you need a break." you glared at him, your voice firm and stern as he gulped, pinching forward with a sneeze, making you narrow your eyes as if to prove your point. seeing how he wasn't budging, you smacked his thigh, "hoon, i'm serious. i'm here to take care of you, okay?" your voice softens, "you're not feeling well, i can tell. you really need to rest so why don't you take your medicine and we can go home?" jihoon groaned, "y/n, you know i love you, but i have so much to do, at least let me finish". he paused, his breath hitching as you handed him a tissue. he sniffled after blowing his nose, clearing his throat. "sorry, i said, at least let me finish writing the verses for this new song. please?"

how could you say no to him? you caved in, your tone steady, "fine, but eat your medicine first, you have a max of thirty minutes, and then we're out of here, do you hear me?"

"loud and clear." jihoon's words were so soft as you took out the medicine and spoon fed him. his whines and protests didn't stop you as you watched him like a hawk, making sure he wasn't overworking himself under your watchful eye. your gaze was fixed on the clock and him, as he worked, the endless typing on the keyboard representing every second that ticked by. you were almost certain he had struck up a higher fever, as you saw him delete and rewrite yet another sentence. okay, that was it. his fever was too high, he was probably delirious, and there was no way he was getting anything done.

you stood up, walking forward to his computer and before he could say anything, you used your hands to block his screen. "hey babe, i'm nearly done..." jihoon stopped himself with the urge to sneeze again as you pat him back softly. he sniffled, looking at you as you snapped, your words harsher than intended, "hoon, i swear, save everything. we are going home right now." you immediately regretted your sharp tongue as you pecked him on the cheek, pulling him close to you, "sorry for raising my voice, i didn't mean to get mad. i'm just frustrated you are pushing yourself when your face is plae white and you look like you might collapse of air any second so for the sake of you and me, let's go home now, okay?" to your surprise, jihoon immediately pushed you away gently as he took off his headset,. "okay, okay, but maybe not plant your lips on me when i'm sick? i don't want you to get whatever i'm battling right no....now", he sneezed in the middle of his words, for like the thirtieth time of the day as you clung onto him even more. "i don't care if i get sick, you're my priority, and besides, my immune system is strong as shit." you then flexed your muscles, kissing him on the lips, catching him by surprise.

"babe!" he lets his lips off yours as you giggle, practically dragging his ass out the door. you hung onto his arm as the both of you walked to your car, him practically wheezing and coughing the whole way. in the car, you put your hand on his forehead and immediately retracted it, "gee ji, i bet you can cook a whole ass egg on that forehead! you're burning up!" he shot you an incredulous look as you playfully flicked his forehead, mocking his words in his voice, "i'm fine"!" he huffed and gave you a pout, but when he groaned probably from his fever, your smile dropped at the sight of just how bad a cold had hit him. usually your boyfriend could get through being sick within two days, drinking loads of water and like one pill, but this time round, he was definitely suffering. as the two of you reached back to your house, you ordered him to go to the bed and lie down, and that tone in your voice made jihoon know you weren't joking. reluctantly, he trudged his way up the stairs, you were following behind him. at the last step, he stumbled slightly and alarmed, your fast reaction managed to hold him tight by the waist. "jihoon, bed, now." you pointed at the bed who looked welcoming, as jihoon's face grew red.

"i'll be up there with you shortly, let me just cook you some chicken soup first. go sleep if you can okay? get as much rest because i don't think you're fine." you then shooed him off, planting a quick kiss on his lips making him blush before skipping down to the kitchen to whip up something for your sick boyfriend. usually jihoon would complain, talk back, but this time he just listened, too tired to even speak as his body dived onto the bed under the covers. his body gave in, and when you came back up with the food, medicine, and a glass of water all prepared for him, you smiled to yourself at the sight of your boyfriend sprawled on the bed, hugging your favourite rabbit pillow like it was you. he was mumbling something in his sleep, which made you frown. as you stepped nearer him, you could hear him repeatedly muttering things like, "how did i manage to pull the world's most perfect girl? how is y/n so caring? how did the universe land me with such an amazing girlfriend? i love y/n so, so much. she can control me all day." his words melted your heart, your smile growing wider than ever before as you set the items down on the nightstand. you took a towel and wet it with cold water, before placing it down on jihoon's forehead, hoping it would lower his fever as you snuggled in beside him.

your arms were wrapped around his as you softly planted a rain of kisses on his face, before whispering, "i love you jihoon, a lot." somehow, it was as if your voice was a key to wake him up as he blinked his eyes open slowly, before looking left and right, as if in disbelief you were cuddled in right next to him. slowly, realisation hit that you were there, ruffling and playing with his hair as his weak voice made you notice he was awake, "y/n...i love you too, so much. thank you for taking care of me." you winked at him, leaning in for a kiss as he looked skeptical, "okay, but don't blame me if you get sick."

"nonsense hoon, i never get sick, i told you my immune system is strong as fuck." you waved him off, kissing him anyway, your hands wrapped around his face as you continued, "you know, i've never seen anyone who wants to work when they can call a sick day."

"maybe because i'm actually fine." he replied cheekily, although you knew he secretly adored all the attention he was getting from you. "yeah yeah whatever workaholic, ever heard of taking a break?" the both of you giggled as you hugged each other to sleep. as the two of you dozed off, you gave him one more kiss, before going into your land of dreams.

[dogbinary]

Tailor's Version I Tailor!Astarion x Florest!reader

rating: E

wc: 3.3k

warnings: angst, heavy themes of grief and death, alcohol use, mentions of gore, nightmares (I promise it gets better), spoilers for the squid/death ending

summary: Tailor!Astarion/Florist!Reader are brought together when Dalyria arrives to Baldur's Gate. Astarion is tasked with designing her wedding dress, Reader is her florist. Slow burn, lots of angst, healing trauma. You get the picture. This will eventually earn its E rating.

a/n: This is a story about grief, learning to lean on those you love, and moving forward even if you feel you can't move on. It's very special to me, and I hope you enjoy it. You are not alone.

Read on AO3 Here

It begins as it always does, with the sound of snapping bones. Most nights, it haunts him - When he longs for sleep that never comes, the memory of the sound finds him there, creeping at the edges of his mind with every restless turn.

Sick, wet gurgling.

Rebirth. Misalignment.

An open mouth dripping with red—the coppery, sweet scent of blood that once enticed, sustained, and warmed him—now only curdles unpleasantly in his gut.

Endless rows of gnashing teeth replace tender lips that once spoke such sweet promises into his skin. The tiny, rough, amber-gray hairs that once sharpened the edges of his lover's jaw are gone. His endless constellation of freckles, a distant memory.

All that remains is pale, purple skin framing vacant, yellow eyes.

Astarion can hardly bring himself to recognize them, but he does.

He does.

Obscured by thrashing tendrils, he sees his lover's empty gaze, even now.

"Astarion,"

Beneath the rough canvas of splitting skin and blood -

Somewhere in those soulless eyes, behind those endless rows of jagged teeth - something deep within Astarion still manages to recognize him.

It's the way his pulse thrums beneath the newly exposed contours of his brain. Three hearts, three separate beats, Astarion recognizes their rhythm.

And everything they've built is crumbling before him.

Is this truly how it all ends, after everything? When the taste of his newfound freedom still lingers on his tongue, when there's so much left of the world for the two of them to see?

What of those whispered promises?

Astarion's tadpole, screeching but compliant, binds him to this creature's will. His mind drags the weight of his body along an invisible string, forcing him to approach this superior, beautiful being. He is powerless to resist.

"Astarion,"

There is no glint of love in the illithid's eyes, no familiarity as they search Astarion's face. There are only wet, writhing tentacles, stretching into every corner of his vision until he's being suffocated beneath their oppressive weight. There is only hunger.

Slender fingers coil around his arm and squeeze. Their claws break his skin, boring deep holes into the flesh of his shoulder and pinning him with their immense strength.

He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes from his throat.

"Brother!"

-

Astarion wakes with a gasp, a mixture of sweat and tears dampening his skin and darkening his sheets. His hands claw at his chest and face in a panicked fit until he suddenly comes to his senses and recognizes his surroundings.

The rose-red canopy above his head, the half-melted candle at his bedside illuminating his overly cluttered space - he's in his room.

Alive.

Well - not quite alive by definition, but undoubtedly not dead dead, and his brain, along with its jumbled contents, is intact, despite what the throbbing at the base of his skull would have him believe.

The linens beneath him are soaked through their silk, thoroughly ruined. 

If he keeps having these fits, he'll have to replace them again soon.

But he's safe.

No brain-devouring monsters in sight.

Just his brother, Petras, who may or may not be worse.

"Hells, Astarion. I could hear you from the first floor." Petras's voice barely pierces through the ringing in his ears.

Astarion opens his mouth to respond but notices the lining of his throat is cracked and dry. How long had he been screaming like that before being interrupted?

He runs a shaking hand through his hair, freeing a few unruly wet strands from where they stick to his face and willing his breath to settle. Air hisses between his clenched teeth, and the absurdity of it almost makes him laugh. His body may be long dead, but its reflexes remain cruelly intact.

Only when his shoulders cease their shuddering and his eyes adjust to the candlelight does Astarion notice that Petras is already dressed presentably for his shift—his dusty blond locks tied neatly in a half-bun and a fitted pair of workman's overalls that smell of fresh leather.

Petras looms at the edge of his bed with his ugly mug and nauseating sense of brotherly duty, averting his gaze, like a mutt caught rolling in the garbage. His boot anxiously digs at a raised floorboard.

He knows he shouldn't be in here, and is keenly aware of Astarion's commitment to privacy. Petras would typically rather risk a naked stroll in broad daylight than intrude on Astarion in his chambers, which tells him that this episode must have been notably more severe than the others.

His brother's eyes briefly flit to the dark oak nightstand beside him. They pause on a nearly empty glass bottle of Angelic Slumber, tucked discreetly behind a stack of leather-bound books. His brows furrow in concern.

The silence between them lingers on, hanging heavily between the two. Worse yet, it signals an impending question - one that Astarion, on a profoundly instinctual level, knows will piss him off.

"Are you alright, brother?"

Right, as always.

"Of course," Astarion responds with a scoff, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Even Petras wouldn't be foolish enough to miss such a blatant dismissal.

And yet -

"Was it about Tav?"

Astarion's jaw tenses, hands clenching the delicate sheets beneath him so tightly they threaten to tear.

"Do you not have anything better to do?" he hisses. I assume the countertops are dusted. Have the new arrivals been inspected and set out on their respective hangers?"

"Our next shipment isn't due to arrive until tomorrow evening -"

"So you've come to me in need of busy work, then," Astarion's voice swells, dripping with condescension, "Perhaps you'd enjoy scraping pigeon shit off the storefront concrete? I might even consider having you tend to the task with your teeth. A fitting punishment for disturbing my rest and disrespecting my privacy."

Petras stutters, readying an apology.

If Astarion were a better man - one that bothered to exercise any form of restraint or familial grace - he would have considered hearing the poor man out, maybe even thank him for his concern, but Astarion is not a good man, and before his brother can so much as utter a single word, he seizes one of the books at his bedside and hurls it as a warning shot.

The heavy novel narrowly misses Petras's head, whizzing past his pointed ear and landing by the door with a hard thud.

"Get out."

His brother backs out of the room, hands raised in submission, but stops just short of crossing the threshold, muttering, "I've left some mail in your office," before gently closing the door.

The empty expanse of Astarion's room envelops him in judgmental silence. He sighs heavily, releasing some of the tension in his chest, before falling back into the mass of decorative pillows that clutter the even emptier expanse of his bed. The ceiling stares back at him, the glow of the candlelight casting shadows over the textured patterns and weaving them into blurred remnants of his dream.

He forcefully presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It isn't worth dwelling on the night terrors - he'd learned that much rather quickly, merely weeks after he'd watched his lover turn into… that thing.

But he won't dwell on that, either. He won't.

The glass vial on his nightstand silently taunts him. Its pink, syrupy contents cling to its side, evidence of its recent use.  Perhaps Angelic Slumber is a bit of an extreme measure, but the list of potential solutions to Astairon's fruitless pursuit of rest is dwindling down to nothing, while the list of disappointments grows ever longer.

Craning his neck to read the clock on the wall beside him, he's not surprised to find that it's well past noon - still early enough to get himself presentable before opening.

Just months ago, he'd have been rushing to throw on a bit of finery and fix his hair, the pages of his schedule lined from edge to edge with the names of impatient nobles. A fitting here, a cutting there, sewing, prepping, busy hands, busy work, head filled to the brim with spools of different colors and measurements, with not a single square inch left for any unwelcome thoughts. Not a moment to dwell.

But, with the turn of the seasons, business has slowed like clockwork. The shop's primary clientele of affluent Baldarians tend to migrate for the winter, holding up in their vacation homes outside the city before returning for collective holiday festivities. It's the second week in a row that he's had gaps in his schedule, and there are several more to come before the streets are flooded with customers again.

He can afford a hot bath to ease the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps he'll even have a glass of wine to help take the edge off - something light and fruit-forward in flavor, just enough to get him through opening.

He peels the sheets off his body and makes a note to strip them later, then trudges barefoot over his ornate, decorative rug to grab the book he so carelessly tossed at his brother.

The Realm According to Bumpo, Vol. 8, laid flat, page-side down. The force of his throw split the bloody spine - a terrible fate to befall a collector's item. He regards the novel with a small apology before setting it on his dresser and trudging towards the bathroom.

The cold tile bites at the soles of his feet, a discomfort he's learned to accept with the coming winter months. The floor creaks as he approaches the large porcelain tub and turns on the faucet. There's no mirror, no reflection to confirm what he already knows—that he's beautiful, of course, never mind the deepening bags under his eyes. If he can't see them, there's no proof they exist.

He certainly does not look as shitty as he feels.

The pipes groan and thud with the promise of hot water.

He'll make it through this night like every night before this one, just as he has for the past six years. He'll greet customers with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, make more than enough money to afford his diamond-encrusted pile of shit life, and then he'll read himself to sleep - the same song and dance over and over until the sun burns itself out or someone finally learns his identity and stakes him.

-

The crisp scent of new cotton and warm leather catch him as Astarion descends the stairs, masking the subtle sting of cleaning vinegar under the earthy undertones of wooden hangers and countertops.

The store lacks square footage. It’s much longer than it is wide - as is customary for most specialty shops in the heart of this bustling city, where a building's height is favored over its width. He wouldn't call it a flaw in the design, more so a consequence of population density - a small price to pay for the anonymity of a bustling town. The structural integrity is sound despite the building's age, and the thick brownstone walls act as excellent soundproofing. It's nice, if he may say so - tucked away and intimate - one of Baldur's Gate's best-kept secrets.

The real selling point was the second floor. There was no need to travel between work and home, which the realtor was quick to highlight. With so many external factors pressing him to find quick shelter (namely, the bloody sun), as well as the distinct lack of windows, this seemed like the most natural option.

It took Astarion and Petras several months to renovate the space. While the place was long abandoned and cleared of its contents, Astarion had a hunch that it had been some sort of bookstore before it came into his possession. The walls encompassing the central area and the claustrophobic back office were lined with shelves needing to be stripped. There was a distinct musk reminiscent of wet paper that never entirely dissipated, even when the century-old carpet was pulled back to reveal gorgeous, antique wooden flooring. To say he was appalled at the previous owner's lack of taste would be the understatement of the century.

The rest was a matter of decoration and display. Which, given Astarion's penchant for "collecting" trinkets during his travels, didn't take much time at all. He set out the less personal items, paintings of nameless faces, a refined leather assortment of furniture, and large, ornamental rugs to bring the room together.

He'd spent weeks forging the professional relationships needed to obtain his fabrics, began visiting the night market once a month to collect embellishments for his more ostentatious clients, and owned a steady business within the first year of his new life.

And so, the lowly vampire spawn carved out a little piece of this city for himself- this place that once held him prisoner. While it wasn't home, it was something.

It was his.

The amber glow from the main room spills into his office as he pulls back the curtain divider. This room, too, is claustrophobic, with just enough room for his essentials: a single desk, chair, and an oversized sewing machine.

Opting to rid this space of its built-in bookshelf walls may have afforded him some extra room, but he decided instead to use them as storage. The cubbies are filled to the brim with fabric swatches, thimbles, measuring tape, and, of course, mountains of unanswered letters.

A cluttered mess to the average observer, but to him, chaotic organization.

He lights a few scattered wax candles and finds that the mail Petras referred to is, in fact, waiting for him on his desk - a stack of papers piled neatly where several strips of leather and unwound spools had been pushed aside.

He sorts through them and briefly scans his eyes over the name of each sender before disposing of each one in the small bin beside him.

Their contents are the same as always, courteous reminders that bills are due, several solicitations for holiday donations (they tend to lay it on thick this time of year - as if the fates of deaf, blind, wartorn orphans were solely dependant on his 20 silver), and another invitation to one of Gale's lectures.

The paper catches his attention, cardstock with a rough edge. His nose scrunches at the gaudy gold trimming around the equally tasteless title, highlighted by an illusory glowing halo, "The Art of Arcane Illusions: A Symphony of Spectral Splendor."

A slight twinge of guilt tugs at his chest. Despite years of neglecting his correspondence - a towering stack of unanswered letters - Gale continues writing to him. The others have mercifully abandoned their attempts to connect with him long ago.

He tucks the invitation away along with his feelings, depositing it into a discreet desk drawer before settling into his seat. Countless sleepless nights spent in the plush embrace of his office chair have molded it to his shape. He finds comfort in that - every groove acts as a steadfast anchor, keeping him grounded through the turmoil that comes with the busier months.

Astarion grabs his ledger to check tonight's night's schedule. It's not entirely empty; one of his regulars will be in around seven to have some casualwear fitted. An easy turnaround. Then, at eight, he has to fit two young twins for a birthday celebration. At ten -

"Astarion," Petras's muffled call reaches him from behind the thick curtain. I have something here for you—another letter. It must have fallen out of the stack.

"Come in."

His brother's hands are shaking as he enters, and Astarion scoffs to himself. His earlier outburst couldn't have been that bad. He's undoubtedly acted worse, driven by higher levels of stress and even fewer hours of rest. And while that doesn't necessarily excuse his behavior earlier, it certainly doesn't warrant his brother acting like an overly emotional –

His thoughts halt as he's handed a note, thicker than the others and addressed to him by his sister.

He can hardly believe his eyes.

"It's from Dalyria,” Petras says with an emotional warbe to his voice, “She's in Waterdeep. I received an identical one."

Soft, warm light catches on the wax seal, the navy color contrasting with all the stamps she'd used before. Astarion's brows pinch in confusion as he takes the envelope, tracing the pad of his thumb over the indented image of an unfamiliar family crest. He carefully tears the note, finding two separate papers: one folded sheet and one small card.

"Oh, mine only had the card," Petras remarks with an unmistakable hint of disappointment.

He offers the card a quick glance, then a second, once he realizes what it actually is.

A wedding invitation. For him.

Well, isn't that sweet?

It takes him less than a second to decide he won't be attending. Years ago, he may have considered it, but the logistics of traveling to Waterdeep with his… condition are daunting, at best.

Still, it's nice to be considered. He'll have to send some sort of gesture along with his regrets. Perhaps a fruit basket.

He tosses the card in the bin, ignoring the scathing look of disapproval Petras is currently burning into the back of his skull.

"I take it you won't be attending, then?"

"Of course not," Astarion replies matter-of-factly. "Someone needs to be here to tend to things. This place isn't going to run itself."

"It's our sister's wedding, Astarion. Surely, you can find someone to take over for a few days. Or hells, maybe you could, I don't know, consider taking an actual vacation?" Petras crosses his arms, leaning his large, brutish frame against the wooden edge of the desk. "It's Waterdeep. The Waterdeep. Debaucherous-festivals-day-and-night, tavern-at-every-corner Waterdeep."

"I'm aware." Astarion's tone is dismissive. He doesn't spare his brother a glance as he unfolds the second sheet of paper. It's, surprisingly, a very lengthy handwritten letter, which he skims over as Petras continues the assault on his ears.

"You know, I remember a time not too long ago when you'd revel in the idea of depravity -"

Dear Astarion,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and even better spirits. You still often cross my mind, and I hope the sentiment is mutual despite your demanding schedule. Word has spread of your unparalleled talent among the nobles even here, so I'm sure that must be why I have not received any word from you.

Astarion rolls his eyes. The subtle jab does not go unnoticed.

As you may have read, we will be hosting our wedding here in Waterdeep in early spring. The celebration will be held in just a few short months. It still feels like a dream -

The low thrum of anxiety in his chest begins to swell with every word. There must be some significant point to this.

He impatiently skips to the final paragraph, bypassing the rest of her flowery embellishments and flattery, until his eyes land on a sentence that makes his cold, undead heart sink.

I will be traveling from Waterdeep to Baldur's Gate, and I would be honored if you would be willing to craft my wedding dress.

Oh. Oh dear.

"She says she'll be here by the end of the month," Petras notes over his shoulder, nearly startling him.

"I'm perfectly capable of reading on my own, Petras."

But the words start to bleed into each other the longer he stares at the page, and the ringing in his ears grows louder each second.

Neither of them had seen Dalyria since she'd left to help guide the remaining spawn into the Underdark - another piece of his past he'd shoveled 6 feet deep and buried, right along with the rest of the hell he'd been put through 6 years ago, and the 200 years before then.

And now, after all this time, all of the effort he'd spent sealing those memories away and moving forward, they still manage to infiltrate the one place he thought he'd be safe - breaching the walls he'd built to keep them out.

They're being delivered right to his doorstep in just a few days.

Astarion sets the letter on his desk and just… stares.

[ducksido]

First off, I have known you for around 10 minutes, but now I’m a dedicated fan, your writing is absolutely amazing! And love that you include EPIC in it, if it doesn’t bother you, could you do a Mexican!Yuu? Like a little Mexican chaos gremlin who insults with every insult known in South America, you can totally ignore this message btw, no problem, have a nice day!

(Combining these three) [Also thank you very much c0ralrubi and childofserpents[❁´◡`❁])

Grim: "You mean to tell me tamales come in different flavors?! And you make them for Christmas?! Gimme one!" Grim is obsessed with Mexican food but underestimates the spice levels. After one bite of a habanero salsa, he refuses to trust Yuu’s food recommendations. He also thinks alebrijes are real and keeps asking if he can have one as a pet.

Crowley: "A culture so rich in history, legends, and celebrations! Why, I must host a NRC Día de los Muertos event in your honor!" Crowley 100% butchers the execution of it and makes it look like a spooky Halloween party. Yuu threatens him in Spanish while wielding a chancla.

Crewel: "Your homeland embraces bold colors and statement pieces—how absolutely divine!" Crewel admires traditional Mexican embroidery and charro suits. He’d love to make custom traje de charro-inspired outfits for Yuu, with a modern twist.

Trein: "Mexican folklore is filled with such intricate tales… Tell me more about La Llorona." Trein is fascinated by Mexican horror legends. Yuu tells him about Nahuales and El Chupacabra, and he starts using them as cautionary tales in class.

Vargas: "You mean to tell me your people run with BULLS for fun?! That’s the kind of strength I admire!" Vargas is shook when Yuu tells him about Mexican rodeos and charreadas. He tries to challenge Yuu to a physical competition, but Yuu just smacks him with a lucha libre mask and runs away screaming "¡Viva México!"

Sam: "Ooooh, you got all kinds of magical folk legends? Tell me more about these aluxes!" Sam sees Mexican myths and traditions as an untapped business opportunity. He starts selling calaveritas and copal for "spiritual balance" at his shop.

Heartslabyul:

Riddle Rosehearts: "You celebrate by smashing a piñata?! How… reckless." Riddle is horrified by the concept of piñatas. He gets hit in the face during a birthday party, and Yuu just yells, "¡Le pegaste al cumpleañero! ¡Córrele!" (You hit the birthday person! Run!)

Ace Trappola: "Wait, you have, like, a WHOLE holiday just for bread?! That’s sick!" Ace tries to get Yuu to share their pan de muerto. He also loves Día de los Inocentes, especially since he can pull pranks and blame it on a cultural holiday.

Deuce Spade: "Hold on—you have a whole fighting sport where people wear colorful masks?! That’s so cool!" Deuce becomes obsessed with lucha libre. He asks Yuu to teach him insults in Spanish so he can sound like a rudo (villain wrestler). He’s bad at them.

Trey Clover: "Wait, you put chocolate and chili together?! That actually sounds amazing." Trey loves Mexican desserts like churros, cajeta, and tres leches cake. He tries making mole and is deeply confused by the mix of chocolate and spices.

Cater Diamond: "Okay, but Magicam aesthetic—can I take a pic with your Día de Muertos ofrenda?" Cater is obsessed with Mexican aesthetics. He starts using phrases like "¡Órale, güey!" incorrectly and gets roasted by Yuu for it.

Savanaclaw:

Leona Kingscholar: "Hmph. Your people have strong warriors and deep traditions. I respect that." Leona admires Mexican fighters, from Aztec warriors to Lucha Libre legends. He’s also highly interested in the jaguar symbolism in Mexican culture.

Ruggie Bucchi: "Wait, wait, wait—you guys eat grasshoppers for snacks?! That’s actually kinda genius." Ruggie loves chapulines (fried grasshoppers) and asks Yuu for recipes. He also steals tamales and learns the hard way not to mess with the Rosca de Reyes baby.

Jack Howl: "Your people are really into loyalty and family, huh?" Jack deeply respects how important family and tradition are to Yuu. He’s super intrigued by Mexican legends about wolves, like El Cadejo.

Octavinelle:

Azul Ashengrotto: "So you’re saying these… alebrijes… are spirit guardians? Fascinating." Azul is intrigued by Mexican folklore, especially alebrijes and their meanings. He wants to see if he can profit off of them.

Jade Leech: "You honor mushrooms in your culture? How delightful!" Jade adores that some Mexican indigenous traditions view mushrooms as sacred. He asks if Yuu has ever tried special ones.

Floyd Leech: "YOU GUYS HAVE FIGHTING MASKS?! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME SOONER?!" Floyd immediately challenges Yuu to a lucha libre match and makes up his own wrestling persona.

Scarabia:

Kalim Al-Asim: "Your celebrations sound so lively and exciting! Can I join?!" Kalim is absolutely in love with posadas, piñatas, and mariachis. He tries to dance to jarabe tapatío and nearly trips.

Jamil Viper: "Your food looks delicious, but I sense a dangerous amount of spice." Jamil is deeply suspicious of Mexican chiles. Yuu pranks him by telling him habanero salsa is “just tomato sauce.”

Pomefiore:

Vil Schoenheit: "Your people emphasize beauty in tradition? I respect that." Vil admires the bold colors in Mexican clothing and makeup. He wants to create calavera-inspired makeup looks.

Rook Hunt: "Ah! The poetry of your culture! The passion!" Rook is obsessed with Mexican poetry and romanticism. He dramatically recites Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz poems.

Epel Felmier: "Y’all have weird apples, but I kinda like ‘em." Epel falls in love with tejocotes and ponche navideño. He gets super into Mexican cowboy culture.

Ignihyde:

Idia Shroud: "Mexican mythology inspired, like, half of my RPGs…" Idia geekily rants about Quetzalcóatl and Xibalba. He thinks La Llorona is the best horror story ever.

Ortho Shroud: "So… Día de los Muertos is about remembering loved ones? That’s beautiful." Ortho loves the sentimental side of Mexican traditions.

Diasomnia:

Malleus Draconia: "You respect spirits and traditions? You are wise." Malleus deeply respects Día de los Muertos and wants to experience a Mexican graveyard celebration.

Lilia Vanrouge: "Ah, I remember the battles of your ancestors!" Lilia claims to have met Aztec warriors. He’s probably telling the truth.

Silver: Falls asleep mid Mexican legend.

Sebek: "YOUR PEOPLE RESPECT ANCESTORS?! FINALLY, SOMEONE SANE!"

RSA + Noble Bell:

Chenya: Steals pan dulce. Neige: Thinks Yuu’s culture is magical. Rollo: Disgusted by how loud Mexican parties are.

Extra Mexican!Yuu Chaos:

Randomly yells "¡No mames, güey!"

Calls everyone "cabrón" or "mijo."

Fights Leona with a lucha libre mask.

[freshsandwichdinosaur]

Sick baby

📍London, 10:42 PM

The boardroom was still, the only sound coming from the soft hum of the projector and the faint scratching of pens against paper.

Y/N sat at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, poised and professional despite the exhaustion that clung to her. **Black tailored trousers hugged her legs perfectly, paired with a crisp white blouse tucked neatly at her waist.** The glow of the overhead lights caught the soft curls of her **fresh blowout**, framing her face as she delivered the final key points of her proposal.

She had been running on fumes for weeks now—endless late nights of analyzing risk models, fine-tuning investment strategies, and leading teams. But none of it compared to the guilt weighing on her chest whenever she saw Jude’s missed calls, his texts filled with soft “I miss you”s and tired “just wanted to hear your voice”s.

She clicked to the last slide. “By implementing this strategy, we not only hedge against market fluctuations but also ensure long-term profitability for our firm.”

The senior partner leaned forward, nodding. “Impressive work, Y/N. You always deliver.”

She forced a polite smile, shaking hands before stepping out of the boardroom. The second she was alone, she let out a slow exhale and **pulled out her phone.**

**Five missed calls from Jude.**

Her stomach twisted with guilt.

---

### **📍Text Messages**

**Jude 🤍:** _Y/N, please answer_

**Jude 🤍:** _I know you’re busy but I miss you_

**Jude 🤍:** _Just one call?_

**Jude 🤍:** _Ok, love you. Hope your meeting went well._

Her heart clenched. **She had to call him.**

The phone barely rang before he picked up.

“Babe,” his voice was weak, hoarse.

Her brows furrowed instantly. “Jude? What’s wrong? You sound awful.”

A soft chuckle, followed by a sniffle. “Caught something. Been sleeping all day.”

Y/N closed her eyes, hating the distance between them. **He was alone, sick, and she was here, buried in meetings.**

“Have you eaten? Taken anything?” she asked, already walking toward her car.

“Dunno. Just slept,” he mumbled.

That was all she needed to hear.

“I’m booking a flight.”

“Wait, what?” Jude sounded more awake now, voice laced with surprise.

“You’re sick, Jude. You need someone to take care of you.”

“You’ve been working nonstop, baby,” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t wanna—”

“Jude,” she interrupted gently. “You come first. Always.”

A pause. Then, in a sleepy whisper, **“I always need you.”**

Her chest ached. **She was going to Madrid.**

---

### **📍Texting Jude’s Mom**

**Y/N:** _Hey, just booked a flight to Madrid. Jude’s sick, and I feel awful for not being there._

**Jude’s Mom:** _Oh sweetheart, he didn’t even tell me! Thank you for going to him ❤️ Let me know if you need anything._

**Y/N:** _Of course, will keep you updated!_

---

### **📍Madrid, 3:32 AM**

The apartment was dimly lit when she stepped inside, the warmth of Madrid’s night air still lingering in the space. Jude’s sneakers were haphazardly tossed by the door, his jacket crumpled on the couch.

Y/N moved quietly through the space, making her way to the bedroom.

What she saw made her heart break.

Jude was curled up under the blankets, **his face flushed, lips slightly parted as he breathed heavily through his nose.** His usually tanned skin looked dull, his curls messier than usual.

She set her bag down and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, brushing the damp strands of hair off his forehead. His skin was warm—too warm.

“Jude,” she whispered, her voice as soft as the night air.

He stirred, eyelids fluttering open slightly.

“Angel?” His voice was rough with sleep, thick with congestion.

“I’m here, love,” she murmured, her fingers **trailing gently down his cheek, caressing him with delicate touches.**

Jude sighed, shifting toward her, **his body instinctively seeking out her warmth.** He didn’t even have the energy to pull her into him properly, so he just clumsily grasped at her wrist, **holding onto her like a child.**

“Thought I was dreamin’,” he mumbled sleepily.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips cool against his burning skin. “Nope. Flew straight here for you, baby.”

Jude let out a soft whimper, **burying his face into her lap.** “Missed you so much,” he mumbled, his words barely audible against the fabric of her blouse.

Y/N’s heart melted.

“I know, my love,” she whispered, running her fingers through his curls, **slowly massaging his scalp.** “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. You must’ve felt awful all alone.”

“Felt like shit,” he admitted, **sniffling dramatically like a little kid.** “No cuddles. No forehead kisses.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, **stroking his cheek.** “You’re so dramatic.”

“M’serious,” he whined, **nudging his face against her stomach.** “Needed you.”

Her fingers trailed down to his jaw, cupping it gently as she lifted his face slightly. **His sleepy brown eyes met hers, filled with exhaustion and something softer—something completely and utterly Jude.**

“I’m here now,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to his warm skin. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips curled into a sleepy, lopsided smile. “Promise?”

“Promise, baby.”

Jude sighed in content, his arms finally **snaking around her waist, clinging onto her like she was his lifeline.** She shifted, sliding under the covers with him, letting him rest his head against her chest.

Y/N continued **to caress his face, trailing soft kisses along his temple, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.**

“My poor baby,” she cooed, voice low and soothing. “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, nuzzling further into her warmth. “Love you.”

She smiled against his curls, pressing a lingering kiss to his hair. “I love you more.”

And just like that, **Jude finally fell into a peaceful sleep, safe in her arms.**

---

**The End.**

[danopdf]

there is not enough horny baberoe on this app

I am here to provide.

HORNY BABEROE HC:

Warnings: smut stuff… idk they’re so cute it makes me sick, I love them sm.

======

- to everyone in Easy they’re the lost vanilla and sweet and never have sex- I mean they barely kiss in front of people- but let me tell you, these guys fuck FREAKY NASTY.

- There has been more than one occasion where (once in Austria) Gene sneaks a little vial of morphine and they have comforting, lazy sex that seems to last for hours in their sluggish haze of lust.

- When Babe does something Gene really likes, Gene swears and starts talking in French and that is now forever Babe’s goal during any sexual encounter.

- Babe moves to Louisiana after the war and they so often have early morning sex where the sun is just starting to come up and wake up the bayou, and the room gets just warm enough that they sweat and Babe’s hair burns fire red… it’s both of their favourite type of sex.

- Babe has very soft hands even when him and Gene are fixing up the old house, and Gene loves to hold Babe’s soft hand in his rough calloused one when they’re making love.

- Gene… this man… this poor poor man is constantly subject to Babe’s constant need to mark him. It’s easy at first when Gene is still pale, only having to nip or suck little marks in his skin. But the second he gets back to the south and he tans back to his usual tanned skin Babe has to work 10x as hard to get his marks to show, (Babe loves having to work for it though. Gene on the other hand? Also loves it).

- One of their favourite things to do BEFORE sex is dancing. Specifically dancing out on the big wrap around porch, with a record playing through the open windows.

- Luckily they live far enough in the secluded area of the bayou that when the dancing eventually leads to something more, Gene doesn’t have to cover Babe’s mouth and gets to relish in the loud sounds he always makes.

- Gene is quiet but the second Babe looks at him, begging to hear him, he gives in and lets every small sound come out.

- Babe on the other hand, loud as fuck. Could not shut him up for a million dollars, always saying something about “how else am I supposed to tell you you’re doin’ a good job while my brain is mush? Every time I try not to make any noise you stop every ten seconds to check on me! I’m here to get railed, not have a therapy session, Gene!” He says with his big grin.

- It’s only during an Easy Company reunion that the company actually realizes how much they actually go at it.

- The first time Babe pulls Gene away they think nothing of it.

- When Gene pulls Babe away they assume he’s getting reprimanded for trying to play (lose at) darts against Buck again.

- But by the fourth time they disappear and come back with messy hair and skewed buttons it doesn’t take a lot of thinking before Easy realizes what’s happening, and everybody is handing money to Bill.

- “It’s not fair! Babe tells Bill everything!!” They all complain.

- But God knows that what happens in the Roe-Heffron bedroom STAYS in the Roe-Heffron bedroom… or the porch… or the laundry room… or kitchen… or basically anywhere in the house and any place that has a bed or surface where they can make do.

- Anything is better than a freezing foxhole.

[nymika-arts]

making amends, this shit never ends i'm wrong again, wrong again

[mellxncollie]

Sophus Helle, Gilgamesh — tablet X, line 55 Dead Boy Detectives (2024) — season 01, episode 07

[gods-favorite-autistic]

Track list for Fig and the Cig Figs independently published Junior Year album (officially named “Infaethable”)

Teenage Rebellion

Night Yorb (a heavy metal banger)

Summer Scaries

Devils Nectar

Time Quangle (a love song about Ayda)

Multiclass (Gorgug sings on this!)

The Ballad Of Lucy Frostblade (Kristen was the one who convinced Fig to write this)

So Late, So Tactical

Do You Have A Fucking Warrant

Cassandra (Can You Hear Me)

Hall Of Mirrors

President Applebees (written entirely in the night after Kristen gets elected by a drunk Fig with extremely drunk notes by Kristen)

Raging For Love (inspired by Gorgug, of course)

The Elven Oracle (Has A Day Job) (So Stop Bothering Her)

Maximum Legend

Fury Of The Ball

Cursed

Infaethable

The Bad Kids

[dootznbootz]

Odysseus is the type of guy who oozes rizz and can and will say the sweetest shit to Penelope and revels in her being happy with it ("You're beautiful in red" when she blushes. THAT type of cheesy bullshit. Have you READ the shit he says to her in the Odyssey?) but if she gives it back, he just freezes and Odysseus.exe stops working. Especially since he was the one doing all the flirting in the beginning until she finally chills out and "allows" herself to have a crush.

Penelope: ...You know, I don't really know if your name fits you. Odysseus: Oh? You don't think "Pain in the ass" is a good fit? Penelope: It definitely is...But...I don't know. Maybe it's because when I think of you, I don't think of pain, I think of joy... Yeah, instead of "pain giver", you're a giver of joy."Joy Giver" perhaps? Odysseus:

Penelope: ...Are you okay? Odysseus: *completely red and continues to make a high-pitched squeaking sound like air being let out of a balloon*

He gets more used to it as they get further along in their marriage but in the beginning, this guy was screaming into his pillows and kicking his feet and twirling his hair and being stupid :D

[parkitaco]

sooo have we considered i love you i’m sorry byler au

[apricusapollo]

all the stars align bartylus

[monaetheworldsdestroyer]

a new cherik fanfiction because i'm still insane!!

all fluff no angst because that's what they deserve

[pqvlove]

can't believe gracie abrams wrote "i love you, im sorry" about john and paul