#been wanting to draw this out for a very long time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gifsbysimplysonia · 2 days ago

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Hola. Long rambling feedback behind the cut as well as

When he meets you, he hasn’t even thought of picking up a pencil in years. Ever since you’ve been at the mansion though, Logan’s fingertips twitch with the urge to start sketching your features every time he’s with you. It gets hard to ignore after a few days.

I think this is so beautiful. Anyone who is a creative knows how difficult it can be to find a muse. So for this person to inspire a twitch in Logan after YEARS? That's just a very beautiful thing.

He waits until he’s known you a few weeks, there’s no way in hell he’d ask if he could draw you. He’d probably embarrass you by asking, and embarrass himself by admitting he’s into fucking art. That’s not him. Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring.

And this is for BOTH 1) thinking it's not ok to be into art??? OK BUT CAVEMEN CARVED INTO WALLS, SIR and 2) "you're nothing if not inspiring" *screamingggggggggggggggggggg*

The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises. Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing.

I love that this fits with the Logan I know, the demand on self for perfectionism and the refusal to accept anything but. But it's especially important cuz he wants to do right by YOU/HER. *swoon*

And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more.

Sigh. Oh Logan. Always thinking he's not worthy while he holds everyone he cares about up on pedestals. I both adore him and wanna shake him for these habits.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He gets Rogue to show him Instagram for reference photos. HOW CUTE!

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite.

This is soooooooooooooooo beautiful. It is just a loud beacon of what Logan's heart really is. It's also really precious that he finally produces a drawing of her that he's satisfied with which then produces ANGST in him. Cuz he can't leave it out cuz what if people see? But he doesn't want to hide it cuz what if it smudges? Watching him go back and forth about it and the STRESS shows how much it means to him not to mess it up but ALSO, I think, how much it means to him to be back drawing. As a creative who goes through the longest dry patches, when a period of productivity comes up? OH DO I WANT TO HANG ONTO IT. And probably try so hard that I make it slip through my fingers.

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again. He could give it to you.

DO IT LOGANNNNNNNN!

Logan knows his drawing isn’t objectively a masterpiece, but if he’s proud of it he has to acknowledge that that probably means it’s at least decent. And you’re definitely the type of person to appreciate something like this. It’s weird admitting to himself that he’s even proud of what he’s drawn; he’s done so much in this world, who cares about a little drawing?

YOU care, sir! And people who love you will SEE that and care too!!! Don't we all wish he valued himself and his opinions more.

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him.

It's so precious to me, how relatable this is. Anyone who is a creative can relate, I'm sure. How nervous creatives are before they publish or they post or they even just share with someone they are close to. I wanna hug him.

He knows it’s stupid to hide but he just can’t. He decides he’ll leave the drawing in your room in an envelope, maybe a pink one to show you it’s not a creepy threat but meant as a sign of adoration, from someone who couldn’t resist but try to recreate your beauty. He won’t write his name on it, he just wants you to have it. Sappy motherfucker.

Some day, someone needs to tell him he can give himself permission to BE sappy. Corny is part of life and it's a blessing.

He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door. So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart. It’s soo stupid.

It's annoying to read Logan's antiquated views on masculinity here. Completely understand that it fits with his character and how he has aged and evolved but omggggggggggg, it's just frustrating lol

You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

The way we can convince ourselves of the worst possible outcome, eh? *smh*

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing. You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.”

SHE IMMEDIATELY TREATED IT AS SOMETHING PRECIOUS!!! SHE WANTED TO PROTECT IT JUST LIKE LOGAN WANTED TO PROTECT IT!!! BUT SHE LOVES IT TO THE POINT SHE MADE HERSELF A COPY TO CARRY IT AROUND WITH HER AT ALL TIMES!!!!!

“I don’t know, just, so beautiful. I’m not saying I’m not pretty or anything, but this looks… I don’t look like that. I wish I did. I can’t believe someone actually sees me like that. It’s stupid but I….” You trail off and, conveniently, the toast is done at the same time and you move on to that. But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?” You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

To see the similarities in how they DON'T see themselves fully is kind of sweet and makes me root for them.

“I cried when I first saw it yesterday. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. And it’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received, for someone to perceive me in such an artistic way.” The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created.

He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing.

This is HILARIOUS and KILLING ME because I also make rules for MYSELF that are different from the rules I have for EVERYONE ELSE lmao

He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy.

Logan being an Acts of Service person makes ALL the sense in the world to me.

But of course now that he knows it means something to you, he can’t get anything right. He draws your hair too curly, then not curly enough. He draws your nose too big, then too small. Your eyes end up crooked. He can’t erase too much because it’ll look sloppy, so even the drawing he gets almost perfect, he ruins with a few final additions at the end.

The curse of the sequel! I think a lot of creatives can relate to this type of self induced pressure which means nothing you produce is good enough.

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.” He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

She already has a frame for the new drawing cuz the frames came in packs of 2 and she will NOT STAND for someone not absolutely FAWNING over it and I love that from her. It's doing Logan's heart SO good to see how much she adores what he's created.

If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you. Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

It was the stupidest joke of all that made you really laugh, some dumb comparison between Xavier and Caillou. You probably wouldn’t even giggle at it anymore now, but in the moment it was so funny you almost spat out your drink from the deep belly laugh he drew from you, holding onto his bicep so you wouldn’t fall over as tears formed in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. He wanted to engrave the image on his soul. At least he got your smile on paper.

Our man is S-M-I-T-T-E-N and I love that for him. Cuz look what it's brought back into his life?

“I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it. “No one else knows.” You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

This is so intimate. And he's finally comfortable all the way with her. She knows it's him and he's fine with her knowing it's him.

You don’t know how to put your feelings into words, so you’re kissing him instead. He pulls you down so that you’re not hovering over but sitting on his lap, and the mood immediately shifts to something different. Logan doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but if you’re ready then he’ll take anything he can get.

I appreciate that Logan is just the tiniest bit "selfish" here because this has been such an emotionally taxing ordeal for him. And she really really admires his talent and is THRILLED that it's him and that he sees her the way that he does.

From here the story slips into the Rated R portion of the story which is both hot and very sweet. The buildup means that I feel a genuine connection and intimacy between the 2 that feels "earned," if that's the right word. Cuz it doesn't feel forced or rushed or like we skipped a whole bunch of stuff to get here.

I also love that there's open dialogue. Often, the only talk between lovers is dirty - which I am a big fan of and absolutely fine with - but that here we have sweet confessions, constant check ins, and reassurances; these all fit with the journey we've been on with these two and I just really enjoy that aspect.

There's also good dirty talk, balanced give and take and praaaaaaaaaaaaise which I enjoy thoroughly. Logan also tends to take the possessive "my girl" over and over which just melts my butter!

@selfcarecap thank you so much for creating and sharing this! Thank you for following YOUR muse through to the end of this tale and then being brave enough to slip it under all our doors *bad dum tss* I really loved this look at Logan, his vulnerabilities, his abilities and desires beyond his powers / "job" and what allowing himself to create ultimately gifted him with. Well done smut that I also very much enjoyed too.

And thank you to K for putting it on my dash!

MUSE [L.H.]

Logan Howlett x reader

summary: Logan would never admit it to anyone, but over the course of his long life he has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. He hasn’t done it in years, maybe even decades, but he’s struck by inspiration when he meets you. Of course, no one can know that Wolverine draws, so he does it in the dead of night, sliding anonymous envelopes with the finished drawings of you under your door. When he sees how much you love them, he wonders if you could also love the person behind them.

warnings: smut 18+ but with an actual plot for once (brief m masturbation, oral f and m rec, unprotected piv sex, kind of accidental (but consensual obv) facial; pet names: bub, baby, good girl, princess), soft!Logan but he won’t admit it, also soft!reader, fluff (although the summary makes it sounds a bit more dramatic than it is tbh), implication that reader has curly hair, implied mutant/X-men!reader, (obviously the pic doesn’t represent the envelopes Logan uses lol he’s not doing all that)

word count: 7.3k

also i feel the need to say something about the fact that it’s Hugh Jackman’s birthday today lol so uh thanks for being huge jacked man and for giving us our Logan yay <3 | gorgeous divider by @plutism

It’s everything Logan is the opposite of – he would never tell a soul – but over the course of his long life, Logan has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. It’s not really him, but he did have a phase or two.

Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring.

He gives in to the urge to get out pencil and paper again, waiting until everyone else has gone to sleep. The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises.

Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing.

He picks out a few other things to draw then, to ease the pressure that comes with drawing the woman he… is friends with. Yeah, you’re a friend. And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more.

But after a few nights he feels more confident in his drawing skills again, but still, as much as he can picture you in his mind – he can do that absolutely perfectly – he’s not too sure he could really draw you accurately.

So he gets Rogue to show him how goddamn fucking Instagram works so that he can look at some of your pictures and use them as a model.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He can’t believe it, but the first time he seriously attempts to draw you, it’s perfect. It’s a small drawing, not even as big as his palm, capturing your gorgeous face. He thinks of adding another few lines to your eyebrows, or to your hair or another small one to the outline of your lips, but he doesn’t want to mess with it.

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite.

He hides the drawing in between the pages of a book, and hides the book under a pile of random clutter on his desk that not even he would normally spare a glance at. But when he lies down to go to sleep, he gets all the stuff out again and gets out the drawing. He wants to see it again. And he can’t leave it there anyway, what if the pressure from all the items on top of it smudges it?

But he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He can’t really have a drawing of you sitting in his room. What if someone sees? Then what is he gonna do with it instead?

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again.

He could give it to you.

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him. To see the side that has him staying up until 3AM to finely trace the lines of someone’s eyelashes and cheekbones and lips, the side that makes him feel calm inside.

Sappy motherfucker.

He puts the small drawing back into the book and carefully pushes it between his mattress and the bedframe to protect it during the night. God, who even is he – protecting a tiny piece of paper? He groans at himself as he turns around to go to sleep.

He dreams of making a thousand drawings of you, with you as his live model. His muse.

You’re his girlfriend in his dream, he thinks.

He’s sitting in a chair in your room, drawing you as you tell him about your day. You’re lying on your bed on your tummy, elbows propped up to support your head. You’re gently kicking your feet in the air behind you, wearing nothing but a t-shirt of Logan’s, some silly graphic socks, panties with little cherries on them, and a bright, bashful smile as Logan attempts to capture your glowing features in a sketch block he’s dedicated to drawings of you.

He wakes up with morning wood.

Logan is no stranger to jerking off with you on his mind, so he spits in his hand and slips it beneath his boxers, stroking himself as he thinks of you. He imagines you on top of him as he jerks his cock, imagines you under him, or with your legs around his head, or you between his knees on the floor. He cums quickly and hard, leaving his boxers wet and sticky.

He goes for a run after he’s dealt with it and picks up an envelope on his way. He’s doubting himself but he knows he has to just do it. He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door.

So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart.

It’s soo stupid.

He makes sure no one is anywhere near your bedroom, walks up to your door, and slides the envelope underneath. Except he didn’t check if you were in your room. As soon as the envelope disappears beneath your door, he hears a short creak from your bed and your soft footsteps.

He hears the small and adorable noise of curiosity you let out – a confused hm? – and then he quickly and quietly makes his way down the hallway. He hears your voice about ten seconds later, an intrigued hello? as you open the door, but you don’t investigate further, closing the door behind you.

Logan’s heart is beating so fast. He’s never doing this shit again.

He’s antsy all day, waiting for some type of reaction from you. Except you don’t know that the drawing is from him so he’s probably not even getting one, and he can’t conspicuously come to your room the same day you receive an anonymous drawing of yourself.

It’s also when the insecurity settles in. Maybe he should have added a few more lines or started the entire drawing anew. Who does he think he is pretending to be an artist?

He shakes those thoughts off as he starts training with the punching bag in the gym. It’s not something that he necessarily needs to train, but it gets rid of some of that pointless energy. This isn’t him, worried about some lines he drew on a piece of paper – a scrap of a paper, really. Who cares about something like that? Certainly not him.

He sleeps dreamlessly and wakes up the next day disappointed that he didn’t get to dream about being your boyfriend again. God, what are you doing to him? Making him think about being boyfriend and girlfriend. He’s pathetic. You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

He’s not even thinking of the drawing anymore, truly, when he walks into the kitchen the next morning. It only comes to mind when he sees you, alone in the kitchen, leaning over the counter to scroll on your phone, your weird green coffee (“it’s Matcha, Logan”) next to you as you stir it mindlessly with a metal straw.

“Hi,” you look up with one of those sweet smiles of yours, but redirect your attention to your phone.

At least you don’t immediately say something like hey, you know that drawing you slid under my door? It was so ugly I threw it away. Since when do you even draw?

Not that he was worried you would or anything. He hasn’t been thinking about it. Obviously. Why would he? And he knows you would never expect that it’s him; that’s the only reason he did it. He never would have given you the drawing if he thought you could have even the slightest inkling that Logan would be someone who draws. But he still wants to know what you think of it.

“You want some toast too?” You ask, putting your phone down and turning to get some bread. He sits down at the other side of the kitchen counter and as his eyes flicker to your green drink (he still doesn’t get it), he sees it.

“Is that–” my drawing, he almost said, “What is that?” He pretends to be confused, drawing his eyebrows together, trying his best to look inquisitive, “No toast by the way, thanks.”

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing.

“Did you draw it?” He asks.

You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.”

“Secret admirer?”

Smiling, you say, “I don’t know. I won’t get my hopes up. But the person must definitely be fond of me to draw me like that.”

“Like what?” He asks, unsure if he’s about to be offended.

But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?”

You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

Logan stays silent. He can’t seem too pushy and draw attention to himself, but his silence makes you confess.

Logan makes a noise of satisfaction and smiles, asking you to pass your phone so he can look at it more – pretending it’s his first time seeing it. If you think that way about it, maybe the three more lines he was going to add aren’t that important after all.

The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created.

After a week, he figures he has to give in. Drawing another picture of you is on his mind twenty-four seven.

It doesn’t help that he still catches you staring at the copy of it in your phone case lovingly more than once a day and you’ve put the original drawing in a special little frame on your nightstand. He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing.

This is for you. It’s not about him. He’s not an artist or anything like that, he’s just doing something kind for someone he cares about (which is honestly sappy enough but he tries to ignore that). He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy.

He’ll just make this second drawing and silently put it in your room, and he’s the last person you’ll suspect.

It takes him an entire month for the next drawing, and it feels more like him that it’s been making him so angry that he couldn’t get it right at first. Maybe he had the wrong picture of artists. They’re always talking about pain, aren’t they, and that’s what he experiences too (over a drawing. Who is he?).

He takes another few days to keep track of your routine, to monitor when you’ll be in your room. He can’t have it be as close as last time.

He ends up doing it in the evening. There’s a time after dinner when most of the team stays together to watch tv, just talk, or play some games. It’s normal for some of you to wander off, come back or stick around a bit longer. It won’t be suspicious if he leaves for a few minutes and comes back.

Logan wants nothing more than to follow you when you say that you’re going to your room for the night; he wants to see your reaction. But he can’t. All he can do is go up to his own bedroom fifteen minutes later, lingering in the hallway longer than he needs to.

Just as he’s about to give up and go to sleep, you walk down the hallway, coming back from the bathroom.

“Logan!” you call all excitedly when you see him, and his heart skips a beat. Do you know the drawing is from him?

“Look,” you take his arm and pull him to your room, “I got another drawing!”

He breathes out in relief; you don’t know it’s from him. He smiles when you hold up the drawing, already framed.

“Were you expecting to get another drawing?” he teases.

“Noo, but the frames came in a pack of two. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Logan looks at how your eyes sparkle, how proudly you’re showing him this drawing. All the work he put into it was definitely worth it. It’s another picture of your face, this time from a new angle, and with your hair styled differently, curls coiled another way from last time.

Logan clears his throat, remembering to keep up his act. “It looks good.”

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.”

He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

“It is. And you don’t have to know much about art or drawing to see how pretty this is. I still can’t believe someone would take the time to make these for me.”

Logan remains silent instead of saying what he wants to tell you. Of course he would take that time for you – and you don’t even know how much time it really took him. If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you.

Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

He’s on a roll for some time. He’s better at drawing again now that he’s getting in practice, and he makes five drawings of you within the next weeks. Logan watches the collection of them on your nightstand grow fuller, along with your smile that somehow gets bigger every time you tell him about a new drawing.

It’s a wonder you haven’t caught on yet, but you don’t seem particularly interested in snooping around to find out who it is. You respect the person’s privacy, but you’ve confessed to him that you’d still love to know.

“I won’t try to find out who it is. I won’t push it if they don’t want me to know… but, I mean, anyone would want to know, wouldn’t they?”

You’ve adopted the nickname of ‘secret admirer’ for this mysterious ‘they’, after Logan used the term about ten times. You were reluctant at first, because the person isn’t calling themself a secret admirer – you’d just be putting words in their mouth. But after seeing how much more beautiful the drawings get each time, you’ve accepted and admitted that, okay, yes, the person must be an admirer.

Your secret admirer Logan is particularly proud of his latest drawing, excited to bring it up to your room tonight.

But this time he’s sloppy. He’s stayed for a few post-dinner card games with the team, and it’s risky, because you’ve been saying that it’s your last game for the last two rounds. But he also knows that you always say that, and never mean it.

Logan gets up to leave, and he hears Scott convincing you to play just one more round.

It’s stupid, really, risking it like that. Even if he’s gone from your room in time before you come upstairs, you could easily guess that it’s Logan. He’s the first one leaving the round tonight, so your first assumption could be that it was him.

Maybe subconsciously he wants to get caught. He’s seen how you light up at every drawing, and no matter how much you respect your admirer’s anonymity, of course you want to know who’s dedicating so much time and work to drawings of you. Of course it’s crossed your mind that the person isn’t just doing this because they’re a good friend. They’re drawing your face because they think it’s beyond beautiful.

Logan doesn’t really know why he hasn’t told you yet that he likes you. He’s good at flirting, and he’s attractive – he’s not blind. But with you it’s different, there’s a bigger risk, for the both of you. The older he gets, the harder it is to open up to yet another person. You’re friends, and you talk about personal things, but confessing that he’s in love with you is different.

Not to mention this stupid recurring dream he keeps having, in which you find out it’s Logan who’s been drawing you, and suddenly your opinion of the drawings changes. You don’t like him back like that, and suddenly the drawings feel creepy if you think about him staying up late drawing your face.

He rolls his eyes at himself and gets the thought out of his head, taking the small envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans, smoothing his hand over it. He looks around, making sure no one sees him.

Logan bends down to slide the envelope under your door as usual, but one of the corners of the paper catches against the wall, and he quickly opens it to check the drawing isn’t damaged. His heart is beating so fast, he feels stupid.

He can hear footsteps, still far away, but he can hear them. Logan messily licks the edges of the envelope to close it back up, but it’s not sticking. He can’t decide between shoving it under the door like this or leaving now and bringing it back the next day. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage now.

Then he hears it. He miscalculated how far the footsteps were.

“Logan?”

He turns around slowly, and it feels like the world has frozen.

You come closer, looking at him and then at the letter that he must’ve dropped. It hasn’t made it under your door yet.

He says something before you can, “I’m delivering for someone else.”

“Who?” you ask, bending down to pick up the envelope. If he wasn’t petrified, he’d enjoy the view of you bent over in front of him.

He breathes. He can’t have anyone taking credit for his work, for his art (you called it that recently, he would never). But his heart is beating so fast he doesn’t know what the fuck to do or say.

This is exactly why he never wanted to do any of this. He’s making a fool out of himself and that doesn’t usually happen, especially not over a piece of paper. Logan is confident, cocky even, he can admit that, and has no idea how to deal with things like being nervous; he never has to. This really isn’t him.

You don’t wait for an answer and look at the envelope. You open it so carefully, gently taking the drawing out with your fingertips. You’re treating it with so much care he immediately feels better. Again, this isn’t for him, it’s for you. (Well, it’s for him too but it’ll take him a while to admit that).

He’s drawn your smile this time. You were happy in most of the drawings before, but he focussed more on the eyes, and your lips only ever tugged up in a slight smile.

This one is a full-toothed grin, mid-laugh.

You two were drinking last weekend. He barely felt it but your tipsy, giggly mood was contagious. He couldn’t imagine himself feeling any other way but blissful when you’re happy around him.

It started when Logan made a casual comment about something silly Scott was wearing that night, and he had you giggling. He wanted to immediately hear that angelic sound again, of course, and so he gave you every joke about your shared friends he could think of – all light-hearted, but he was still glad you two were alone.

You look up at him now, eyes filled with tears.

“You drew this?” you ask.

He nods softly. He can’t say it but he hopes the drawings convey how in love with you he is.

Suddenly, Logan feels like his heart has stopped beating.

You’re kissing him.

You’ve leaped up, wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, and now your lips are on his.

He feels your mouth falter, probably because he’s being a fucking idiot and not kissing you back. Logan places his hands on your waist to pull you further towards him. Then his brain finally catches up and he can do what he’s wanted to for so long.

He takes your chin with two fingers and angles you so you can kiss him easier. He closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your soft, warm lips against him. You’re soft and warm all over. Your top has slipped up over his fingertips at your sides, and he slides his hands further around your back to support you against him even better.

Logan’s tongue pushes at your lower lip, and you let out the sexiest, tiny moan of surprise as you part your lips for him, granting him access.

His tongue touches the tip of yours and from then on your cravings intensify. You feel your way over his muscular shoulders, his big biceps and over the hard planes of his chest. When you’ve had a good feel there, your hands grip his shirt in desperation and Logan gets even hungrier for you. He gently bites at your lower lip, but then you shriek into his mouth and squirm out of his grasp. He opens his eyes wide.

You grip Logan’s forearm for support when you bend down in a panic, picking up the drawing you just dropped. You let out a big breath of relief when you see it hasn’t been damaged.

“You made me drop it!” You slap a hand to his chest; it doesn’t actually hurt and it’s not meant to, but it leaves a pleasant tingle behind instead.

“I didn’t do anything”, Logan laughs, and you shake your head at him with a smile.

You take him into your room where you make him sit on the bed while you stare at the new drawing in awe. “I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it.

“No one else knows.”

You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

“I’ll only draw for you anyway, so there’s no point in telling anyone else.”

“You’re really good. I love the drawings.”

Logan gives a satisfied hum at your words, “You inspired me. Can’t have you walking around all pretty and not expect me to try and recreate it.”

You straddle Logan and hover over his lap to hug him, “They’re the best thing anyone's ever given to me. Do I really look like that?” You say the last question more quietly, and Logan wraps his arms around your sides, careful not to bump your hand that’s still holding the drawing.

“You’re more gorgeous than anything I could ever capture, but I think it comes close. I didn’t change anything about you to make you more beautiful. I couldn’t if I tried. I just tried to draw you as accurately as possible, that’s why it’s so beautiful.”

“I really love it,” you say again, happily staring at the details of the drawing. Hearing you say the word love so much tempts Logan, but he doesn’t want to move too fast. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you. He does, however, want to kiss you again.

Logan carefully takes the framed drawing and puts it on your nightstand. You push your mouth against his before he can initiate the kiss, and he grins against your lips.

Your chest is pressed against Logan’s, and you can feel the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. You may or may not be pressing your boobs against his body on purpose.

“God, baby, I’ve waited so long for this,” he says, already breathless, as his hands trail down your back, leaving goosebumps behind.

“You’ve waited long?” you raise your eyebrows, grinning, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the day I met you.”

You see the look in Logan’s eyes changing as he bites his lip, “Who says I didn’t want the same?”

You giggle, “Why did it take us so long?”

Logan chuckles, readjusting you so that you’re even closer to him, “I was too busy to actually talk to you, just been starin’ at you so I could draw you.” His cheeks have the faintest red tint, and you kiss them, hugging him.

You whisper into his ear, “Then it was worth the wait. And anyway, it’s not talking that I’m interested in right now.”

He pulls you back to look into your eyes, then at your lips. “Where do you want me?” he asks. You giggle slightly helplessly; you weren’t entirely prepared to have a man like Logan at your mercy like this tonight.

“You can do whatever you want,” you say softly, kissing him.

Logan’s lips are hungry against yours, strings of spit falling between you two, but he pauses the kiss to lie you on your back. “Wanna eat you out,” he husks, “Been dying to know what you taste like forever, bub. Can I?” He reaches for the hem of your top, and you nod so that he can pull it off you, admiring what’s underneath.

“Sometimes I make myself cum imagining that I’m going down on you,” you confess somewhat shyly, but you figure he’s been so vulnerable for you that you can share a secret too.

Logan smirks, and pulls off his shirt, “Maybe we can make your dream come true then.”

You move to sit up, but he insists on eating you out first. You both take off all your clothes, staring at each other with huge smiles on your faces for a few moments. You’ve never seen Logan this happy.

“Look at you, baby. So pretty,” he leans down to kiss your lips, then down your neck, all the way to your legs. He spreads them, lying down between them as he all but drools at the sight of your wet pussy.

You get nervous all of a sudden. “It’s been a while,” you tell him. He looks up, taking your hand, enveloping it completely in his much bigger one.

“You sure about this? We can wait,” he gently kisses your knuckles, and a warmth spreads in your chest, slowing your heartbeat down a little.

“I’m sure,” you nod, and Logan comes up again to kiss you. The head of his hard cock catches against the space above your clit, and you both look down between your bodies. When Logan looks back up at you, his eyes are desperately begging you. You place your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair as he moves down your body.

“Such a pretty fucking pussy,” he mumbles into your thigh, kissing you there. You giggle, getting comfortable, your hand never leaving his hair.

Logan starts eating you out, his tongue gentle but determined against your clit.

“Taste so good, baby. Even better than I imagined.” You hum at Logan’s words, already feeling yourself come undone with his mouth on your wet pussy.

You sink further into the mattress when he starts sucking on your clit, licking into your pussy like a man starved every few moments, and your thighs squeeze around Logan’s head, and it’s even better than in his fantasies.

“Feels really good,” you tell him, pulling on his hair to stop yourself from moving too much, and Logan moans against your skin. Hearing your words motivates him even more, and he pushes two fingers into your wet pussy. He curls his fingers, rubbing up against that spot that makes you see stars.

Your back arches as you cum, Logan’s lips wrapped around your clit as your legs push harder against his head, and all he does is moan, revelling in the feeling.

Logan doesn’t stop licking your pussy until you’re tugging his head away by his hair, and he comes up for air with a grin on his face. You smile back, pulling him up to kiss him. You give yourself only a few seconds of recovery time before you make him sit down. You know you’d never have enough strength to actually make him get into a different position, but he lets you.

You push him onto his back, getting between his legs. You’re blinking up at him all prettily when you ask, “Can I suck your dick? Please?”

Logan huffs to himself because he can’t believe how hot you are, can’t believe that this is really finally happening. He tells you yes – he has no more words to describe how badly he wants this – and he watches you wrap your pretty lips around his cock.

It’s hard to grasp that it’s really you doing this right now – the woman he’s been into for so long. His cock is in your mouth and you look so gorgeous with spit running down from your lips, and all he can think of is all the dirty drawings he can now make of you, if you’ll let him.

He closes his eyes when you take him deeper, enveloping him with your warm, wet mouth. “Good girl,” he whispers absent-mindedly, too gone to say much more.

You’re not using your hands as you suck his cock, your spit trailing down on him, and you’re so eager. But it’s also late, and he sees you getting tired, eyes blinking slower as you pause to catch your breath every few moments. He also sees the determination in your eyes, and the absolute want, but he doesn’t want you to exhaust yourself.

You look so sexy all fucked out, strings of spit connecting your mouth to his cock as you pull away another time, giggling up at him shyly when you realise that he’s noticing you getting tired.

“Just need a second,” you wipe your mouth, out of breath, and it’s not that you’re not incredibly hot like this, but he still wants to fuck you tonight and he’s not sure that will happen if you keep going.

“C’mere, baby,” he says, reaching out his hand.

“Huh?” you ask, taking his hand nevertheless.

“Get back here, baby. I’m gonna fuck you now, alright? Don’t want you tiring yourself out.”

You let him lift you and put you on your back, but you pout, “Wanna taste you.”

Logan grins, “I’ll cum in your mouth, princess. Promise.”

You smile at his answer, satisfied, so you lie back down, pulling your legs up to your chest. His cock looks huge as he jerks himself off between your legs, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you squirm.

“Don’t know if I can take you,” you bite your lip. You’re not entirely sure if you mean it or not. You definitely want to try.

“We’ll make it fit, baby, we’ll make it fit,” Logan assures you, leaning down to press a kiss to your mouth, a mix of your wetness and his precum between your mouths. You feel his cock at your pussy, “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” you nod desperately, letting him push his cock into your pussy. He pauses after a few inches, but you wrap your legs around his waist more tightly, and he goes deeper.

“Y’okay, baby? You can take it, right?”

You nod, unable to form words with your pussy stretched like this, a combination of pleasure and pain between your legs – but it’s infinitely more pleasure.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl, hm?” He kisses along your neck as he bottoms out, and you both moan when he’s got his cock fully stuffed inside you for the first time. He pulls out slightly when you whine at the stretch, but you scratch down his back to get his attention.

“I can take it,” you tell him, and you watch the look in his eyes darken.

He begins to fuck you, the pain subsiding more with every thrust into your wet pussy. You can barely take him, but it feels good. With your slight tiredness, you feel like you’re floating on cloud nine.

You can’t believe that Logan – your super hot friend Logan who you’ve been fantasising about for so long – is fucking you. He not only feels the same way about you, but he’s been your secret admirer this entire time, taking hours and hours out of his day to make you smile. You’re the only one he wants.

And now he’s fucking you, fucking you well, and you feel so warm inside, not just from the sex but you feel warm in your heart, because of Logan’s care.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking a hand down your face when he notices you’re not entirely present. You nod happily, smiling up at him, and you can’t talk because you feel so good.

“Good, that’s good, bub, but let me know if it gets too much,” he says as he starts rubbing your clit, watches you nod while he’s fucking you so well, and he’s so big and so deep inside of you, “Squeezing me so tight, baby, feel so fucking good.”

You cum suddenly, letting the warm pleasure flow through your body as Logan keeps fucking you through it, rubbing your clit in just the right rhythm.

“That’s my girl, taking it so well,” he moans, breaths stuttering. You slump against the pillow after a few moments, with a soft smile on your face, and Logan pulls out.

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” he jerks his cock, and you sit up on your elbows immediately, looking him in the eyes with a smile as you stick out your tongue for him. He promised.

Logan moans when he cums, painting your face in his release, jerking himself off. He holds your head in place with his other hand, aiming for your mouth but you’re making no effort to catch his cum there.

“Such a pretty fucking face, princess, ’m cumming all over it,” he rasps, shooting more ropes of his cum all over your cheeks, jacking off onto your face.

You open your eyes when he’s done and breathing heavily, and you smile up at him. You open your mouth, taking the head of his cock between your lips to suck off the last drops of cum.

“Look at you, baby. Look so fucking pretty with my cum all over your gorgeous face.”

You hum, pulling your mouth off him and licking your lips, tasting his salty release. You brush a finger over your cheek, sucking it into your mouth to taste him more. Logan kisses you then, the flavour of himself mixing between your mouths.

He cleans you up gently, carefully wiping your face with a baby wipe and kissing every inch of your cheeks afterwards. You take his face to kiss him properly, and if you didn’t seem so tired Logan would be ready for round two immediately.

“Next time you could try to actually cum in my mouth,” you tease, making Logan grin.

“Sorry, baby. Got too excited. Couldn’t focus on asking you again if it was okay.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your lips.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I liked it.”

Logan grins, “Oh I could tell you liked it, baby.” You lightly slap his chest as you giggle, pulling him in for another kiss.

You cuddle for a while, not saying much because you don’t have to. You’ve both waited for this for so long that you’re just enjoying the moment, enjoying that it finally happened.

You slip out of his arms to sit on top of him. You’re in nothing but panties, the blanket bunching around your hips. You lean your hands against his chest as you tell him more about how much the drawings delighted you. And Logan cares, of course he cares to hear that, but he’s also just a man seeing the woman he’s into naked for the first time still.

You become quiet when you realise that he’s not listening, and you giggle, “Distracted?”

Logan grins, “Just a little fucking bit, baby.” His eyes don’t leave your body, and you laugh as you bend down to kiss him. He grabs your ass, kneading the flesh. When you slightly sit up again, your tits are near his face, and he can’t help himself. He cups your breasts, playing with your nipples, making you hum.

“I should draw these,” he looks up at you, “Should draw every perfect fucking inch of you.”

“You wanna?” You adjust how you’re seated in his lap, and you feel that he’s already half hard under you again.

“Maybe after I’ve fucked you again.”

You smile, feeling yourself growing wetter on top of him.

“Tomorrow,” he continues, and your smile drops.

“But you’ve got to get more familiar with the inspiration, right? If you’re going to draw me.”

“That’s true, baby. But I think you’re too tired.”

You smile bashfully, ignoring how your eyelids were drooping shut just a few seconds ago, “Okay, but then I’ll have more energy for tomorrow.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiles, pulling you off him to cuddle you again. He tucks you in and kisses your head.

You turn to your side, taking one of the framed drawings and looking at it for a while.

Logan watches you looking at it, and the sparkle in your eyes never fails to make him feel all warm inside. “Now that you actually know about it, I don’t have to draw you from memory anymore. I can study my muse in peace.”

“Aww, I’m your muse?” you beam.

“Of course you are, princess. You’re the only reason I’m drawing again.”

“I love your drawings so much.”

Logan clears his throat, and looks at you. “Well, I love you. So, I think that went into them.”

You look at him, pouting and then kissing him. “I love you too,” you say into his mouth. He grins against your lips, pulling you closer to kiss you some more. He can barely grasp that you just said that, but he’ll have enough time soon to comprehend how lucky he is.

For now, he takes your hand, and asks, “The question might be redundant now, but do you wanna be mine? Be my girlfriend?”

“I’m already yours.”

Logan grins, takes you in his arms, and you’re still cuddling when you’re both drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

P.S. reblog with a comment and let me know your favourite moment/what you liked to get a drawing from Logan under your door tonight and a facial <33

gorgeous divider by @pommecita

#feedback #marvel #logan howlett #wolverine

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endursent · 1 day ago

Note

WHAT IF astral express sunday would be too nervous to hold readers hand or hugging them bc his brain goes 💥 until he gets used to it and softens up to reader waa 🎉🎉

HES SO SILLY i want him to explode

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , fluff , character exploration, mild suggestiveness in one section , gn!reader 】

【 note; see sunday mention. NEURON ACTIVATED. i have neglected sunday writing for too long, it's time to sunday post more. 】

【 word count; 1.818 | read on ao3 | masterlist 】

Even after properly defining your relationship as “definitely happening”, Sunday still struggles to adjust to it—not because he doesn’t know what to do specifically, but because he fails to follow through with a lot of it.

As soon as he meets your eyes and feels the warmth of your skin at the same time, his brain halts in place like a deer caught in headlights—something about the affection and love in your gaze causes him to freeze, to hesitate and draw back.

He wants to enjoy that warmth, he wants to touch your cheek and gaze into your eyes for hours on end, examining every detail of your iris until he has it mapped better than the back of his own hand… but his heart tightens and his arms tingle when he tries.

He’s afraid, scared to overstep thresholds whose doors have long since opened wide for his presence. Afraid to take a wrong turn in the endless hallways of his thoughts and what-ifs.

You don’t push him, you give him time to consider his movement and actions and proceed in the ways he feels comfortable—but you don’t let him pull back too far either. You grasp his hand as it pulls too close to his chest and he swallows when you bring it to yours, you press his palm against your chest and allow him to feel your heartbeat—quickened, excited, yet nervous as well. Sometimes, you’re also nervous. It’s okay to hesitate.

Mere moments like brushing his fingers against yours on accident are enough for his head-wings to shoot up into the air. You had simply been reaching for a pistachio in a bowl on a table where you sat with Sunday next to you, and he had coincidentally reached out as well. “A-ah, my apologies,” he pulls his hand back, wings lowering again as one moves halfway up his cheek in a meagre attempt to disguise the dusty red of his cheeks.

A small smile tugs on your lips and you take an additional nut to give to him. “It’s okay, here.” He holds his palm open for you to place the pistachio in, but instead of doing so, you peel the shell away with a click and hold it towards his lips. “Open up.”

Five or so muscles in his face twitch as he leans back, surprised by your sudden approach and the very intimate gesture of trying to feed him—his eyes flicker to the left where Himeko is positively destroying March 7th in a card game, they’re not paying any attention to the two of you at all.

Sunday’s lips press together and for a moment you wonder if you might have pushed him a little too far, the red hue of his cheeks deepening as he avoids your eyes… and opens his mouth, just a little—barely enough to fit the small pistachio there.

Your fingers touch his lips as you manage to set the pistachio on the tip of his tongue hiding only a little behind the bottom row of his teeth, and Sunday thinks he might explode. The way his upper lip lifted a little and a small drop of drool slid under his tongue—thankfully out of sight but definitely not out of mind—when your finger pushed under it to set the nut in his mouth…

He swallows the pistachio quickly and nervously without chewing it and it almost stops in his throat before he could even realise what he was doing. Sunday might have just perished from embarrassment before the lack of oxygen would kill him were the pistachio to stop in his throat.

Sunday hasn’t stepped off the Express in a while, he does so rather often, all things considered—usually choosing to at least peek out at the worlds you explore. After all, how can he find himself if he doesn’t look?

But he has never experienced a planet like this… you could convince him this is some intergalactically funded horror exhibition if you tried. Long stretches of trees and branches reach into the skies, casting dark shadows on the dull grass that covers the ground as far as one can see. The skies are dark when you hop off the train and practically drag Sunday along.

He walks close to you, unsure if to reassure himself of your presence among the shadows, or to be ready to give his assistance were you to catch your foot on a root and crash on the ground—you’re walking so fast he can't help but think it’s just a matter of time.

You feel something touch your thumb and look down, only to see Sunday’s gloved hand retreat. He’s looking ahead and pretending there is nothing strange happening. “Are you scared?” you wonder, tilting your head to get a better look at his face.

A small frown tugs at his lips, so faint you could barely see it. “Of course not, but I am concerned about us getting lost—do you know where we’re going?”

“Kind of,” you sway your hand a little, seeing if you can fish at where he has retracted his to. “Pom-Pom mentioned there a huge city not far from where we dropped down, this world has some real good puddings if I read right.”

Sunday merely hums in response, following you along. You did finally find the city—high buildings made of darkened wood, but with bright lanterns and strings of lights hanging between buildings to illuminate the streets in a comfortable orange. All the ambiance needs is rain (and for you two be inside a nice café) and it’s perfect.

The streets, however, are a labyrinth.

You get lost only seven minutes after reaching the city, and no matter how you squinted at your phone, you couldn’t wrap your head around the map—and it doesn’t help that despite the darkness, it’s midday, and thus the streets and crowded near shoulder-to-shoulder. This place must be popular despite the gloomy atmosphere.

Having almost lost sight of you wandering around trying to get your bearings in the crowd, Sunday gathers his courage and stomps down his thoughts—and takes your hand.

You stop where you’re going and turn to look at him. “Hm? Is something wrong?”

He still avoids your eyes, but his grip is firm. “You’re… still going in the wrong direction.”

“I am?” you look back down to your phone and tilt it sideways. “Ah! Like this, I get it now… I think.”

Sunday sighs, stepping closer to you as a person shoulder past your positions—and suddenly the two of you are standing far closer than planned, nearly pressed against the wall of a building that leads to the corner of the street. He can’t stop thinking about your hand against his gloved one, and he also can’t help but notice that your fingers feel cold.

As you try to figure out the best path towards the mythical pudding, holding your phone out for Sunday to see as well, his fingers and palm engulf yours and try to move some of his heat to you. His thumb rubs over your palm as you speak and the lack of proper reaction from you, yet still laying your hand out to him, helps him find the gesture more natural and comfortable… something he wouldn’t mind indulging in more often.

Sunday is a very passive person when it comes to affections, he’s rarely the one to reach out first and needs a bit of a push to even come up with romantic gestures. He considers the time you spend together and the understanding between you to be much more precious and indicative of his affections.

However, he gets an idea one time from something he saw when scrolling his phone… to leave notes around. Sunday wasn’t sure of it at first—and a little embarrassed that someone else might find them before you do—but gradually began to find it as an easy way to show his attention.

Sometimes, the notes have a small message on them (mostly reminding you to sleep more) but other times, there’s no message at all. He came to use it as a ‘I thought of you’ message, where he leaves a blank, small post-it on something.

One time you forgot to buy new toothpaste on the Express’ most recent stop and dreaded having to borrow from someone again—until you opened the drawer to fetch your toothbrush and saw a full tube with a small blue post-it on it… now you need to go over to his room and rub his cheeks and thank him for remembering your complaints about always forgetting to buy a new one.

Sunday is a surprisingly good caretaker, you caught some sort of cold or flu on a recent trip off the express and have been miserable in bed for days. Up and down, hot and cold, snot-filled and gross on all ends. But he sits down by your bedside and takes your temperature, lays the back of his hand against your heated skin and does all he can to help.

One aspect he struggled with was when you got whiny one evening and reached out for a hug…

While you might mistake his hesitation for disgust, as you are snot-nosed, puffy eyed and half crying from misery—it’s far from what was on his mind. But Sunday feels his chest tighten at the sight of you so miserable, temporary as it is, and he doesn’t have the heart to refuse your embrace.

He leans down and lets you wrap your arms around his shoulders, your clammy forehead rubbing into his shirt as he stiffly pats your head and tries to soothe you. “It’s alright… your fever is going down, you’ll be okay soon, just remember to drink the water on the nightstand, okay?” he mumbles by your ear, and the more you nod and thank him for taking care of you, the more his muscles ease and he shifts a bit to lay down with you, allowing you to burrow into the crook of his neck and find comfort in his presence.

Sunday rests his chin over your head and rubs your back. “Would you like me to sing for you?”

You nod into his shoulder and he closes his mouth to hum familiar tunes, the beginning of a familiar song as the vibrations in his chest rumble against you. His voice is soothing, and his singing is surprisingly soft and gentle.

As you drift to well-needed sleep, Sunday stays with you until he’s certain you’ve fallen asleep… and then for a while more, just long enough that he can’t imagine tearing himself away from you—or risking waking you up by rising from the bed. Perhaps it’s alright if he stays the night here, after all, he needs to make sure you hydrate through the night.

#sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail #my writing #fics #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #fluff

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novaursa · 3 days ago

Text

Legacy (drawing the lines)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: sisters

- Next part: of the east and the west

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxifics @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril

The chambers within Dragonstone were cloaked in the warm glow of a roaring hearth. Tywin Lannister sat at a finely carved wooden desk, stacks of correspondence and reports spread out before him. His eyes scanned the parchments with the meticulous attention to detail that had made him the most formidable political force in Westeros. Yet tonight, his focus wavered, his mind caught between strategies and the persistent presence of Daenerys Targaryen within his keep.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. Tywin didn’t look up immediately, though his shoulders relaxed slightly at the sound of your arrival.

“You’re working late again,” you observed, approaching him with an affectionate tone. A faint smile playing on your lips as you set a hand gently on his shoulder.

He glanced up, his expression softening just slightly as he met your gaze. “There is much to consider. Your sister’s arrival complicates matters.”

You leaned against the edge of the desk, folding your arms as you watched him. “She doesn’t need to be a complication.”

Tywin set down the quill he’d been holding and leaned back in his chair, his gaze locking onto yours. “She is a Targaryen with two dragons and a foreign army. Whether or not you see her as a threat, the realm will.”

“She’s my sister,” you countered, your voice calm but firm. “She’s family.”

“Family,” Tywin repeated, his tone edged with skepticism. “Family can be as dangerous as any enemy, as you well know.”

You sighed, your fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. “I want to speak with her again. Alone this time.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what do you hope to achieve by that? She has made her intentions clear—she seeks the Iron Throne.”

“She’s not our father,” you replied softly, your gaze steady. “She doesn’t understand Westeros, not truly. She grew up in exile, hearing only the stories Viserys told her. If I can make her see reason, show her that the path she’s chosen will only bring ruin…”

“Then what?” Tywin interjected, his tone sharp. “Do you believe you can dissuade her from her ambitions with a conversation?”

You leaned forward slightly, your voice dropping. “I believe I can remind her what it means to be a sister. To show her that there are other ways to restore what was lost without burning it all to the ground.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a quiet sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “If she cannot be reasoned with?”

“Then we will deal with that when the time comes,” you said simply. “But I need to try.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he reached out, his hand covering yours where it rested on the desk. “You are too softhearted,” he said quietly, though there was no reproach in his tone. “It is both your strength and your weakness.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “And you, my lord husband, are too pragmatic for your own good. It is both your strength and your weakness.”

He gave a low hum of acknowledgment, his fingers tightening slightly around yours. “Pragmatism has kept me alive, and it has kept you safe.”

“And I love you for it,” you said softly, leaning closer to press a kiss to his forehead. “But let me handle this.”

For a moment, Tywin said nothing, his gaze searching your face as though weighing the risk of what you proposed. Then, finally, he nodded. “Very well. Speak with her. But do not forget who she is and what she represents.”

“I won’t,” you promised, your voice steady. “And thank you.”

Tywin rose from his chair, his imposing presence filling the room as he stepped closer to you. His hands came to rest lightly on your waist, his expression softening in a way few had ever seen. “You’re insufferable when you think you’re right.”

You laughed softly, your arms looping around his neck. “And you’re unbearable when you think you know better.”

“Which is always,” he replied dryly, though his lips quirked into a faint smirk.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, the kiss deepening as his hands tightened around your waist. For a moment, the weight of the realm and its many complications faded, replaced by the quiet intimacy you shared.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your voice a whisper. “We’ll get through this.”

Tywin’s reply was quiet but resolute. “We always do.”

The private chambers prepared for Daenerys Targaryen in Dragonstone were richly appointed, a clear indication of the respect—or perhaps calculation—with which she was being treated. The ancient stone walls, illuminated by the soft glow of dragonfire sconces, whispered of her family’s legacy. Yet the banners that adorned them were not Targaryen but Lannister, a stark reminder of who held dominion here.

Daenerys stood near the window, her gaze fixed on the dark waters of the Blackwater Bay. Missandei stood quietly at her side, her calm presence a source of strength, while Tyrion Lannister leaned against a nearby table, his expression contemplative.

“I didn’t expect this,” Daenerys admitted, her voice carrying a mix of frustration and bewilderment.

Missandei tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle as always. “What did you expect, Your Grace?”

Daenerys sighed, her fingers brushing against the edge of the windowsill. “A sister. An ally. Someone who would understand what I’ve been through, who would stand with me to reclaim what is ours.”

Tyrion gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Family reunions rarely go as planned, Your Grace. Trust me on that.”

Daenerys shot him a frustrated look, but the irritation faded quickly. “She is not what I imagined. She’s… cautious, guarded. And her loyalty to Tywin Lannister—of all people—is baffling.”

Tyrion straightened slightly, crossing his arms. “It’s not as baffling as you might think. Your sister has lived through far more than most, and Tywin has ensured her survival, likely more than once. Loyalty is not always about love, Your Grace. Sometimes it’s about what is convenient.”

Missandei hesitated before speaking, her tone soft. “She did not seem hostile toward you, though. Perhaps there is a chance to build a connection.”

Daenerys let out a quiet laugh, though it was devoid of humor. “A connection? She told me the Iron Throne is cursed and not worth claiming. She practically dismissed my birthright.”

Tyrion’s brow rose at that. “And was she wrong?”

Daenerys turned to him, her eyes narrowing. “Do you side with her, Tyrion? Do you think my claim is worthless?”

Tyrion held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not saying that, Your Grace. I’m merely pointing out that she has a perspective you might want to consider. She’s lived in Westeros. She’s seen the devastation wrought by your father, by the Baratheons, and by the wars that followed. Perhaps she’s trying to protect you from repeating the mistakes of the past.”

Daenerys’s shoulders sagged slightly, her expression softening as she considered his words. “She spoke of the throne as if it were a poison. As if it had taken everything from her.”

Missandei stepped forward, her voice filled with quiet empathy. “Perhaps it has, Your Grace. But that doesn’t mean she won’t listen to you. You are both daughters of House Targaryen. That bond cannot be erased.”

Daenerys nodded slowly, her gaze returning to the dark waters beyond the window. “She’s more than I expected. Wiser, stronger. And yet… she feels distant, as though she has already made her decision.”

Tyrion approached, his tone lighter but still measured. “Your sister is no fool. She’s weighing her options, testing the waters. Give her time. Show her that you’re not here to burn everything down.”

Daenerys let out a soft sigh, her hand coming to rest on the windowsill. “Time… something we may not have much of.”

Tyrion tilted his head, his voice turning thoughtful. “Perhaps. But if you truly want her on your side, Your Grace, you’ll have to prove that you’re worth standing beside.”

Daenerys’s lips pressed into a thin line, her resolve hardening. “Then I will. She’s my sister, and I will not give up on her.”

Missandei smiled faintly, her quiet encouragement bolstering Daenerys’s determination. Tyrion, however, gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, his mind already turning to the challenges ahead.

The room fell into silence as the three of them stood there, the weight of the reunion and its implications pressing heavily on them all. Daenerys Targaryen had come to reclaim her birthright, but the path forward was proving more treacherous than she had imagined. Yet she was not one to back down, not when her dreams of a united realm were so close—and so complicated by the very blood that connected her to this place.

The early morning sun bathed Dragonstone in hues of late autumn. Standing on the balcony of the Great Hall, Daenerys Targaryen gazed out over the courtyard below. The cool sea breeze tugged at her hair as her violet eyes lingered on the sight before her.

In the courtyard, a young boy no older than three was running about, his silver-blond hair catching the sunlight like a crown of molten light. His laughter echoed softly, a sweet, carefree sound that contrasted with the heavy atmosphere of the castle. Around him, a handful of servants and Lannister guards watched closely, their postures alert but non-threatening. The boy clutched a small wooden dragon in one hand, its painted wings flapping uselessly as he darted around.

For a moment, Daenerys’s gaze softened, the sight stirring something deep within her. The boy, with his unmistakable Targaryen features, reminded her of the stories Viserys used to tell—of what their family had been before everything fell apart.

“You’ve noticed him,” came a calm, familiar voice from behind.

Daenerys turned to see you stepping onto the balcony. You wore a simple gown, but the grace with which you moved made even the plainest attire seem regal. Your expression was warm but tinged with a cautious curiosity as you approached her.

“He’s your son,” Daenerys said softly, turning her gaze back to the boy.

You stepped beside her, leaning lightly on the stone railing. “Yes, that’s Damon. My eldest.”

Daenerys’s lips curved faintly, though her tone was measured. “He looks so much like you. So much like us.”

A brief smile touched your lips as you watched Damon chase after a servant who was playfully pretending to flee. “He does. Though his spirit… that’s his father’s.”

At the mention of Tywin, Daenerys’s expression flickered, her gaze sharpening slightly. “He’s a Lannister, then. And yet… a dragon too.”

You turned to her, your eyes steady but kind. “Bloodlines are complicated, Daenerys. He is both. And he is neither.”

Daenerys hesitated before speaking again, her voice quieter now. “He’s beautiful. He could have been one of us—growing up with dragons, knowing our history, our traditions.”

You let out a soft sigh, your gaze drifting back to Damon. “I’ve tried to give him as much of that as I can. But the world is not kind to children born of fire and blood.”

Daenerys’s brows furrowed slightly, her tone carrying a note of sadness. “It’s strange. To see him here, in this castle that was ours. And yet, it feels so different.”

“It is different,” you replied softly. “This place has seen so much history—ours and others’. It bears the weight of every decision made within its walls.”

Daenerys turned to face you fully, her expression serious. “Do you ever wonder if he’ll carry that weight? If he’ll face the same struggles we did?”

You looked at her, your eyes filled with quiet determination. “I hope not. But if he does, I will make sure he’s prepared. I will do everything in my power to shield him from the worst of it.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the sound of Damon’s laughter drifting up from the courtyard. Then Daenerys spoke again, her voice laced with a hint of vulnerability. “I never thought I’d meet you. Growing up, you were a ghost—a name Viserys clung to, a hope he never let go of.”

Your gaze softened, a faint shadow crossing your face at the mention of your brother. “Viserys… He was so young when everything fell apart. He clung to the past because it was all he had.”

Daenerys nodded slowly, her expression wistful. “He used to say you were the strongest of us. That you survived because you were willing to do whatever it took.”

You smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in your eyes. “Surviving isn’t strength, Daenerys. It’s endurance. Strength is knowing what to do once you’ve survived.”

Daenerys considered your words for a moment, her gaze returning to the boy in the courtyard. “And what will you teach him? Your son?”

You followed her gaze, your expression softening as you watched Damon pick up his wooden dragon and show it to a servant with unbridled enthusiasm. “I’ll teach him to choose his battles wisely. To understand the cost of power. And to never forget that he is loved.”

Daenerys glanced at you, her voice quiet. “And what about us? What about what we’ve lost?”

You turned to her, your gaze steady but filled with a quiet intensity. “We’ve both lost much, Daenerys. But loss doesn’t define us. What we do with what remains—that’s what matters.”

For a moment, Daenerys said nothing, her thoughts swirling as she processed your words. Then, with a small nod, she stepped back from the railing. “I hope you’re right.”

You reached out, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “Give it time. The world is changing, and we’re a part of that change. But for now, perhaps it’s enough to simply be here. To start again.”

Daenerys’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained guarded. “Perhaps.”

As she turned to leave, you remained at the railing, your gaze following Damon as he ran toward the guards, his laughter echoing in the morning air. A faint smile lingered on your lips, though your thoughts were far from simple.

The bonds of family, forged and broken, were not easily mended. But in that moment, with the sun rising over Dragonstone, there was a flicker of hope—fragile but undeniable.

The air in Dragonstone’s study was heavy with unspoken tension, the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth doing little to dispel the chill that settled over the room. Tywin Lannister sat at a large, meticulously arranged desk, a quill in hand as he reviewed correspondence. His green eyes scanned the parchment with precision, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his awareness of the man standing just inside the doorway.

Tyrion Lannister, dressed in his usual traveling attire, lingered there, his mismatched eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and curiosity. He’d been summoned, though not directly. Tywin’s silent request had come through an intermediary, leaving Tyrion wondering whether the meeting was a trap, an opportunity, or simply a confrontation long overdue.

“You summoned me, Father,” Tyrion said, his tone light but laced with caution. He stepped further into the room, his limp barely noticeable.

Tywin didn’t look up immediately, taking his time to finish reading the document before setting it aside with deliberate precision. When he finally met Tyrion’s gaze, his expression was as cold and unreadable as ever. “Sit.”

Tyrion arched a brow, but he complied, settling into a chair opposite the desk. “Straight to business, I see. How very Lannister of you.”

Tywin ignored the remark, leaning back in his chair as he studied his youngest son. “I imagine you know why I’ve called you here.”

Tyrion smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, I could hazard a guess. Perhaps you want to reminisce about the time you sentenced me to death? Or is this about Daenerys and her dragons? Do tell—I’m on the edge of my seat.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though his voice carried a cutting edge. “You betrayed your family, Tyrion. Fled Westeros like a common criminal after what happened.”

Tyrion’s smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of bitterness. “Ah, yes. I almost forgot. Shall we recount the reasons I might have had for such actions, or is this simply a scolding?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve allied yourself with Daenerys Targaryen, a foreign invader intent on claiming a throne that does not belong to her. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “And what would you have me do, Father? Remain in a dungeon until my execution? Daenerys offered me a chance to use my wits rather than rot away, and I took it.”

“She offered you survival,” Tywin corrected coldly. “Do not mistake desperation for opportunity.”

Tyrion’s fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his chair, his tone turning thoughtful. “Perhaps. But survival is something I’ve grown quite good at, thanks in no small part to you.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy and fraught with unspoken history. Tywin broke it first, his voice steady but menacing. “You’ve aligned yourself with a woman who believes herself entitled to the Iron Throne simply because of her name. She brings with her foreign savages, armies of Unsullied, and two dragons. You know as well as I do that she is a threat.”

Tyrion tilted his head, his expression contemplative. “She is a threat. But so is your wife, sitting here with her own dragon, wearing the blood of the same family you once sought to extinguish. Tell me, Father, do you find it easier to sleep at night knowing one dragon obeys the woman you married?”

For the first time, Tywin’s composure cracked, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “You tread dangerously, Tyrion.”

“And yet I live,” Tyrion countered, his tone turning wry. “Curious, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room felt like a taut wire, ready to snap. Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Daenerys will not succeed. Her ambitions will burn out as they all do, leaving nothing but ash in her wake.”

Tyrion leaned forward to meet his father’s gaze, his voice quiet but firm. “Perhaps. But you underestimate her, Father. You underestimate her determination, her ability to inspire. She’s not just a girl with dragons—she’s a force. And whether you like it or not, she’s coming.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, though his fingers drummed once against the desk before stilling. “Then we will deal with her when the time comes. I do not need your warnings, Tyrion. I need to know where your loyalties lie.”

Tyrion let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Loyalties? That’s rich, coming from you. My loyalties lie where they always have—with myself.”

“Then you are a fool,” Tywin said sharply, his voice cold. “The game we play is not one of survival alone. It is one of legacy, of power. You have none of those things.”

Tyrion’s gaze turned somber, though his tone remained light. “No, I suppose I don’t. But I do have something you’ll never understand, Father.”

Tywin raised a brow, his tone edged with skepticism. “And what is that?”

Tyrion’s smirk returned, faint but defiant. “Freedom.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of their fractured relationship hanging heavy in the air. Finally, Tywin sat back, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“This conversation is over,” he said curtly. “You may go.”

Tyrion stood slowly, inclining his head in mock deference. “As always, Father, it’s been enlightening.”

As Tyrion turned to leave, Tywin’s voice stopped him at the door. “Tyrion.”

Tyrion paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Tywin’s gaze was piercing, his tone low and deliberate. “Do not forget where you come from. Or what it means to bear the name Lannister.”

Tyrion’s lips quirked into a bittersweet smile. “Oh, I never could. Good night, Father.”

With that, he stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing like the final note of a long and bitter song.

Tywin Lannister sat at the Painted Table, a symbol of Targaryen legacy now serving as the epicenter of delicate negotiations. You stood beside him, a calm but resolute presence that softened the stern edges of his authority.

Moments earlier, Tywin had dismissed one of his trusted men, instructing him to secure the terms demanded by the North. The gesture was a necessary one to ensure that his promises to Jon Snow held firm, though the act of concession left a bitter taste in Tywin’s mouth. Now, the doors of the hall opened once more, revealing Daenerys Targaryen and her entourage.

Daenerys walked at the head of her group, her silver hair gleaming in the firelight, her violet eyes unyielding. Behind her were Tyrion Lannister, Missandei, and Grey Worm, each a reflection of her strength and purpose. Soldiers flanked the hall to ensure their safety, though it was clear from the subtle tension in their postures that this was more than a precaution—it was a necessity.

Tywin’s gaze flickered to Daenerys as she entered, his expression cold and calculated. He gestured to the seats opposite him, his voice clipped. “Take your places.”

Daenerys paused briefly, her gaze sweeping over the room before stepping forward. “I would say it’s good to see you again, Lord Tywin, but that would be a lie.”

Tyrion coughed lightly, muttering, “Charming start.”

Daenerys ignored him, her focus entirely on Tywin as she and her entourage settled into their seats. You remained standing beside Tywin, your presence a quiet but undeniable reminder of the complicated ties that bound this gathering together.

Tywin leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled. “You’ve traveled far, Daenerys Targaryen, only to find yourself on a shore that would prefer you’d stayed in Essos.”

Daenerys’s jaw tightened, but she kept her composure. “I have come to reclaim what is mine. The Iron Throne—my birthright.”

Tywin’s lips curled into a faint smirk at her circling rhetoric, though his gaze was icy. “The world has moved on without you. Your throne is an illusion, a relic of a time long passed. The lords of Westeros will not bow to a foreign invader who brings an army of savages to their shores.”

Grey Worm stiffened at the word savages, his hand instinctively moving toward the hilt of his sword. Missandei placed a calming hand on his arm, her expression unreadable.

Daenerys leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. “You mistake strength for savagery, Lord Tywin. My Unsullied are disciplined, my Dothraki loyal. And my dragons… well, they speak for themselves.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened slightly, but he remained composed. “Your dragons, impressive as they may be, are not enough to hold a kingdom. Power is not about fire and blood—it is about stability, order, and alliances. Things you lack.”

“You speak of alliances,” Daenerys countered, “yet here I stand, speaking with my sister, the blood of my blood. Are we not allies by birthright?”

Tywin’s gaze flickered toward you for a moment before returning to Daenerys. “Your sister,” he said evenly, “is no fool. She understands what you fail to grasp: the Iron Throne is not worth the cost. It is a poisoned seat, a pyre waiting to consume those who fight for it.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her tone hardening. “Is that why you put your grandson on it? Because you believe it to be worthless?”

Tywin’s smirk returned, faint but cutting. “My grandson sits the throne because I ensure that the realm remains intact. Not because of some foolish belief in destiny or entitlement.”

You glanced at Tywin, your hand lightly brushing against his shoulder. “Perhaps we should hear her out fully before dismissing her intentions.”

Daenerys seized the opportunity, her tone softening slightly as she turned her gaze to you. “Sister, I came here not to fight but to seek your counsel. You are the bridge between our family and the realm. Surely you see the need for change—for justice.”

You held her gaze for a moment, your expression calm but guarded. “Justice is not won with fire and steel alone, Daenerys. It must be tempered with wisdom and understanding.”

Tywin interjected, his voice firm. “Justice? Is that what you call sailing here with dragons and foreign armies? You seek to impose your will on a realm that does not want you. I suggest you return to Essos, where your conquests may still hold meaning.”

Daenerys’s eyes burned with defiance. “I will not return to Essos. Westeros is my home, and I will not be cast aside like some unwanted relic.”

Tywin’s expression turned cold, his words measured and menacing. “Westeros is not your home. You left as a child, and what you return to now is a land that no longer remembers you. You are not the heir you believe yourself to be. Turn back while you still can.”

Tyrion, sensing the rising tension, spoke up quickly. “Perhaps we should focus less on turning back and more on finding common ground. Surely there is a way to avoid bloodshed.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to his son, his tone sharp. “The only way to avoid bloodshed is for her to abandon this foolish endeavor.”

Daenerys rose from her seat, her expression resolute. “I will not abandon what is mine. If you cannot see the value of standing with me, then I will find those who can.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his silence more damning than any retort.

You stepped forward, your voice calm but firm. “Enough. We are family, whether we like it or not. Let us not make decisions in anger. We will reconvene tomorrow and continue these discussions with clearer heads.”

Daenerys hesitated before nodding curtly. “Very well. Tomorrow.”

She turned and swept from the room, her entourage following close behind. Tywin remained seated, his expression unreadable as he watched her go.

Once the room had cleared, he let out a quiet sigh, his gaze turning to you. “She’s more stubborn than I anticipated.”

You offered a faint smile. “She’s a Targaryen. Were you expecting anything less?”

The darkened skies over Dragonstone was brilliant with faint starlight as Daenerys Targaryen made her way toward the looming shadow of Dragonmont. The wind carried the faint cries of dragons from above, their echoes bouncing off the jagged rocks. Drogon and Rhaegal circled high, their massive forms silhouetted against the moonlight, keeping a wary distance from the lair below.

Ahead, the flickering glow of fire illuminated the entrance to the cavern. Viserion, her sister’s dragon, stood perched atop a jagged outcropping. Her presence was imposing, but it was her posture—head held high, wings partially unfurled, and golden eyes sharp with alertness—that reminded Daenerys this was no ordinary dragon. This was a guardian, and she was on guard.

Daenerys paused at the mouth of the cavern, her eyes scanning the space carefully. The sound of quiet murmuring drifted out, carried on the wind. She stepped forward cautiously, her boots crunching against the gravel.

“Viserion,” she called softly, her voice steady but laced with uncertainty.

The great she-dragon’s head turned sharply toward her, nostrils flaring as she exhaled a plume of smoke. Her eyes locked onto Daenerys, acknowledging her presence but offering no welcome. The dragon’s tail swished against the stone with a low rumble that seemed both a warning and an assertion of dominance.

“Daenerys.”

The familiar voice of her sister, calm and steady, emerged from deeper within the cavern. You stepped into view. You approached slowly, your hand resting gently on Viserion’s neck, the she-dragon leaning into the touch with a low purr.

Daenerys hesitated, her gaze flickering between you and the dragon. “She knows me,” she said, her tone carrying a faint trace of hope.

“She knows of you,” you corrected gently, your expression soft but guarded. “There’s a difference.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her hands outstretched slightly, though she kept her movements deliberate. “Viserion… she is one of mine. I hatched her. I nurtured her. She should remember that.”

Viserion rumbled again, a low, guttural sound that sent a faint tremor through the ground beneath their feet. Her eyes never left Daenerys, watching every step as though weighing her intent.

You tilted your head, your tone thoughtful as you spoke. “Dragons do not think as we do. They are creatures of fire and instinct, drawn to strength and loyalty. Yes, you hatched her, but that does not mean she is yours. Not anymore.”

Daenerys’s brows furrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. “She was mine. She should remember that.”

You shook your head gently, your hand stroking along Viserion’s scales. “Dragons bond with one rider, Daenerys. That bond is unshakable. No matter who hatched them, no matter who raised them, they choose who they will follow.”

Daenerys’s lips pressed into a thin line as she regarded the she-dragon, who had settled slightly but remained alert, her head turning to follow every move Daenerys made. “And she chose you.”

“She did,” you said simply, your voice quiet but firm.

Daenerys’s gaze turned sharp, her tone carrying a hint of bitterness. “Do you think I wanted this? To lose what I created? To be cast aside by my own dragons?”

You stepped closer, your expression softening. “This isn’t about want, Daenerys. Dragons are not weapons or symbols to be wielded at our convenience. They are their own beings, and they choose their paths just as we choose ours.”

For a moment, silence fell between you, the distant cries of Drogon and Rhaegal the only sound. Daenerys turned her gaze skyward, watching her other two dragons circling high above, their massive forms majestic and untouchable. She let out a quiet sigh, her voice softening. “I thought she would remember me. That she would come to me.”

“She remembers you,” you said gently. “But her loyalty is here now. She sees me as her rider, just as Drogon sees you as his.”

Viserion shifted slightly, lowering her head to rest on the stone, though her golden eyes remained locked on Daenerys. The stiffness in her body eased, but there was no mistaking the silent warning in her gaze.

Daenerys took a deep breath, her shoulders sagging slightly. “And what of us, then? Sisters divided by blood, by dragons, by the choices we’ve made?”

You stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on her arm. “We are sisters still. But trust and loyalty, like dragons, must be earned.”

Daenerys’s gaze lingered on you, her expression conflicted. “And what will it take to earn yours?”

You smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in your eyes. “Patience. Understanding. And the willingness to see the world as it is, not as we wish it to be.”

For a moment, Daenerys said nothing, her thoughts a storm of emotions as she processed your words. Then, with a quiet nod, she turned and stepped away, her figure framed by the moonlight as she left the cavern.

Viserion let out a low rumble, her body relaxing fully as you continued to stroke her neck. “It will take time,” you murmured softly, more to yourself than anyone else. “But perhaps there’s hope yet.”

Above, the cries of Drogon and Rhaegal echoed across the night sky, a reminder that the bonds of blood, like dragons, were both powerful and unpredictable.

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signanothername · 4 hours ago

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it might be an awkward question but-

HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO DRAW SO MUCH?? how do you get so many beautiful ideas? how do you keep yourself motivated? tell me your secret I will sell you my soul

🩵 🫴 take it.

Why thank you 🫳🩵

Ah the question ever

Truthful and simple answer is that there’s no secret

This might seem contradictory considering how much I post, but I genuinely am not as motivated or as inspired as I seem to be

I struggle a lot with ideas and motivation and that is a problem I have on a daily basis that’s been happening for years (I have SO many wips that I never shared)

It’s not about the struggle, it’s about how I curated my art to that struggle

I’m at a constant threat to experience burnout (certified chronic pain and chronic fatigue haver), so to combat that, I take measures to make sure I don’t burn myself out and actually reserve the very little energy I have to continue doing artworks/comics

To give you a specific example, if you notice with my comics, they’re always sketchy and are never colored, that’s not because I don’t want to make colored comics, but because of knowledge from previous experiences that if I actually forced myself to make colored comics, I’d immediately plunge to burnout and would probably not be able to draw for a few weeks after because of it (in fact the last time I made a colored comic was here, which is a rare occasion even then btw, and that comic caused me to experience a near burnout)

Which was extremely frustrating to me at some point might I add, because before 2021, I had no problem making so many colored comics and artworks at a short span of time, I actually had motivation before (something that is lost to me now), so you can imagine how genuinely frustrating it is, it even made me feel like I’m not a “real” artist

(The concept of what is considered a “real artist” is bullshit btw, someone who draws stickmen everyday is as much of a real artist as someone who makes diverse fully colored artworks with backgrounds and everything, as long as you use your creativity and turn it to something meaningful, you’re already a real artist, regardless of skill or the extent of which you are able to conceive with your art)

That being said, it’s all about finding your own footing and workflow, what works best for you? What doesn’t?

Some things that you’d love for them to work (in my case making colored comics) might not work in reality, life is disappointing like that, so it’s also about acceptance

Acceptance of yourself as you are, maybe it’s not what you truly strive for, maybe you wish you could do more, but sometimes taking a step back and looking into yourself to see if you can actually achieve what you want with the resources you have could be life saving

So when it comes to motivation? Find your workflow, what are the things that you know could make you lose your motivation? On the other hand, what are the things that preserve your motivation?

Not only that, but time management is also a contributing factor

Of course, my own way to preserve my motivation/energy is as follows:

1- never force myself to finish artworks/comics if I feel like I can’t (even if I really really want to), I save them up for later when my motivation for them kicks back in

2-let perfectionism go, if I keep fretting over whether every line in an artwork looks good I’ll never accomplish anything but destroy my mental health (certified perfectionist speaking btw)

3-comics stay as sketches, as much as I want to make beautifully colored comics, I know this will only contribute to my burnout, so keeping it real with myself and what I can accomplish with my own resources (energy, time, health, etc) is important

4-making multiple sketches in a day then choosing what fancies my brain that day, or getting back to older sketches I already made before (sometimes months before) to see if my brain has the itch to work on any of them, by doing that, then I’m giving myself actual diversity in choices to choose from, which helps me feel like I don’t have to be forced to work on anything new, or something that I don’t wanna work on

For clarification, I’m talking actual sketches, not cleaned up ones, if you make clean sketches you won’t be able to make multiple ones in the same day

Here’s an example of what I mean by sketches

5-stop beating myself up over things I can’t control, if I keep being harsh on myself over the fact I couldn’t finish an artwork or the fact I’m not satisfied with it, it’ll only contribute to make me feel bad about myself and that would only contribute to me losing even more motivation which contributes to beating myself up and so the self torture cycle goes on, myself deserves to be pat on the back gently and be told “it’s ok, you’ll get there in time”

6-teach myself that it’s ok to lose motivation, there are times in which I do not open my art app for weeks, instead of hating myself for it, I tell myself “you need time, you’re tired and you need the break”, and it’s true, if you lost motivation, it’s most likely due to something else contributing to it

So i just ask myself what’s up, sometimes, I’m overworked in other life aspects, other times I’m in too much pain, so instead of forcing myself through my demotivation, I take care of these factors demotivating me so I’d feel comfortable enough to be able to work on artworks again

If I couldn’t identify a factor contributing to my loss of motivation, then I take it as my own brain telling me that it needs the break, it needs the dopamine if doing something different and I do that, whether by watching my favorite shows, playing my favorite games, trying a different hobby like writing or reading, etc

7- work on my own time, sometimes I do finish artworks quickly, and I do have the capacity to do so, but I’ve noticed that my loss of motivation became less of an issue when I gave myself the actual time to work on artworks, sometimes, a simple artwork that I could finish in 20 minutes takes me weeks to finish, not because I can’t finish it earlier, but because I intentionally worked slowly on it as I’m working on other artworks just as slow, that way, I don’t overwhelm myself and I’m making progress on multiple artworks/comics at the same time, and seeing such progress gives me even more motivation

Cough, anyway, got lost in talking about motivation ghcchch

As for your other question about how I get my ideas, it’s usually something I saw that inspired me, whether an artwork, something irl, etc

Or even sometimes, my own artworks inspire ideas for comics, so I’d draw something, then ask myself (asking yourself questions is such a great helper when it comes to coming up with ideas) why is the character doing this? How did they get there? Etc

That helps me come up with answers which are then answered via comics or multiple different artworks

For example, this comic, what inspired it was me asking myself one simple question, “what would happen if Murder actually asked Nightmare for a visit home for once, instead of running away like he always does?”, and that immediately got me to work on the comic

Of course, it doesn’t mean I always am on the ready for an idea, in fact, a lot of the time my mind is blank, nothing up there to help me, which is why I turn to mindlessly sketching sometimes

I just open a canvas and start sketching, what? I don’t know, I’m just gonna sketch something, could be a character, environment, scribbles, meaningless lines etc, it’s my iwn version of a warm up, and it helps a lot with making my brain get into the zone

That’s all I can think of off the top of my head

Enjoy a look into my brain chhcchch

#ngl sometimes I wanna stream my art process from the beginning somewhere #just so you guys would see how much I struggle behind the scenes chchchhc #i know I make it look easy af #but I promise you if you see what I go through you’ll be even more confused by the frequency of which I post chhcchhv #anothers ask

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hiddenonyx · 2 days ago

Text

Diavolo has always been mindful of Lucifer's wings - he knows of the pain there, both the invisible and the visible. He's careful not to let his touch explore or linger, as much as he wants to. The one rare occasion his fingers accidentally graze along Lucifer's upper spine, it's Diavolo who flinches and yanks his own hand away like Lucifer's skin burned him. Lucifer never comments on these accidentally touches; the first few times he's thankful for Diavolo's self-discipline and then he slowly stops minding the occasional brush along his feathers.

It's a few years after their encounters start, both tentatively navigating an undefined relationship, too scared to go further than the other, scared of burning what they have. Lucifer lays half on top of Diavolo as he so often does afterwards. His skin under him is warm and moves gently with each breath the Prince takes. He's gently holding the fallen angel with an arm slung across his waist. It's a quiet moment, the only sounds filling the space is their quiet breathing and the softest flutter of feathered wings as they move with their owner's breath.

Lucifer is enjoying the soft comfort. It's in these moments he can find peace and a sense of quiet that helps to heal the dull wounds left over from the War. He frowns a little; the War. There's a painful twinge in his chest, an odd desire he hasn't felt in years.

Sluggishly, Lucifer gropes to find Diavolo's free hand, drawing a noise of surprise from him.

"Lucifer? I thought you were asleep. Is-"

The words die on the demon's tongue as Lucifer guides his hand to rest softly as the start of the down feathers on his back, just a few inches from his wings. Diavolo stiffens, unsure of his intent or desire. The angel simply buries his face in his neck, his body tense in anticipation. Diavolo hesitates for a moment, and then two. He swallows hard before gently petting the edge of the down patch, following its natural direction. The fallen angel's breath catches, only to be let out in a shaky exhale. He wants to ask, knows he should ask if this is what he wanted, if this is okay, but he doesn't want to break the now fragile moment. Instead, he simply continues with the gentle touches, the gentle strokes that make Lucifer shiver. For now, the Prince avoids the wings proper.

Slowly, after several long minutes, Lucifer no longer shakily breathes each time Diavolo drags his fingers through his down. It is then, and only then, when Diavolo tentatively rubs the very base of the angel's wing. Nails dig into his skin, the wing flutters, and Lucifer whimpers.

"I-Is t-this-?" The Prince's voice is weak, scared of the answer.

"Y-yes," the answer is muffled and just as weak.

He hesitates for another second before continuing to softly stroke the joint. More whimpers and whines met his ears as the limb tenses and relaxes beneath his fingers.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me blog #obey me fandom #obey me game #obey me lucifer #obey me writings #obey me diavolo #obey me dialuci #dialuci

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eldstunga · 2 days ago

Text

PSA: Closing Commissions

Hello everyone,

I am very sorry and not a little embarrassed to make this announcement but due to life events both personal and professional I have decided to close commissions until further notice.

All commissions that have been paid for will be completed as normal.

If you are unsure about yours, please reach out to me.

It wasn’t an easy decision as I know some of you have been waiting patiently for a long time, but I have to take a step back and reassess how I handle comms in the future - I want to draw your beautiful OCs when I can give them energy and excitement, instead of running on anxiety and fumes - and I wish to avoid situations where people end up sitting in various DMs without clear information. I’ve dropped the ball in that regard and I will do better.

Thank you everyone for your time, patience and grace.

#commissions #not art #.txt

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eternal-evergreens · 13 hours ago

Text

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass - VI"｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 4.6k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Non/Con, Gore, Physical Abuse, Victim Blaming, Mental Breaks, Bondage, Abduction, Drugging, Murder/Death, Dissociation, Dissociative Amnesia/Lost Time,

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

You’ve been trying to loosen your bonds for a while—the drugs long out of your system—but it’s hard when one of your wrists is injured. You can hardly move it without pain shooting up your entire arm. You can hardly even feel your fingers, and you’re sure that if you could look, they’d be white as a sheet—or, worse, purple. You stop your shuffling when you hear footsteps approaching the door. Kylar walks in, holding a sketchbook. He probably wants to draw you.

“Kylar, can you take a look at my hands? I think the ropes might be cutting off circulation.” Please don’t be into gangrene, please don’t be into gangrene, please don’t be into gangrene. Kylar puts the food down and walks behind you.

He touches your hand. “C-can you feel that?”

“Feel what?” You say, trying to feign ignorance in hopes you’ll be taken more seriously. Kylar doesn’t say anything, but you feel him undo your restraints before retying them more lightly. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, you have to suppress a sigh in relief as you feel pins and needles begin to prick at your skin.

“Better?” Kylar stands in front of you now.

“Could you just undo them instead? I’ll be good, I promise.” You bat your eyes and try to put on your best cutesy voice, but Kylar just shakes his head. You aren’t going to convince him this way. He wants you helpless.

You’re going to have to try something else.

Bile threatens to rise up your throat, but you suppress it as you allow your eyes to droop in a more seductive manner. “Really? That’s a shame…I was going to surprise you with something if you did, but if you don’t want to…” Kylar’s eyes go wide.

“W-wait! I’ll do it!” He rushes behind you, scrambling to get your binds off with such haste that it actually takes longer than if he had taken his time. When you’re finally free, you don’t hesitate to rush to Kylar, pushing him against the wall with your uninjured hand. He doesn’t resist, and you can tell from his flushed face and his erratic breathing that his guard is nonexistent right now. You kiss him, pinning his hands above his head. When he closes his eyes, you knee him in the balls as hard as you can. +Control

Kylar crumples to the floor, but you doubt he’ll stay there long. You rush towards the door and swing it open, following the flickering and entering the room it leads to. You grab the flashlight and run out the door, fumbling to turn it on in the dark as you focus on running.

You don’t make it in time. You run into Kylar, knocking both him and yourself over. You scramble to get up, but Kylar has already grabbed your arm. He’s not very strong, but your panic doesn’t allow you to recognize that, and you freeze. Only for a second, but a second is all it takes. You feel a sharp pain in your arm, and everything fades to black.

—————————

It is Sunday, the 13th of September, 2022. It has been 9 days since the game started. The game started in autumn. It is autumn. School term finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,259 Pain: Tears well in your eyes Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You feel refreshed Stress: You are strained Trauma: You are tormented Control: You are terrified Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged You have 6 days to escape.

When you wake up this time, you feel much less under the weather than the first time you were hit. Probably due to the fact it had been several hours since you were shot. You feel capable of basic movement, and you’re confident that if you can just fight through the pain, you’ll be able to get out of these bonds.

And you do. You rub against your restraints until you feel something warm and wet trickle down from your wrists onto the floor. Then you keep going. +++Pain +++Willpower

Your ropes are looser than they were. But it could easily take another day or even two until you’re able to get out of them. After your first attempt, Kylar double-wrapped you, and he added ropes to connect your legs to the chair.

You hear footsteps approaching the door, so you stop struggling and wait. The next thing you know, the room is dark, and Kylar is on the floor with his head in your naked lap, seemingly sleeping. You feel slime on your bare skin between your thighs and fresh bruises all over your body. There are bandages on your wrists. He probably noticed your attempt to escape and hit you for it. You don’t know. You have no way of knowing. All you know is that you’re hurt and scared, your ropes are just as tight as they were this morning, and now even your waist is tied to the chair.

You can’t do anything about it without waking up Kylar, so you’ll have to wait until morning before trying anything else.

—————————

It is Monday, the 14th of September, 2022. It has been 10 days since the game started. The game started in autumn. It is autumn. School term finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,259 Pain: Tears run down your face Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are strained Trauma: You feel numb Control: You are terrified Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged You have 5 days to escape.

“Good morning, my little tease,” Kylar says, smiling and without a hint of embarrassment.

Do you wish to view Kylar’s stats? Y/N

You blink twice at “Yes,” and a blue textbook appears beside him.

Kylar The Loner Kylar is manic Fascination: 100% Love: 10% Devotion: 10% Jealousy: 95% Lust: 55%

Before you have time to process the new changes in his devotion and love stats, Kylar begins to sob.

“W-what are you looking at? I’m right here!” He waves an arm in front of the textbox, effectively blocking your view. +++Jealousy

You turn your gaze back to him, and he visibly relaxes, though he still looks on edge.

“Sorry. I thought I saw a bug.” -Jealousy. Your voice is so dead that if it weren’t for the feeling of your vocal cords moving, you never would have recognized it as your own at all. Kylar tenses and quickly whips around, frantically searching for a bug that doesn’t exist. You use the opportunity to check his stats again, and see that in just the span of a few seconds, you’ve managed to up his jealousy from 96% to 99%.

You should be feeling dread right now, but all that washes over you is ice-cold indifference.

“I don’t see it,” Kylar says, voice low. “Were you lying to me?” You tilt your head but don’t answer. Kylar seems to be spurned on by this, though you know he would have found a way to get upset even with your input. “I don’t understand. Who are you thinking about?! I’m right here!” He grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you as much as your restraints will allow. You steal a glance towards the status window.

Jealousy: 100%

“Is…is it him? Were you thinking about him?” Kylar’s voice begins to take on a tone of insanity. “Wh-when we were together…were you pretending it was him?” His grip on you tightens, but you feel disconnected from the pain. He pushes your chair over again, leaving you to land painfully on your arms. Again. He starts hitting you, screaming incomprehensibly. You can make out a few words.

“Cheater”

“Love”

“Hate”

“Bailey”

You stop listening.

He’s still hitting you, straddling your waist to get a better angle. You wonder if he even realizes he’s hard right now. You hope not.

Kylar pulls a knife to your neck, pressing it against the skin until you feel something warm and wet start to dribble down and pool onto your collarbone. You stay like that for a few seconds, with Kylar methodically applying pressure at a rate too consistent for him to not be at least partially clear-headed.

You swallow. It was involuntary, and you hadn’t meant anything by it, but the movement seemed to be enough to break Kylar out of his daze as he quickly repulses, dropping the knife and staggering backward. It takes him a moment to realize he should probably set you upright again, too.

He doesn’t say anything, seemingly unable to do anything but meet your blank stare. You don’t say anything, either. You have nothing to say. Kylar hangs his head, muttering apologies to himself. You see tears dripping down onto the floor.

An idea strikes you.

“Do you want forgiveness?” You ask, trying (failing) to make your voice sound anything but flat. Kylar whips up, nodding his head vigorously. You see snot and tears running down his face, which is covered in blotches. Of course, he’s an ugly crier. You focus your vision away from his face. “Earn it.”

“H-how?” His voice indicates a clogged or tight throat. You guess he feels terrible. Good.

“Being cooped up at home isn’t good for anyone. Let’s go somewhere. Together.”

It takes a bit of convincing to get him to agree, but as soon as you mention the word “date,” he’s all but putty in your hands. He wanted to tie you to him, but you managed to talk him down to just holding your wrist like a slightly less madman. Your clothes have been irreparably destroyed; you’ll have to borrow from Kylar. —Jealousy (Kylar’s current jealousy: 45%)

After getting changed and cleaning up your cut, Kylar and you leave the manor. As expected, this brief outing doesn’t automatically complete your quest. You’ll have to make it permanent. His grip is tight, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You just need to escape this place. Things will get better.

They have to.

“You’re going to do whatever I want today, right?” Kylar nods with vigor. You try to smile. Your muscles don’t move. “Good.”

You take Kylar to the shopping center. It’s school, so you don’t need to worry about running into anyone. You glance at the hairdressers. He’d probably go bald if you asked him to. You almost feel the urge to giggle. Almost. -Trauma

You take him to the clothing store, picking out everything that looks expensive, ugly, or extremely diffucult to get on and off. Kylar doesn’t say anything as you browse, but a few stolen glances indicate he’s extremely nervous. -Trauma

He let go of your wrist so you could look around, opting to switch his hold to a dart gun instead. You wouldn’t make it very far if you ran now.

You hand him a pair of heeled boots to try on. He seems hesitant, so you offer to help him lace them up. He won’t be used to walking in heels, so running after you will be extremely diffucult. You’ll be sure to triple-knot the laces so he can’t undo them easily. -Stress

Kylar watches you as you kneel by his feet, a slight hunger in his eyes. +Lust +Stress

You suppress the urge to shiver. You finish getting him in the shoes and stand up quickly. Kylar struggles to remain balanced and has to hold onto you for support. His dart gun has been put back in his bag so he can better cling to you.

You help him into a corset next, making sure to lace it much, much, much tighter than it needs to be. Kylar looks back at you pleadingly a couple of times, but you just show him your neck in response, and his gaze returns to the ground. +Lust

Running will be even harder. -Stress

You bring him an open-shoulder lolita dress next, simply because it looks difficult to get on and off.

“I don’t need to help you get this one on,” you say, pushing Kylar into the changing room before he can protest, watching blankly as he lands on his butt. You close the curtain and wait until you hear the rustling of clothes before sneaking away, planning to switch to running as soon as you’re out the door. Unfortunately, Kylar seems to have been watching your feet, as he speaks up as soon as you move away from the curtain.

“M-My love? Where are you going?”

“Just pacing,” you say. +Jealousy

“St-stay where I can see you.”

You run. +++Jealousy

You hear scrambling and falling from the curtain, as well as the sound of the curtain rod crashing to the ground. You don’t look back, but it wouldn’t have mattered if you did.

A sharp pain hits you right in the back of your thigh. —Control

—————————

You missed 5 lessons yesterday. ++Deliquency —Status It is Tuesday, the 14th of September, 2022. It has been 11 days since the game started. The game started in autumn. It is autumn. School term finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,259 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You feel refreshed Stress: You are tense Trauma: You are tormented Control: You are terrified Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged You have 4 days to escape.

Kylar is already sitting across from you by the time you wake up, sketching something in his notepad.

…You should try to get on his good side again, though you can barely bring yourself to care. Right now, you’re operating out of sheer will alone.

“Can I see?” Kylar glances up at you but doesn’t say anything. He goes back to sketching. You try to smile. You feel your lips quirk, but you’re not sure if its upwards. “Do you have a favorite color to use while drawing?” You ask, sneaking a glance towards the status floating next to him. (Jealousy: 99%) Kylar glances at you but continues his silence.

“Maybe you can use something with my favorite color sometime. Do they call those monochromatics? When are there different shades of one color? Or does it have to be the same shade?” You thought asking about his interests might make him pipe up and let his guard down, but he seems hellbent on wasting your breath.

“I don’t know if you know my favorite color, actually. I’m not sure if anyone does, actually. It changed a while ago, and I don’t think it’s ever come up since.” Kylar pauses, just for a second. The idea of exclusivity always gets people, especially if it’s about something they like. “Do you want me to tell you?” Kylar nods.

“Promise to make me a picture in that color, and I will.” A look of hesitation flickers across Kylar’s face, probably wondering how you could use a piece of paper to escape him—you’ve really broken his trust, haven’t you? You may need to lay low for a few days, as much as the idea makes your skin crawl.

At last, Kylar nods, and you tell him your favorite shade of the rainbow. He gets to work on your picture right after, tearing off what he was previously working on and leaving it unfinished on the floor. You sneak a peek at it. It’s a picture of you getting strangled. +Trauma

—————————

You missed 5 lessons yesterday. ++Deliquency –Status It is Wednesday, the 15th of September, 2022. It has been 12 days since the game started. The game started in autumn. It is autumn. School term finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,259 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are fatigued Stress: You are tense Trauma: You are tormented Control: You are terrified Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged You have 3 days to escape.

Kylar didn’t bring you any food yesterday. You didn’t bring it up either, but now it’s hours past midnight, and your stomach is keeping you from sleep. Not having anything else to do, you use the opportunity to check on things. Primarily, you never did take a look at what Eden, Alex, or the two beastmen’s statuses ended up being. Hopefully you’ll never see them again and it won’t matter, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least curious.

First is Eden.

Eden The Hunter Eden is in town Fascination: 80% Love: 0% Devotion: 0% Jealousy: 40% Dominance: 0% Lust: 100%

Fuck. Fuck this. Seriously? This game isn’t going to give you even a moment of rest, is it? You don’t know how his jealousy got so high, but you suppose it doesn’t matter right now. You have to deal with Kylar first, and…as much as the idea makes you feel like vomiting, you’re going to need to contact Bailey.

…You move on. No need to linger.

Black Wolf The Alpha Black Wolf wants to see you again

There's not much to see on this one. You feel relieved.

Great Hawk The Terror Great Hawk wants you as his wife Fascination: 100% Love: 0% Devotion: 50% Jealousy: 0% Dominance: 0% Lust: 90%

There isn’t much to this one, either. Honestly, it doesn’t even look that different from his usual status.

Alex The Farmhand Alex wants to start over Fascination: 80% Love: 7% Devotion: 100%* Jealousy: 0% Dominance: 0% Lust: 70% *Alex owes you an apology! You may request one favor to which he can not refuse. Devotion will return to normal after the favor has been spent.

…Huh. That’s weird. Really weird, actually. What’s his goal? Is he actually sorry?

No, if he were sorry, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place. He probably wants to use this as an excuse to get closer to you, now that his first plan has failed. Still, you might be able to leverage something useful out of this, if you play your cards right, that is. At the very least, he’s probably too busy with the farm to come hunt you down in town.

Kylar enters the room, and the textboxes fade from your attention.

You have a lot to think about, but for now, you have to play along.

—————————

You missed 5 lessons yesterday. ++Deliquency –Status You haven't eaten. Your physique has deteriorated slightly as a result. It is Thursday, the 16th of September, 2022. It has been 13 days since the game started. The game started in autumn. It is autumn. School term finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,259 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are wide awake Stress: You are tense Trauma: You are tormented Control: You are terrified Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged You have 2 days to escape.

Kylar finally brings in food today after two days of starvation.

“I-I’m sorry for not feeding you earlier,” he says, but doesn't offer anything in the way of excuses or explanations. You think you prefer it that way, honestly. At least he's not pretending to be anything he isn't.

At least you're the only one who has to pretend.

On second thought, maybe it would be better if he was lying to you. Maybe it'd be easier to play along, if he helped you out.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. You have the cards you've been dealt. No use in complaining.

You plaster on the biggest smile you can muster. Your lips barely curl upwards.

“It's okay,” you say. “I was bad.” Kylar seems to light up at your understanding of what he was saying implicitly. But his face then morphs into one of suspicion.

“Y-you’re lying,” he says. “You're manipulating me. You just want me to lower my guard so you can run back to him again.” You barely manage to suppress a flinch.

Kylar grasps you by the shoulders, shaking you. You don't even think, you can't think. You kiss him. ++Lust —Control –Jealousy

Kylar's eyes go wide but quickly flutter closed as his grip on you loosens into something more affectionate than constricting. He straddles you, and you pull away gently, pushing your forehead against his so he knows you aren’t rejecting him.

You feel sick. You almost can’t bring yourself to speak. But you know what you have to say, so you shove those feelings so far down that not even the devil would be able to find them. -Control

“I’m sorry for running away,” you say. “But I realized something.” You try to steady your heartbeat as Kylar seems to salivate in anticipation. -Control

“He can’t fuck me the way you can,” you say, voice shaking and almost a whisper. ”No one can.” -Control

Kylar all but jumps you.

-Control

—————————

You missed 5 lessons yesterday. ++Deliquency –Status It is Friday, the 17th of September, 2022. It has been 14 days since the game started. The game started in autumn. It is autumn. School term finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,259 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are wide awake Stress: You are calm Trauma: You feel numb Control: You are terrified Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged You must escape by today.

“G-good evening, my love!” Kylar is dressed in a full gothic suit. His makeup is sloppy. You don’t remember how yesterday ended. You don’t want to remember.

You’re tied to a wheelchair this time, and dressed in an elaborate gothic gown lined with cloves of garlic. You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t looked down. Your whole body feels numb. You won't be able to escape today. You went through all of that for nothing. Sold your pride for false hope.

“I wanted to introduce you to my parents. You have to be awake for that. You’ll be good for them, right?”

Oh, so this is how you die. You try to nod, but your neck won’t move.

“I gave you a bit of a sedative to calm you down,” Kylar explains. “I know how nervous you can get. I've been working on it for the past few days—that’s why I couldn't see you as often as I'd like.” You have no way of knowing how often he visited you. The idea of him talking to you in your sleep is something you'd rather not think about.

Kylar wheels you out the door. You wonder if it'll hurt when they rip your throat out with their teeth.

You'll find out soon enough.

Kylar’s parents look about how you expected—looming androgynous figures with milk-white skin and sharp teeth. Their baldness and smooth faces make it difficult to tell them apart, but you think one of them has a slightly thinner face. You could be imagining it, though.

“Mom, Dad, this is my fiancee,” Kylar starts. You think he might be skipping a few steps, but it’s hard to expect reason from someone who just sedated you in front of vampires. Kylar is still speaking, going on about how you met and how you fell in love (If you were recording this, it’d be some pretty damning evidence) while Kylar’s parents watch on in silence. They’re still, gaze transfixed upon you. It would be unnerving if you had the energy to care.

Without warning, one of Kylar’s parents is upon you, nearly knocking down the wheelchair but just managing to avoid it. With a claw of silver, they tear through your bonds and lift you up, running through the house to the garden, then out the garden into the forest. They don’t stop until you reach the altar, setting you down and running away.

Well, it was nice of them to let you go, but with the drugs still in your system, you’re kinda stranded. Additionally, you notice that your quest for escaping the manor hasn’t been completed yet, meaning you’re still on their property. You stare up at the sky. It’s nighttime now. You’re running out of time.

Kylar emerges from the bushes sometime later, looking disheveled.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says, approaching you. “I didn't know they would do that. You aren't hurt, are you?” You blink at him, unable to do much else. Kylar seems relieved despite your lack of response. You think you can talk now, but you don’t feel any need to.

“Let's get you back home,” he says, attempting to lift you off the altar. He fails. He tries get you to lean on him, but despite the growing feeling in your legs, you still can't walk. “I-I’ll be right back,” he says. “I'll get your chair.” You watch him go from your place on the altar. As soon as he turns his back to you, you start flexing your fingers and toes.

It’s not over until it’s over.

Your movements seem to help, as within the next few agonizing minutes, you’re able to just barely drag yourself off of the altar, crawling with your arms and legs through the forest underbrush. It’s hard going, but you’re making progress. Still, you hope your legs will regain their strength sooner rather than later.

You shimmy along the path, propelling yourself forward by your elbows and the movements of your hips. You feel sticks and leaves poke through and tear your gothic gown, trying to reach the soft skin underneath. You ignore the pain and press onwards, slowly inching towards freedom, though having no idea what direction it ought to be in.

It occurs to you as you’re crawling that you very well may be making a snail trail in your path, but you have no choice but to press onwards. You won’t find another chance.

So, you keep going. You crawl and crawl until the moon is resting just shy of the center of the sky, and you hear rustling in the distance. You still, hoping it’s just a stray wolf or fox. Hoping that it’s not looking for you. Hoping that even if it is, it’s not Kylar that’s looking.

The rustling stops, and you think you have enough strength in your legs to sit on your knees, so you peek up from behind a bush, just barely above eye level to avoid being seen.

Green eyes meet yours.

In a moment, Kylar is on top of you, screaming unintelligibly. You can make out some of the contents, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than the feeling of his knife plunging into your stomach, dragging blood and viscera with it as he rips metal from flesh and plunges it down once again.

You think you’re screaming, too, but it’s hard to tell. Hard to even see anything through the blur of blood and tears running down your face, your sides. You think most of the tears aren’t even yours. You think Kylar is crying harder than you are, that his tears are painting your face as yet another sign of ownership.

You think you might be bleeding out. He must have stabbed you at least a dozen times. You can barely feel it anymore. All you feel is your blood pressure dropping into hell, that unique lightheaded sensation you only get when you’re on the verge of death. Your head is light, all earthly sensations feeling so far away, so disconnected to you.

You feel calm. Peaceful, even. It’s not how you wanted to go, but maybe you can find peace in the fact that it’s over.

Kylar has stopped stabbing you, his knife held over his head in both hands, a look of horror on his face. You smile at him softly. There’s a ribbon tied to the handle of his knife—your favorite color.

It’s the last thing you see.

Feat unlocked—The end is never the end.

—————————

#dol #degrees of lewdity #yandere degrees of lewdity #yandere x reader #male yandere #kylar the loner #bailey the caretaker #dol x reader #yandere dol #degrees of lewdity x reader

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windybluebelles · 1 day ago

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Batman au where nothing changes except, every hero in Gotham is a bat and their costumes all have the ears to prove it.

Dickbin would have his cape cut similar to Bruce’s so that it’s batwing shaped and he’d have a little hair and with thin, long brown bat ears. Real pointy, probably got thrown at some poor thug

JayBin would have a shorter cape that has more defined wings. I imagine when he’s younger he has a little dark red helmet with the ears on, shorter and thicker ears, probably got a hood when he got older.

Timbin who started out with hair clips (dark green, similar shape to Jason’s) but managed to convince Bruce to let him get his silly Cowl while he’s still Robin. It would basically just be his RedRobin cowl but with a more square shaped head bit and the ears , it’s also only black at the top but fading to a dark green at the ears and then to yellow by the sides.

Stephbin literally had a cute little bright red hairband that had tiny devil horns so I’m just giving her Dick’s headband, hers would either be the same bright red as in canon or a dark purple. It would have thin but stubby ears, very sharp. I think her cape would have a jaggey cut at the bottom, not like wings but like teeth. Her green SHORTS (cause I fucking hate the mini skirt) would also have the little sharp teeth pattern but they’d have a red layer underneath. Girlie went less bat more vampire apparently.

Damibin (also known as, normal Damian, whoops) would have the ears on his hood, he’d have a cape similar to Dicks in the way that it’s cut like Batman’s. His boots would have the teeth pattern like Stephanie and the top and around the soles.

Dick as Nightwing would have nothing similar to the bats when he first starts out, when he gets closer with Bruce again he’d style two bits of his mullet sticking up like ears but after he changes out of DiscoWing than he’d get little clip on blue ones (like Tim’s at the time)

Spoiler would have nothing bat related the first time round, she is not affiliated with them officially. After she’s been Robin and Batgirl she would have subtle ears on her hood and her face mask would curve up into sharper points at the sides, her cape would have a small over layer in the shave of a V to create a kinda wing silhouette when it flows behind her.

Red Robin would be almost exactly the same except with the cowl I already described but now it’s in the normal black and red colours.

RedHood would originally just have his normal helmet but after he rejoins the team, he’d get a weird mix of his two Arkham knights helmets. The general shape and silhouette of the normal Arkham Knight one but with the red colour instead of the blue. (That helmet is so fucking cute oh my goddddd)

Cass would obviously still have her BlackBat full cowl costume, but for her orphan outfit she’d have the same ears as Damian and Steph. Probably more pronounced and obvious, made of stiffer material.

These are all just silly ideas and probably don’t make much sense, but the idea of all the Batbabies having little ears on their costumes made me want to die. If i could draw I would show y’all but ehhhh I can’t

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royal-chandler · 2 days ago

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temporary/maybe permanent title is winter interlude. written for the lovely @caressthosecheekbones ✨

Henry is certain that he's only just fallen asleep when he’s nudged awake, Alex’s soft scratched voice at his ear and his hand giving Henry’s wrist a slight squeeze. Henry’s answer to his name is a long groan.

“Hen, baby. Can you wake up for me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please?”

Henry groans once more and burrows further into the pocket of warmth that’s been conjured from sleep, their thick cloud-like duvet, and Alex’s arms. He keeps his eyes shut and silently, drowsily wishes for Alex to concede. And of course, no such luck.

“I’ve got an amazing idea.”

“That for some ungodly reason can’t wait until morning?”

“It’s uh,” Henry feels Alex slightly shift away, imagines that he’s checking the nocturne glow of their bedside clock, “one thirty-six right now so technically...”

“Don’t even bother finishing that sentence.”

“Come on,” Alex draws out. He shakes Henry some more, as if he can transfuse enthusiasm through vibration or using Henry like a ketchup bottle that’s been sitting too long. “Come on, we’re losing starlight. Let’s get a move on.”

“Christ, Alex, what for?”

“It’s stopped snowing. We should go sledding.”

Henry snorts, incredulous in the quiet. “Fuck off.”

Clearly Alex has gone bonkers because there is no way on earth that Henry is dragging himself out of bed to charge down a hill of snow on a plastic death trap in freezing temperatures in the middle of the night.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Henry says, trudging through snow that’s at least twenty five centimetres deep at the rear of the White House.

At Henry’s side and tugging him and his sledge the last bit to the crest of the hill, Alex says, “It'll be fun.”

“Ah, yes.” Henry nods. Editorialised with bone-dry sarcasm, he continues, “Whenever I think about fun, frostbite is the first thing that springs to mind.”

“It is nowhere near cold enough for that.” Alex brings up their joined hands. “Plus, you’ve got your little cute gloves on. You’re good.”

The Aztec patterned gloves are secondhand from Alex, dug out of a closet cubby as he had pointedly made sure to mention that they were a gift from his abuela when he was thirteen and no longer fit.

Alex had also emphasised that Henry didn’t need to give them back. That it was a transfer of ownership. And they are very nice, the fingerless sort that convert into mittens. The yarn stretches comfortably and the pouches slip over Henry’s fingers just right.

“Everything will be fine,” Alex promises. He reaches out and clicks on Henry’s headtorch. His already lit grin is brilliantly illuminated. “Trust me.”

“There’s no question of that,” Henry returns. “I only ask why this couldn’t wait for the daytime? You know, how it’s normally done.”

Alex simply shrugs, his grin gentling into something flagrantly affectionate. “Because right now it's like the world is just us.”

And fuck, what is Henry supposed to argue against that?

“How are you winning?!” Alex drags his sledge behind him with one hand and wildly gestures with the other. “You didn’t even want to do this. I did not plan on you winning.”

Above him and at the top of the hill already, Henry props an elbow on his now vertical vehicle that’s planted in the snow, watching Alex with amusement. His boyfriend is exceptionally precious when he pouts. “My being reluctant to sledging doesn’t mean I’m not skilled at it.”

“Best of seven,” Alex huffs upon arrival.

“You have a problem. The terms were already agreed upon.”

“You scared?”

Alex then proceeds to emit the noises of a fowl.

“Resorting to primary school tactics, are we?”

Alex only lifts his brow, his expression dancing with challenge.

“I'm going to need some proper motivation, darling,” Henry says, sliding on a smirk.

“I could be a victim of clichés and offer mind-melting sex if you win but you get that all the time anyway.”

Henry breaks into helpless laughter and agrees when he finds the cold air to do so.

“So, instead, how about the next time I’m at the palace I take you up on those horseback lessons finally,” Alex says.

“Truly? You’ve always seemed—uncomfortable around them.”

“Well they are huge, intelligent beasts that can buck me off and launch me god knows how many miles an hour into the air.”

“Dramatic." He pauses, shaking his head. "Really, Alex. You don’t have to.”

“You love it and it’s something we can do together. I’d like to try it out,” Alex says and he sounds sincere. “If I don’t enjoy the experience, I won't be shy about it.”

“And if you win? What do you want?”

“Here’s where I do get pervy."

"Of course."

"I win and you let me buy you a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson and you wear them for me.”

“Nothing else, I’m assuming.”

“Anything else would get in the way, Henry.”

“You’re on.”

Minutes and minutes later, victory is Henry’s and he graciously accepts Alex’s request for a final run, plopping down on the front of Alex’s sledge when he makes a grabby motion for Henry, his legs open. Their combined weight rips them downslope, easily the record of the night. They’re a powdery pile at the bottom when they come to a stop short of the treeline with a sharp turn and tumble off the sledge.

“You alright?” Henry asks.

“I should be asking you. You’re the one who cushioned my fall. Am I smothering you?"

“It's all fine for now, love. You’ll be nursing my aching bruises later.”

“Obviously.” Alex animates the line of his brow. “Just call me the love doctor.”

“Won’t be doing that, thanks," Henry comments. Using his teeth—due to most of him being trapped under Alex—Henry yanks back the pouch of his right mitten. He assesses the snarled wreckage of Alex’s hair that’s been freed of the headtorch and clumsily combs through it with chilled fingers. There’s a small scratch by Alex’s temple. Henry thumbs away the paper-cut thin trace of red and finds Alex’s perfect eyes. “You didn’t let me win, did you?”

“Me? Never. I lost,” Alex insists, sweetly leaning his head into Henry’s touch. His adoration is spotless if not his honesty. “Life rolls on.”

Henry considers calling Alex out but a shiver distracts him, stalls his tongue.

Alex’s arms around him tighten and with their physical arrangement, it’s plenty awkward. It’s also loving. He ridiculously presses a kiss to Henry’s wintry-wet palm. “Cold?”

Spellbound, Henry murmurs, “A bit, yeah.”

“I’ve got a way to get you warm,” Alex shares quietly.

Henry moans and licks at his lips, chasing the flavor off his mouth. “This is sinful.”

“I know,” Alex says after a long sip from his UT mug. “Nothing beats Mexican hot chocolate.”

“And the amaretto? Ugh, chef’s kiss.”

“Discovered that little addition four Christmases ago.”

Henry smiles at him and eats another mini marshmallow. “The man’s a genius.”

“Yeah, my ideas aren’t all shit that will have us needing Icy Hot the next day,” Alex replies, his gaze dropping to where their sock feet share the spindle of a kitchen stool.

Henry lightly kicks him. Kicks him again to get his full attention. “Tonight wasn’t shit.”

“No?”

“No.”

Alex sighs, abandons his drink to rub at his stubbled jaw. “Snow felt like—like a fresh start. A renewal, I guess. Getting rid of yesterday. I know it’s not that easy, that it doesn’t work like that and it’s fucking stupid—”

His heart sore and swollen, Henry closes the distance that parts them, hushes Alex’s doubt with a slow and open kiss. He kisses past the cling of sugar and spice, until it’s clean.

“I love you,” Henry says. His words are only a fraction of what he means but he knows Alex can read the spaces between. Thank you. It helps. You help.

“Love you still. Love you always.” Alex curls into him, his hand over Henry’s knee.

He’s there. He’s there, Henry knows because he can read Alex’s spaces just as well.

please forgive any mistakes. i read over it but it was written very quickly. also, i’m fairly sure there are no hills behind the white house. the grounds are pretty flat but for some reason this fic insisted on being there.

#firstprince #rwrb #rwrb fic #alex x henry #red white and royal blue #my fic #my writing

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gretavangroupie · 1 day ago

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Still

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x Male OC

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Angst, Sexual Themes, Crying, Mentions of Illness, Unrequited Feelings and Kissing.

JOSH

You can hear the gentle tapping of snowflakes as they brush your window. The cold January night has brought you a rare snowstorm, gifting you tiny perfect flakes in mass amounts. The snow has fallen for hours now, with no signs of stopping any time soon. You reach for your tea as it sits on the top of your piano, still steaming and fragrant as you bring the edge of the mug to your lips.

It wasn’t too often that you weren’t able to sleep, but sometimes, on nights like tonight you would find your mind was too busy to wind down from the stress of the day, needing a few more hours to work itself out before you could fully rest.

In tonight's predicament you find yourself perched in front of your piano, letting your fingers put music to the sounds in your mind, scribbling down notes and letting lyrics make their way from the pencil to the page. It's a rewarding process, usually coming out on the other side with a song, or at least a few stanzas of usable lyrics. Your mug-warmed fingers seem to be moving across the keys with a mind of their own tonight, and you keep finding yourself lost in the moment.

The tea is hot as it slides down your throat, a warm feeling washing over your cold body with the taste of chamomile and honey. Your eyes are drawn to the snow, watching the dark of the night transform into a white lucious landscape you would only find back home in Michigan. Your mind starts to drift as you stare out the window, the darkness against the stark white, all consuming and drawing you in. The house is silent, and as you close your eyes you get the momentary reprieve of quietness in your mind, too.

A loud, unsettling buzzing snaps your eyes open, seeing your phone as it inches its way across the top of the dark, wooden piano. Your brow furrows and you set down your mug, reaching for the phone and finding the notification that illuminates the screen.

Harrison Carmichael would like to send you a message on Facebook Messenger.

Your heart drops into your stomach as you read it again. You hadn’t seen that name in nearly ten years, but somehow just the sight of it brought back every single emotion ever tied to it. You bite your lips together as your finger hovers over the notification.

Why would he be messaging you this late?

Why is he messaging you at all?

You take a deep breath as you tap the notification, your phone pulling up the long forgotten messenger app for what had to be the first time in five or six years. You watch as the message populates, displaying his profile picture and the time stamp of 1:47AM.

Harrison: I know we haven’t talked in a long time but I just thought I should tell you I’m getting married in March. It's at the rose garden in memorial park. I remember we used to walk by there sometimes after school and now I kinda always think of you when I go there. I was thinking maybe you could come to the wedding if you wanted to. I know you’re busy and doing big things now like you always said you would. It’s been a long time but I do think about you sometimes and what happened between us. The wedding is at 4:00 on the 19th if you can make it. Hope you do.

Your mind feels blank as you read the message again, swallowing back the emotion crawling up your throat. Your heart is beating erratically in your chest, and you shake your head, kicking yourself that somehow despite all the time and distance he still has this effect on you.

Hesitantly, you tap on his photo and bring up his profile. He’s changed a bit since last you saw him, but hell, you had too. Though, the more you looked it was still him. Beneath the hair and the mustache was the boy you’d fallen for all those years ago. The very first one.

Your relationship, if you can even call it that, with Harrison Carmichael was anything but simple. You didn’t even know you’d fallen in love with him until it was all but over. Before it all burst into flames, and left you standing in the ashes of the happiness you thought you’d found. Feelings that you’d buried down years ago were now sneaking their way back up with just one look at his photo.

At one point in your life, a long time ago, you believed it would be you partnering forever with Harrison. The two of you standing at a rose covered arbor saying vows to love each other forever. Telling the attendees how you met in highschool and fell in love. How you were inseparable, and nothing could shake the feelings you held for each other. Though, that’s not how things turned out. In fact, quite the opposite happened. Your life changed course overnight, and so did his, though you’re unsure if his life turned out the way he wanted.

You stand from your piano, beginning to pace the living room with the phone clutched tightly in your hand. The only sound in the house was your feet on the hardwood as you wore a path into the floor. Your mind was a chaotic mess, old feelings, old memories and more swirling through your mind at a mile a minute. You hadn't thought of this man in years, though he always would occupy a small space in your heart. It was just like him to show up when you least expected it, after all, that is how he came into your life in the first place.

It was second period Chemistry, senior year, when your world got flipped upside down. A new student, a transfer from a few towns over. He seemed quiet, and kept to himself, that is, until you got to know him. He was placed as your lab partner for the semester, and after several months the two of you seemed to naturally become friends. Friends became best friends, and from there you found that nearly every free moment was spent with each other, outside of your theater practice and his soccer. You’d never had a best friend like this. Someone that wasn’t Jake.

He was tall, well, taller than you were, standing roughly around five foot nine inches. His hair a sandy brown that seemed to lighten in the sun. His eyes a crystal blue, and a beaming smile he didn’t show often enough. His laugh was loud and attention grabbing and you were sure there was no sweeter sound than his laugh when it was by your hand.

You were a naturally touchy person, and thankfully so was he, but when you started to look forward to the way his hand would brush yours, or the bump of his shoulder against yours, you began to wonder if all you felt for him was friendship. That was something you’d yet to explore about yourself, always wondering if it was a normal feeling or if there was something wrong with you. You didn’t dare speak about it to many, only Jake, and even then it was like he already knew. You were reassured time and time again that it was a natural feeling and soon enough, with enough encouragement, you began to feel comfortable in your own skin.

There were times you started to wonder if maybe Harrison felt it too. The times where his touch would light you on fire, and you could feel your heart beating harder when he was near. Did he feel it too? When you would attend Jake’s soccer games, just to see Harrison search for you in the stands. The moment your eyes would meet across the field, you would be secretly validated in your feelings, though the words were never spoken out loud. You wondered if the smiles he would send you from across the room meant more to you than they did to him. If the hours spent texting each other, instead of girls were misinterpreted on your end. You began to wonder if maybe Harrison was just that nice of a guy. If your feelings were reciprocated at all.

You got your answer that night in May. A text from Harrison, sent late at night, far later than your typical conversations. All it said was ‘come over’, and you knew something was wrong. It wasn’t like him. Only hours earlier you promised to meet up before school the next day.

You drove to his house, far faster than you should have, taking Jake’s car with no warning. When you saw him you knew something was wrong. He hardly spoke that night, and you sat with him in his bedroom, listening to him cry as he told you his father wasn’t doing well. That his illness was progressing. It was the first time the two of you held each other in a way that was more than friendly. He clung to you, and you to him. You let him cry as your own tears fell for him. As your heart fell for him. As you realized that you loved him.

In the silence of that night, and through tears you shared your first kiss, confirming what you always wondered. That Harrison Carmicheal did feel the same way you did. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but a kiss that communicated the need for each other beyond what was already there. A kiss that was a year in the making for both of you.

It was when he pulled away though, that things went silent. His hand left yours as he moved to the other side of his bedroom. He seemed conflicted and you didn’t dare speak. Your biggest fear had come to life. Maybe the feelings aren't reciprocated afterall. Maybe it was an accident.

You prepared yourself for the heartbreak, and to this day you can still remember what he said to you, when the heartbreak never came. ‘Josh, dance with me...’

Such a simple request, but it took you by surprise. There was no music, and truthfully, you wanted to tell him no, that now wasn't the time for dancing, but instead you stood and reached for him, praying he would reach back, and he did.

It was in those four minutes spent in each other's arms that the two of you confirmed everything you ever wanted to say to each other, through whispers and the brushing of lips. He was everything to you, and he felt the same. You both knew it could never be, so you enjoyed the moment while you had it. You sat with him until he fell asleep that night, making your way back home with no trace you'd ever left in the first place.

The two of you never spoke of what happened after that. You knew why, but didn’t want to face the reality of it. You refused to believe it. You were something he wanted, but couldn't let himself have. Something forbidden.

The crackling of your fireplace pulls you from your memories. You wonder why you’re on his mind at this time of night. Is it the same reason he never truly left yours? You wonder what would happen if you went to the wedding, and what you would say to him after all this time. You’d wear your best suit and bring the smile he loved as you sat there and watched him marry someone that isn’t you. You’d sit there and pretend to be just friends when you never really were. The two of you used to make fun of the kids that married young, but now you find it’s not so funny when it’s someone you loved.

You briefly consider calling him in the dead of the night, finding his number still saved in your contacts after all these years. Would he answer? Would he drunkenly confess everything to you? Would he call it off? Is he awake right now, remembering things the same way you are? Would his story be different than yours?

Again you wonder if he’s just being nice, but if so, why is he inviting you in the middle of the night?

You find yourself perching back in front of your piano, letting your fingers hover over the keyboard as you think of a response, or if you even want to respond at all. All you know for certain is that a response could lead to more, and you refuse to be the reason that someone else cries.

But why did he invite you in the middle of the night?

You lock your phone and toss it on top of the piano, letting out a sigh as you make the decision. You won’t respond to him, and you won't go to the wedding. You’ll leave his memory nice and safe in the back of your mind, remembering him as your first love and that’s all.

As you reposition your fingers on the piano keys, you look up, noticing that the snow has finally stopped falling, and all at once, everything is still.

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