#instead of half a year as it's always been before

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Intoxication [S. R]

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

wc: 9.2k

Summary: when Spencer and reader accidentally consume aphrodisiacs, it seems impossible to maintain control of themselves. It all comes down to who will lose their mind first.

warnings: +18, mdni!! alcohol consumption, mentions of weed, unintentional use of aphrodisiacs, explicit descriptions, oral (f receiving) fingering, kissing, porn with plot, p in v, protected sex, no y/n!

It had been just over half an hour since I entered the fraternity building, fully aware that within the first second, I’d feel the need to leave. Attending any gathering wasn’t a regular thing for me. The noise, the crowds, and the multitude of germs everywhere were reason enough to avoid them.

However, that time, I thought, why not? I had never been to one of those university parties and wanted to experience it. However, I never considered the fact that, to enjoy one, you either: a) went with a group of friends or b) drank until you forgot your name and the discomfort you felt about yourself. I didn’t have the first option, nor did I want to do the second. So, after a few minutes of reflection, I decided I would walk back to my apartment and go straight to bed.

The place was huge, and since my postgraduate program didn’t include the benefit of dormitories, I rarely found myself in places like that. I was about to leave when a hand grabbed my forearm to stop me. In front of me, smiling widely, was her. The moment I saw her, I could swear my face lit up.

“Hi”

“Spencer! I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Without letting go of my arm, she came closer, wrapping me in a hug and planting a kiss on my cheek before I could react.

I quickly glanced at her, and in the dim light, I noticed her wearing a fitted, spaghetti-strap dress in a deep burgundy red with delicate floral embroidery that looked hand-drawn on the sheer fabric. The material, likely chiffon or tulle, clung to her figure as if custom-made. I tried to focus on her leather jacket instead because the last thing I wanted was to make her uncomfortable by staring too long.

“I was just about to leave, actually.”

“Why?” she asked, noticing my sigh.

“It’s just... I don’t know anyone here.”

“Well, that problem is now solved,” she kindly murmured.

I didn’t even get the chance to respond when she had already walked over to another girl, whispering something in her ear, probably to let her know she’d be away for a while.

Even though I wanted to decline to stay, the truth was that I genuinely enjoyed her company. Rejecting her would have been too rude. We had met some time ago thanks to the advanced classes she took, which overlapped with mine. She was younger than me, of course, but only by one or two years.

She had always been kind to me, attentive, and one could say she was a friend. After all, I trusted her enough to let her hold my hand and guide me through the crowd, despite my aversion to physical contact… and people.

“It’d be a crime to let you leave so early after finally coming to a party,” she breathed once we were both seated on a tiny couch where the noise was slightly muffled. At least she had been considerate in that regard.

“I don’t even know why I came,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. She was leaning against one side, legs crossed, looking at me with a smile. “I don’t like parties.”

“Do you like drinking?” she asked. I shook my head “Maybe that’s the root of the problem.”

“Getting drunk to the point of losing control isn’t my thing,” I replied.

“That’s not what it’s about,” she murmured almost compassionately “It’s more like… fuel for your social battery, you know? You don’t have to deal with these people. I don’t even know half of them, but the guys in this fraternity are disgustingly rich and just want to get as many girls drunk as possible to sleep with whoever they can. They won’t mind if you drink a little. Enough to have fun, but not so much you end up in some stranger’s bed.”

I thought about it for a second and silently nodded. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of her by saying I didn’t want to drink because, come on, what kind of university student doesn’t drink?

“I understand your point, and I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but alcohol has a more complex impact than it seems. It’s not just something that ‘fuels your social battery’; it’s a central nervous system depressant, which means it slows down brain and motor functions. That initial feeling of euphoria or relaxation happens because it inhibits the prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain that regulates judgment and self-awareness. So, technically, drinking a little might make you feel more uninhibited or confident, but it can also impair your ability to make rational decisions if you overdo it, even if you don’t notice right away.”

I paused, gauging how much more I should say before losing her interest. Hearing no objections, I continued:

“Additionally, strong liquors, which have high ethanol concentrations, can hit your system faster than diluted drinks. And if you drink too quickly, you could easily exceed your liver’s ability to metabolize the alcohol. The excess ethanol stays in your bloodstream, raising your blood alcohol levels and increasing the risk of intoxication.”

I avoided looking directly at her, partly because I didn’t want to get distracted by her gaze and partly because I was nervous around her.

“It’s not that I want to ruin your fun, but if you’re going to drink, you should do it slowly, alternating with water, and never on an empty stomach. Not to seem smarter than everyone else, but because staying in control can be the difference between a fun night and a situation you don’t want to be in.”

I expected her to look bored, confused, or even indifferent, assuming she’d left halfway through my rambling. But when I looked at her, I was surprised by the admiration shining in her eyes, accompanied by an amused smile.

“All right, genius boy, if you know all that and basically have the perfect recipe for not making stupid mistakes while drinking, why do you still refuse?” she teased playfully. I didn’t know what to say, but luckily, she answered for me “Listen, I drove here. How about we make a deal? We can drink a little, have a good time, maybe dance if you want, and if either of us starts doing something embarrassing, the soberest one will make sure to drag the other to the car and drive them home. Deal?”

She handed me her car keys, and I wasn’t sure if the brush of her hand against mine was intentional or if she had decided to linger a little longer.

I agreed to her proposal, and a second later, she was already off her seat, walking toward where I assumed the kitchen was. No one noticed us entering, too absorbed in their own business to care if we were strangers.

There was every type of alcohol scattered around, and she took the liberty of pouring me a shot of a clear liquid, which I guessed was vodka. She warned me to drink it in one gulp, and when the warmth hit my throat, I barely managed to avoid coughing. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“Tastes like… strawberry.”

“It’s good, right?” she laughed, giving my shoulder a playful nudge.

Our previous seat was already taken, so she opted for us to stand in a quiet corner. I have to admit that, although I still felt slightly awkward, the vodka was having the desired effect; making me feel more animated to talk.

Talking to her was almost hypnotic. Maybe it was the rhythmic movement of her lips, still stained with traces of what had once been red lipstick, or perhaps it was her tone, but it made me feel like I had to watch her. She never faltered when she spoke, always exuding confidence and calm, no matter the topic.

On the other hand, whenever I responded, I completely lost focus. No matter what I said, she kept looking at me with a wide smile, nodding, and even leaning closer when something made her laugh. But her laugh wasn’t mocking—no, it was as if she genuinely found my intellectual jokes or nonsensical remarks funny.

Gradually, my glass emptied, and she guided me back to the kitchen, serving us moderately but consistently. After an hour, all my nerves had vanished, leaving only a normal guy enjoying the terrible background music, unconcerned about how dirty the place was, and utterly captivated by the woman next to him.

“It’s strange, you know? I didn’t think I’d enjoy something like this. Parties always seemed so… chaotic,”

She looked around with a slight smile.

“That’s true. They’re not exactly calm, but in a way, the chaos has its charm. It lets you leave everything else behind for a while.”

“I suppose you’re right. Sometimes, you just need to disconnect.”

“You seem less tense now, huh? Are you sure it’s not the vodka helping with that?”

She moved closer, almost leaning against my chest in a friendly way, and seeing her looking up at me made my face feel hot.

“Maybe. But it’s also largely due to the company.”

She seemed surprised by my sudden boldness and let out a laugh that I interpreted as a sign of approval. We continued drinking, laughing, and soon my stomach demanded food. Even in my slightly tipsy state, I still remembered that eating would help lessen the effects of the alcohol.

I have to admit that the way I held her waist to guide her to the kitchen was entirely intentional. However, she didn’t seem bothered by the contact. By this point, I’d realized that no one really cared about what we took or didn’t take, so we felt free to rummage through the pantry.

“There are chips, pretzels, Cheetos, some cookies...” she began listing, handing me each package she found.

I grabbed a stray cookie, and suddenly, she let out a sigh of admiration.

“What is it?”

“Chocolate,” she murmured happily. It was a half-eaten, luxurious-looking golden package with no label “Do you want some?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Chocolate has properties that can slightly boost energy and mood. Both alcohol and chocolate can be hard for the body to handle, especially with a combination of high sugar and alcohol content. This can lead to stomach discomfort, dizziness, or a stronger hangover the next day.”

But she wasn’t listening. She had already popped a sizeable piece of chocolate into her mouth. Immediately, she offered me a piece, slightly bigger than hers.

“You have to try it,” she moaned.

I resisted, but I have to admit that the fact she grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer caught me off guard enough to let her slip the chocolate into my mouth.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later.”

It was delicious, that’s for sure. Like a pair of sneaky raccoons, we kept scavenging for snacks in the kitchen until we were satisfied. She grabbed a bag of chips, and I took the bag of pretzels.

After our little break, she poured us another round of drinks, and something inside me told me it was time to stop. I decided that would be my last glass for the night.

Let’s dance she suddenly whispered, and once again, I let her lead me toward the crowd.

I didn’t know how to dance; I think that was pretty obvious. But the situation managed to make me forget that fact.

She was patient with me and laughed every time I made a mistake. Even though there was smoke around me, probably from weed, that didn't stop me from staring intently, and even somewhat intimidated, at my friend. Beautiful, statuesque, and drunk friend.

We danced for a long time until something in her swaying movements, in the way she smiled at me, began to make my head spin. It was as if the atmosphere was charged with something more—something I couldn’t identify at first.

She leaned closer, and my pulse began to quicken slightly. Her hands rose to tangle in my neck, bringing a warm sensation that followed: my thoughts seemed clearer, sharper. I wondered if it was the alcohol, but then something different began to course through my skin.

The warmth intensified, not just in my body but in my mind as well. I felt more alert, more awake, yet the calmness of the vodka lingered, balancing the sensation. My skin felt more sensitive, as if every little touch sent vibrations through me in a more intense way.

My eyes focused more on her movements, her voice, and the way the air filled with her perfume. I wanted to get closer, as if there were an invisible force pulling me toward her. And though my body responded with a soft yearning, my mind remained present, conscious of every second.

By the way she was looking at me, I imagined I wasn’t the only one experiencing these kinds of emotions.

“Sweetheart.”

“Hmm?”

“Can we sit down for a moment? I’m completely sweaty, and the smell of weed is starting to bother me.”

“Of course.”

My hands rested on her waist, unsure of where else to go, and we stumbled out of the crowd, finding a couch to collapse onto.

I was sweaty too, and we were both breathing heavily. When I saw her lean her head back against the seat, leaving her neck exposed, something stirred inside me.

“You move well, Reid.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I mean it. You just need a little confidence,” she smiled. Perhaps the alcohol dulled her sense of personal space, which is why she leaned so close to me. “You’re so smart that, with a bit of practice, you’d be the most skilled at a lot of physical activities.”

Did she know how nervous she was making me? My face was already flushed from the alcohol, the effort, and now from the way she was looking at me while twirling a strand of her hair around her finger.

I wanted to say something else, but a voice interrupted mine: a tall, burly guy accompanied by two others who seemed to be flanking him. Probably a member of the fraternity hosting the party.

He specifically addressed her, asking how she was enjoying the party and throwing in a compliment, clearly with ulterior motives. For a moment, I felt disheartened. Of course, she could have gone with him and I would have understood. I was far too used to rejection.

“I’m having a great time—with my friend. Thanks,” she exclaimed, cordial but curt.

“Want a drink?”

“Honestly, no.”

By the uncomfortable smile she gave the men, I assumed she was politely ending the conversation. With some reluctance, the guys walked away.

Suddenly, my breath caught when I felt her hand rest on my thigh, sliding painfully slowly down to my knee. I couldn’t even hear her words over the heat of her fingers on my pants.

“Sorry?”

“I thought you were going to say something, earlier.”

“No,” I quickly replied, smiling like an idiot because of the way she had leaned toward me. “Nothing.”

“I like listening to you. You know so many things, and you don’t make me feel dumb when you explain them. That’s very sexy.”

“Sexy?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, because I’d replied in a voice an octave higher than normal. “You are very sexy.”

Her compliment was followed by a soft, distracted kiss on the line of my jaw, which sent my brain into overdrive.

“Uhm… you… you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.”

My clumsy compliment seemed to please her, and I felt one of her nails, long and painted black, tracing circles on the skin of my knee. Each small movement felt deliberate, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Did you know fireflies don’t just glow to communicate but also to… attract?”

Her voice broke the silence between us, soft but layered with a double meaning that made me lift my eyes to her.

“Yes, I know,” I responded automatically, my brain switching to autopilot. “Bioluminescent signals are a form of courtship. The light patterns vary by species and can be very specific.”

She turned her head toward me, her lips curving into a lazy smile.

“Of course you’d know that. But tell me something—do you think it actually works? Making someone notice you just by glowing?”

My throat went dry. There was something about the way she was looking at me, like she was expecting a more personal answer than a scientific one.

“I guess it depends on who you’re trying to attract,” I murmured, feeling ridiculously exposed under her gaze.

“That makes sense.”

Her hand slid slightly—barely noticeable—toward the edge of my knee. After tapping her fingers on my pants, she withdrew it.

She didn’t move from the couch, and neither did I. There was something about her posture that held me captive—the way she leaned back against the seat, relaxed yet naturally elegant. Her dress had ridden up slightly along her thighs, revealing more skin than I felt prepared to handle at that moment. I tried to look elsewhere, but it was as if my eyes had a will of their own, always returning to the same place.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a hint of amusement.

“Yes, of course,” I replied quickly, turning my head in the other direction. Perhaps too quickly, because my neck cracked slightly in the process.

She didn’t say anything, but her suppressed laughter made me feel even more awkward. In the silence that followed, I forced myself to focus on something safer: the empty glass on the table, the flickering lights through the window, anything but the curve of her leg or the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” she commented suddenly, with almost theatrical casualness. Then, without warning, she leaned forward as if to adjust her shoe, causing the neckline of her dress to dip even further.

“Do you think so?” I muttered, my voice raspier than I intended.

She smiled, a gesture somewhere between innocence and knowing.

“Yes, definitely. Though maybe it’s because we’re sitting so close,” she said, glancing around as if she had only just noticed the temperature.

Her words felt like both a slap and a caress at the same time. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on her face, but it didn’t help that her eyes shone with a kind of mischievous intent. Then she lifted one leg, bending it to get more comfortable on the couch, and her knee accidentally brushed against my thigh.

“Did you know you have a very particular way of distracting yourself?” she remarked while toying with the hem of her dress, as if unaware of the chaos she was causing in my head.

“Do I?” my voice sounded weak, almost a whisper.

She nodded slowly, leaning in a bit closer until I could feel the warmth of her proximity.

“Yes. It’s like you’re trying to avoid something but… you can’t.”

My throat went dry. I wanted to say something clever, to steer the conversation away, anything to regain some ground. But instead, all that came out was a nervous, forced laugh.

She didn’t stop looking at me. Then, with exasperating slowness, she smoothed the fabric of her dress over her thigh—a casual gesture.

“You know, sometimes you seem so self-aware. It’s something that can be endearing, but also… well, how do I put it?” she paused for a moment, bringing a finger to her lips as if she were reflecting. “It makes you seem easier to impress.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing, Reid. It’s just me rambling” her voice softened, and I felt the lightest touch on my nose as her finger grazed it. I tried to ignore the fact that her gaze had lingered on my lips “Scattered thoughts I have in my head.”

Without warning, she let out a loud exhale and leaned back into the couch, arching her back as if trying to relieve some muscle tension. I know she probably wasn’t aware of the movement, but it was what finally made me lose the little composure I had left.

“I need to use the restroom. Can you give me a moment?”

I escaped. Cowardly, completely, I got up and practically bolted toward the bathroom, desperate for a moment of peace. As soon as I entered, I realized I had an obvious problem in my pants—I was hard as a rock, and that wasn’t good. I looked at myself in the mirror, surprised at how flushed my face was. My pupils were dilated, my lips dry… What the hell was happening to me?

It quickly became clear that she was the reason for my situation.

The alcohol prevented me from feeling the embarrassment I surely deserved, and instead, I felt like my head was spinning. I placed a hand over the fabric of my pants, letting out a frustrated, pained groan.

I stayed there for a while, trying to think of something that would make my erection go away, but nothing worked. A couple of knocks on the door startled me, and that forced me to leave. Once in the hallway, I walked for a bit until I bumped into someone.

“Spencer! I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay?”

“No! I mean, yes… it’s just…”

I needed to think of something quickly—something believable, but not catastrophic. However, it was hard to concentrate with her body so close to mine, mere inches away from her noticing my situation.

“Did you throw up?”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s nothing. I think the vodka didn’t sit well with me, uh, maybe I got dizzy from dancing, I don’t know. I think it’s best if I leave.”

“Poor thing,” she murmured, pouting “I’ll take you home right now.”

“I can take a cab.”

“Nonsense. That was our agreement, remember? If one of us was in bad shape, the other would take care of them. Plus, I was the one who encouraged you to drink. I’d feel bad if something happened to you.”

She was already putting on her jacket—she’d been holding it, probably suspecting the situation—and tried to find the keys in her pocket. My outstretched hand reminded her that she’d already given them to me earlier.

When she placed her hand on the small of my back to guide me out, my breathing deepened. The sensation of excitement coursed through me in a way I couldn’t ignore. I realized that something in me desperately wanted her. Too much.

It wasn’t an impulsive desire but a subtle one that had been building throughout the night—with every glance, every gesture. Perhaps the vodka had intensified my evident attraction to her, but whatever the reason, it had turned into something far more palpable.

It was almost as if my body was begging me to stop her right then and there, to kiss her recklessly, and maybe, just maybe, ease the relentless ache inside me.

The cool night air made me feel better, and as the noise faded behind us, I began to calm down. I fervently tried to hide the bulge in my pants, but the truth was she didn’t even seem to notice. Then again, it would’ve been strange to catch her staring at my crotch, right?

“Are you sure you’re in a condition to drive?”

“I’ve driven home in far worse states of drunkenness. Don’t worry,” she smiled.

She looked more lucid now, as if her intoxication had vanished in an instant. I decided to trust her abilities.

The drive home was silent, and I kept shifting in my seat, trying to find strategic positions to avoid embarrassment. I guess she attributed my silence to the supposed discomfort I was feeling, as she didn’t try to start a conversation.

She didn’t say anything when she caught me looking at her through the rearview mirror. It was an innocent glance, at least on my part, simply admiring her. Her lips were driving me crazy, her eyes, slightly narrowed from the lack of light and smudged with mascara, seemed the most beautiful to me. I didn’t know what she saw in me, but I think—no, I feel—that it was something she liked.

“Thank you so much for bringing me home… and for everything.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“We should do this more often.”

“Go to university parties?”

“Just go out in general. To a bar, grab some drinks, a coffee, the library if you’d prefer,” she laughed “The place doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re there.”

Was she implying she wanted a date with me? I swallowed hard and looked at her, trying to decipher what she wanted me to do. I couldn’t figure it out.

“I’d like that, yes. We can talk about that later. Thanks again for the ride.”

A kiss on my cheek marked her goodbye, and I rushed out, eager to get inside my apartment. I was about to unlock the building’s door when the sound of a car horn made me turn around.

“Hey, would you mind if I use your bathroom? I’ll be quick,” she promised.

I needed to get to the shower and turn on the cold water, but I didn’t protest when she turned off the car engine.

Almost no one visited me in the apartment, so I kept the space however I pleased. It wasn’t really messy, but there were plenty of things on the desk and several books scattered around.

She entered, as she had said, rushing to the bathroom. It was only then that I dared to put a hand over my pants, swallowing a moan that was about to escape from my throat.

In my limited sexual experiences, nothing like this had ever happened to me, and I wondered what the cause might have been. Alcohol couldn’t be blamed, of course, but it was responsible for ruining my ability to react enough to find another explanation.

The shirt began to feel heavy on me, and almost out of necessity, I undid the first buttons to let myself breathe. I tried to ventilate my skin by tugging at the fabric with the tips of my fingers, but it was useless. I sighed.

I glanced around the room, just wanting to make sure nothing was embarrassing in view, and at that moment, she came out of the bathroom. She looked flushed and had some wet hair, as if she had washed her face.

“You okay?”

“Yes, just… suddenly felt a bit feverish”

“Let me check”

My intentions were purely medical when I cupped her face with one hand, putting the back of the other against her forehead to confirm or deny my suspicions. Of course, I hadn’t considered how close we would be. Or maybe I had, subconsciously, and that’s why I moved forward.

My choice of words wasn't the best either.

“You’re hot,”

“I don’t think it’s as much as you.”

A daring smile slid across her lips, and I held my breath as her fingers traced up to the line of my collarbone, exposed by my shirt.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“It’s just… I don’t understand it.”

A soft laugh echoed in my ears.

“Well, I think you’re very handsome. Would there be any other reason for that?”

I swallowed deeply. She noticed the movement of my Adam’s apple.

“No… I think… I think not. It’s the most logical thing.”

“Don’t they tell you that often?” she murmured, genuinely confused. I shook my head “That’s a shame.”

Her hand, which had been tentatively caressing my skin, moved up to my neck and pulled me just a few inches closer to her.

“Hey, Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“Could I kiss you?”

A chill ran down my spine. And without thinking, I answered yes.

Her mouth found mine with a softness that contrasted with the whirlwind of sensations inside me. It was a heady contrast: the sweetness of her lips against the intensity of the desire that had been building up in every fiber of my being.

My hands instinctively moved to her waist, hesitating for a moment, as if fearing that this might just be a product of my imagination. But she didn’t hesitate. Her body leaned into me, closing any distance that remained.

Her lips were insistent, demanding, and before I could process what was happening, her hand slid down to my chest, pushing me gently back until my back collided with the wall.

“I’m sorry…” I managed to murmur between kisses, pulling my face slightly away. My voice came out more trembly than I wanted.

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her face toward mine, her fingers now brushing my jawline.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“For this” my gaze dropped quickly before returning to her eyes. “No… I didn’t want you to feel it. It’s embarrassing.”

For a moment, I thought she would pull away, that the spell of the moment would break. But instead, her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Embarrassing? I thought I was the only one feeling all this tension,” her tone was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a certainty that made my breath grow even more erratic.

Before I could respond, her lips captured mine again, this time with more intensity. The kiss was everything I didn’t know I needed: desperate, intoxicating, completely consumed by the connection between us. I felt her body press against mine, her curves fitting perfectly as if they were made to be there. And then, all my doubts, all my attempts to hold back, vanished.

My mind was a whirlwind. Every touch of her lips, every time her tongue sought mine, was like a fire I couldn’t put out. My face was hot, yes, but now not because of the alcohol, not even from the effort of holding myself back. It was her closeness, her touch, her condescending voice still echoing in my head.

She knows what she’s doing. And she’s slowly killing me.

“Hey, wait…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you feel okay with this?”

“A lot. Do you want to stop?”

“No. It’s just that… you’ve been drinking. I don’t want you to think I took advantage of you” my voice came out hoarse, full of doubt and repressed desire.

Her eyes met mine, firm and warm at the same time, as if her gaze could completely disarm me.

“Relax. You’ve been drinking too, pretty, and I think if anyone could make that accusation, it would be you. Do you feel like I’m taking advantage of you?”

“No”

“I’m fully aware of everything. I don’t even feel drunk anymore. The only thing that’s making me dizzy right now is you, Spencer…”

I shivered when I heard my name on her lips like that. She continued:

“I’m just as anxious as you are. I’ve been holding back all night, trying not to make this too obvious, but I can’t anymore. Please, don’t doubt me. Don’t doubt what I want. I want you”

Her confession hit my heart like a blow and ignited a spark that set my entire body on fire. My hand moved up her back until it tangled in her hair, while the other rested on her hip. The pull was gentle but enough for her to understand that my inner struggle had ended. I wasn’t resisting this anymore.

I wanted her too. I wanted her now.

“I never imagined…”

My words were barely audible as our lips brushed in a kiss that was both an explosion of emotions and a long-awaited relief. Her mouth was soft, and so perfectly synchronized with mine that I felt like the world stopped at that moment.

Her hands gripped my shoulders, anchoring the connection between us, while my thumb traced a slow path along her jawline, savoring every detail of her skin. It was more than a kiss. It was the confirmation of something that had been lingering all evening.

When we parted just a centimeter to breathe, our foreheads stayed pressed together.

“Did that clear your doubts?”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say all that,” I replied with a weak smile, the only one my pounding heart allowed me to form.

“Then stop overthinking”

The space between us disappeared again as we kissed with desperation we had both been suppressing. Her low laugh vibrated against my lips, and I couldn’t help but smile. How did she do it? How did she drive me crazy with so little effort?

But now wasn’t the time for questions. It was time to feel.

The whole world had reduced itself to him: his warm breath, his lips that wavered between soft and desperate, and the hands that roamed my waist with a mix of reverence and clumsiness, making me want him even more. Spencer had always been an enigma to me, a balance between restraint and passion that I didn't know how to decipher... until now.

I had waited for this moment more than I would ever admit. Maybe it had been the way he looked at me when he thought I didn't notice, or the warmth in his voice when he said my name, as if it were something sacred. But now, with his body pressed against mine and his doubts finally gone, I knew I hadn't imagined anything.

It was as if the pieces of a puzzle I had been trying to put together in the dark finally clicked into place, and the resulting image was more beautiful than I had ever dreamed.

Wanting to reverse the roles, it was now him who gently pushed me against the wall, and I felt the control he always seemed to have begin to crack. His breath was heavy, his body trembling slightly, a sign that this was as new and overwhelming for him as it was for me.

"Spencer..." I murmured his name again, feeling it resonate in my chest at the same time his lips moved more intensely against mine. "Can I ask you something?"

I received an affirmative exhalation, and to let me speak, his lips moved to the hollow of my neck. Although my mouth was free, the soft and wet kisses I was receiving blurred my judgment a bit.

"Tell me”

"Did you really feel bad at the party? Or was it just..."

"I didn't want you to notice what you were doing to me. Although I think at this point it doesn't matter much, right?"

Contrary to what I expected, Spencer pushed his hips against mine, as if he wanted to prove that it was true. I could even call it a claim, something that said: look what you did to me. And I wanted him to know just how much my body was begging for him.

Carefully, I moved one of his hands from my waist, and before he could protest, I guided it to one of my thighs, dangerously close to my core. I was glad I had thought of lingerie as a great complement to my dress, maybe in an attempt to feel sexy even if no one saw it. But now, he was going to see it.

Spencer understood my silent request. Those long, slender fingers, which seemed made for more than just flipping through the pages of a book or scribbling frantic notes on paper, slid across my smooth skin. I sighed as I remembered the veins tracing a map under his fair skin, like rivers of contained energy.

Until they finally reached where I needed them. And his touch... God, his touch was something else. They were hands made for discovery, for holding, for exploring, but in those moments, they seemed to be made only for me.

Spencer wasn't an overly bold guy, so it didn't surprise me that he just traced shapes above my panties, as if he wanted to diagnose my anatomy before making any move. My sighs at his ear seemed to please him.

Suddenly, he stopped kissing me, and I huffed, since I liked the attention he was giving my shoulder, until I felt his lips drop just slightly. A loud, pathetic moan escaped me when he squeezed my tits while burying his face to leave an experimental kiss.

I was barely processing that when he knelt in front of me and, carefully, took the edge of my dress and lifted it.

My legs trembled with anticipation at the thought of what he was going to do next, and then I felt his lips brush my thigh. He started gentle, kind, but soon he began sucking every bit of skin he could, and in the end, he made sure to leave bites strong enough to make me whimper.

Who would have thought that this man, seemingly so inexperienced, turned out to offer the best foreplay a woman could desire?

I squealed as I felt his kisses trail down to the fabric of my panties, pausing for a moment to lick the length of my still-clothed pussy.

“You’re dripping wet,” he observed. I was too focused on not giving in right then and there to say anything "Is oral something you're into?"

“I don’t know,” I exclaimed honestly. I didn’t care how vulnerable I looked as I confessed that no man had ever dared to give me head “You?”

“It’s an idea that piques my curiosity, yes.”

Gently he slid some of the fabric aside to clear the way for his tongue, and I felt as if my entire body was only aware of the parts he was probing, kissing, sucking. When he raised my thigh to shoulder height, deepening his thrusts, I felt like I was going to pass out.

I lowered my hand to his thick head and tried, in vain, to push him away from me. I honestly didn’t have the strength or desire to do so, much less when he had picked up the pace.

I moaned a sweet nickname out loud and then Spencer pulled away, looking up at me with glossy, swollen lips.

“Take me to bed, please.”

He didn’t need me to say it twice as he immediately stood up and took me by the waist to guide me to said spot. I was able to taste myself on his lips and for some reason that only turned me on.

Once we hit the mattress the way he laid me down was gentle and I sighed at that. How could he be so sweet all the time? I wondered. And worse yet, how much would this little adventure affect my future expectations?

Because if it was about standards, I was finding out that Spencer Reid was the standard.

Seemingly more enthralled now by my lips than my pussy, he continued with the make-out session we were having. With each touch we had, my excitement was increasing more and more. In the midst of it all I managed to unbutton his shirt and take it off to leave it somewhere on the bed; the semi-darkness of the room shielded any insecurities he might be feeling, as well as my own.

“You are painfully stunning, did you know?”

My tone was one of reproach, and he laughed at that, looking down almost embarrassed. Maybe he wasn't used to compliments, but something told me he was definitely enjoying it.

I heard him murmur something under his breath about me, while he took down the straps of my dress. My hands almost instinctively went to unbuckle his belt, and before I could do anything, he pulled away from me. Needless to say, this left me confused.

"Sorry, I..."

“You don't want to?” I murmured understandingly. I thought maybe he wasn't a big fan of these situations, and I understood, but somehow I felt hurt.

"No! Sure I want to. I want it a lot, but..." he tried not to look at me, as if avoiding confrontation "It's just that I don't have any protection here”

A laugh escaped my lips, and I feared he might interpret it as mockery, so I stretched my neck to steal another kiss.

"One would think there are many girls who pass through these sheets."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. It's cute, actually. It even makes me feel guilty," I murmured, smiling "For a second, I was afraid something had made you uncomfortable."

"No, it's not that."

I hesitated for a second whether I should suggest what was on my mind.

"We could do it like this. It doesn't bother me."

"It's not just about avoiding an unwanted pregnancy..." he began. At that moment, I saw him return to his usual nerdy mode. "Although, of course, that counts. But there are things like sexually transmitted infections, some of which don't even show symptoms at first and could complicate things if not detected on time. I know this doesn't sound very attractive, but believe me, protection isn't just for avoiding future problems; it's also to take care of you now, so you don't have issues later: because sometimes men can transmit diseases we're asymptomatic for, and to be honest, I've never done those kinds of tests. A lot of people don't think about it, but the risks are real. And don't get me wrong, I trust you, but even though you trust me, diseases don't discriminate. And I'd like us both to have that peace of mind. Prevention is never too much."

“You conflict me deeply. On the one hand, I admire how responsible you are; it's very cute. But on the other hand, I just urgently need you to fuck me deep and cum inside me”

Spencer was surprised by my desperate whining and tensed when I placed one of my legs around his waist, trying to persuade him. But I was even more surprised when I felt him pull completely away to stand beside the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"To the pharmacy," he announced, putting a jacket over his bare torso.

"Are you serious?" I laughed widely, sitting on the bed now that my companion had moved away.

"Definitely. I feel like I can't handle it any longer, it’s physically painful, and when you talk to me like that, it just drives me crazy” he groaned, joining in the fun. It was the first time something like this happened, and I honestly thought it was absolutely hilarious “I'll be back in a minute, I swear! Please, don't go...”

"I couldn't," I murmured sweetly. He came closer, and I took the opportunity to kiss him again "Be quick. I'll be waiting anxiously for you."

Something in my tone of voice affected the man, or maybe it was the wink I gave him, but I saw him bolt out the door. I flopped back onto the bed, taking a moment to digest what was happening.

I have to admit that my classmate had always been attractive to me, but I never thought he could feel the same way. Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would be waiting for him in his bed so that, with any luck, he could ravish me without holding back.

As I reached out my arms, I could feel the fabric of the shirt I had previously removed from him, and then I brought it up to my nose, inhaling without thinking. A familiar scent hit me immediately: the mix of sweet cocktails he had drank during the party and a subtle trace of cannabis, as if the night was still impregnated in him. I could distinguish a hint of wood, perhaps from the furniture in the place, combined with a light scent of sweat that was not bothersome, but rather natural. And then, among all that, there was his perfume: a citrus and spicy aroma that evoked something fresh, but also deep, sensual, as if every molecule of his being was waiting for something more. I breathed harder, feeling that this aroma, this moment, defined him.

I didn't know why that particular night my whole body was screaming for his closeness. I was crazy about him and it wasn't the alcohol's fault, because I'd had too many drinks to know. Neither of us had ever done drugs and for a moment I was terrified by the idea that I could want to be with someone like that, with such fervor that it was worrying.

Still dizzy from the excitement of the moment, I lowered one of my hands to my crotch to get rid of my panties. I thought about him, wondering how skilled he was. Not that I doubted his abilities, but just like I’d told him that night, he might need some practice.

I started to fantasize about helping him through this situation, maybe guiding him or pampering him by just asking him to lay back so I could do all the work. Spencer was the kind of man who invited you to please him, the kind of man you wanted to satisfy because he never pressured you into it.

Playing with myself, I sniffed his shirt again, desperately wishing I could have the source of said scent with me, until my brain was filled only with daydreams in which he was the protagonist and my fingers were replaced by his. That's why I didn't notice when he opened the apartment. And that's why I didn't know he was watching me from the door frame until I heard him let out a ragged sigh.

Being caught in that position made me feel embarrassed at first, but the way he practically lunged at me and kissed me more decisively than before, I figured he liked seeing me like that.

"Busy?"

I was caught off guard by his sassiness and I knew he was proud of it by the smile I felt on my neck.

“I guess you found what we need, right?”

“Uh-huh”

“Have you read any books on female anatomy?”

“Quite a few”

“So I guess you know a lot about sexuality, don’t you?”

“In theory, yes. Unfortunately, I haven’t had many opportunities to put it into practice.”

A smile spread across my face, which luckily he couldn't see because he was too busy leaving a trail of kisses along the top of my torso.

“How unfortunate, considering you’re a scientist. I wouldn’t mind becoming an object of your study, though, you know?”

He subtly slid the straps of my dress and revealed my bra, from which a considerable part of my boobs protruded, which he happily kissed.

At the same time his hand came down to caress me, making me shiver with anticipation, resting on just the right spots. It was the least I could expect from such an intellectual man, one who definitely knew about the thousands of nerve endings concentrated in my clitoris, which he was definitely tapping into to satisfy me.

“May I?” he whispered, looking at the little underwear he still had on.

I nodded immediately and arched my back to make it easier for him to unbutton it, which didn't take too long. He was practically worshipping every inch of my skin, which, combined with his gentle yet firm fingers rubbing me, was driving me crazy.

We both moaned in unison as he pushed a finger into me. It felt just as good as I had imagined.

I had read somewhere that, physiologically, women need more time to achieve an orgasm and although none of my exes had cared about that, this one seemed to know that fact. Maybe that was why he was giving me such attention, which I was undoubtedly grateful for.

“Honey…” I choked out “you’re doing great, really, really good, but would you mind if we replaced those fingers? I want to feel you inside me,” I practically begged.

I never begged, I felt like a fool doing it, but if that got me the intensity of the kiss he gave me, I wouldn't mind starting to do it.

Spencer pulled away from me, searching for the packet of condoms he'd run off to get, and while he unbuttoned his pants I got rid of my dress, which by this point was just a mass of fabric around my waist.

My body wasn't perfect, but I figured that wouldn't matter to him. Besides, I doubt he'd be rude enough to mention it.

“Need a hand?” I joked playfully, noticing that he was struggling to open the silver package.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous,” he said to himself, hoping I wouldn’t mind too much.

I wanted to reward him for treating me so well a few moments ago and I took the package from his hands, placing my palm on his chest until I laid him down against the mattress. Once in that position it wasn't difficult to get rid of the wrapping to place the piece of latex on him, thinking that I didn't have a single complaint about his body.

My hands on him made him nervous and I watched him turn into a mess as I began pumping his cock up and down to make sure he had the condom on properly.

“You don’t have to hold back. I like the sounds you make,” I exclaimed in a velvety tone, trying to sound as genuine as possible “That way I know you’re enjoying it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to hold out for much longer,” he confessed, as my hand continued to move along his length. Although I wished I could take better care of him, I understood the situation.

“Your wish is my command”

He didn't complain when I put each leg on his sides and he bravely hardened as I teased him for a moment before sinking my pussy onto his dick. I started slow, trying to make him last as long as possible, but with each second it was getting harder to keep up a pace.

I tried my best to ride him, trying to give him the best experience as a thank you for all his hospitality. And from the whimpers coming out of his throat I assume I was doing my job well.

At some point his hands ended up on my hips, guiding me as he pleased. Sometimes he pushed me down, as if he wanted to get to the bottom of me, and other times he manipulated me so that the thrusts were fast.

He wasn't lying when he said he would cum in no time, as the repressed desire added to the previous sexual actions had him on the edge of the abyss. I knew he had reached orgasm when he closed his eyes and his hips slammed against me, in erratic movements.

I kept riding him a little longer, chasing my own climax, and when I got it I put my hands against his chest, arching in pleasure. Spencer, breathing heavily, grabbed my wrists in his hands and then pulled me so that I was against his torso, my lips too close to his.

He placed his palm on my cheek and pulled me in his direction, seemingly asking for a kiss. I granted it.

“Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” I sighed wryly. It was cute that he didn’t know that sometimes girls don’t even make it. “How was it for you?”

“I'm speechless.”

I laughed and, to a certain extent, felt flattered that I had left a man who knew a million ways to express himself in that state.

We enjoyed the high we had just had for a few minutes and waited for our breathing to slow down; when our sighs took the same rhythm, he spoke again.

“You should go to the bathroom. It’s, uh… healthy for you to do it after every encounter.”

I reached for the garment he had been wearing and, trying to protect myself from the cold air, I put it on over myself.

“Do you mind lending it to me?”

“Nu-huh,” he hummed, eyeing me as if I were a cupcake. I would later learn how affected he was to see me using his clothes to slide out of bed.

When I came out of the bathroom he already had his boxers on, probably wanting to maintain modesty, and when he went to attend to his needs I also looked for my panties. It wasn't long before he returned to keep me company.

“Do you want to cuddle? I’d feel like a whore if I just left”

“Yes, of course I want”

He made sure to throw anything that was on the bed onto the floor and patted the pillows to make them more comfortable. I settled into the space next to him, leaning against his chest, right at heart level.

One of his arms was holding me from behind and in some strange way that made me feel safe; protected.

“Your feet are frozen, are you cold?”

"Not much"

“Do you want me to get you some socks?”

“I’m fine, Spencer,” I laughed softly. I brushed my cheek against his skin and tried to snuggle closer to him. “It’ll just get colder if you leave.”

“Did you know that the human body is incredibly efficient at maintaining its temperature? When two bodies are nearby, like… now,” he paused, settling a little closer to me, “heat transfer occurs due to thermal radiation and direct conduction. Essentially, each body generates heat that helps the other maintain a stable core temperature.”

“So you’re like a human blanket”

“That’s right. In fact, in situations of severe hypothermia, sharing body heat in this way can literally save lives.”

I raised my head to look at him and noticed an excited gleam in his eyes, the one he always had when he shared something from his vast knowledge.

“I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what you said earlier, about female anatomy,” seeing him frown, I continued, “No field of study considers one experimentation enough, right? Everything needs to be replicated two, three, four times. Ten times if necessary.”

“Your guess is quite accurate.”

“Say no more. We must give everything if it is in the name of science”

From the smile on his face, I knew that my joke had pleased him and that my proposal seemed to please him. To seal the deal I reached up and kissed him softly. We remained silent for a while, him caressing me over his own shirt and me enjoying the closeness.

“I like you a lot”

“I had a feeling,” I teased, earning a soft laugh from him “I really like you, too."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and for some stupid reason a blush crept up my cheeks, even though we had just had sex. I carefully placed myself on top of his body and buried my face in his neck, feeling him hug me around the waist.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep, I could tell by how calm his breathing was becoming, and I tried to enjoy the peace he emanated a little longer, until, eventually, Morpheus picked me up in his arms too.

@spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @shuichiakainx @gghostwriter @cafters @weallhaveadestiny @your-left-sock @jaeminsmilk @tmrs-basilisk @kristennotstewart @lostinwonderland314 @f4tpo3s @lortheswiftie @dark-unicorn222 @samsienichole @blackholegladiator @gretaandthatsit @cherrysprlte @halfbloodwriter @piercethefic @reidingandallthat @ariel-23-19 @zorrasucia @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @juluina @kylakins88 @tinainaction @sadroses98 @dumbbunnys-safes @bowerfeithwk @freyafriggafrey

Thank you very much for your interest! I hope you liked it, if you feel like it, let me know what you think :)

[pandapetals]

New Beginnings

Eight months after the miscarriage, Logan finds something that brings both of you hope.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, angst, miscarriage mentioned, found family, mentions of death and blood, some fluff towards the end, trigger warning

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

Everything was a blur as Logan ran alongside Ororo through the smoldering remains of the village. The anti-mutant group had left their mark—fires burning through homes, screams echoing in the distance, blood staining the streets. Logan had seen carnage before, more times than he cared to remember, but it never got easier. No matter how many times he witnessed it, the devastation always gnawed at something deep inside him.

“Just get as many people out as possible!” Scott yelled as he dashed past, ushering a group of frightened kids toward safety.

Ororo nodded, extending her arms to summon rain that hissed and sizzled as it met the persistent flames. Logan stood beside her, silent, his keen senses scanning the chaos. But then he heard it—a sound so faint it almost slipped past him. A small, muffled cry.

“Logan, let’s move—” Ororo began, but she stopped when she saw his head snap in the direction of the sound.

"Go on without me," Logan muttered his attention already pulled away.

“Logan—where are you going?” Ororo called, but he barely raised a hand in acknowledgment as he started walking, his steps heavy yet purposeful. The sound—it was faint, a whisper through the destruction—was tugging at him, leading him.

He wove through the ruins, stepping over charred wood and shattered glass, his ears straining. The crying grew clearer the closer he got until he found himself standing in front of a small wooden cabin, or what was left of it. Half of it had collapsed, the other half barely standing, its roof caved in. The cold air rushed through the broken walls, carrying with it the faint sound of a baby crying.

Logan’s breath hitched, a flicker of something unnameable settling in his chest. 

Carefully, he stepped through the doorway, scanning the wreckage. The floor was littered with debris—splintered wood, shattered dishes, a child’s toy half-melted from the fire. His sharp eyes caught sight of a small, woven basket tucked under what remained of a scorched bedframe.

He knelt, heart pounding against his ribs as he reached for the basket. The crying grew louder as he pulled it free. Peeling back the tattered, soot-streaked blanket, he froze.

Inside was a baby—a tiny girl with chubby, tear-streaked cheeks, her face scrunched up as she wailed. She looked so small and fragile. Logan’s breath caught as he gently scooped her into his arms, his large hands cradling her with a care that might’ve shocked anyone who knew him. Her cries quieted almost immediately, her big, watery eyes blinking up at him.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. She had stopped crying the second she was in his arms as if some instinct told her she was safe. She blinked again, and for a moment, Logan swore he saw something familiar in her gaze—those wide, hazel eyes, flecked with gold, looking at him like she knew him.

“No… can’t be,” he muttered, shaking his head. His jaw clenched, and he tore his eyes away from hers, staring instead at the blanket she’d been wrapped in. It was ragged and soot-stained, but it smelled faintly of home—of parents who were nowhere to be found.

The weight of the moment pressed down on him. He wasn’t sure if it was the chaos still raging outside, the vulnerability of the little girl in his arms, or the haunting ache of all the children and families he hadn’t been able to save over the years, but something inside him cracked. His protective instincts surged to the surface, raw and overwhelming.

“You’re alright now,” he muttered softly almost as if he were trying to convince himself. His thumb brushed gently over her tiny hand, which instinctively curled around his finger. The baby let out a soft coo, and Logan felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.

Ororo’s voice broke the moment as she called from outside. “Logan!”

He turned toward the door, the baby tucked securely in his arms, her little head resting against his chest. “Found somethin’,” he called back, his voice thick with emotion he didn’t quite know how to process yet.

When Ororo stepped inside and saw him holding the baby, her eyes widened in surprise. “Logan…”

“She’s alone,” he said, his voice quieter now, his gaze locked on the infant. “No parents. Nothin’. Just her.” His jaw tightened, a protective growl almost slipping out as he added, “I’m not leavin’ her.”

Ororo’s expression softened, her eyes lingering on Logan in a way that spoke of quiet surprise. Logan stood there, cradling the baby like he’d been doing it his whole life, though his jaw was tight, and his eyes betrayed the storm of conflict raging inside him.

“Alright,” Ororo said gently, her voice pulling Logan from his thoughts. “We’ll see if anyone knows anything.”

Logan gave a curt nod, his hands instinctively tightening their hold on the tiny bundle in his arms. He didn’t mean to grip her so protectively, but the thought of letting her go—even for a moment—sent a pang of unease through him. “Yeah,” he murmured though a strange tenderness lingered in it.

As they stepped out of the ruined cabin together, the chaos in the village had begun to quiet, but the air was still heavy with smoke and the low hum of grief. Logan’s gaze dropped to the baby, her face now peaceful as she slept soundly against his chest. She looked so small, so fragile, and yet she had somehow calmed the moment he’d held her. Her tiny hand curled against his finger like it was her lifeline. He swore, just for a second, that her tiny features reminded him of you.

He shook his head, his brows furrowing. Get a grip, Logan. This wasn’t his kid. This baby was someone else’s, a victim of this senseless attack, and yet... the pull he felt in his chest was undeniable. Protective, raw, and something deeper he couldn’t quite put into words.

When they reached the center of the village, Scott was standing among the survivors, his arms crossed, his expression tense as he organized the final efforts to evacuate. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed the small figure cradled in Logan’s arms.

“What’s that?” Scott asked, his voice tinged with confusion as he nodded toward the baby.

Logan’s jaw tightened, but it was Ororo who answered. “Logan found her in one of the cabins on the edge of the village. Did anyone mention a missing baby?” Her eyes scanned the area, her brow furrowed as if hoping someone would rush forward with answers.

Scott shook his head, his expression grim. “No, everyone I helped didn’t mention anything about a baby. Most of the families I spoke to are accounted for.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the baby. “We can take her back to the mansion. Maybe the Professor can help us figure out where she belongs.”

Logan nodded silently, though his grip on the baby didn’t loosen. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea of letting someone else figure this out twisted something deep inside him. She’d stopped crying the moment he’d picked her up, and the thought of handing her off to someone else made his stomach churn. But this wasn’t about him.

“Here, let me,” Logan said, shifting slightly as if to pass the baby to Ororo. “I’ll stay behind, make sure there’s no one else in the village.”

But the moment Ororo’s arms brushed against the baby, her eyes fluttered open, and she let out a piercing wail, her tiny face scrunching up in distress. Logan froze, his heart squeezing at the sound.

“I don’t think she wants that,” Ororo joked softly, her gaze softening as she watched the baby squirm in Logan’s arms.

Logan huffed, his frustration barely masking the tug of something warmer. “Well, I can’t just take her with me,” he argued, though his words lacked their usual bite.

Scott stepped forward, holding his hands out. “Here, let me. Nathan loves it when I hold him. Babies can sense calm.” He smirked, clearly teasing Logan.

Scott took the baby, her cries only growing louder as her tiny fists flailed in protest. Logan’s lips twitched into half a smirk, half a grimace. “Guess calm doesn’t work with everyone, huh, Summers?” he said, his tone edged with dry humor.

Scott’s confidence faltered as he handed the baby back quickly, muttering, “Alright, fine. Not a fan of me, I get it.”

The baby quieted instantly as she nestled back into Logan’s chest, her tiny body curling against his like it was the only place she wanted to be. Logan blinked, staring down at her in disbelief.

“I think she likes you,” Ororo said with a knowing smile, her voice teasing but gentle.

Logan looked down at the baby, his rugged face softening. Her little hand reached out, gripping his finger again, and his throat tightened. “Well,” he muttered, his voice thick, “I can’t exactly blame her. I’m the only one here who knows how to carry her right.”

Ororo chuckled, sharing a look with Scott, an unspoken understanding between them. They saw it too—the way Logan held her, the way he softened just a fraction when she looked at him. This wasn’t just about finding the baby’s family anymore. Something had shifted.

Logan glanced back at the baby one last time before nodding toward the jet. “Alright,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Let’s take her back. The Professor will figure somethin’ out.”

Logan stepped onto the Blackbird, the weight in his arms felt heavier than it should’ve. The baby had settled back into his chest. Her steady breathing was the only sound cutting through the distant echoes of the chaos they had left behind in the village.

But Logan’s thoughts weren’t on the charred ruins or even on the anti-mutant group they had been sent to stop. His mind was spiraling—back to you, back to the loss you had both endured, back to the raw, untended wound that still lingered between you.

What if this baby—so fragile, so small—triggered those memories for you? What if taking her back to the mansion opened up wounds you were still healing from? 

Logan’s jaw tightened, his usual resolve cracking under the weight of his thoughts. He wasn’t sure he could take seeing that look in your eyes again—the same look you’d had when you sobbed in his arms after the miscarriage. The memory hit him like a punch to the gut, and he instinctively held the baby a little closer, as if shielding her from his fears.

“Logan,” Scott’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He was standing near the cockpit, his expression unreadable but pointed. “You coming or are you planning to stay out there?”

Logan grunted in response, moving to take a seat near the back of the jet. He avoided Scott’s gaze, focusing instead on the baby in his arms as she stirred slightly. He muttered something low, soothing, and she settled again, her tiny face pressing against his chest.

Scott didn’t move. Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the edge of the cockpit door, watching Logan for a moment longer than Logan was comfortable with.

“What?” Logan finally snapped, his voice low but tinged with frustration.

Scott raised an eyebrow, then pushed off the door and walked closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “You’re worried,” he said simply, his tone unusually neutral.

Logan scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t get worried, Summers.”

“Right,” Scott said dryly, taking a seat across from him. “And yet, you’re holding that baby like the world’s about to come for her any second.”

Logan’s grip instinctively tightened, his knuckles going white against the edge of the blanket. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice betrayed him.

Scott’s gaze softened, surprising Logan enough to look up. “It’s okay, you know,” Scott said quietly. “To care. To worry. It doesn’t make you weak, Logan.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, his hazel eyes narrowing as he tried to deflect. “You sound like Chuck now. I don’t need a lecture, Summers.”

Scott leaned back, his arms crossing loosely. “I’m not giving you a lecture. I’m just saying… I’ve been there.”

Logan’s brows furrowed, his confusion clear even through his gruff exterior.

“With Nathan,” Scott continued, his voice lower now. “When Jean and I were expecting him… I was terrified. I didn’t think I’d be enough for him, for her. After we lost the first one…” He paused, swallowing hard as his usually stoic mask cracked just slightly. “I thought the grief would break us. But it didn’t. We were okay. Eventually.”

Logan’s throat tightened. He looked down at the baby, who was now peacefully dozing against him. “What if she’s not okay?” he asked finally, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “What if we’re not?”

Scott’s expression softened further. “You and I both know you’re tougher than that, Logan. And so is she. You’ve been through hell and back, and you’re still here. You’ll make it work.”

Logan’s gaze flicked up to meet Scott’s, a rare moment of unspoken understanding passing between them. Scott’s words didn’t fix the knot of fear twisting in his chest, but they helped loosen it—just enough to breathe.

With a quiet grunt, Logan looked down at the baby, his thumb brushing lightly against her tiny fist. “She stopped crying the second I picked her up,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Like she knew…”

Scott nodded slowly. “Maybe she does.”

Logan didn’t respond, his thoughts already drifting back to you. He could picture your face, the way your eyes lit up when you smiled, the warmth you brought into his life without even trying. He couldn’t shake the worry that bringing this baby home would remind you of what you’d lost. But deep down, there was a small, fragile hope—a flicker of light in the darkness—that this could also be something new. Something healing. Something for both of you to hold onto.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair before meeting Scott’s gaze again. “You better not tell anyone about this conversation.”

Scott smirked faintly, his usual smugness tempered by something softer. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

As the Blackbird took off, Logan sat quietly, the baby cradled against his chest. He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in months, he was willing to hope. When the mansion came into view, he tightened his hold on the baby, his resolve hardening.

Whatever came next, he’d face it—with you by his side. Because if this little girl was meant to find him then maybe she was meant to find both of you.

𓂃

Once inside the mansion, the tension in Logan’s chest seemed to grow heavier, the walls of the grand space pressing in on him as he cradled the tiny baby against his chest. Scott, Ororo and he stood in the living room, the warmth of the fire in the nearby hearth doing little to ease the weight of the moment.

Jean entered moments later, little Nathan trailing behind her with his usual boundless energy. Her steps faltered slightly when her gaze landed on the baby nestled in Logan’s arms, her expression shifting from surprise to a tender understanding.

“We found her abandoned,” Scott explained, scooping Nathan into his arms when the boy tried to dart toward Logan and the baby, clearly curious. Nathan giggled, squirming in his father’s grasp, oblivious to the tension in the room.

Jean’s eyes softened as they flicked between Logan and the baby, her voice gentle. “She must be hungry. I have some formula left upstairs. I’ll go prepare a bottle.”

Logan gave her a quick nod of thanks, though his eyes never left the baby. As Jean disappeared up the stairs, Ororo stepped closer, her gaze calm and reassuring. “Logan, you need to go talk to her,” Ororo said softly, her hands reaching out to take the baby from his arms.

Logan’s grip instinctively tightened for just a second before he forced himself to let go, his jaw clenching. The baby squirmed as Ororo carefully cradled her, a small cry already forming on her lips. Logan winced at the sound, his protective instincts kicking in again, but Ororo gave him a pointed look. “The baby will be fine, Logan. Go.”

He hesitated, his boots rooted to the floor, but finally nodded, running a hand through his hair before turning toward the hallway that led to your shared room. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind racing. What if you couldn’t handle this? What if it brought back everything you’d been trying so hard to move past? The thought of hurting you again made his chest tighten.

When he reached the door to your room, Logan paused, his hand resting on the doorknob as if it weighed a thousand pounds. With a deep breath, he finally stepped inside. 

You were sitting at your desk, fingers flying over your keyboard, a mess of papers scattered around you. The faint glow from your laptop illuminated your face, and despite the chaos of the workspace, Logan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of calm at the sight of you.

Your eyes darted up when you heard him, a teasing smile spreading across your lips as you stood. “I was wondering when you’d get back. Started to worry,” you joked, walking over to him. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before pulling back, your hands brushing his arms. “And look at that, you made it back in one piece.”

Logan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The usual gruff confidence you knew so well had been replaced by something uncertain. The shift in his demeanor made your smile fade as you studied him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, your tone laced with concern as you searched his face for an answer.

Logan let out a slow breath, pulling a hand free to rub the back of his neck. “We… found somethin’—someone—on the mission,” he began, his voice low and steady. “A baby. She was abandoned in one of the cabins. There was no sign of her parents… no one claimed her.”

Your heart sank at his words, your body teasing. “A baby?” you whispered.

He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again. “I didn’t know what to do, so we brought her back here. She… she’s just a baby, sweetheart. Tiny. Fragile.” His voice wavered slightly, and he took a step closer to you. “When I picked her up, she stopped cryin’. Like she… trusted me or somethin’. I don’t know. It messed with my head.”

Your chest tightened as you watched him, his usual gruff demeanor softened. “Logan…” 

He held up a hand, cutting you off gently. “Look, I don’t want to push anything on you. I don’t want you to think I’m hopin’ for somethin’ or tryin’ to replace what we lost. That ain’t it. I just…” He trailed off, his gaze flicking to the door as if he could still hear the baby’s faint cries. “I needed to tell you. I needed you to know. But if this is too much—if you don’t wanna see her—I’ll understand.”

The room was filled with silence, the weight of his words settling between you. You felt a storm of emotions swirling inside you—grief, confusion, a flicker of something you didn’t dare name yet. “I don’t know, Logan,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can handle it. What if…” You couldn’t finish the sentence, your throat tightening.

“You’re stronger than you think, darlin’,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together. But you need to see her. Just… see her. That’s all I’m askin’.”

You searched his eyes, seeing the quiet plea there, the vulnerability he rarely let show. Finally, you nodded, your voice barely audible. “Okay.”

Logan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gave your hands a gentle squeeze. “She’s with Ororo,” he said, his voice steadier now. “She’s… somethin’ else. I think you’ll see what I mean.”

Logan took your hand, his grip firm but tender, as you both descended the stairs. The silence between you was heavy with unspoken thoughts. You couldn’t ignore the flicker of uncertainty stirring in your chest. This was just a baby, you reminded yourself, but the way Logan talked and acted… it felt like something more, something that scared you. What if this was just another path to disappointment? What if the cracks in your heart grew deeper with hope that led nowhere?

Logan glanced at you, his hazel eyes soft, but they carried their own storm. You couldn’t tell who he was trying to reassure more—himself or you. The way he held your hand told you he was wrestling with the same doubts, the same fears.

When you entered the living room, the sight hit you like a wave. Jean sat on the couch, cradling the baby girl in her arms as she gently fed her a bottle. Nathan sat beside her, his wide, curious eyes fixated on the infant. The scene was warm, peaceful even, but it stirred something deep within you.

Jean looked up as you walked in, offering a soft, warm smile. "She’s doing better now," she said, her voice quiet, as if not to disturb the fragile calm. "She’s not crying anymore."

Logan’s presence shifted, his protectiveness already kicking in as he moved closer. “She was screaming her head off earlier,” he said, his voice gruff but lined with tenderness. His eyes were locked on the baby as though she were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

Jean chuckled, adjusting the bottle in the baby’s mouth. "She was until I gave her this," she said, glancing down at the little girl with a fond expression. Then she looked back at Logan, her smile fading slightly, replaced by something deeper. “But I can sense something else. She… wants you, Logan.”

Jean stood, moving to hand the baby to him, but Logan hesitated, his eyes darting to you like he needed your permission. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as your gaze locked onto the baby. There was something about her, something undeniable. You told yourself it was just your mind playing tricks, your heart reaching for something it shouldn’t, but you couldn’t ignore the pull in your chest.

She looked… familiar, even though that was impossible. Her tiny face, soft and full of innocence, and her dark, thick hair—what little there was of it—felt like it belonged. Your throat tightened, and you weren’t sure if it was wonder or fear threatening to choke you.

“Sweetheart…” Logan’s voice broke through your daze, gentle but urging. He had crossed the room to stand in front of you, his body close enough to shield you from everything else. His hazel eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it felt like the two of you were standing on the edge of something monumental.

You slowly nodded and Logan reached out to take the baby from Jean. The moment his hands settled on her tiny frame, she stopped suckling on the bottle and looked up at him. Her wide, bright eyes blinked at Logan, and he swore his heart skipped a beat. They were strikingly similar to his own—soft hazel, framed with a kind of quiet wonder. He tried to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks on him, a cruel echo of the past, but the connection he felt at that moment was undeniable.

“She looks at you like she already knows you,” Jean said softly, a faint smile on her lips. Her words carried a weight that sent a shiver down your spine.

Logan shifted his hold on the baby, his rough fingers brushing against her tiny hand. “I don’t—” He stopped himself, his voice cracking slightly. He glanced at you again, his vulnerability laid bare. "I don’t know what this is, but it feels… different.”

Jean cleared her throat, her expression shifting into something serious. “There’s something else,” she said, looking between the two of you. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier because I wasn’t sure, but… I’m picking up on something from her mind.”

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. “What do you mean?”

Jean’s gaze softened. “She’s a mutant,” she said gently. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. Her power—it’s healing. When she feels connected to someone, she can heal minor injuries. Cuts, bruises… even small aches.”

You stared at her, the words hitting you like a weight in your chest. Logan’s arms instinctively tightened around the baby, as if he were shielding her from a world that might hurt her. He looked down at the little girl, his thumb brushing gently against her tiny fist.

Healing. It was such a simple, beautiful gift. One that only deepened the pull you felt toward her. Your mind reeled, but somewhere beneath the chaos was a quiet, steady feeling that this—her—was meant to be.

Jean’s voice softened even more. “It happens unintentionally. She doesn’t control it yet, but… she just healed a scratch on Nathan’s arm. I think she’s been trying to connect with you, Logan.”

Logan swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he turned to you. His hazel eyes, filled with emotion, searched yours. “Do you… do you want to hold her?” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly.

You hesitated, your eyes flicking down to the baby nestled in Logan’s arms. She looked so tiny, so innocent, and yet the thought of holding her felt right. Slowly, you nodded, stepping closer.

Logan shifted carefully, cradling her as though she were made of glass before gently placing her into your waiting arms. The weight of her against you was lighter than you expected, yet it felt so significant, like holding something precious that could change everything. You looked down at her tiny face, her round cheeks flushed as her eyes fluttered open. For a brief moment, her gaze darted between Logan and you, her bright hazel eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“She’s so precious,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you adjusted her against your chest. You held her cautiously, almost afraid to move, worried that any wrong gesture would disturb her fragile peace. Your heart hammered in your chest as you braced for her to cry or squirm.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her tiny hand moved from where it had rested near the bottle, her delicate fingers brushing against your shirt before gripping it with surprising strength. You froze, tears welling in your eyes as you felt her warmth against you. Her tiny lips curved into the faintest smile, and you swore it felt like your chest cracked open, all your reservations melting into the air.

“She must like you,” Logan said softly. He stepped closer, his hand brushing over your back as if grounding you both. “Because she wouldn’t even let Scott hold her.”

You let out a shaky laugh, a single sob escaping your lips as you looked down at her. “She’s perfect,” you whispered, cradling her closer. Her tiny fist tugged at your shirt again, and something about her touch sent warmth through you that was hard to describe—comforting, but also terrifying.

Logan reached out, his large, rough hand gently brushing against the baby’s cheek. She cooed softly, leaning into his touch before looking back at you. “See?” he said, his voice tinged with awe. “She’s trying to connect with you now.”

You didn’t respond, unsure of what to say. The weight of it all—the connection she seemed to have with both of you, the impossibility of the situation—felt overwhelming. You wanted to believe this was meant to be, but a flicker of fear lingered in your chest, whispering warnings of heartbreak and loss.

Before you could speak, footsteps approached, and Ororo and Scott entered the room. Ororo’s gaze softened the moment she saw the baby nestled in your arms, while Scott frowned slightly, his eyes flicking between you and Logan.

“What’s going on here?” Scott asked, crossing his arms as he studied the scene.

“She’s… connecting with them,” Jean explained gently, stepping aside to give them a better view. “I think there’s something more to this. She’s a mutant, and she’s already started to bond with Logan and… her.” Jean nodded toward you with a small smile.

Ororo stepped closer, her eyes warm as she looked at the baby. “She seems so at peace with both of you,” she remarked, her voice soft. “It’s like she knows.”

Logan reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as if to steady himself. “She won’t even let anyone else hold her,” he said, his tone a mix of pride and protectiveness. “It’s like… she chose us.”

Scott’s frown deepened, though there was no malice in his expression—only concern. “Look, I get it,” he said, his voice measured. “She’s a baby, and it’s easy to get attached. But you two need to be realistic. We don’t know anything about her parents, where she came from, or even why she was abandoned. This… this could get complicated.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, and you felt the tension in his grip. He was seconds away from snapping back, but before he could, Ororo placed a hand on Scott’s arm. “Scott,” she said gently, “just look at them.”

Scott’s eyes softened slightly as he glanced between you and Logan, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of understanding cross his face. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just saying… talk to the Professor first. Make sure this is something you both really want to pursue.”

You nodded, glancing down at the baby as she let out a soft coo. “We will,” you said quietly. “But… it’s hard to explain. It feels like she was meant to find us.”

Scott met Logan’s gaze, his expression shifting into something more sincere. “If this is what you both want, then… I hope it works out. Just don’t rush into it, okay?”

Logan nodded reluctantly, his protective instincts still flaring, but he squeezed your hand for reassurance. 

Ororo and Scott stepped back, giving you both some space as the baby let out a soft yawn, her tiny hand still gripping your shirt. Logan leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against your temple. “She already loves you,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe.

You looked up at him, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Logan," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Scott’s right. We can’t just rush into this. We don’t even know if her parents are alive or—" Your words faltered, catching in your throat as the weight of the uncertainty pressed down on you.

Logan held your gaze, the flicker of emotion in his hazel eyes betraying the composed mask he was trying to maintain. He reached out, his rough hand gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I know,” he said softly. “I’m not sayin’ we just take her and call it a day. I just… I need to know. I need to be sure.”

You bit your lip, glancing down at the baby nestled in your arms. Her little chest rose and fell peacefully as she slept. The sight tugged at your heart, and yet, the weight of responsibility gnawed at the edges of your mind. You couldn’t let emotion cloud the bigger picture, no matter how much a part of you already felt tethered to her.

“Alright,” you finally murmured. “Let’s talk to the Professor.”

Logan nodded, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself for what was to come. He placed his hand lightly on your lower back, guiding you toward Xavier’s office. Every step felt heavier than the last as if the weight of the decision ahead pressed harder with each passing moment. Logan remained quiet, his usual gruffness replaced by an uncharacteristic tenderness, his hand never leaving your back.

When you reached the Professor’s office, Logan knocked once before pushing the door open. Xavier was already waiting, his hands folded in his lap, his expression calm yet curious. His gaze softened the moment he noticed the baby in your arms.

“I was wondering when you’d come to see me about the baby,” Xavier said, his voice soothing.

Logan furrowed his brow, his grip on your back tightening slightly. “You already know?” he asked.

Xavier gave a small smile, tilting his head slightly. “You can’t bring something so… profound into this mansion without me sensing it. Please, sit.”

You and Logan exchanged a glance before settling into the chairs in front of Xavier’s desk. The baby stirred slightly in your arms but didn’t wake. Logan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together.

“We found her during the mission,” Logan began, his voice low but steady. “She was alone in a cabin. No sign of her parents, no one claimin’ her. Jean says she’s a mutant. She’s got some kind of… healing ability.”

Xavier’s eyes flickered with interest as he leaned forward slightly. “Healing, you say?”

Logan nodded, his jaw tightening. “She’s connected to us. She won’t let anyone else hold her without cryin’. It’s like…” He trailed off, struggling to put the inexplicable connection into words.

“Like she’s meant to be with you,” Xavier finished softly, his gaze shifting to you.

You swallowed hard, the knot in your chest tightening. “We just… we need to know if her parents are out there. If they’re alive. We can’t—” Your voice broke slightly, and Logan’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your knuckles. “We can’t just assume it’s up to us.”

Xavier regarded you both for a long moment before nodding. “Of course. If her parents are still out there, it’s only right to find them. But to do so, I’ll need to delve into her mind, to see if there’s anything she remembers—even subconsciously.”

Logan tensed beside you, his protective instincts flaring. “Is that safe for her?” he asked, his tone edged with worry.

Xavier gave a reassuring smile. “It won’t harm her. I’ll only be looking for surface-level memories, nothing invasive.”

You hesitated before finally nodding. “Alright. If it helps us figure out where she belongs… do it.”

Xavier wheeled closer, his calm presence filling the room. He reached out gently, his fingers just brushing the baby’s forehead. For a moment, the room was silent, the air heavy with anticipation. Logan’s hand tightened around yours, his tension palpable as he watched the Professor.

Finally, Xavier’s eyes fluttered open, a mixture of emotions crossing his face. “Her parents…” he began, his voice tinged with sadness. “They called her Laura.” 

You felt your breath catch, the name settling in your chest like a quiet weight. “Laura,” you whispered, looking down at the baby in your arms. It felt right as if the name had always lingered in your mind. 

Logan’s jaw clenched, his protective instinct only growing stronger. “What happened to them?” he asked, his voice rough.

Xavier hesitated before continuing. “It wasn’t clear, but they were in danger. As you saw, the anti-mutant attackers destroyed their village. They were trying to protect her, keep her safe by hiding her.” He paused, “They…they loved her very much.” 

A tear slipped down your cheek as you looked at Logan, his expression a mixture of grief and determination. “So, what now?” you asked quietly.

Xavier straightened slightly. “I’ll use Cerebro to search for any other relatives or connections, but… if there’s no one else, the decision will fall to you.”

Logan’s hand tightened on yours, his hazel eyes meeting yours with an unspoken question. You felt the same pull you’d felt from the moment you held her—a sense that this was more than coincidence. It felt like fate.

𓂃

Logan and you sat side by side on the worn couch, the soft glow of a table lamp casting a warm light across the living room. In the bassinet beside you, Laura slept soundly, her tiny chest rising and falling with each delicate breath. The peaceful silence of the room felt surreal, as though the universe had pressed pause, just for the three of you. Neither of you had left her side since Logan had brought her into the mansion, and despite the chaos of the day, the thought of her being here had begun to settle into something strangely comforting.

You glanced down at your intertwined hands, your thumb idly tracing circles against Logan’s rough, calloused skin. “I–I don’t know how to put this,” you began, hesitating as the words lodged in your throat. You swallowed hard, glancing at Logan. “Is it… weird that I feel like she looks like us?” Your voice was soft, tinged with uncertainty.

Logan turned his head toward you, his hazel eyes catching yours. “It’s not weird,” he murmured. “When I found her, I thought the same thing.” He shifted slightly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I thought she looked like you—right from the start.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, but it wavered. “And her eyes,” you whispered, glancing at the bassinet. The baby’s tiny hand had curled into a loose fist, resting against her cheek. “They mirror yours. It’s like… like she’s already part of us.”

Logan exhaled deeply, his free hand running through his hair. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he admitted. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but this… it’s different.” He paused, his gaze shifting to Laura. “When I picked her up, it was like somethin’ in me just… clicked. Like I had to protect her. Like I couldn’t walk away, even if I tried.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your fingers squeezing his hand. “It feels so strange, doesn’t it? Like we’re meant to have her here but at the same time… I don’t want to let myself hope too much. What if it’s not meant to be?”

Logan tilted his head down, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “I get it,” he murmured. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself either. But…” He hesitated, his voice faltering for a moment before he continued. “She’s here now. And she’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but they weren’t entirely from sadness. “It’s comforting, isn’t it?” you said softly. “Like maybe… maybe this is how it was supposed to happen. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it feels like she’s already a part of us.”

Logan nodded, his grip on your hand tightening ever so slightly. “It’s scary as hell,” he admitted, his voice raw. “But yeah… it feels right.” His eyes softened as he glanced at the bassinet again, his lips curving into a small tender smile. “She’s already got me wrapped around her little finger.”

You softly laughed, your voice laced with emotion. “She’s got me too,” you whispered, your head still resting against his shoulder.

“There you are,” Xavier’s calm, measured voice broke the silence as he wheeled into the room, his sharp eyes softening as they landed on the bassinet. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I see you’re both smitten by her.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, though the emotions flickering in his hazel eyes betrayed the vulnerability behind them. “Guess you could say that,” he said. He glanced down at the sleeping baby, gently stroking her cheek. “She’s got a way of growin’ on you.”

Xavier nodded knowingly, folding his hands in his lap as his expression grew more serious. “I’ve completed my search using Cerebro,” he began his tone gentle but laced with the weight of what he was about to say. “I… wasn’t able to locate her parents. From what I could glean, it seems they perished in the attack on the village.”

Your breath hitched, your hand instinctively moving to cover your mouth. Logan froze, his jaw tightening as he looked down at Laura, his thumb brushing softly over her small fist. The room seemed to hold its breath.

“There’s more,” Xavier continued, his gaze steady. “I reached out to some of the survivors from the village. They… were hesitant at first, but once they understood she was safe here, they gave their approval for her to remain at the mansion. They believe this is the best place for her.”

A mix of emotions swirled in your chest—grief for the loss of her parents, relief that the villagers had entrusted her to you, and something deeper that felt like fate settling quietly into place. 

“She’s really alone, isn’t she?” you whispered, your voice breaking as you looked at Logan.

Logan let out a heavy sigh, his grip on Laura’s tiny hand tightening ever so slightly as though he could shield her from the cruel reality of the world. “Not anymore,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. He looked up at Xavier, his gaze fierce. “She’s got us now.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a tear slipping down your cheek as you reached over to squeeze his free hand. “Logan,” you murmured, your voice trembling with emotion. “Are you sure?”

He turned to you, his expression softening as his thumb brushed your knuckles. “I’ve never been more sure of anything, sweetheart,” he said, his voice raw but filled with conviction. “I don’t know why, but… she feels like she’s already ours.”

Xavier watched the two of you quietly, his wise eyes filled with something akin to approval. “Raising a child is no small task,” he said after a moment. “But I see the love and determination in both of you. I have no doubt that Laura will thrive here under your care.”

Logan nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “We’ll do whatever it takes. She deserves a chance—a family.”

“And she’ll have one,” you added, your voice steadier now as you gently placed your hand on Laura’s tiny foot, marveling at how small and fragile she was. “We’ll make sure she’s safe and loved.”

Xavier’s smile returned, a quiet, knowing warmth radiating from him. “Then it’s decided,” he said simply. “Laura will stay here, and she will be raised with the love and care she deserves.”

Logan glanced down at Laura, taking her into his arms. She stirred slightly, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of his flannel shirt. He let out a soft chuckle, his voice a low rumble. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, kid.”

You laughed softly through your tears, leaning your head against Logan’s shoulder as you both gazed down at the baby girl who had already stolen your heart.

𓂃

You had never realized how fast time flew by until a week had blinked by, each day blurring into the next as you and Logan adjusted to life as new parents. Caring for Laura had turned your world upside down in the most beautiful, chaotic way. The first few days had been a scramble—borrowing whatever Jean and Scott had left over from when Nathan was a baby: oversized onesies that swallowed Laura’s tiny frame, an old bassinet, and some hand-me-down bottles. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked… until Logan decided to take matters into his own hands.

One evening, after realizing you were running low on baby supplies, Logan announced with a gruff determination that he was going to the store. You’d laughed at his insistence, thinking he’d return with just the basics. Instead, Logan came back armed like a man ready to conquer fatherhood: bags overflowing with formula, diapers, blankets, and enough baby clothes to fill an entire dresser.

“Logan,” you said, half-laughing as you rifled through one of the sacks, pulling out tiny shoes, a pack of pacifiers, and a set of colorful bibs. “I don’t think we need all of this. Did you leave anything in the store for anyone else?”

He smirked, leaning casually against the kitchen counter as if he hadn’t just wiped out an entire baby aisle. “Figured better safe than sorry, darlin’,” he said, crossing his arms, clearly proud of himself.

You paused when you pulled out a purple onesie with pandas on it. It was so adorable it made your heart squeeze. “Okay,” you murmured, holding it up. “Maybe we did need this one.”

Logan’s smirk softened into a grin, and he pushed off the counter to walk over to you, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest. “Knew you’d like that one,” he murmured.

You tilted your head to look up at him, your smile growing as you held up the tiny panda onesie again for emphasis. “You’re such a big softy, you know that? You act all tough, but then you come home with this,” you teased.

Logan smirked, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your temple before resting his head on your shoulder. His arms around your waist felt protective, anchoring you in his steady presence.

“What? No comeback?” you quipped, arching a brow as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “Usually, you’d try to deny it. Something about your ‘gruff reputation’ or whatever.”

To your surprise, Logan didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, a small, genuine smile played on his lips as he glanced at the onesie in your hand. “Doesn’t bother me, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Maybe I need to be soft for my girls.”

The simple words hit you like a wave, stirring something deep in your chest. My girls. The way he said it—so natural, so full of love—brought tears to your eyes before you could stop them. You quickly blinked, but Logan wasn’t one to miss much.

“Hey,” he said softly, tilting his head to look up at you, concern flickering in his hazel eyes as his arms tightened slightly around your waist. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, the tears threatening to spill as a soft laugh escaped you. “Nothing,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… hearing you say that.”

“Say what?” he pressed gently, his rough fingers brushing a stray tear from your cheek.

“‘My girls,’” you repeated, the words catching in your throat. “It just… it feels right. I don’t know, Logan. I didn’t think I could feel this happy again. Not after—” You paused, swallowing hard as the weight of everything you’d been through together settled between you.

Logan’s expression softened, and he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. “You deserve to be happy, sweetheart,” he gently said. “We both do. And this… all of this? Feels right to me too.”

You leaned into his touch, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I love you,” you whispered, the words carrying every ounce of gratitude and affection you felt for him.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I love you too,” he said, his voice rough but tender.

You both stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other and the quiet joy of the life you were building together. Nearby, Laura stirred in her bassinet, letting out a tiny, contented coo that made you both glance her way.

Logan chuckled softly, his hand moving to rest over yours on his chest. “Looks like someone’s tryin’ to remind us who’s really in charge around here,” he joked, his tone warm.

You laughed, wiping the last of your tears as you turned to look at Laura. “She’s already got you wrapped around her tiny little finger, doesn’t she?”

“Not just me,” Logan countered, raising a brow. “You’re just as bad.”

“Fair,” you admitted, leaning your head against his shoulder as you gazed at her. “But if being soft means loving her and you with my whole heart, I guess I’m okay with that.”

Laura’s soft cries broke the cozy quiet of the room, causing both you and Logan to freeze mid-conversation. Her tiny whimpers filled the space, and you immediately started to move, but so did Logan.

“I’ll get her,” Logan said gruffly, already reaching toward the bassinet.

“No way!” you countered, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “It’s my turn. You’ve been hogging her all day, Logan.”

“Hoggin’ her?” Logan repeated, his eyebrows shooting up in mock indignation. The corner of his mouth tugged into that familiar smirk, the one that told you he was about to start trouble. “Darlin’, I’m just better at keepin’ her calm. You know it.”

Your jaw dropped as you swatted his arm. “Excuse me? She literally fell asleep on me last night—not you, Mr. ‘Magic Touch.’”

Logan chuckled, a warm, low sound that sent a shiver down your spine even as you glared at him. “I’m just sayin’, sweetheart,” he teased, crossing his arms casually, “She knows who her favorite is.”

“Oh, please,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him as Laura’s cries softened into tiny whimpers, her big, round eyes blinking up at the two of you. She lay there, her little fists flailing as if she were judging the both of you for taking too long.

Logan knelt first, his large hands moving instinctively as he reached to scoop her up. “There, sweetie,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that rare softness he reserved for the two of you. Laura stopped whimpering almost instantly, her tiny hand gripping his finger like it was the only thing keeping her from crying.

You couldn’t help but feel your chest tighten at the sight. He looked so at ease with her, holding her close like she was the most precious thing in the world. But you couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Okay, tough guy,” you said, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “Don’t think I didn’t notice her crying stopped the moment I got closer.”

Logan glanced up at you, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “Is that so?” he rumbled, swaying gently as Laura let out a tiny coo. “’Cause from where I’m standin’, she looks pretty content right here.”

“Uh-huh,” you quipped, stepping closer and reaching out to take her. “Let me see my girl. You’ve had her glued to your chest for hours.”

Logan hesitated for a beat, his arms tightening ever so slightly around Laura. “Careful,” he said, his tone laced with a teasing edge. “You don’t have the ‘magic touch,’ remember?”

You rolled your eyes, gently easing Laura into your arms. “Watch and learn, Howlett,” you said, cradling her against your chest. She snuggled into you without protest, her little face scrunching up before settling into calm contentment. “See? I’ve got the magic touch and the magic cuddle.”

Logan let out a mock scoff, standing back up to his full height as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, though the faint grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Guess I’ll let you have this one.”

“You’re too kind,” you teased, swaying gently as Laura’s eyelids fluttered shut again. “But don’t think I didn’t see you hesitate.”

Logan smirked, his hazel eyes warm as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and full of affection. “I still love you.”

Your heart swelled as Laura nuzzled closer against you, her tiny hand gripping the fabric of your shirt. Logan’s hand came to rest at the small of your back, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles.

“I think we’re doin’ alright at this parenting thing,” he murmured, his forehead resting against the side of your head.

“Yeah,” you whispered, looking down at the peaceful bundle in your arms. “We’ve got this, Logan.”

Logan let out a soft chuckle, his eyes fixed on you and Laura with a tender expression. “Damn right we do,” he agreed.

 𓂃

Later that night, the two of you sat on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by scattered pieces of what was supposed to be a crib. The instruction manual lay open between you, creased and smudged, as though it had endured as much frustration as the two of you.

“I’m telling you, this piece goes here,” you said, holding up one of the wooden slats with the confidence of someone who had been wrong twice already.

Logan scoffed, squinting at the manual like it was written in another language. “Darlin’, that ain’t even close to the right piece. Look at the damn diagram.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Logan, I know how to read a diagram. You’re the one who started screwing things in backward.”

“That was one time,” he grumbled, reaching for the screwdriver as if it might magically fix his earlier mistake.

“One time too many,” you shot back, smirking as you handed him the correct piece. “Face it—you’re not as handy as you think you are.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, and he shot you a mock glare, his lips twitching with the faintest hint of a smile. “Keep talkin’, sweetheart. We’ll see who’s laughin’ when this crib doesn’t collapse under her.” He paused, muttering under his breath. “Should’ve just built one from scratch with my own hands.”

“Oh sure,” you quipped, biting back a laugh as you imagined it. “Laura might be in college by the time you finish it.”

Logan shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose like he was trying to keep from laughing. But the small smirk tugging at his lips gave him away. “Real funny. Keep it up, and I’ll make you do the next one solo.”

“Next one?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s survive this one first.”

Finally, after an hour and a half of bickering, laughter, and a few colorful mutterings from Logan, the crib stood fully assembled. The two of you stepped back to admire it, a mix of pride and relief washing over you.

Logan slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You leaned your head against his chest, smiling at the crib. “We did it,” you murmured softly, pride tinging your voice.

“Damn right we did,” Logan replied, his voice warm and a little smug. “Told ya I could build it.”

You tilted your head up at him, smirking. “Sure, tough guy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Before Logan could fire back with another quip, Laura let out a soft whimper from the makeshift bassinet you’d borrowed from Jean. Logan immediately moved to scoop her up, cradling her against his chest. She blinked at him, her little face scrunching for a moment, and then… she smiled.

Your breath hitched. “Did she just—”

Logan’s eyes softened as he stared down at her, his tough exterior cracking completely. “Yeah… she did,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent.

You stepped closer, wrapping your arm around Logan as you both gazed at Laura. Her tiny hand reached out, her fingers brushing against yours. “She likes the crib,” you whispered with a laugh, tears prickling in your eyes.

“Or maybe she’s just glad we stopped fightin’ over it,” Logan said, his tone teasing but his smile tender.

You leaned into him, your heart swelling with love for the little family you were building. “Either way,” you said softly, “this is perfect.”

Logan kissed the top of Laura’s head and then yours, his voice low and steady. “Yeah… it is.”

𓂃

“Mrs. Howlett!” one of your students practically yelled, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the classroom. You paused mid-sentence, marker hovering over the whiteboard, and turned around, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sarah?” you asked, fighting the urge to smile as Laura, strapped to your chest in a carrier, let out a tiny coo. Her big, curious eyes darted over the room full of students, clearly more interested in them than the lesson you were trying to teach.

“Do you have to keep teaching? Me and Jamie really want to hold Laura. Pleeeease?” Sarah begged, her hands clasped together in an exaggerated show of desperation. She even threw in puppy-dog eyes for good measure, which made you chuckle.

You’d warned Logan about this—the students were bound to be curious, not just about Laura, but about everything. Your sudden shift to "Mrs. Howlett" in the past year had set the rumor mill spinning since you’d decided to stop using your maiden name finally. Now, with a baby in tow, their curiosity had skyrocketed. You didn’t mind it, though. You loved bringing Laura to class, and even more, you loved the way your students doted on her.

Still, you sighed playfully, adjusting the baby carrier as Laura babbled softly. “Sarah, for the last time, you can’t just skip lessons to play with Laura.”

Sarah pouted. “But she’s so cute! How are we supposed to concentrate when there’s a literal baby here?”

“How about this,” you said, gesturing toward the question box sitting precariously on your desk, already overflowing with tiny pieces of paper. “You put all your burning questions in the box. At the end of class, I’ll pick four to answer.”

“Mrs. Howlett!” groaned Fiona, a redheaded girl who always managed to speak her mind. “No offense, but you barely ever answer the good ones. Last time, you skipped like ten!”

You bit back a laugh, pretending to be affronted. “I answer plenty! Sometimes your questions are…well, very personal.” You gave a mock glare at the question box, knowing full well there were probably a dozen slips in there asking about your marriage to Logan. Or his claws. Or why he rarely smiled in photos.

Laura let out another soft coo, her tiny hands reaching for nothing in particular. You glanced down at her and smiled. “What do you think, Laura? Should we humor them?”

As if on cue, Laura smiled, her little nose scrunching up in a way that melted your heart. The class collectively “aww’d,” which made you laugh.

“Alright, fine!” you relented, walking to the front of your desk and leaning against it. “Just this once, I’ll answer some questions. But let’s make it quick, okay?”

Hands shot up across the room like fireworks. You scanned the sea of excited faces and pointed to Sarah, whose arm flailed the hardest. “Alright, Sarah. What’s your question?”

Sarah’s face lit up as she glanced between you and Laura. “So…where did Laura come from? I mean, I didn’t see you pregnant or anything.”

The room fell quiet, everyone leaning in, clearly hanging on your answer. You smiled softly, glancing down at Laura before meeting their curious gazes. “Well, Mr. Howlett and I…adopted her. She needed a home, much like some of you did when you first came to the mansion.”

The room was still for a beat, the weight of your words sinking in, until a voice in the back muttered, “Man, I wish you two had adopted me.”

That sent the whole class into laughter, including you. “Oh, trust me,” you said, grinning as you adjusted Laura in her carrier. “Taking care of Mr. Howlett and Laura is already a full-time job.”

“Do you call him ‘Mr. Howlett’ at home?” someone else chimed in, causing a wave of giggles to ripple through the room.

“Absolutely not,” you said with mock horror. “I call him Logan. Or ‘tough guy.’ Or, if he’s being grumpy, ‘big softy.’”

“Grumpy?” Fiona raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah, that checks out.”

“Alright, alright,” you said, laughing as the teasing spiraled. “One more question, and then it’s back to the lesson.”

Another hand shot up, and this time it was Jamie. “Does Mr. Howlett ever hold Laura? Like, is he actually good with babies?”

You couldn’t help but grin at that. “Oh, he’s amazing with her. You should see him—he sings to her, reads her little books…” You trailed off, your heart swelling as you thought about Logan cradling Laura so carefully in his massive arms, his rough hands handling her with a tenderness that never failed to take your breath away.

“Whoa,” Jamie said, clearly stunned. “Mr. Howlett? Singing? That’s…hard to imagine.”

“It’s true!” you said with a laugh. “But don’t tell him I told you. He likes to keep up his ‘tough guy’ image.”

The class dissolved into laughter again, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for their lightheartedness. For a moment, the weight of everything you and Logan had been through felt a little lighter.

“Alright, enough questions,” you said, clapping your hands. “Let’s get back to—”

Before you could finish, the door to the classroom creaked open, and there stood Logan, his towering frame taking up the doorway, an eyebrow raised as he looked around. Laura perked up immediately, letting out an excited babble.

“Doesn’t sound like anyone is learning in here. All I heard was laughter echoing down the hall,” Logan said in his usual gruff tone, his voice cutting through the chatter as he leaned against the doorframe. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away, softening the impact of his words.

“She’s teaching us about Laura!” Sarah defended immediately, her hands thrown in the air like she’d been caught red-handed.

Logan raised a skeptical brow, his arms crossing over his broad chest as he stepped into the classroom. “Yeah? Sounds more like you’re all just nosy.”

The room erupted in laughter, a mix of guilty chuckles and unapologetic grins. Logan made his way to you, his hand finding its way to the small of your back. Laura let out an excited coo from her carrier, tiny hands reaching in the direction of Logan’s voice.

“Alright, which one of you’s been askin’ all the embarrassing questions?” he asked, his gravelly voice layered with mock annoyance, though his hazel eyes gleamed with amusement.

Fiona immediately pointed to Sarah, who gasped in betrayal. “Hey! Everyone’s been asking questions!”

“It’s true,” you admitted with a smirk, leaning slightly into Logan’s side. “You walked in just in time for the chaos.”

“Chaos?” Logan repeated, his lips quirking into a grin as he glanced down at you. “Darlin’ sounds like you’ve lost control of your classroom.”

You nudged him with your elbow, grinning. “I wouldn’t say that. I just know when to pick my battles.”

“She means she gave up,” Sarah chimed in, earning another round of laughter from the class.

Logan snorted, shaking his head. “Sounds about right.” He looked down at Laura, still squirming in her carrier, her little hands stretching toward him. “Alright, kid, what’s all this fuss about?”

“She likes you better,” Fiona blurted out, earning a chorus of agreement from her classmates.

You rolled your eyes, unbuckling the carrier and gently lifting Laura out. “Don’t inflate his ego anymore, guys. It’s already big enough.”

Logan raised a brow, his hands automatically reaching for Laura as you passed her over. She settled into his arms instantly, letting out a contented little sigh that made the entire class melt into a collective “aww.”

“She’s got good taste,” Logan said with a smirk, adjusting her in his arms like a pro. “She knows who the favorite parent is.”

You gasped in mock outrage, placing a hand on your chest. “Excuse me? I’m the one who feeds her and rocks her to sleep at 3 a.m., mister.”

“And I’m the one who changes her diapers,” Logan countered, earning a groan from the students.

“Too much information!” Jamie called from the back, covering his ears dramatically.

Logan chuckled, his rough voice softening as he glanced down at Laura. “Fine, fine. What other questions do you kids have? Let’s get this over with.”

The room practically vibrated with excitement as hands shot into the air. You stifled a laugh, folding your arms as you watched Logan dive into the chaos he claimed to avoid.

“Okay, you,” he said, pointing to Sarah with his free hand. “What’s your question?”

Sarah hesitated for a moment, clearly giddy about being chosen. “Um… is it true you guys are married? Like, actually married?”

Logan raised a brow, glancing over at you. “You wanna take this one, sweetheart?”

You grinned, stepping closer to him. “Yes, Sarah. We’re actually married. It’s not a rumor.”

“Is it weird being married to Mr. Howlett?” Jamie chimed in, clearly emboldened by Sarah’s question.

“Not weird,” you replied with a teasing smile. “But it’s definitely… an adventure.”

“An adventure?” Logan repeated, mock-offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged playfully. “Oh, you know… trying to figure out how to live with someone who’s so grumpy all the time.”

The class erupted into laughter, and Logan shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, try livin’ with someone who steals all the covers.”

“Oh my God, Mrs. Howlett, you do that?!” Fiona gasped, clearly scandalized.

“Allegedly,” you said with a laugh. “Next question!”

“Does Laura have powers?” Jamie asked, his tone more curious this time.

Logan glanced down at Laura, his expression softening. “She’s a little young to tell, but… yeah, she’s got somethin’ special.” He looked at you for permission before continuing. “She’s got a gift for healing. Helps with small cuts and bruises, but it’s not somethin’ she controls yet.”

The students murmured among themselves, clearly intrigued.

“So… she’s like a mini-Wolverine?” Jamie asked, grinning.

“More like a mini-angel,” you corrected, smiling as Logan gave you a knowing look.

“Alright, kids,” Logan said, shifting Laura in his arms. “That’s enough questions for today. Let your teacher get back to whatever it was she was supposed to be teachin’.”

The students groaned in protest, but you clapped your hands. “You heard him! Back to work. Logan, you wanna stick around and help teach?”

Logan smirked, already heading for the door with Laura nestled against his chest. “Nah, I’ll leave the teachin’ to you, darlin’. I got my hands full.”

With that, he was gone, leaving you with a classroom full of students buzzing with excitement—and your own heart full of warmth.

[cherrygirlfriend]

helping hand pairing: pogue!reader x bsf!sarah synopsis: sarah's new boyfriend can't get her off :( but you can :) warnings: smut, drinking, bottom sarah & top reader wc: 2k MDNI! since people keep asking "how can you be a lesbian when you just write for men???" well here damn!!! jk i really just wanted to write for this princess <3

you and sarah had known each other for years, and even though you couldn't seem more different, you were inseparable. everyone thought that sarah was a 'perfect prissy princess', you knew she was just like you. the kook had always been rough around the edges, even if she hid it under expensive clothes and boys she'd date until she got bored of them. meanwhile, you wore your coarse manners right on your sleeve. everyone on figure 8 and the cut alike was confused as to how sarah could be friends with someone like you.

"it's some expensive crap i stole from rose." sarah sighed, throwing down a bottle of red wine on the bed before laying down next to you, the springs off the mattress creaking under her weight as you threw an old playboy magazine you'd stolen from your father onto the floor, grabbing the wine and reading the label.

"chateau lafit- whatthefuck...?" you read with furrowed brows. sarah took a peek at the bottle and let out a small chuckle.

"château lafite-rothschild. year 2017."

"if i can't pronounce it then it's definitely fancy, expensive shit." you chuckled softly, "but you do know that i don't own one of those fancy-ass wine bottle openers? i usually just drink those seven-dollar screw cap ones. ten-dollar if i'm feeling fancy."

"of course. that's why i brought this." the blonde held up a wine bottle opener with a smirk, proceeding to open the contraption like she'd done it a hundred times before.

the two of you proceeded to pass around the bottle of wine, drinking straight out of the bottle as the two of you were talking, and you tried your best to tune out the annoyance you felt when sarah was ranting about some guy she had been seeing, staring up at the band posters hung up on your wall. you told yourself that it wasn't jealousy, that you were just irritated she was focusing on some guy instead of talking about something actually interesting. you'd always been good at lying to yourself.

but then, she said something that piqued your interest.

"i mean, he can't even get me to come!" sarah exclaimed, taking a swig out of the bottle of wine in irritation.

"really?" you raised your brows with a small chuckle.

"half the time he doesn't even know where my clit is."

you let out a snort, grabbing the bottle of wine from her and taking a swig; you were never too into red wine, but whatever swanky shit she had taken from rose was actually good, sarah's cherry-flavored lipgloss staining the lip of the bottle, making you imagine how it'd be like to taste it from her full lips, your eyes drifting from her brown ones down to the lips you'd dreamt of multiple times, wondering how they'd feel, how much you wanted to have your lips pressed against hers, to tease her mouth open with your tongue.

"it's not funny!" sarah's lips formed those words, yet she started laughing, revealing her teeth that you'd wanted her to sink into your skin while your fingers-

you shook the thoughts out of your head and snorted once again, "you should break up with him. or get used to never getting off by another person again."

"i'd feel bad breaking up because of sexual compatibility."

"sarah, you broke up with a guy because he wore 'weird socks'. which, by the way, i do." you pointed to your feet, adorned in blue socks that were decorated with spongebobs.

"when you do it, it's cute. when a guy does it, it's... eugh."

"maybe you just think i'm cute." you grinned, taking another swig out of the bottle before passing it to the blonde who simply rolled her eyes and took a large swig before passing it back. drinking with sarah was always the worst; it always made you focus on her lips, on the way her neck bobbed when she swallowed, how the more she drank, a small drop of the alcohol would stay on her lips, the girl swiping it away with her finger and making it disappear by sucking the tip of her finger into her mouth.

"could be." sarah grinned, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "i've always thought that if i was gonna be with a girl it'd be you."

you nearly choked on the expensive wine as you heard the blonde say that, coughing and sputtering as you looked at the amused smile that took over her lips at your reaction, the girl biting down on her lower lip.

"you know, i'd totally be down," you put the bottle on your nightstand, narrowing your eyes and cocking your head to the side, "but you couldn't handle me." you said in a challenging tone, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

"oh, yeah?" sarah said, leaning closer to you, pressing her cleavage together with her arms, and you weren't completely sure if she was doing it intentionally or not. "why do you figure?"

you brought your finger to her chin, pulling her even closer until her lips were only a breath away from yours, slowly letting your hand travel down her neck, feeling her pounding heart under your fingertips. "because the moment i touch you..." you whisper, pressing a featherlight peck on her lips, "you're gonna unravel."

sarah's pupils were blown wide, flickering between your eyes and your lips, the girl letting out a warm breath, her hand going to rest on your jaw "i bet i won't."

you pressed your lips on hers, hungrily, like you'd die of starvation if you didn't devour her right in that spot. one of your hands went to her waist, tugging her closer to you, while the other one tangled into her blonde hair.

it felt as if time stopped as your tongues danced, the girl tasting of the red wine you'd shared and the remnants of her cherry lip gloss, your layers of clothing slowly disappearing while the two of you were tangled into one another until you were both in your underwear, your lips trailing down her neck to her collarbone as your hand was kneading her breast through her lacy bra, sarah letting out soft whimpers, once that you'd spent so long wondering what they sounded like.

your lips pressed kisses on her chest, sarah's head thrown back as you mumbled against the flesh of her breast, "can i take this off?" your fingers trailing over the lace of her bra, goosebumps appearing on her soft skin.

"mmhm. yeah." the girl hummed, and you could feel her heart racing against your hand as you unclasped her bra, sliding it down her arms painfully slowly before discarding it on the floor, looking at her bared breasts with your bottom lip between your teeth to stop yourself from letting out a moan. slowly, you brought your lips down to her nipple, rolling your tongue around it and listening to the pretty noises sarah was letting out, pressing a gentle kiss on the hardened bud before sucking it into your mouth, twirling your tongue around it while your other hand's fingers pinched her other nipple, sarah letting out moans that had you soaking. "oh, f-fuck…"

you hummed against her nipple, sending vibrations down her body, before you let it out of your mouth with a wet pop, smirking at how unraveled sarah already looked under you, her eyes hazy as she looked at you. settling yourself between her legs, you looked down at the wet patch on her red, lacy panties, making you hungry. you pressed your thumb at her puffy clit, rolling it through her panties. "you want me to take these off?"

"mmhm…" sarah mumbled, biting down on her lower lip.

"yeah?" you let out a teasing chuckle, adding pressure onto your thumb as you rolled it over her clothed clit, "how badly?"

"ugh, please…" she groaned, "please, just take 'em off."

you let out another chuckle, "so desperate for me." but you still hooked your fingers around the waistband of her panties, sarah lifting up her hips to help you take them off, and you slowly slid them down her legs. instead of throwing the pair on the floor with the rest of your clothes, you placed it in your nightstand drawer, "i'm keeping those."

you spread her legs even further, settling yourself back between them as you looked down at her pussy, glistening with her arousal. you gave her puffy clit a flick, causing the girl's back to arch on the bed, "please..." she mumbled, making you let out a small chuckle.

"i wanna taste you..." you spoke softly as you moved to lay on your stomach, sarah lifting up her head to look at you as you hook your arms under her thighs.

you licked a stripe up her wet slit, letting a moan against her cunt; you'd spent so many nights imagining how it might feel, how she might taste, involuntarily rutting your hips against the bed for some friction, your grasp on her thighs tightening as you sucked on her puffy clit. in reality; none of your fantasies matched up to the real thing. you were completely lost in her, only caring about the pretty noises leaving sarah's lips, the breathy moans, your name turning high-pitched when you touched her just right.

you brought your ringed fingers to her entrance, the girl so slick with arousal that your middle- and ring fingers slid into her like a dream, sarah clenching around your digits, "so fucking wet f'me, hm?" you chuckled against her clit as you stilled your fingers inside of sarah, her back arching off the bed, "you're the best thing i've ever tasted, i swear..."

"please..." she whined, and you slowly started pumping your long fingers in and out of her, your other hand holding onto her thigh so tightly you were sure it'd leave a mark shaped like your hand as you continued flicking her clit with your tongue, moving your fingers in and out of her, arching inside of her until you felt your fingers bump against the spongy spot inside of her, sarah's legs starting to twitch, the girl involuntarily trying to close them as soon as you did.

you let out a chuckle, now continuing to move with more purpose and confidence, arching your fingers as her walls slowly clenched around you, looking up to see the girl's face twisted in bliss before bringing your lips back to her clit, grinding your hips against your mattress, letting out a moan that vibrated throughout your best friend's body.

feeling her hand twisting in your hair, softly tugging told you enough, causing you to slightly pick up your pace as sarah stuttered "i-i'm c-c-"

"shhh..." you mumbled against her clit, "just let it happen... so good f'me..."

you continued moving your fingers inside of sarah until the girl let out a loud moan of your name, arching her back off the bed, her walls clenching around your fingers so tightly it felt like she had imprisoned them inside of her. you slowed down your movements but didn't halt them, wanting the girl to be able to come down from her high before you did, and once the pulsing around your fingers slowed down, you pulled your soaked fingers out of sarah, wrinkled from how aroused she'd been, letting go of her clit with a small pop, pressing a soft peck on it.

you kissed your way up her stomach, leaving small, wet prints on her tanned skin until you were face-to-face with her, sarah looking at you dazedly as you smiled and let out a small chuckle, a gesture that she returned almost immediately, the sides of your noses bumping together when you slowly brought your lips to hers, and unlike your first kiss, this one was soft, tender, and slow.

"so." you spoke against her lips, looking into her dark eyes, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "did i unravel you? or do i need to do that again?"

"you did..." sarah mumbled breathlessly looking at you behind her half-lidded eyes, "but i wouldn't say no to you unraveling me again."

[villainbait]

Lost and Found

Pairing: Sukuna x reader | Sukuna x genderless reader Rating: 16+ Tags: brief gore mention, canon sukuna behavior, angst, thriller, horror if you squint, drama, reincarnation, Summary: "I will find you." In your past life, you were Sukuna's jailer. In this one, you're simply an office worker hoping the King of Curses has simply forgotten you. Word Count: 750~ A/N: Sorry for the Sukuna jumpscare? I feel like most of you follow me for Sylus/LADS content, but I wrote this drabble as a warm up. ♥

“Hey, did you hear?” 

You half tune out the notorious office gossip, though you’d be lying if you didn’t sometimes enjoy hearing the petty drama happening within jujutsu society. The two in suits next to you were hardly attempting to keep their voices down, anyway. 

“The King of Curses is back.” 

You choke on your food. 

“Yeah man, he manifested after a thousand years inside some pink haired high school kid. Kid isn’t even a sorcerer, everyone’s shocked he didn’t die.” You took a chance and peeked at the guy sharing the gossip just in time to see him look disgusted. “I heard he actually ate the finger. What kind of psychopath just eats a cursed object, sorcerer or not?”  

Unbidden, a memory surfaced. 

“I will always find you, in every life if I must.” His four hands wrap around the bars despite the barrier and you feel the cursed energy keeping him confined shudder, but the wards hold fast as he slams himself against his cage. “You cannot escape me.”

The threat rings in your head like it was uttered yesterday, instead of a thousand years ago. 

“Get this, rumor is kid can control him.” 

You can’t help the dry snort of laughter that makes them look at you strangely but you ignore them and take a bite of your food that suddenly tastes like sandpaper as you fight the bubbling panic. 

The thought of your life being in the hands of a teenager’s control didn’t comfort you. You pulled out your phone and thumbed through your contacts, your finger hovering over Gojo Satoru’s number. Even if the head of the Gojo clan did answer your unknown call (unlikely), he was so lackadaisical that you had little hope of him taking you seriously at all.

The rest of the day ends in a blur of boring meetings and other tedious jobs that are handed down to worker bees like you and your other coworkers. Once or twice you were reprimanded by your superior for your lack of attention, but the conversation kept replaying that you had overheard at lunch; distracting you.

You tried to console yourself with the thought that Sukuna might have forgotten you, knowing full well he would never forget his gaoler. As you made your way to the train station, your anxiety eased with the realization that he didn’t know what you looked like in this century. You were lucky to have been reincarnated with a face that did not look like the original one you wore when you had met Ryomen Sukuna a thousand years ago when you had imprisoned him.

With his threat still ringing faintly in your ears, you stepped up to the yellow line and waited; your mind adrift as another long forgotten memory swirled beneath the surface.

His breath feathers across your ear and you shudder. “Beg me,” he murmurs, clawed fingertips raking across your stomach with a deceptively delicate touch. He could slice right through you, and you both knew it. “Beg me to save you.” 

“Sukuna,” you whispered his name with reverence and heard his breath catch from behind you. “Sukuna please, they’re coming.” 

“I’ll hear your explanation after,” he hissed and released you abruptly, joy splashing across his face at the prospect of a fight. It’s over before it had a chance to begin, the group of Heian sorcerers reduced to mere ribbons of flesh piled neatly on the ground. In an odd twist of fate, they had been hunting you, not Sukuna and he wanted to know why. It was clear you had intrigued him. 

“Weak.” Condescension drips from his tone, clearly unimpressed by their prowess and power. He flicks the remnants of flesh and blood from his fingers as if such filth is not worthy to touch his skin. 

He stalks towards you with the lazy ease of a prowling beast and you desperately want to run again. Not that you’d make it a single step, so you don’t even try. He reaches for you–

The announcement snaps you out of your thoughts as you’re pushed towards the entrance of the train.

“Rapid train bound for Shinjuku will be arriving at platform 3 shortly. Please stand back behind the yellow line and wait.”

Little did you know as you boarded the train, a certain pink-haired young man had been standing four rows down, staring curiously at you the entire time as a certain curse sweetly whispered convincingly to him.

[thelesbianluthor]

I know some people think that Emily's desire to play another character instead of Fig was the reason why she was so all over the place and lost, especially in the first half of JY.

But I honestly feel like her arc was actually incredibly needed and necessary to close her character evolution in a satisfying way. (While still leaving open doors for possible future plots with the Dawn and Sandra Lynn stuff)

Fig has been struggling to find herself since the first moment. She has had to come to terms with being a completely different race than what she thought before and deal with all the consequences of that. She had to grow out of the toxic habits that were born out of her deeply rooted insecurities that finding out about her identity and lineage caused. She had to learn to be kinder to herself. I love sophomore year, it's my favorite season for so many reasons, but I feel like Fig's arc in JY was actually her best one.

Fig being so lonely at the start of the show and her innate devotion made her becoming so focused on holding others' needs over her own an inevitability. She was always aimlessly moving through life, so talented and gifted in many ways but with no real purpose outside of being the protector.

The way JY explored her struggles with introspection and her need to devote herself to others to such an extent that she ignored a curse on herself for far too long was beautiful.

Finding Ankarna, becoming a paladin of dawn and justice and coming to a point where she could let herself choose what felt right instead of what her friends needed was incredible to watch.

I feel like Junior Year gets a lot of criticism because the overall vibe from the IH was lighter and they were having a lot of fun throughout, but the story of the season was actually beautiful to me and the overall character work was so interesting.

[shigarosie]

Butterfly, Fly Away (part one)

Aizawa feels out of breath. Despite the fact that he drove to the daycare center, it feels like he ran the whole way. He doesn’t run inside, but he does do an awkward half jog to get in there quickly without looking like some sort of lunatic. 

The room, as expected, is a disaster. Kids are crying. Drawings have been torn up and thrown around, chairs have been overturned. Eri is at the center of it all, with an uninterrupted scream at the top of her lungs that he’s sure has lasted at least a full minute by the way her red face is slowly starting to show hints of purple. 

Eri has been kicked out of another daycare. 

She skips alongside him merrily as he walks back to the car with him, her little purple bag in one hand while the other holds her own pudgy little palm. You would think that she was a perfectly well behaved little angel if you saw her now, no traces left of her hurricane of an outburst mere minutes ago. 

There was a familiar throbbing pain forming like a tight band around his skull. 

Once they were in the car, Eri kicking her feet in her carseat and playing with the straps of her bag, Aizawa couldn’t help but spare glances at her in the rearview mirror when he stopped at all the stop signs on the way back to the high school. His daughter was the best, most important thing in his life. He loved her more than anything, no matter what. He just didn’t know what to do with her anymore. 

As he parked in his designated spot, five minutes left of his lunch break, Eri hurriedly tried to unbuckled her carseat before Aizawa could get to her. It was a game she liked to play, despite the fact that her clumsy fingers hadn’t yet grown strong enough to fully press the big red button that released the clips. But Aizawa didn’t get out of the car to come around and unbuckle her yet. 

“Hurry daddy!” she taunts, grunting as her fingers slip as they always do. “I’m gonna beat you this time!” 

“What happened, Eri?”

She paused, looking up at him with those eyes that look almost too big for her head in the sweetest way. She looked unphased. Unashamed, unapologetic. 

“I didn’t like it there,” was the simple answer she gave. “Daycare is stupid.” 

“But honey,” he sighed, “you know that you have to go. And don’t use the word stupid, please.” 

The little girl starts to shift uncomfortably in her seat, no longer trying to unbuckle her restrictive straps, but attempting to pull them down her shoulders instead. 

“Why?” she asks, an edge beginning to form where a smooth curve used to exist in her voice. “Why can’t I just come with you to big kid school?” 

“Because next year you’ll have to start going to kindergarten, so you can learn new things and make friends. I won’t be able to just drop everything and come get you. Instead you’ll be forced to either sit in your classroom or sit in the principal’s office for hours until big kid school is done.”

Eri slumps in her seat. The tears are welling in her eyes and Aizawa has to look above her head in order to keep talking with her. 

“This is the fourth daycare you’ve been kicked out of, honey. That’s not good.”

Eri turns her face away. “Guess you’ll have to maybe take me to a new one then,” she says. 

“I can’t.” At this she perks up, catching the feeling of excitement in those little hands of hers before it slips from her grasp and runs off when she sees her dad do that thing where he drags his hand down the entirety of his face and then rubs at his scruffy jaw. “This was the last daycare in our area that I can afford. No more daycares.”

“So I’ll have to come to school with you now, right?” she asks, hopeful eyes shining with a few embarrassed tears that hadn’t yet gone away. 

Aizawa doesn’t say anything. He gets out of the car, opens her door, and helps her out of her seatbelt. 

“Come on,” he says, holding her bag in one hand and her palm in the other. “Today you get to watch my students take a pop quiz.” 

Class 1-A loves Eri. They love to dote on her, like she’s their princess and they are nothing but her humble servants. They don’t bat an eye when she shows up during the second half of the day anymore, used to their visibly stressed teacher sitting her down with coloring pages and an old cd player (there’s no way in hell he would ever put an ipad in her hands) in a poor attempt at a fort under his desk. They felt bad for him, really, knowing how hard he’s had it since… 

They also like to sneak little snacks and fidget toys to her when he’s not looking. They get passed down the rows of desks like contraband, making a wide loop around the goody-goodies that rat them out. They think they’re helping, really they do. And it’s endearing. But it makes it more difficult for him, in all actuality, when he’s trying to convince Eri that his classroom is not the place for her to be and they’re doing everything to make it friendly for her. They even stopped swearing when Eri made her little visits. (At least, they tried their best.) 

“They’re like her gang of babysitters,” Aizawa explains to Mic as he pulls out a bottle of scotch from the baby proofed cupboard above the fridge and two glasses. Eri had been put to bed an hour prior, after having her bath and getting her hair braided and insisting on TWO stories tonight; one from her dad and one from her godfather. “It just makes her want to be there even more.”

“Maybe that’s what you two need,” Mic says from the sofa, helping himself to some chips and dip. 

“What?”

“You know, a babysitter,” the blond elaborates. “Or a nanny, in this case.”

Aizawa’s brow furrows. His lips turn down. Mic can already tell this is going to take a lot of selling. “What’s the difference?”

“Nannies do more,” Mic says, his mouth partially full. He gave up on manners around Aizawa sometime around… well, they met in middle school, so he probably never had them in the first place. “Babysitters are for, like, date nights and stuff.” 

“I definitely don’t need one of those,” Aizawa grumbles, handing Mic his glass before settling onto the couch himself. 

“Nannies are more long term,” Mic continues, not addressing the comment, “they would stay with her at home the whole day while you work, maybe do some tidying or run some errands for you. It’s like daycare, but more personal and actually not at all like daycare. You just have someone watching your kid all day.” 

Aizawa groans, gulping down most of his drink in one go. “I don’t want some stranger in my house alone with my kid. That sounds terrible.” 

“Man, they call them nanny cams for a reason. And when you use the websites they do background checks.” 

“How do you know so much about nannies?” Aizawa asks suspiciously. Mic had no kids. He had no nieces or nephews. All he had were a bunch of elementary school students singing the same ten annoying songs off key. 

“Remember the lady with the two kids I was hooking up with while they were with their dad? She had a nanny.” 

“And how long after you stopped seeing the mom did you start sleeping with the nanny?” Aizawa asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“Hey, it’s completely a coincidence that I met her nanny out at a bar one night, okay? Swear on my life. Not like I ever met her before then, I never met the kids!” 

“Whatever,” Aizawa says, downing the last of his drink before pouring another. “I’m not getting a nanny.” 

“You at least gotta think about it,” Mic says, “you don’t have many other choices here. Unless you want to call your mom and have her-” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Then I recommend you take the weekend to research nanny websites,” Mic says. “You can’t bring your kid to work with you every day. It’s not good for her. It’s not good for you.” Mic leaves his unfinished drink on the coffee table, knowing Aizawa will just drink the rest himself after he leaves. “I should tuck in for the night. Think about it, alright? And I’m right down the street if you ever need anything. And-” 

“Good night, Mic.” 

“Later.” 

Aizawa stays on the couch, sitting in the same spot, staring at the wall in front of him for an hour before he finally sighs to himself. 

“Don’t have many other choices,” he grumbles as he pulls his laptop out of his work bag and starts his google search, Mic’s unfinished glass of scotch in hand. 

‘best nanny websites’

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Robb I

Previous part, Arya I, here.

x~x~x

Robb was not allowed out riding, or to join his father’s knights and men-at-arms in search of the ruffians who had kidnapped his young half-brothers and dragged them to Winterfell for ransom or worse, which meant he had sought the yard instead. Even that was a mistake. He could not thrash the targets the way he desired to, not with all the curious eyes upon him.

Show anger, and all would know that there was strife between him and his lord father, that the dishonor had caught their family unaware. And while it would be satisfying to express his fury at the depths of his father’s disloyalty, it would draw attention to his mother as well, inviting cruel whispers.

Robb lowered his sword, stepping back from the target. He exchanged it for his bow, and although the rhythm—draw, aim, release—stilled his thoughts for a short time, they wandered instead to Bran’s excitement when he had found Robb and Jon in the yard that afternoon, touting his discovery.

It seemed a lifetime ago, rather than mere hours. A part of him had known from the moment he laid eyes upon the boys, the dark-haired twin so alike Jon that it had felt like staring at his brother from across the span of five years. Jon’s own shock had been little comfort.

The rumors had not reached his mother before Robb did, after his father’s curt dismissal, and he had been faced with an impossible choice: let her learn of her husband’s betrayal through the whispers of her ladies or break the news himself as gently as he could.

I do not know for certain, he had told her, still fostering the faintest hope that there might be another explanation, but she had paled nonetheless, her attempt at masking her heartbreak to spare him all the more painful.

She loves him. She has always loved him. Robb had thought the same true of his father, and he did not know how much it would hurt to learn otherwise. That Jon’s mother had not been the tryst of a man who thought he might die in battle, but a bed he eagerly sought out the next time fate took him south for war.

Robb lowered his bow, the arrows of his quiver spent, and stared at the distant target, flickering in the torchlight. For once, he was glad that Theon was nowhere to be seen. His friend would have nothing but crude japes, and Robb was in no mood for such.

He desired answers.

His feet took him past Sansa’s room, where he had gently guided her after supper and promised her, with a kiss to the hair, that things would seem less bleak in the morning. Then past his father’s solar, where he could see the glow of light escaping from the crack beneath the door.

Hiding away, like a coward. It was not how he would ever have described his father before today, but there was no other way of putting it. If he is not begging Mother’s forgiveness, then he should be comforting the terrified children whose dishonorable birth turned them into pawns.

Robb paused outside Jon’s door, then rapped lightly with his knuckles. A few moments passed before the door opened, and it was not Jon who he found himself staring at, but rather his smaller counterpart. Willam, Robb reminded himself.

“Would you like to come in?” Willam asked, gazing at him with such raw longing that Robb found himself torn between tenderness and fresh fury.

Did Father even look in upon them since hiding them away in Jon’s chamber? A glance past him revealed no Jon. His twin sat on the bed, his gaze at Robb more wary, and telltale plates from the kitchen were stacked on the small table in the corner of the room. Their supper, taken alone to spare the family further shame today, when it was their father who should be shouldering its brunt.

His little half-brothers were innocent in this. Had they even known of their origins? They had the bearing of highborn children, but none of Jon’s quiet acceptance of his lesser standing.

“Yes,” Robb said, realizing he had not answered. He stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him, and found that the other child had risen to his feet, though he maintained his distance. “I—” Has Father even told them of their siblings? “I am your half-brother, Robb.”

The boys reintroduced themselves, Willam tripping over his own name. Robb wondered whether their mother had knowingly named another son after her first. Or was Jon’s name of their father’s choosing?

Now that he was in the room with them, Robb did not know what to say. His gaze kept straying to Raymar, who was as unalike his trueborn siblings as Ghost was to his littermates, as though their birth had split them between each parent.

That is what she looked like, then. The woman he traded his honor for. Pale hair, silver as the moon’s glow through the window, his eyes an unnatural violet. They both shared Jon’s slighter build, which must have come from her as well.

A foreign woman, with that kind of coloring. A courtesan, perhaps. That was the fancy name they gave their whores across the Narrow Sea, and bravos fought for the honor of bedding them. But where had his father stumbled across her?

He had been silent for too long, Robb realized. He did not know what to say to them. “Where is Jon?”

“He went to take Ghost back to the kennels.”

“Oh.” He felt almost numb, staring into the face of a strange child who looked like his brother, and another who looked like betrayal. “How are you faring? Did your captors harm you?”

There were no obvious bruises or cuts upon them, but then, his father had said that their captors had dosed them with dreamwine. The twins assured him, however, that they had been unharmed—unbound, even.

“He said that if either of us caused trouble, he would hurt the other.” It was the first Raymar had spoken since introducing himself, his expression haunted. Willam too had tensed, watching his twin with obvious upset.

I should not have asked, Robb thought, chagrined. Not when they have yet to sleep. These are questions for morning.

“Father’s men will find him,” he said, offering his best reassuring smile, but it did little to ease their distress. In fact, both seemed on the verge of tears now, and he stood helplessly. If it were either Bran or Arya, I would go to them. Comfort them.

But the circumstances of their relation held him back. They did not know him, he reminded himself. It was not the same as Father abandoning them with Jon, all of them tied fully by blood.

Jon’s return caught them all off guard, his brother quiet as his direwolf pup as he slipped back into the room. He halted in place as he marked Robb’s presence, and they stared at one another for what felt like an age. There was no hiding from Jon, or Jon from him.

What hurt was the wariness, as though his brother was expecting Robb to lash out at him, when he had always strived to intervene whenever Jon happened to draw his mother’s ire. And what cut even deeper was the way his brother’s eyes narrowed as they fell upon the twins.

Jon rushed over to them, then turned back to Robb. “What did you say to them?”

“Nothing,” he replied, unclenching his fists. “We greeted one another, and I assured them that whoever kidnapped them would face justice.”

“Is that why you came at this hour?”

“I came to see how you and our new brothers were faring,” Robb said defensively, but he knew it to be a lie when he spoke it, and by the tightening of his mouth, Jon did as well. “What did Father tell you?”

“About my dead mother?” Raymar flinched, and his twin’s hand grabbed for his, but Jon did not seem to have noticed, his gaze locked on Robb. “What business is it of yours?”

Jon did not often snap at him, and he felt himself bristle in response. “It is my mother who was dishonored by their actions.”

His brother regarded him coldly. “She was beautiful, born to a noble house of Lys, and Father swore beneath the weirwood tree that he loved her.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Robb’s fists clenched again, denial rising in his throat, hot and ugly. “Whatever love he had was for her cunt, or he would not have left every time he stuck a bastard in her belly.”

His vision whitened as Jon slammed him into the door, knocking his head back against it. He could taste blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut into cheek, and it did not matter that he had deliberately provoked his brother, all he could feel was a betrayal that quickly soured to anger.

“I do not care how beautiful her face, but how rotten her heart,” he said, ignoring the glitter of his brother’s eyes as his grip tightened around the fistful of tunic he had grabbed. “She knew of his marriage and still enticed him into her bed. A woman can be highborn and yet a whore.”

Jon’s right hand drew back, and Robb could feel his brother quivering from the effort of refraining from punching him, so he stared back in challenge, inviting it without knowing why. Let him prove himself to be what all bastards are, said an ugly voice that sounded like his mother. But he also longed for a scrap, to throw his fury at someone if it could not be his father.

The castle itself rattled then, a rumble of what sounded like thunder resonating deep within his chest. But the night is clear, he thought in confusion. Jon took a step back from him, the tense moment broken, his expression equally confused.

He became aware then of one of the twins speaking in a foreign tongue. Valyrian, he assumed, gazing past Jon to find Willam speaking frantically as he held back his fiercely struggling brother, who was staring death at Robb even as tears streamed down his face.

It is their mother too. His anger abandoned him, taking its short-lived respite with it and leaving Robb with a fresh guilt atop the hurt that ached within him.

The castle rattled again, the thunder more distant this time. An apology danced along the tip of his tongue, but he could not force it out.

“Just go, Stark,” Jon said, releasing him. His jaw worked a moment, then he turned his back on Robb, steps quick as he closed the distance to the twins and wrapped his brothers both in a tight embrace. His true brothers.

More words caught in Robb’s mouth, some remorseful and others not. Misery rose in his throat, bitter like dandelion tea, and he swallowed it, feeling worse now, with more answers, than he had before foolishly deciding to come here.

Robb left, closing the door quietly behind him, and stood in the hall for a time, staring at the opposite wall. He could hear crying in the other room, soft and pitiable. Father’s doing, he told himself, but it rang hollow. A few minutes passed, Jon’s voice muffled but audible as he spoke to the twins, and Robb awaited another roll of thunder that never came.

Finally he left, mumbling something he could not recall to Cayn when the guardsman’s patrol crossed his path back to his bedchamber. His nerves danced with the need for action, and he desired nothing more than to court his father’s displeasure by slipping out to the stables. He could claim a horse and ride into the wolfswood—find the men in search of the twins’ kidnapper and join their efforts.

But his mother would need him, and Sansa too, so he stared at the ceiling instead and settled into a long, sleepless wait for dawn.

[hiddenonyx]

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.

[mrs-stans]

Inside Sebastian Stan’s Winning Look at the Golden Globes 2025

With help from Frank Sinatra and hopes of a postshow burger, the Prada- and Cartier-clad Stan prepared for his first major awards show victory.

BY SAVANNAH WALSH

Sebastian Stan entered the Golden Globes 2025 with two chances at winning—nominated for both his portrayal of Donald Trump in The Apprenticeand his more comedic performance as Edward, an aspiring actor living with neurofibromatosis, in A Different Man. But in the lead-up to his big night, Stan was eager to put his double nominations into perspective, instead focusing on what he could control: a hearty postceremony meal. “You always read about people having burgers or somethingafter these award shows,” he told Vanity Fair.“I mean, that sounds kind of nice, to be honest.”

A celebratory nosh was well-earned by Stan, who won best actor in a musical-or-comedy film, his first-ever Golden Globe. After thanking A Different Man filmmaker Aaron Schimberg and his costar Adam Pearson,who has the genetic condition neurofibromatosis in real life, Stan advocated for more inclusive narratives onscreen. “Our ignorance and discomfort around disability and disfigurement has to end now,” he said. “We have to normalize it and continue to expose ourselves [and our children] to it. Encourage acceptance.”

A Different Man languished for two years before it debuted at the Sundance Film Festival, and the A24 movie later landed Stan the Silver Bear for best lead performance in Berlin. But The Apprentice, directed by Ali Abbasi and written by Vanity Fair special correspondent Gabriel Sherman, also endured a beleaguered road to distribution in the weeks before the 2024 presidential election. “Both of these films started out as major risks,” Stan told VF shortly before the Globes. As such, he’s not taking any of the recent accolades for granted.

“I feel very blessed that I have good people around me, friends who I’ve had for 20 years at this point, who remember as much as I do what it was like to be in New York City and going out to auditions and not getting it,” said Stan. “Even my mother, who has been with me over the holidays, I was growing up with her in Vienna, Austria, and not even really knowing that I was going to get to America. So when I think about those moments,” he continued, “I’m immediately humbled and on the ground. Because even as it is currently, without anything happening on Sunday, it already feels like such a win.” Stan dedicated the award to his mother and stepfather during his acceptance speech, also taking the time to profess his love to his girlfriend, actor Annabelle Wallis.

Stan spent hours in prosthetics for both A Different Man and The Apprentice, getting comfortable with a bit of metamorphosis. “I kind of liken it, for better or worse, to being in a relationship,” he said of transitioning back to himself postproduction. “I always remember somebody telling me, ‘However long you’ve been with somebody in a relationship, take away half the time, and that’s how long it’s going to take for you to get over them when you break up.’ It’s a little bit like that. It doesn’t just go away suddenly, I guess. There’s a process…that happens with it. It’s sort of a slow, gradual disconnection.”

But does Stan find it harder to disappear into a character or present as himself at an awards show? “That’s a very good question,” he said with a laugh. “Sometimes it’s easier transforming into a role…. Being yourself at an award show, it can be quite tricky, because I’m not going to an award show [thinking], Oh, I’m a funny, interesting guy. I’m feeling self-conscious.”

Nevertheless, Stan was excited to venture beyond his comfort zone in custom Prada. “It’s really fun and different, and it’s something I’ve never really worn before,” he said, crediting stylist Michael Fisher with steering him toward a different era in Hollywood. “You get romantic sometimes when you see clips in black and white of the Oscars and how people dressed up. So I think I’m more old school like that in my mindset rather than, Hey, let me take a crazy swing on this red carpet. Even though, once in a while, Michael has definitely had me in pink.” This time, though, Stan opted for a black mohair coat and trouser with contrasting white piping detail, paired with a black knit wool sweater and white poplin shirt, plus black brushed-leather lace-ups.

The “timeless and classic” vibe continued with Cartier accessories, including a [Sur]naturel transformable brooch made of 18k white gold, diamonds, and black lacquer, as well as a 1968 CartierCollection wristwatch made of 18k yellow gold, sapphire cabochon, and leather. This collaboration marked a full-circle moment for Stan, who fondly remembers wearing Cartier at May’s Cannes Film Festival, where The Apprentice premiered.

Stan’s vintage-Hollywood vision also extended to his pre-Globes playlist. “I don’t mind a little Frank Sinatra,” he told VF. “We’re going to be getting ready at the Hotel Bel-Air, and that hotel itself has such history and that Old Hollywood classic style. I might be playing some ’20s or ’30s music, something that will at least keep me under the illusion that I’m in a different time, because it does feel like a different time.”

As for grooming, Stan said that with age, he’s embraced more facial hair. “I used to be more clean-shaven when I was younger, but it also depends on what I’m working on at the time,” he said. “A lot of how I was looking this year was informed by the fact that I was shooting Thunderbolts, so there was not much I could do. Even with the hair, I don’t always want everything to be perfect or slick. Maybe that just reflects my attitude in terms of staying flexible in the moment with these things—to go, All right, keep it loose and keep it fun.”

Stan never dreamed that A Different Man and The Apprentice would debut in the same year, but they have been in conversation with each other this awards season by virtue of his involvement. “Both films, to me, are about the loss of identity and the loss of self, and to some extent denial of reality and denial of self-acceptance,” said the actor. “Both of the films focus in different ways on characters that go to great lengths to abandon their true selves.”

Stan’s searching, self-conscious characters in the two films meet ego-driven fates. Edward is “obsessed with what he doesn’t have, and then he spends the rest of the film trying to deal with the shame that he’s buried, the shame that he’s never really accepted himself,” said Stan. “Then the Trump story is very obvious to me—it’s a total loss of humanity, empathy and vulnerability, and any morals, sort of at the hands of this very self-indulgent, self-narcissistic way of life. It’s also about how far one can go to deny the truth, deny reality, and lose humanity as a cost.”

Stan’s performance in The Apprentice, which was bested by Adrien Brody’s in The Brutalistfor best male actor in a drama film, has faced a particular uphill battle given the utter Trump fatigue in many circles. “Trump is part of our lives. It’s inevitable that we’re talking about him. You go to a coffee shop, and someone’s talking about him; you open your phone, the news, whatever—he’s everywhere, even in the award season,” says Stan, who believes his film will stand the test of time for boldly “challenging, or at least the attempt was to challenge, history as it’s happening rather than waiting.”

With Trump’s second election to the presidency, it feels as if perception of The Apprentice has shifted, as evidenced by its awards season embrace so far. (Stan is also nominated at the upcoming Independent Spirit Awards.) Would that be the case had Trump been defeated? “I don’t know if I know the answer yet to that,” said Stan. “We’re all still trying to figure out how to feel, or to think, about the election and what happened and the next four years.”

In the days before his first Golden Globe victory, which involved a lively backstage reunion with his frequent Marvel costar Anthony Mackie, Stan was similarly open-minded about what’s next. “[In] Eastern Europe, we grow up with a lot of superstitions,” he said. “But this year I just basically surrendered to whatever’s going to happen. Wherever this wild sort of ride I’m on is taking me, I’m just going to kind of follow and really try to be in the moment as much as possible.”

[homestuckreplay]

has anyone else noticed that homestuck is getting kinda long?

(page 1145-1148; some thoughts on pacing and accessibility)

Jade’s bass playing to grow or move the lilypads works, and was well foreshadowed – in addition to both her bass playing pages where the garden atrium grows because of the amp in there (p.822, 1026), Jade captchalogues the bass (p.823) and the narration specifically notes ‘You take the PORTABLE AMP from the WALL SOCKET too.’ It feels like Act 3 has been entirely leading up to Jade entering these ruins.

In ‘[S] Jade: Pester John’ (p.1073), Bec guards the mystic ruins on Jade’s island, and a glowing white spirograph in the ‘same’ location mapped onto Prospit. So it’s a fair guess that the white spirograph was also present on ancient Earth, and may have been the cause of the ruins’ construction. And that means it might still be within the ruins, and could act as a portal to Skaia, which would allow Jade to go there while she’s awake. If she did that, could she travel to Prospit and find her own dream self? Or is her dream self only present on Prospit when her waking self is asleep? Either way, I think these ruins will be Jade’s backdoor into Sburb.

I love all three of these Jade pages for the visuals – 1145 because it’s cool when two panels match up into one bigger one (and interesting to think about why this was chosen instead of one bigger panel – maybe because one is Jade and one is the amp, and they’re two separate focal points?) and 1146 because Jade imagining herself as a frog as she jumps over lilypads is so fun and silly. I checked Wikifur and apparently amphibians such as frogs are classified under scalies, which is different to her interest in a ‘proud snout’, ‘the hunt’ and ‘claiming the night’ (p.797) but still fits with her desire for ‘a more visceral sapience’ and escaping the confines of humanity. So I feel like Jade doesn’t have one specific fursona, and wants to keep her options open with different animals.

And 1147 is just incredible – the glowing green symbols look like something from a hacker movie, like Jade’s entering a digital space, but at the same time we know this is physical stone and ancient hieroglyphs. Those things being meshed is very cool to me, and it makes me wonder just how much of all human technology was originally from Skaia. The mesmerizing soft glow gives the page a dreamlike quality, a reminder that Jade doesn’t have a plan, she’s just following instructions from her dreams and acting on faith.

John told Dave ‘i think you should use your copy of the game to help [rose]!’ on page 294, and it has taken 854 pages and over half a year in real time for him to install the game and help, but they are finally making this transpire. I was saying yesterday how Jade challenges Rose, and today I’m saying that Dave doesn’t challenge Rose at all. They have great banter, but Rose always has a leg up on it – and I think she types and/or thinks faster too, as she gets in her ‘Go on.’ before Dave can finish his ‘where making this’ sentence, when usually he’s the one to send a bunch of messages in a row.

Here’s the thing. I am speaking directly to Rose Lalonde here. Hi Rose, I understand that your house is burning down and things suck right now and you should not have to be the person who has to micromanage all your friends and deal with this entire situation alone. However. You are being dumb as shit by not giving Dave some basic instructions on exactly what to do the second he loads the game. You know that kid is not gonna read your GameFAQs. You know he can dish out those giant long monologues but he cannot take them. Please Rose, for your own safety and possibly the future of humanity or something, give the guy like three bullet points.

...no? Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff reference instead? Okay then.

This update also comes with a newspost, which I’m going to quote in full below.

That's my cue to disappear. Time for me to vanish into the animation abyss for a while. Let's give it a week, tops. If you're one of those people who has trouble keeping up with all the updates I bury you with, maybe now's a good time to catch up. And if you're one of those people who's finding everything going on in the story to be somewhat confusing and overwhelming, then maybe now is a good time to go back and reread it all. I'm pretty sure about 95% of all MSPA readers huddle somewhere beneath this umbrella. (/news 8 January 2010)

I have been thinking about the update frequency, and thought I was projecting because I definitely put an above average amount of time into Homestuck, but maybe this is a bigger issue. People only have so much time in the day, but some people do have more time than others. Relative to other webcomics, Homestuck asks readers to put a lot more time into it, a lot more frequently – both because the updates come fast and because the story is complex. It rewards people who do put a lot of time into it, because the small details, patterns and parallels, time loops, etymologies, and opportunities to predict and even influence (via user commands) the story encourage people to stay up to date, to read closely and reread often. The more effort you put into reading Homestuck, the more you get out of it, and that’s incredible, but it’s definitely made by and for people who have a lot of leisure time. So, young middle class people, especially teenagers and college students who don’t need jobs, and people who are socially isolated for whatever reason, will be way overrepresented. (I do this project because I love it and I do it by choice, but balancing this with work and school and relationships and my other major hobby is not easy especially with what’s felt like a recent increase in update frequency!)

This quality also makes it more competitive with other webcomics – someone might have time to keep up with, say, 20 webcomics that post a once per day or three times a week strip that stands alone or is part of a relatively simple story. If that person wants to follow Homestuck, they might have to drop down to 15 or even 10 other comics, because this one takes up such a disproportionate amount of space. This idea of creators putting out constant content to stay afloat on a transient internet, such that it could be a full time job to keep up with it (and sometimes is – there’s franchises that have in-house lore experts because creators themselves struggle to keep track of stories) will become huge in the future. And when we can all only pick a couple pieces of media to stay up to date with, life gets harder for smaller, newer and part time creators, who can’t provide that yet. And yeah I’m probably part of that problem.

I might also disappear for a few days to work on end of act 3 stuff! or I might not! if I have anything to say in the meantime or any fun asks then I will post. but at the absolute latest I will post on the day EOA3 drops and if I don’t do that then send an ambulance to my house.

> John: Ascend to First Gate.

[asocial-lobster]

What We Leave Behind

Everyone leaves something behind. Sky knows this better than most. He has left eight amazing brothers behind in favor of going home to his own era.

Or perhaps it was them who left him?

There is a vacuum in his life. A certain chill to the air in his lungs, unspoken jokes bubbling painfully in his chest. Sky has known a lot of grief in his short life, and he recognizes this feeling for what it is: love turned lonely.

His brothers have not just left emptiness behind, though. It is Zelda who points it out first: Sky has begun wearing his sailcloth like Warriors carries his scarf. He scratches his neck like Hyrule when he is nervous, and his words are thoughtful and mature like Time's. His snarky wit has become more pronounced, honed from months in Legend's company. When he cooks, his fingers expertly find the correct spices without thinking.

Sky's brothers have left a gaping hole in his heart, but they have also left a thousand small habits and gestures. Like driftwood, they keep Sky afloat as he grieves. And if he sometimes cries when a memory of his brothers rises to the surface, then what of it? He is not ashamed to have loved and lost.

So Sky writes down everything he remembers about his brothers and clings to it, remembers. He wonders if he has left a lifetime of odd habits and joys with them, too. 

XXX

Four is a scholar, and he takes pride in that fact. He is a scholar and a blacksmith and an adventurer, a husband and an uncle. A brother. Four has always been good at filling his life with meaning. 

There are many people Four loves, many of whom he'll never see again. Still, he holds that love securely in every part of his tattered soul; it fills him, keeps his life worth living. He thinks of them often and must reconcile with the fact that he won't ever know what became of them.

All except one.

He has only been home for a year, when the need to know what became of Sky gets too strong to handle. Four is a scholar. He knows how to search for old myths and half-forgotten tales. Four is an adventurer. He knows how to carry himself with confidence on the roads, how to avoid danger and how to escape alive when the danger can no longer be avoided. Four is a brother. He knows how to mourn someone who isn't dead, just out of reach.

It is on this adventure that Four meets Aaron. Aaron is a scholar like Four, but also a baker and a petter of cats and a kind soul. Aaron's soul is whole and unblemished unlike Four's, but he doesn't mind. He is not a brother. He is both something more and something less, because Four knows that brotherly love and romantic love are entirely different things. It's not less, not more. It's just different.

Aaron follows when Four keeps travelling. Hand in hand, they scour the small towns for clues. They flip through old, dusty books and sneeze when it tickles their noses. Aaron makes hot cocoa and apple pie for Four's late-night studies.

Hundreds of years have passed since Sky's era, but Four finds what he is looking for at long last. It is not much, just a few lines in a grimy tome about the first rulers of Hyrule. King Link and Queen Zelda who descended from the heavens. According to the tome, they had two children. Only the oldest, Dinah, is mentioned by name.

Four leans into Aaron's embrace and smiles. He always expected something like that from Sky's future - they all did, really. Sky knew his place in the world long before he met the Chain.

Out of all of them, Sky has changed the world the most. The first hero, the first king. Four wonders if Sky knows just how many good things he has left in his wake.

XXX

Time's life on Lon Lon Ranch is uneventful compared to his adventures but never boring. He likes how small his life is these days. He is allowed to care only about those closest to him instead of the whole kingdom. It is nice to walk into the barn in the morning and know that the horses and cows are dependent on him to feed them, not to save the world.

At night, Malon's body is warm against his, a comfort he has been sorely lacking during his last adventure. Her hair tickles his cheek, but he doesn't brush it away. After so long apart, he cherishes the moments when they are close.

He misses the boys often. Not as they were on their adventure, high-strung and anxious, but as they were during their breaks and on Lon Lon Ranch. He misses Warriors' jokes and Legend's sarcastic remarks. The sailor was always so full of energy, mouth running faster than his mind – an impressive feat, given Wind's intelligence. Twilight was quieter, but no less funny or mischievous than the others. 

Time misses them, and in his ideal world, they would all be living on the ranch with him, Malon, and Talon. But the boys have their own lives in their own eras.

Time doesn't go looking for stories about the others. Only Sky and Four come before him in the timeline, and he feels fairly certain they have led happy lives. Sky had both Sun and Groose waiting for him at home, and the skyloftian was mature and kind. He will build a life for himself, Time is sure of it.

Four was well-balanced, a man in tune with his emotions. He had Dot and his grandfather. Four has adapted to sudden changes before, Time knows. He will adapt to this, too.

The person Time longs to see again the most is Warriors. Not because he loves him more than the others, but because he is worried about the captain. Warriors has been through so much already, and he was depressed when they parted. Time can't stand the thought that he'll never know if Warriors fought his way out of depression and into the happy life he deserved.

His adventure with the Chain has left Time with many happy memories, but it has also left a nagging worry in the back of his mind which he fears will never disappear.

XXX

Legend has spent a lifetime searching for weapons and items and answers to a thousand problems. He has fought and bled for a kingdom which never held any particular fondness for him - a prince in a line of princesses and queens. Still, Legend has risked his life many, many times on adventures.

What is a few more?

This time, it is not adventures of Hylia's kind. There is no returning king of evil, no nefarious lizards or scheming mages. There is only Legend's desperate wish to reconnect with the brothers he has left behind.

He finds old, forgotten dungeons filled with treasure. Most of it has nothing to do with his brothers, but some of it has. He finds weapons of Four's making. He even finds a quiet stone chamber with cracked gravestones. The fading text reads:

Her Majesty Queen Zelda Hylia Hyrule

and

His Majesty King Link Hyrule

Legend pays his respects and leaves. Sky deserves a peaceful rest.

The biggest prize he finds is a ratty notebook. It is buried deep within a dungeon, and Legend has no idea how it wound up there. But the title page reads Link in Four's neat handwriting, and that's a miracle in itself.

The small book is filled with sketches of weapons. Comments fill the margins. Some are about the swords' blades, observations on how well the metal folded or how durable they turned out to be.

But some comments are of another kind. Recipes and grocery lists are scattered across the pages. A recipe for apple pie stands out with a small heart next to the A. Legend wonders if maybe it was Four's favorite.

Ravio helps him bake the pie with apples from the tree in their garden. It's a perfect mix of sweet and sour. Almost like life, Legend muses. Happiness is always intertwined with grief. Sweet and sour.

He likes to read the book, again and again, when nightmares chase his sleep away. There really are a lot of recipes in the book. Did Four take up baking? Or did he marry a baker? Legend has no way of knowing, but he likes to speculate. The book lies on his nightstand when he goes to bed.

He writes his own little book, too. Maybe Hyrule will find it someday.

XXX

After a whole year with the Chain, Hyrule's era feels colder than he remembers it. But Hyrule can deal with it. He is used to the cold.

There's still a lot of work to do. Hyrule may have saved the world again, but his kingdom is still healing. The poison from the curse lingers like stains in an old carpet that can't be washed out. 

Hyrule is young. He was even younger when he went on his first adventure, fingers gripping uncertainly around a sword too big for his childish hands. Hyrule's grip is no longer awkward. Now, his fingers curl around the hilt like they were made for it. Maybe they were. 

How young is too young to be Hylia's chosen hero? Some of his brothers were younger yet when they were called by their first adventure.

Hyrule is cold, but he carries a flame in his heart. It is nursed by Wild's steady hands, shielded by Twilight's broad frame. The memories are painful, but Hyrule chases them anyway. They're the only thing he has left of his brothers.

Sometimes the flame is a roaring fire, devouring everything in its path. Other times, it is but a candlelight, barely enough to stave off the cold. He tells Aurora about it one day, and she helps him search the royal archives for old tomes and ancient scripts which may provide him with the closure he yearns for. But the curse has not been kind to old relics, and a lot of information has been lost to time. Legend is mentioned many times in the scripts, saving the kingdom again and again. It does not mention anything about his life after his last adventure. Hyrule hopes this is because Legend settled down to live a quiet life.

The archives do not mention neither Four nor Sky at all.

The flame burns in Hyrule's chest, and sometimes he fears it will devour him, too.

XXX

The deck rocks gently beneath Wind's feet. He rarely spends time on land these days, instead chasing the blue waves and playing tag with the salty sea breeze. He has been on many adventures during his short life, but he is not yet tired of the wonders in this world. The ship is a gateway, it is a magical portal. There is only one place it cannot take him, and that is the one place he most desperately wants to go.

Wind stares into the blue water and wonders what is hidden deep beneath it. Are you out there? He wonders. Has the ocean claimed your bones?

The sea is vast and infinite. Some days, she is kind, other days an angry, roaring beast. Wind's brothers lived in this world once, but the ocean has long since scrubbed the world clean of any remnant of them.

XXX

Twilight does not need to look for clues to know what happened to Time. The Old Man's regrets turned him into a stal, and he only found peace after Twilight met him. It hurts Twilight's heart to know that Time will yet have to suffer so much.

But there are still things to discover, unanswered questions lingering on his tongue.

 Twilight has visited Lon Lon Ranch many times during his adventures in Time's era. The world may have changed since then, but not much. Once he starts looking, it is easy to find his way back there.

He spends an entire day just looking at the ranch from afar. The stable has been painted in a light brown, and the fences have been moved so that the cows have more space. Smoke rises from the chimney.

An old woman sees him hiding in the tree line. She approaches him with a surprising confidence despite her age, demanding to know why he is lurking around on her farm.

The woman's hair is gray save for a few red strands which she has brushed back into a braid. Her eyes are sharp, and her face is lined with dimples and sorrows alike.

At first Twilight can do nothing but stare at her, taking in the embroidered cuffs on her shirt, the apron which covers her skirt. He manages to tell her that his family once lived here. The Lons. He asks if she knows what became of them.

The woman goes still. At first Twilight thinks he might have said something wrong, but then he sees the tears in her eyes.

The woman is his grandmother. She ushers him into a kitchen which feels familiar and wrong at the same time. The dining table is too sturdy. There are more shelves than there shouod be.

She finds cookies and milk – Lon Lon milk – in the pantry and sits him down in a chair. She tells him the story of her daughter and son-in-law who took their little son with them to the market and never came back. She tells him of the boy's brown hair and gentle eyes, of how he answered to the name Link.

She cries as Twilight tells her of his life, and at one point she grabs his hand in hers. Twilight lets her do it and cries a little himself.

The woman's name is Eva. She only had the one daughter, but she has a younger brother who lives in Castletown and a twin sister who lives with her on the ranch. The sister's children live on the ranch too, though they and their mother are out for the day. Twilight has more family out there, and Eva promises to introduce them soon. In turn, Twilight agrees to take her to meet Rusl, Uli, and Colin.

Eva is Time and Malon's daughter. She speaks very fondly of them and listens to Twilight's tales with interest. Unfortunately, Malon passed away a few years ago, and Twilight feels his heart break at the news. Eva is relieved to hear that Time has found rest.

The sky is rapidly darkening outside the windows, and the ranch's other inhabitants come home. They greet him with hugs and teary smiles. Twilight stays for dinner with the family he has never known. There is a lot of lost time to make up for, but that's okay. He is more than willing to put time and effort into getting to know his family.

Twilight knows he will never see Malon or Time again. But they have left him a wonderful family at Lon Lon Ranch which welcomes him with open arms. And though his heart still aches, he has found his peace with that. Twilight sits on the roof of the stable and looks at the setting sun, thinking of the family he has lost and the family he has gained.

XXX

Warriors regrets a lot of things. He regrets being unable to save many a friend during the war. He regrets how distant he has grown to his mama and sisters during a decade of depression and struggles. He regrets a thousand words and moments he wanted to share with his brothers but never got the chance to.

It's odd. Back during the war, he visited many of their homes and met their friends. He didn't know most of his brothers back then and didn't think twice about visiting the unfamiliar eras. But now, as desperate longing swells in his chest, he finds himself confined to his own era. No swirling purple-black portals show up to whisk him away to another time. No familiar blond or brown or pink heads bob into sight from behind a tree, a joke and a friendly smile ready on their lips. No one is there to release a frog onto his pillow or ruffle his hair while he yells indignantly. There is only Warriors and his grief. His heart has been ripped to shreds, and though he is supposedly the field medic, he cannot find it in himself to stitch it back together. To heal feels like betraying everything his brothers mean to him.

So Warriors clings to his memories. He carefully preserves Mask's and Tune's drawings between sheets of glass and hangs them on his walls. He scours the castle archives for information about his predecessors and when he finds little to none, he takes it upon himself to fill the gaps in Hyrule's history. He documents everything he can remember about the others and their adventures. He keeps the more private details of their lives to himself, scratching stories of Hyrule's kindness and Four's levelheadedness onto paper with a crooked quill during the long hours of night. He tries his hand at drawing, and he finds that he rather likes the version of Time which stares back at him from the paper, though he didn't quite manage to capture the mischievous glint of his eye. Still, the drawings are better than nothing, and he doesn't give up before he has all eight of his brothers committed to paper. There are only few things Warriors truly fears, and one of them is forgetting even the tiniest detail about the brothers he has lost.

XXX

Wild leans back against his arms and looks at the kingdom spreading out beneath him. There is no reason for him to visit The Great Plateau anymore, but he likes being there. It is the first home he can truly remember.

There is something magical about the world far beneath him. There was a time when Wild looked at it and only saw his own shortcomings, the ruins covering the landscape like his scars cover his skin. But the wilderness is thriving down there, horses and deer and goats running rampant among lush grass. There is a beauty to it, one which Wild understands better than most.

Besides, Wild has won a newfound interest in old ruins. When he and Zelda aren't busy rebuilding the kingdom, they explore forgotten mysteries and solve ancient puzzles. 

Sometimes they are lucky enough to find an old relic from his brothers' eras. An old stone carving depicting a great battle. A sword. The ruins of Lon Lon Ranch. 

It is crazy to think that these things have survived for so long, just waiting to be rediscovered by Wild's curious eyes. But that is the nature of his brothers, he supposes. Each of them changed the world forever, like ripples spreading across calm water. A seed lying dormant in the ground only to suddenly sprout come spring.

Everyone leaves something behind, Wild has learned. And while he may never see his brothers again, there is a comfort in knowing that the echo of their existence has carried on through thousands of years. His brothers may be gone, but their memories are everywhere. And, Wild thinks as he stares into the endless blue sky, maybe that's enough.

[jenanigans1207]

1/6/25: Recover

“Dean, sit down.” Cas orders from where he’s standing at the kitchen stove, spatula in hand. He wields in the same way Dean does when he’s lecturing someone and cooking at the same time and Dean thinks both ruefully and in amusement about all the habits he unintentionally passed along to Cas. “I am perfectly capable—”

“Just let me check.” Dean insists, going to stand from the barstool he is perched on at the counter. “You’ve never made soup before.”

“Dean,” Cas says and this time there’s a clear warning in his voice. It’s deep and rumbly and probably the voice that Cas used to guide armies when he was an angel and instill fear into those who dared stand against him. To Dean, it’s completely harmless, and he stands up anyways and crosses to stand right behind Cas, peering over his shoulder.

Cas huffs a dramatic sigh to match his dramatic eye roll as Dean nestles his chin onto Cas’s shoulder and stares down into the pot. It’s quiet for a long moment before Dean nods a little, pressing a kiss to the side of Cas’s neck. “Looks good.”

“I have been alive for millennia,” Cas insists with frustration. “I think I can make some chicken noodle soup.”

“First,” Dean says, raising a finger to tick off his point. “When you were an angel for those millennia,” He drops his voice with a grin to mimic Cas’s and earns a half-hearted elbow to the ribs. “You didn’t eat. So none of those years count. Second,” he ticks off another finger, “Even if they did count, you’re not an angel anymore, so none of your angel experience counts. And you don’t have mojo to fix burned soup.”

“I would hardly have wasted my grace on burned soup.” Cas argues as he places the spatula back into the soup and begins stirring.

Dean allows himself to be dislodged, but he doesn’t return to his seat at the counter. “You consider feeding me unburned soup a waste?”

Cas doesn’t even bother to give him a verbal response, instead sending a withering glare over his shoulder to make his point. Dean grins at him, wide and full of genuine joy. It lasts all of about two seconds before he’s suddenly sneezing, reaching for the box of tissues that Cas had kept within a foot radius of him at all times for the last two days. He wipes at his nose miserably, reminded how raw it is from how much he’s been blowing it, and then he sulks back to his seat.

Once he’s seated comfortably at the counter again, Dean crosses his arms and pillows his head on top of them, making sure he can still keep Cas in his line of sight. Cas glances over his shoulder occasionally, watching as Dean settles in.

After a minute of silence, Cas asks quietly, “Are you feeling any better at all?”

“A little,” Dean answers, but now he sounds stuffy and the dubious look Cas sends him indicates that he hears it as well. “I’m just fucking sick of this.”

Cas takes one last glance into the pot before carefully stowing the spatula on the spoon rest that Dean had insisted they get for the kitchen as soon as they had made the bunker their permanent home. Once he’s set the spatula down, he crosses the room easily, one hand coming to rest between Dean’s shoulder blades and moving in small, soothing circles. Cas has always been warm and it feels good to Dean’s aching back and sore muscles. Cas’s other hand threads gently into Dean’s hair, brushing it away from his face and scratching gently at his scalp. It’s all Dean can do not to groan aloud and melt into a complete puddle underneath the stool.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” Cas says for what has to be the millionth time, though it has never lost even an ounce of its sincerity. “Just give yourself a couple more days to recover and then you’ll be back to normal.”

“You said a few days a few days ago.” Dean mumbles, but his eyes have slipped closed and there’s not any actual bite to his words.

Ever since he’d gotten sick, everything had been stupidly difficult. But in this moment, feeling Cas so close to him, smelling the soup that Cas was making just for him— well this is the best Dean has felt in a few days. He had fought it at first, insistent that he knew how to make chicken noodle soup and was perfectly capable of making it for himself. Cas had sat him down and told him with absolutely no room for argument that Dean took care of everyone else and now it was his turn to be taken care of. Any rebuttal Dean wanted to make to that died on his tongue somewhere between the stormy warning that was in Cas’s eyes and the coughing fit that had taken the words right out of his mouth.

And so he had relented, although it had taken a few days to get around to the soup because Dean hadn’t felt up to eating much at first. He’d spent most of his time curled up in bed, head pillowed on Cas’s lap, warning him repeatedly that he was going to get sick, too, if he stayed around Dean. Reminding him that he was human now, and human ailments were something he had to worry about. But Cas had insisted on staying and Dean really hadn’t tried that hard to push him away because he liked the comfort and the company.

And if he ended up making soup for Cas next week because Cas inevitably got sick— if he ended up rubbing circles into Cas’s back while gently brushing his messy hair off his fevered forehead, well, that was a trade Dean was willing to make. He could be taken care of if he needed to be, but only if it was by Cas.

[myriadparacosm]

Black Beats Black - snippet 2 chapter 9: Blazing Star

because this part still makes me laugh

"How come you're so fine with it?"

"Wormy, shut it," James says with a scowl. "I'm starting to think you're actually plotting— are you?"

Peter throws him a flat look and glances at Sirius. "Why would I do that? I just find it weird that Sirius almost threw his brother in your arms."

"I can't just be a nice supportive brother?" Sirius argues but he doubts that Peter is actually trying to mess with them. "And I didn't throw them in each other's arms. I just saw good— opportunities."

"Well, you and Regulus don't really get along. Until now. And then Prongs is all— Prongs."

"What? What does that mean?" James asks when he sees Remus nodding wisely at Peter's words.

"And that's exactly why."

"Oi, insult me to my face at least."

"It's a compliment, Prongs," Sirius dismisses.

"I'm pretty sure we agreed that we never date mate's siblings. Don't you remember with Marlene's sister?"

"What's that?" Remus perks up at Sirius' gasp.

"Shut it!"

"She had this gigantic crush on Sirius."

"It's not my fault!"

"Meryl?"

James nods. "And Peter has always been sweet on her-"

He gasps. "That's not true!"

"Oh, you liar," Sirius hisses because it's his fault that it was even brought up.

"What happened?" Remus asks.

James grins viciously. Sirius kicks at the table's foot instead of his shin as he throws him a dark look. "That was the first time Sirius could sleep over, back in second year, and we had Marlene over with Meryl."

"She studies in— Belgium, right?"

"Yeah at the Naaszcademy. Meryl was pretty much always into Magizoology so she only did her first 4 years here, passed exams to enter the school and studies there for— another year, I reckon? She is doing a speciality or something."

Sirius busies himself with his butterbeer. Peter shoots him an accusing look, to which he replies with a scoff and foam spitting around.

"I vaguely remember her. She was in Ravenclaw, right?"

"She was. Wormy and I knew since we were children and he had this huge-"

"I didn't!"

"You let her do everything on you."

"Woah."

"We were playing healers!"

"And potioners. And tailors. And magizoologist."

Peter glares at James with flaming cheeks before turning on Sirius. "Anyhow, she met Sirius once when we slept over at James and Sirius broke his heart."

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

James shakes his head at them and leans across the table to reach Remus. "See, Wormy liked Meryl who was seduced-"

"I didn't seduce anyone!" Sirius exclaims.

"So it was an awkward weekend."

Remus chuckles, amused eyes pausing on Sirius as if it's his fault. "I can imagine."

"I didn't do anything," he insists with a scowl. "I was just having fun with my mates and she was there!" His head snaps toward Peter muttering in his drink. "How is it my fault?! I was only twelve! And you could have told her something."

Peter blushes and his jaw tightens in indignation. "Not with you around."

"Merlin, you're a prat."

"You're a slag!"

"Obviously nothing happened," James resumed. "Marlene got pissed that Meryl pestered her about Sirius and she made this huge scene after the break that no one is dating anyone's siblings because that would be disgusting. We all agreed."

Peter scoffs. "And yet you're dating Sirius' brother, hence breaking the deal."

Remus bursts out laughing at that and Sirius straightens in his seat to look at James.

"That's true!"

"No! We promised about sisters, si-sters," James insists. "And back then you weren't even talking to Regulus."

"Oh, this is such a low blow! You know it counts and we did say siblings!" He argues, despite the half-truth. At that time, Regulus had been barely on his mind. How foolish.

"Brotherfucker," Peter mutters.

Sirius slaps his hand on the table. "I should have tattoed-" Remus quickly hushes him- "that on your lying arse!"

"Regulus wasn't part of the deal!"

"He is my brother!"

James pauses. "Well, it was about sisters."

"It was about siblings!"

[waittheydontloveyou]

Weight loss & Updates

(some TMI)

Im at 43.2 pounds lost.

I feel really proud of this yall. It’s hard for me to accept feeling proud when I know I have so much further to go.

My tummy is a lot flatter. Not getting asked if I’m pregnant so often. My face is a little thinner. I feel prettier in photos. My bf said I’m “not fat anymore”. Which he meant as a compliment I swear, bc I’d said I have a lot more weight to lose and he’s like “where? You were fat a few months ago but not now”

I have a long way to go. I’m not even out of the 200s yet but I’m close. I want to lose 50-80 pounds more. If I lose 80…that has always like my “best” weight…right on the edge of overweight but docs won’t say shit. I was that before I was running, and after (muscle gain vs fat loss evened out) I’ve never been thin thin, not since I was 18. But even then I was bigger than my friends and sisters. Always curvy. Losing 50lbs I’d still prob be considered overweight or obese even but I would be ok with that honestly, and I’d still feel comfy in a bikini again.

I got myself new scrubs for Christmas. One shirt was way too big so I’m returning it and getting a size down.(xxl vs xl, the brand usually runs way small). The other is a xl set and it’s a little tight but wearable. I’m wearing it tonight lol. I think will be perf once I lose 5-10lbs more.

Im hoping to move to an apartment around march this year. It’ll be in town instead of so rural. Way closer to kids schools so less gas. But like double what I’m paying. I just can’t take another summer and the roaches there😭 also my landlord expects me to buy a mower to mow the 10 godamn acres which is ridiculous.

I currently live where there are no sidewalks and on the side of a pretty major highway. Not safe to walk or run. The apartment will be on the 1st or 2nd floor. Will use tax return to pay deposit and maybe hire movers. I’ll be able to start walking/running again. Im the slowest runner known to man. I used “couch to 5k” last time and got up to 15 miles no problem within 6ish months. It’s the only form of exercise I’ve ever been able to do consistently. And it has to be outside. I can’t fucking do treadmills, even when I was running long distances, not sure what it is but it feels like fucking torture. I’m finally at a weight where it doesn’t hurt to just exist. I can wipe my ass no problem! LOL! I can bend over if I drop something, get out of a chair/ get out of bed without it hurting like crazy.

With papi again in case you missed that. Finishing up our convo on the future and once I get a few more questions answered I’ll know if I’m staying in hopes he’s telling the truth or if I really need to walk away now. It sounds like by December we will be moving forward/he will have saved enough for a down payment on a house for his mom. Unanswered questions: will we be getting married by December? Engaged? Living together? Buying a house? What exactly will be happening by Jan 2026? I can wait another year, year and a half to move forward. And if it’s untrue/doesn’t work out like he’s planning? I think I can walk away knowing I fucking gave it my literal all. I know no one agrees with this decision but here we are. I fucking love him and just need to try to see this through.

This Year Goals?

Apartment

Walking running again

Summer pool time w kids

Start reading again

Consider going back to school. Either to further my nursing(NP) or something I can do from home that’s completely different. Or “just for fun” maybe writing or music

Moving forward w papi

Continue weight loss

Maybe take my ex back to court

Continue towards court w my former boss. Apparently it’ll be a few more months before we get a court date bc they keep motioning to dismiss.

[studiogrimm810]

Florida Heat

pairings/characters: (established) sam winchester x gn!you, dean is also there

summary: trying to wipe out a vamp nest goes south when more than expected monsters emerge from nearby

warnings: humidity (ick), blood loss, vampires, drinking blood, disorientation, graphic depictions of experienced pain

word count: 3,182

A/N: i’m such a sucker for physical hurt/comfort, so enjoy!! ^.^

———————

The hum of the Impala was something that could soothe you to sleep like a baby regardless of its destination. Whether it was 12 hours into a boring road trip or speeding to a nest like it is right now- it was always a lull to ease the churning nerves in your stomach.

It was nearing sunrise so you three were really banking on the vamps being blood drunk and passed out by now. That was your only advantage to the half dozen you assumed to be camped out just outside of town.

You and the brothers had been in town for a few days already, tracking the disappearances of fraternity brothers who all were seen last with one Theo Williams. Theo was a transfer student who slipped into the school year just last month and has now not been spotted outside of the eye witness reports made by students on the nights of said disappearances.

After background checks run by the police department, it was concluded that Theo, who was a fraternity brother of the school he claimed to transfer from almost 8 years ago, he's been reported missing for almost a decade.

The piece that led you three to become certain it was a nest, was one specific witness who swore that Theo had jagged and “shark-like” teeth.

And after hacking traffic cams and tracking so many vehicles, you, with Sam’s consistent vigilance and Dean’s ‘words of encouragement’, had successfully pinned the location of the nest.

Dean parked about half a mile away, far from sight, and you all climbed out of the peaceful bubble of the Impala and into the veil of sticky summer heat of a Florida morning. On the horizon, a honey stained sky glows bright and confident with piercing UV rays slicing through creamy clouds. The picture reminded you just how early it was and you had to stifle a yawn that follows an instinctive stretch from exiting the car.

You’re quickly sucked back to the heat rolling over your skin, collecting humidity that worked overtime to quickly produce a layer of tacky sweat that loose pieces of hair stick to like glue. The sensation led you to mumble out a quiet ‘yuck’ that made Sam chuckle fondly to himself. You tried not to let the itchy sweat get to you and instead focus on the weapons lined in the trunk of your safe-haven that you already missed dearly.

“Alright, stay close, no splitting up,” Dean instructs as if you and his brother aren’t grown adults who’ve been hunting for years. It doesn’t really bother you much when he does so though. You know he only does it because he worries. It’s how he copes hunting with those he cares for, and that’s enough for you to just sit back and be led. “Careful with these, don’t wanna poke yourselves,” he says, passing out a few vials of Dean Man’s Blood for you and Sam to pocket.

It was honestly sweet how consistently caring and protective Dean was of not only you, but Sam. Sam was a grown ass man- 30 some-odd years of painful, firsthand experience of the job under his belt- and yet Dean still treated him like a precious trinket that must be kept pristine at all times.

“We ready?” Dean asks, checking over his machete, darting his eyes up through his brows to look at both you and Sam.

Sam looks over at you before answering his brother. You give Dean a curt nod, sheathing your machete, and Sam gives Dean a simple ‘yeah’.

Dean slams and locks the trunk with a few pats on the silky metal out of affection before leading the way up a road so slim that there aren’t even any lane markers. The three of you fall into your usual line of approach- Dean in front, Sam on the flank, and you in between.

It isn’t long before you spot a crooked trailer that clearly wasn’t hitched properly. There’s a fire pit emitting lazy flakes of ember into the swirl of air above it. A few bodies lie around the pit, slow rising if their chests being the only hint that they’re still breathing.

The bodies are slack and mouths stained with red that have dribbled down their chins and soaked into their clothes. A set of fangs peak past one of their lips and it’s the cherry on top of the confirmation you need to classify this group as blood-thirsty killers.

From here you count four vamps, but the arrhythmic rocks of the trailer behind the lifeless pit suggest more.

A silent look from Dean, with accompanying hand motions, signals a loose plan of action. Dean continues to lead the way and you make sure to stick to his heels as Sam stays a few feet back to keep a clear picture on both of you.

As the group gets close enough, Dean ticks his head to the vamp opposite of you, Sam the same, and with a quick swift spiral of limbs, three heads slice off of their hosts and thud into the swampy mud beneath them. The sound startles the remaining vamp and it bolts up with a dizzy sway from its blood-drunken state.

Its anger is clear as his teeth flash razor sharp fangs and a piercing hiss. Dean, who doesn’t waste time with intimidation, advances the vamp with his machete held high and ready to strike. Before his blade can meet its second victim of the morning though, Dean is tackled by the vamp in front of him. It bucks its shoulders into Dean’s abdomen like a linebacker and lands him into the moist ground with a wet smack that sprays mud everywhere.

“Dean!” Sam barked, heading straight to his brother to decapitate the vamp attacking him.

Your instinct pulls you towards the fumble but the prickle of skin on the back of your neck alerts you back to the now idle trailer. A fresh new wave of crimson lined fangs flash at you from the doorway of the trailer and out pours six more besotted vamps with their sights clearly set.

“Shit,” you utter out as if the dropping of your stomach forced it out. You stumbled back, slipping in the mud but solidifying your grip on your weapon.

Sam has successfully beheaded the vamp who attacked Dean and secured Dean's forearm to hoist him back up to his feet just in time to ready their next attack.

The bundle of vamps seem to split into three and three. One group heading towards the brothers and the other towards you. And unfortunately for you, you and the Winchesters mirrored each other around the fizzled fire pit, putting- well not much- but just enough distance between you to potentially be lethal.

You try not to focus on that and instead put all of your attention into fighting off the three recently turned, frat bro vampires who were out for more blood. The first grabbed your upper arm with a bruising force that made your teeth clench and you swung up your machete to make a sloppy aim for its neck. The blade landed into the monster’s clavicle, however, and only served to further piss it off.

As you swung the blade back out from the pinch of bone you created, the now free blade sliced across another vamps throat, digging a few inches deep into its carotid and spraying blood on its allies. It stumbled back a few feet and was grabbed by Sam who finished the job with a successful flick of his machete.

The vamp who initially grabbed you was not even bothered by the action behind him and instead only cared about the shimmering skin exposed along your neck. You tried to hold off the creature but with a menacing crack, a surge of white-hot pain oozed down your arm and settled into your fingertips before going numb. The pain did continue to radiate around your shoulder and it caused you to lose a vital weapon- your dominant hand.

You cried out at the shock of nerves that erupted in your shoulder and the vamp used the feathering weakness of your body against you, digging its fingernails onto your opposite trapezius and angling you just perfectly for it to sink its fangs into your salty skin.

The sharp stab following the first ache was enough to reverse the air in your lungs- rendering you mute. Your mouth fell agape and eyes wide as all you could do was just take it. The pain weaseled itself under your skin and settled deep like barbed wire before trying to yank back out as the vamp drained you of your blood.

The feeling was uncanny.

Past the vamp, you could see that the beautiful sunrise has finished its display and now the morning sun dominates the sky, shining down on you like rays of warm amber. It sizzles in the far, far distance but still singes your skin with its blistering heat, only adding more insult to injury.

Muffled voices and slick swipes of mud are blocked from your ears as the sounds of sickening slurps and hungry grunts emit up your jaw and into your eardrums.

The wet heat between you and your attacker provided even more sticky humidity to coat your skin under a shrink-wrapped layer of cloth. So when the body is torn off of you and the harsh rays of the morning sun settle upon you, you can almost feel steam roll of your skin.

A brush of wind blew past you and you felt it card through your locks of damp hair as it provided a fresh blast of air. It was enough to settle your nerves enough after the vamp has been torn off of you. But it relaxes you too much as your knees land into the mud beneath you before you can stop yourself.

In the midst of an unfortunate mix of thick, salty air around you, the feeling of cool mud seeping through your jeans is yet another thing that helps to soothe you. It sends little chills up your body and you start to feel colder than you should.

“-hear me? Hey-.”

You let your hands settle into the mud next, but only one hand feels the sensation. Why can’t you feel the mud?

You dig your fingers in further, just enough to wiggle them under the muck, hoping to spike even a hint of feeling in your tips.

But nothing.

What’s up with that?

Your shoulders slack, and- wait, how long have your eyes been closed?

“-to me! Stay with-.”

The recent memory of a firm hand on your shoulder sends a reminder wave of pain through your upper body and causes your teeth to grit.

Oh yeah.

Fucker shattered your shoulder.

Your sharp intake of air stretched your lungs past their capacity, almost shocking you back to the present. The noise around you fades back in and you peel your eyes open.

Sticky mud has sucked you under its skin and you pull back out of it with a ‘smuck’. This motion starkly heightened the throbbing pain in your shoulder that hasn’t stopped screaming at you. You drag your head up just enough to see that Dean is nowhere to be found and Sam is fighting a vamp. You assume they’ve been at it for a minute because mud cakes the side of Sam's body like icing. You recognize the vamp as the one who latched its fangs under your ear.

Sharp slams of feet pull your attention behind you and Dean reappears from the inside of the trailer and aims at Sam.

Dean is quick to aid Sam and soon enough, you watch the vamps head fall into the slop.

When did it get so cold?

Sam hurries towards your swaying form that’s crumbling into itself in the messy grass. You sat back between your heels and shoulders slack, holding yourself up only by the way your posture is bent.

Sam grabs the sides of your face, fixing your gaze onto him. He’s speaking- saying a lot.

Nothing he says settles into your ears yet though.

The pretty sun shines down on you, blinding and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he assures like there’s no other answer. His voice sounds pretty when it’s desperate and full of love.

So, so pretty.

“Dean, they’ve lost a lot of blood,” Sam calls back to his brother, heart in his throat.

“So cold,” you grunt out, trying to find any way to lean your torso so that your shoulder doesn’t hang with such ache.

“Shit,” Sam mumbles to himself, holding a cloth to your neck and brushing some hair out of your face. Dean stumbles over to the scene, blood sprayed across his face matches the splatter of mud across Sam’s.

“Can you hear me?” Dean pats at your face, using a soft pet name to try and coo you back to yourself.

“Sh-shoulder,” you grumble, your face pinched at the tedious pain.

“Let me just take a look,” Dean’s voice is gruff and filled with worry but you can tell he’s doing his best to use his ‘hurt Sammy’ voice.

You feel the cloth peel back, exposing the pierced skin. You hiss at the lack of pressure, revitalizing the itching sting in your wound but a warm ooze settles over the itching just enough to take it down just a notch.

“Okay, okay,” Dean settles the cloth back over your wound and Sam keeps you steady. “It’s not pretty, but it’s not too bad, okay?” Dean says, his eyes lasering into your own. “Just stay awake, okay? You gotta stay awake,” he insists, nodding to show that there’s no other choice. You don’t respond but you think he can tell you’ve been listening. “We need to get them outta here,” Dean finished, standing and surveying the surrounding area.

“C’mon, honey, I’ve gotchyou,” Sam hums, snaking his arm around and under your own arms, holding you close. The sudden rise of your body makes your vision blacken for a moment followed by a flood of heavy pressure against your eardrums. “I’ve gotchya,” he repeats, waiting patiently for you to adjust to the minimal altitude.

As your vision blurs back into colorful place, Sam begins to lead you to the rumble of the incoming Impala.

Damn, Dean was fast.

Sam continues to mumble soft assurances and sturdy words into your ear as you two approach the vehicle.

Sam guides you into the back seat and follows behind.

“You still with us?” Dean looks back to make sure you’re awake before taking off back to the motel.

“‘M head hurts,” you whimper, leaning into Sam.

“It’s the bloodloss, honey, you’ll be okay,” Sam kisses the top of your head that must be disgusting at this point, sweaty, frizzy, and muddy.

“My shoulder too,” you’re starting to find your voice again and that makes Dean's shoulders lighten in relief.

“Yeah, it looked dislocated.”

“God, that’s what that feels like?” You groan, trying to sit up a bit in hopes that a different position will help the dry throb behind your skull.

“Yeah, and it won’t be great goin’ back in either,” Dean scoffs with a tight smirk, trying to gauge just how present you are. Sam gives Dean a sharp look of warning.

“Don’t worry about that right now, love, just focus on staying awake for me,” Sam pushes some damp hair out of your face, keeping soft eyes in you.

He hates to see you like this. It’s like a punch to the gut, keeping him breathless and aching. He just wants you to be better- happy and safe and painless.

The soft hum of the engine brought you down a bit, soothing you like a loving whisper. It held you close and consistently sang its soft tune as the tires brought you closer to your destination. But what exactly was your destination?

“Am I-, are we going to a hospital?” You ask, feeling a wave of nausea coarse through your stomach. You hate hospitals.

Sam locked eyes with Dean in the rear view but this went unnoticed by you. Ideally, yes, you would go to a hospital but this isn’t ideal. The motel was closer and there was no use in worrying you farther, so Sam settled on a simple, “No, honey, we’re gonna fix you up at the motel, no need for a hospital.”

You found comfort in his words and the anxiety started to settle enough to ease your nausea. The pain still snaked from your shoulder and your neck throbbed around its gash.

There’s no way the motel was this close, but you’re already being led out of the Impala by Sam and back towards your room.

The heat of the Florida morning ripples over your clammy skin and causes a wave of heat to tickle up your spine, but once you pass the doorway of your shared motel room, the cool air settles onto your skin and settles your temperature back into place.

Sam sits you into the bed as Dean gets the necessary items to clean you up. Sam peels back the cloth on your neck and the quick smile he flashes lets you know that things really would be okay and he wasn’t just trying to make you feel better.

“The bleeding has stopped, it looks good, sweetheart,” Sam nods softly, the fire in his eyes warming the exhausted ice in yours. You smile weakly at him. “You’re covered in mud, we really should get you cleaned up before patching you up,” Sam places the dirty cloth off to the side.

“Should take care of that shoulder first though,” Dean interrupts and a soft wince could be seen under his stony exterior. You knew it was coming, but the reality of it was sickening.

“Yeah, he’s right,” Sam agrees and you could see his hesitation.

“Js’ get it over with,” you mumble weakly.

Dean sighs and steps forward, positioning you just right to line up your throbbing bone back against its socket. “One… two-,” he shoves the joint back into place before he gets to three and you let out a strangled cry, sucking in a deep breath at the sudden stab back into place.

“Fuck!” You huff, glaring up at him, “what the hell?” You rub your shoulder, your chest rattled with your voice. Dean smiles proudly with a shrug, glad you seemed to be getting your energy back from the lack of blood.

“Go shower, your highness, you both look awful,” Dean scoffs lightly, headed towards the fridge that only housed a recently bought 6-pack.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam joked back lightly, helping you stand again. Even if you were getting some energy back, you’re still quite dizzy and disoriented. “C’mon, love,” Sam's hand rests on your lower back, guiding you to the shower that you both very much needed- you just didn’t want to outwardly admit it to the smug man who winks at Sam as Sam follows you in to the bathroom.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest)

>>check out my other works here

[papermonkeyism]

In a surprise twist of events I just got a text message from my boss in the warehouse asking if I can get back to work next week already. A whole month earlier than previously planned!

Awyeah, back to having an income, here we go!