#my lith 💗

[songbirdmunson]

I need them both inside me rn

the thing is so do I ugh

I think their dynamic with someone else would be so hot. Eddie definitely is the master of dirty talk and degrading, and Steve would be the opposite. He would be so sweet to you, gently touching you while Eddie's fucking into you hard from behind, telling you to keep your eyes on him as Eddie ruins you. They both would sometimes ignore you completely though, telling each other how good your mouth or pussy feels while you can do nothing but moan and take it, looking up the best you can to see them leaning over your body, making out with each other…

[bwabys-scenarios]

Illumi secretly loves watching you struggle to get around when your belly is all swollen and heavy during pregnancy.

The way you attempt to get something or walk for too long then look at him with a pouty face, begging for him for his help fills him with a sort of a possessive pride.

You need him. You’re completely dependent on him to take care of you at your most vulnerable, to protect and watch over you while your belly grows his baby.

And it gets him going.

He can’t help but rub your belly as he keeps you seated on his cock, scolding you when you whine or try to get up.

“Shh, settle down, darling. I’m just trying to take care of you.”

His long, pale lithe fingers massage your baby bump, dancing across it as his other hand helps to guide your hips up and down his cock.

“There we go, darling. My good girl, my precious one…”

Illumi just loves the sight of you helpless and pregnant…💗

[gghostwriter]

Three's a Sideshow

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer misses an important date and ends up paying the consequences Trope:Angst w.c: 4.2k a/n: this is one of the many many requests of @lavonee (her exact request was: maybe spencer misses an important date/anniversary because of jj and reader is finally fed up being second place to her) trying my best to address all of them. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The hazy dim light of each candle on the white linen covered table gave the restaurant an orange hue. Various aromas of meat, wine, and complimentary cheese wafted through the enclosed space. Sensual tones of the saxophone lightly played on the speakers perfectly weave through each muted conversations between loved ones—couples and families. The high-end restaurant basked in good food and great company. 

Everything was perfect.

Every costumer joyous and warm from the delicious wine. 

All except for one, alone by the corner booth, phone pressed to your ear and eyes scanning for the tall, lithe form of the date for the night.

Beep. Beep. Be—

You grimaced at the busy line tone that answered you, again. Hands gripping the draped linen, trying your best not to tap your newly manicured fingers on the table—trying to blend into the background, unsuccessfully. 

You stuck out like a sore thumb. All dressed up with no partner or food on the table, just a glass of once chilled wine—condensation all around it like tears of abandonment and longing. 

The same waitress who escorted you to the table—15 minutes ago, approached with a perfectly rehearsed smile.

“Ma’am, are we ready to order?”

You sighed. “Actually, my boyfriend isn’t here yet—”

She bit her lip, nodding, before quickly averting her eyes to the queued up line outside the premise.

Right. It was a Friday night and every adult in the vicinity wanted a night out to unwind and start their weekend on the right foot.

You tightly smiled, the embarrassment of tonight painting your cheeks a deep maroon, unnoticed through the flickering of the orange candlelight. “—you know what, I think I’d just have a slice of your chocolate cake to go. Yeah, I’m sorry about holding up the table.”

The waitress nodded, understanding washing on her face. “That’s alright. I’ll have your order packed and ready to go.”

“Thanks,” you murmured as you watched her leave. 

Tonight was suppose to be special. 

You dressed up in the same white with purple printed flower midi length dress, styled your hair effortlessly, and spritzed on your favorite perfume that smelled like a luscious garden after a rainy night.

Everything was just like how it was two weeks ago—including your boyfriend of three years, Spencer Reid, not showing up for the date.

You didn’t even know why you bothered. Why his promise of being here tonight made you feel giddy and trusting. Why his commitment on having do-over for the actual anniversary dinner that he missed two weeks ago made you think it was going to end differently and why you gave him another chance—

Another chance to let you down.

Another crack in your belief that you were important.

Another heartache to soothe.

Another let down. 

When you first entered the relationship, you understood the gravity of his work. How his career will always come first and how unpredictable it all may be.

That part—accepting those facts, were easy. You were always one to be tolerant and understanding ever since childhood, labeled as the easy kid—the independent, the self-sufficient. Mixed in with your highly demanding career as a doctor, you got it—the patience and consideration of a saint.

A martyr, your good friend once bluntly said. 

But what good was being a martyr when the person you’re killing yourself for didn’t notice?

It didn’t matter at first. Missed messages, missed calls, missed dates were just a work of rotten timing from both ends. Sometimes it was you having to run to the hospital for an emergency surgery and sometimes it was him having to catch a plane to a latest serial killer case.

The tandem of both independent and busy people in the relationship worked, love blossomed regardless.

What made it different was, there was three of you in the relationship.

The third party being an intense platonic, as he once defended, connection with Her.

You felt it for the first time during a get together with his found family. Your set of eyes trained to read in between the lines for the truth patients unwittingly hide from their doctor. It was a skill that you honed and never hated, up until that moment.

The stolen glances when the other wasn’t looking.

The emotion veiled between the eyes.

The unsaid words that seemed to spill from the silence.

Never mind that there were two presences in the vicinity that could have their life altered in any minute from the secrets long hidden in vaults. It was as if you and her husband were considered ornaments, pieces of a possible aftermath not worth saving. 

You knew of their past—Spencer admitting to having a crush on her during his early days with the team, asking her out on a baseball game date, and her recent admission during a case.

Everything was water under the bridge, your boyfriend assured you. But the thing was, water had a way of overflowing from confinement, turning deadly, and ravaging what once was an idyllic garden that bloomed from your affection. 

Now as you pay for the tab and collect your things, you felt the tides that destroyed the solace inside of you well up to your eyes—wanting the release you’re fighting to keep at bay.

A fight you’re bound to lose.

You whispered a thank you to the waitress, soft and quiet that you were unsure if she even heard it but that was the best you could do, the sobs closing your vocal chords and threatening to escape, making you a spectacle—leaving the restaurant alone, with a boxed cake on hand.

What a sad sight.

You fumbled with the phone again, hands shaking as you insert the key on the ignition.

Beep. Beep. Be—

Nothing. 

What even was the point of all of this, you wondered. All this emotion, love, that was once sweet and heavenly now all felt rotten, puss oozing from its pores and flies exalting for a feast. 

Slowly backing your black 4-door sedan out of the parking lot, you pondered if this was the end—did you have any more left to give? Or was this just a bump on the road for the your future selves to learn and heartily laugh about? 

———

The rattling of your keys as you dropped it on the ceramic plate across the main door disrupted the silent, empty apartment.

A small smile graced your face as you remembered spontaneously booking a ceramic wheel class with Spencer in tow. His initial worries about getting under the nails dirty and the bacteria that could be collected from any stranger that used the items before the both of you swept away with your giggles and assurances to double up on vitamins. 

There was a wide grin on his face then, accepting defeat from the sight of your enthusiasm and glee. 

It was one of your greatest memory with Spencer and when the glazed pottery came from the mail—yours, a wonky blue green plate and his, an uneven moss green bowl, you had him promise to take you again.

A promise that never came to fruition.

You sighed, eyes tracking the rented space you never quite moved in to. The walls painted this dark green color, reflecting the somber mood you frequently found yourself in and the shelves filled to the brim with books you never dream of reading.

in hindsight, maybe your subconscious was telling you something. Why you never agreed to Spencer’s casual asking of you to live with him. Why you were adamant of keeping your own apartment regardless of the nights you spent outside of it.

This place became your pseudo-home, comfortable but never quite permanent. 

The distant murmur of a car being parked on the street had you clambering up from your defeated, slouched position on the leather couch. In your gut, you knew who it was.

You spotted them exiting the SUV.

The two figures that make the relationship three—a sideshow for everyone to see.

Spencer and JJ. 

They talked for a bit, probably saying pleasantries of goodbyes, before she leaned in for a hug. One that he reciprocated, patting her back as he went. 

They looked like a couple and if you were in your right state of mind, you’d chalk the exchange up to nothing but you weren’t—you were wounded and unsure of your standing ever since you exited the restaurant.

Were you his first still?

Or were you just second place? 

They were questions you never wanted no, needed, to be addressed but it seemed like tonight was the night of reckoning.

As you watched Spencer enter the apartment, the smile on his face from spotting you slowly become a furrow between his brows, you fidgeted—pulling the coat tighter to your body, the one you never hung on the back of the door—ready to bolt.

“Love, I’m so sorry I missed our reservation—”

He went in for a kiss on your glossy lips. 

A simple act that you didn’t have the energy to accept, you turned your head to the side. His lips catching your cheek instead.

“It’s fine,” you sardonically replied. “It wasn’t like I was waiting for you for half an hour to show up. It’s fine, Spencer.” 

His brow twitched. 

“It sounds like it’s not fine. Why don’t you tell me what you really feel? We promised to openly communicate, didn’t we?”

You huffed, throwing your hands up in the air. “I said it’s fine, Spencer. Why don’t you give it a rest?”

“You look beautiful,” his calloused fingers gently caressing your hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t show. It’s just that JJ and the tea—”

Your last thread of reason snapped clean from hearing her name.

“It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it? Me coming after her?”

“Love.”

“Don’t touch me—don’t call me that,” you pushed his hands away, tucking the escaped tendrils behind your ears. 

His own, raking the wavy brown hair you loved, in frustration. You could tell, with how his hands opened and closed, that he was itching to touch you, comfort you. 

“Her? You mean, JJ? She’s a friend. Just a friend.” 

“And if this friend wasn’t married with kids, would you still be here with me now?”

Silence. 

There, you said it.

“What—yes, yes of course. Why would you ask that? Why would you doubt it? Doubt me?”

Your gut twisted inside of you. It was inconceivable for someone like Spencer to lie, wasn’t it? He was a good guy, one of the best. But all the hidden resentment in your heart—a pile you weren’t even aware of, no longer wanted to be silenced. It no longer wanted to be pushed to the side for optimism and denial. 

“I don’t know, Spencer. Maybe it’s the way you look at her—” voice raising up an octave. You’ve lost control, verbally dumping out everything. “Do you think I don’t see it? You look at her with this, this nostalgia and—and this emotion that I can’t compare to—never seen it when you look at me! Or maybe, maybe it’s because you drop everything for her? Including me?”

“Are you talking about when Henry got sick?” his hands finding a home on his hips. “I thought you understood—you of all, should have.”

Your laughter turned into a sob. “I do—I did, until you dropped me of unceremoniously back here, in this apartment, just so you could rush out to her home. Like I was some kind of secret, you didn’t want to bring around her. Like I was some sort of disease, you didn’t want her catching. Didn’t you think I would be of great help? A licensed medical doctor?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight—I thought you, you shouldn’t be exposed to the type of flu Henry contracted. You could have gotten sick too and could have passed it on to your other patients.”

“It’s my job to take care of the sick, don’t you think I take measures for my own health? Spencer, please, for once just be honest with me.”

He tilted his head. “Honest about what?”

“If it’s her you really want and if I’m just a passable substitute to settle down with.”

You could see his eyes blazing with such—disgust? Anger? You didn’t know what emotion it was before it was snuffed out, leaving his expression blank and almost sad. It was a look you were familiar with, his profiler look.

“I don’t need you profiling me and my insecurities, Spencer. I just want the truth. The God-honest truth.” 

“I love you. I can’t imagine a life without you—I won’t imagine it. Isn’t that enough?”

Your hands drop to your side.

“I don’t know. Is it?”

The distance created by the silence between you and Spencer was vast. You’ve never felt quite alone and isolated in the relationship until this moment. Was this it, then? The end to your once dreamed of happy ever after? 

“I’m sorry I missed the dinner. Why don’t you let me make it up to you? We can book the same restaurant for next week and—”

“You can’t just make up for a make up anniversary dinner, that’s not how it works in real life, Spencer. And besides, I don’t want to see the same pitying looks the workers there give me when they realize my date is again, and again, a no-show.”

He sighed, slowly invading your space. The arms that once felt like home to you, circling your waist, now felt foreign. You never imagined you’d get here but then again, who did? 

Your hands clasped his button down before loosening its grip. Taking in one more whiff of his cedar-wood and mint perfume, you pushed him away. Stepping backwards from his presence and all he had to offer.

“It’s late. We’re both tired—”

He nervously smiled. Intertwining his fingers with yours and started to walk backwards to the direction of the bedroom. “Yeah, we can talk about it in the morning once you feel better.”

You wiggled your hand free.

“Actually, I think I have to go.”

Spencer paused, panic coloring his face. “That’s—that’s not what I meant, love. Anything but that. Please, please I love you and I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Spence. Me too.” 

You slowly gathered your things, sans the chocolate cake left opened and untouched on the coffee table. 

“Happy anniversary, I need space to think this all through—to think us through.”

He stood still, blocking your way, trying to wrap his head around the direction this was going to. The inevitable downfall of him and you. It was a car crash no one could no longer escape from. 

“Please, let me fix this. I can do it, just—tell me how. Do you want me to limit my time spent with JJ? I-I can try, just please, don’t leave me.”

It wasn’t a promise, you noted. With how many broken promises there were between the span of your relationship, you wondered if that was a conscious choice of wording from him. It sounded hopeful, gleaming with oath even. But they were just words at the end of the day, packaged pretty for you to swallow.

“I need time, Spencer. I’m not breaking up with you, I just need space,” you placed a kiss on his cheek, wet from tears. “Can you give me that, love?”

He choked a sob. 

“Promise me you’ll be back. Promise me.”

You tightly smiled, making your way back to the door. The unanswered plea hanging in the air like a blade, waiting to slash down between you—waiting to sever the connection that was once shiny and new. 

Shakily removing the spare key of the apartment from your chain, you chanced one last look at his hunched form—sobs emitting from his sweet lips and acid rain spilling down his cherub cheeks, regretting that this might be your last memory of Spencer Reid.

You didn’t know if you’d be back. 

If the thought of being second place will ever go away.

But the sinking feeling in your gut tells you the truth—that this is it.

This is final.

This is the end. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[pandapetals]

ong i love your writing! can i please get a x1 logan fic where the reader is a ballerina? she’s been alive for a long time just like logan with the same regeneration ability. they meet when she is invited to the x mansion for something. but he walks in on her dancing swan lake? if not i totally understand. a girl can dream 💗✨

Hi! Thank you so much and sooo sorry for how long it took. I’ve been busy finishing school and sleep-deprived. Hopefully, i did it justice. Idk what this is lol but i ran with it. It turned into a mini fic....anyway, I always wanted to be a ballerina when I was a kid so this lowkey fulfilled my dreams.

logan howlett x fem!mutant reader - angst, minor fluff, reader has established relationships with x-men especially hank, slight reader description, no y/n used, reader has met logan before but he doesn’t remember, timeline sort of follows X1 & X2, ballet references

You stood in the middle of the mansion’s wide, polished hallway, the faint smell of waxed floors and old books swirling around you. The hum of distant voices, laughter, and the occasional crash of something breaking echoed deeper within the sprawling mansion. You smoothed your palms over your thighs, fingers brushing against the soft cotton of your dance tights beneath your coat. This place hadn’t changed—well, not in the ways that mattered.

Storm walked beside you, her silver hair catching the sunlight spilling through the grand windows, while Scott trailed just behind, his arms crossed in his usual no-nonsense stance. You saw your reflection in one of the hallway mirrors—unchanged. Despite the weight of decades, your skin was still smooth, and your body lithe. This place carried ghosts for you, but not the kind that faded with time.

"Still feels the same," you murmured under your breath, your voice almost swallowed by the mansion's high ceilings.

Storm turned, a small smile pulling at her lips. "The kids grow up, and new ones come in, but the mansion stays the same."

"Right down to the same smell of burnt toast from the kitchen every morning," Scott added, his tone dry. He gave you a sidelong glance, the faintest hint of warmth breaking through his stoicism. "You'll fit right in again. Hank’s been talking about your return for weeks. I think he's been counting the days."

Storm chuckled softly, her voice lilting like the whisper of wind through trees. “You’d think he was the one with a photographic memory.”

As if summoned by your name, a deep, rumbling voice boomed from behind. “Is that—no, it can’t be.”

You turned just in time to see Hank bounding into view, his blue fur almost shimmering in the light. His tailored blazer looked comically out of place over his hulking, beastly form, but the warm smile on his face was the same as you remembered.

"Hank!" you exclaimed, your smile splitting wide as you stepped forward. His massive arms enveloped you in a bear hug, lifting you clean off your feet.

"My dear, you haven’t aged a day!" he declared, setting you back down but keeping his enormous hands on your shoulders as if to confirm you were real.

“Well, you know me. Perks of the trade,” you said lightly, but his words brought a pang you quickly shoved aside. You tilted your head up at him. “You, on the other hand, look fluffier than ever.”

Hank laughed, the sound rolling through the hallway like thunder. “You flatter me.” He released you with a fond pat on the back. "Though I must admit, it’s wonderful to see you again. It hasn’t been the same without you."

Scott cleared his throat, his voice tinged with impatience. “As much as I enjoy a good reunion, we still have the tour to finish.”

You smirked. “Still as serious as ever, huh, Summers? Don’t worry, I won’t let Hank hold us up too long.”

As the group moved down the hallway, your footsteps were light against the polished floor. A gruff voice cut through the air, stopping you in your tracks.

“Who’s the new recruit?”

You froze. You knew that voice—low, gravelly like it had been dragged across gravel and left to smolder. Turning slowly, you locked eyes with Logan. He leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand resting on the frame, the other holding a cigar he hadn’t bothered to light. His eyes raked over you, sizing you up with an air of detached curiosity.

“Logan,” you said, the name tasting familiar on your tongue, like a song you hadn’t sung in years.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”

For a second, you almost told him. The memories of a fight decades ago—the clash of claws and fists, the way his grin had split his face after every victory—flashed through your mind. But his blank stare reminded you he wouldn’t remember. Not this version of him. Not after what they’d done to him.

“Not really,” you replied with a shrug, masking the ache behind a practiced nonchalance. “But I’ve heard of you. Big fan of the ‘snikt-snikt’ routine.”

His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Cute.” He pushed off the doorframe, his boots thudding against the hardwood as he walked closer. “What’s your story?”

You mirrored his casual stance, crossing your arms as you looked up at him. “I’m here to teach ballet. Figured the kids could use some culture.”

“Ballet?” Logan snorted, his grin widening. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be real useful in a fight.”

You smirked back. “You’d be surprised. I could take you down in three moves.”

“Three, huh?” He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re confident. I like that.”

“Is that your way of saying you’d like a demonstration?”

Before he could reply, Storm cut in, her voice carrying an edge of authority. “Logan, play nice. She’s here to help, not trade punches with you.”

Logan raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “Alright, alright. But don’t blame me if she ends up knocking one of the kids on their asses in the Danger Room.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out. Logan might not remember you, but some things about him hadn’t changed.

As he walked away, cigar tucked back between his teeth, you turned to Storm, who was watching you with a knowing look.

“Well,” you said, “this is going to be fun.”

Storm chuckled. “Oh, I think you’ll fit right in.”

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

The room smelled faintly of lavender, likely from whatever freshener Storm had insisted on using, and the golden light of late afternoon streamed through the large windows. You sat cross-legged on the neatly made bed, hands resting on your knees, staring absently at the few belongings you’d unpacked. A duffel bag in the corner. A framed photo of you and Hank from years ago—his arm slung over your shoulder, your face mid-laugh. It felt surreal, almost too heavy to keep looking at.

You shrugged as if trying to loosen the weight pressing on your chest. It was nice to be back, even if it stirred old memories you’d locked away. Memories of laughter, battle, and the kind of losses that didn’t fade with time. But this was temporary. Just another stop along your endless road, you reminded yourself. You never stayed anywhere long enough to leave roots. You couldn’t.

A knock at the doorframe broke your reverie.

“Mind if I come in?” Hank’s familiar baritone rang out, warm and tinged with his usual politeness. He stood there, one hand resting on the frame, his blue fur catching the golden light.

“Course,” you said, a smile pulling at your lips as you waved him in.

He stepped into the room, his hulking frame seeming almost too big for the cozy space. But the way he moved—careful and precise—kept it from feeling intrusive. He glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in the bare walls and the sparse unpacking. “Travel light as always, I see.”

“Old habits die hard,” you said with a shrug. “Besides, I’m not planning on staying long.”

Hank’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he crossed the room and plopped into the chair at the small desk, the furniture groaning under his weight.

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” you said, your smile softening. “It’s been...”

“Ten years,” he finished for you, his voice quiet but firm.

Your smile faltered, and you looked away, the guilt settling in your stomach like a stone. “I’m sorry,” you said finally in a whisper.

Hank waved you off, the gesture almost as familiar as the amused twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, dear. I know you had your reasons for running off. It just would’ve been nice to know you weren’t, you know, dead in a ditch somewhere.”

That earned a small laugh as you rubbed the back of your neck. “Yeah, I guess I could’ve done better on the whole ‘staying in touch’ thing, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he teased, leaning forward and resting his chin on his massive hand. “I missed you, you know. Things have been... quieter without you around.”

You grinned. “Me? I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

“Oh no,” he said, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “I distinctly recall a certain someone sneaking into my lab at three in the morning to swipe beakers for—what was it—homemade glow-in-the-dark paint?”

You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. “In my defense, it worked! That mural in the attic was a masterpiece.”

“And I had to spend an entire week re-organizing my lab. You’re lucky I’m so forgiving,” he said, though the grin on his face made it clear he didn’t regret a second of it.

The laughter between you settled into a comfortable quiet, the kind of silence only shared between old friends.

Hank cleared his throat, his tone turning curious. “So, how are you feeling about being back? I know it can’t be easy.”

You leaned back on your hands, glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s... weird. Good, but weird. This place has so many memories, you know? Feels like I’m walking through a time capsule. Everyone’s so familiar but different at the same time. Even Logan.”

Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “Logan?”

You nodded, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Ran into him in the hallway earlier. He asked who I was.”

“And did you tell him?”

Your smile faded slightly, replaced by something more wistful. “Just said I was here to teach ballet and that I’d heard of him.”

Hank tilted his head, studying you. “You’ve met him before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, your voice soft. You traced the edge of the duvet with your finger, eyes distant. “A long time ago. Before he lost his memory.”

Hank frowned. “And he doesn’t remember?”

You shook your head. “Nope. Not a thing.”

“That must’ve been... hard,” Hank said, his voice gentle, always the considerate one.

You shrugged, forcing a small, tight smile. “It’s not like I expected him to. Besides, it’s probably better this way. Less complicated.”

“Hmm,” Hank murmured, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. “Well, complicated or not, he seems intrigued by you. I caught him muttering something about ‘ballet instructors with an attitude’ after he saw you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Sounds about right. I think I annoyed him within thirty seconds of meeting him. New record?”

Hank chuckled. “Perhaps. Though, if I know Logan, that probably just means he respects you already.”

You snorted. “Yeah, sure. Respect. That’s what I’m calling it.”

Hank grinned at your sarcasm, but his expression softened as he leaned forward again. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. Even if it’s just for a little while. The place feels more like home with you in it.”

The words struck a chord deep in your chest, and you looked down, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve to avoid his gaze. “Thanks, Hank. That means a lot.”

“You mean a lot,” he said simply, his sincerity cutting through any attempt to downplay his words.

The two of you fell into an easy silence again, but this time it was heavier with unspoken things. Things you didn’t have to say, because after all these years, Hank just knew.

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

“Great work today,” you said gently, crouching to pat one of the kids on the head. The little girl beamed up at you, her hair still pinned into a slightly crooked bun from class.

“Thanks!” she chirped before bounding off toward the theatre entrance, where a gaggle of other students waited.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow, bright and early!” you called after them, your voice carrying across the empty rows of seats. A few of them waved over their shoulders, laughter spilling into the hall as they disappeared through the double doors.

The stage was quiet now, the faint scent of resin and sweat lingering in the air. You stood there staring out at the rows of chairs that stretched into a shadow. The polished floor beneath your feet caught the faint gleam of overhead lights, reflecting a ghostly version of yourself back at you.

Your shoulders sagged as you sighed, the stillness pressing around you like a heavy blanket. This place stirred something deep in you, something you hadn’t felt in years. You glanced down at your feet, your sneakers looking almost out of place against the elegant backdrop of the stage. Your eyes drifted, drawn to a battered old prop chest tucked just off to the side, partially hidden by the heavy velvet curtain.

Curiosity pulled you forward, and you crouched to flip open the lid. A cloud of dust puffed out, tickling your nose as you rummaged through its contents. Costumes, ribbons, bits of tulle—faded relics from long-forgotten performances. And then, nestled at the very bottom, you found them.

A pair of pointe shoes.

Your breath hitched as you lifted them from the chest, the ribbons cascading down like silk waterfalls. They weren’t yours—at least, not exactly—but they might as well have been. The scuffed toes, the frayed edges of the satin, the way the soles were worn down just so—it was all so familiar it made your chest ache.

Without really thinking, you sat down on the edge of the stage, untying your sneakers and slipping off your socks. The cool satin of the pointe shoes slid over your feet like a second skin, and your fingers moved on autopilot as you laced the ribbons up your ankles. The motions were muscle memory, older than most of the students you’d taught today.

You rose slowly, the faint stretch and pull of the shoes grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you’d needed. A glance backstage revealed a small sound system someone had left behind, a phone still plugged into it. You scrolled until you found it—Swan Lake.

The haunting strings began to play, swelling and softening as if they were breathing. You stepped back onto the stage, your toes brushing the center mark, and let the music guide you.

At first, you moved tentatively, testing the feel of the shoes and the way your body responded. But soon, the hesitance melted away, and the steps came to you as naturally as breathing. A pirouette turned into an arabesque, which melted into a series of gliding movements that carried you across the stage.

The world outside the theatre faded, and all that existed was the music, the stage, and the rhythm of your own heartbeat. Each movement felt like slipping into an old memory, one you didn’t even realize you’d missed.

You were mid-leap when you caught the faintest creak of floorboards behind you.

The sound shattered your focus, and you landed with a jarring thud, spinning around instinctively.

Logan stood at the edge of the stage, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket. He leaned against the proscenium arch, watching you with an unreadable expression, though something about it wasn’t entirely unkind.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The soft strains of Swan Lake still played behind you, the violins aching as the tension in the air stretched.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked finally, your voice sharper than you intended.

“Long enough,” he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

Your eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t think to announce yourself?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked... focused.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to your face as you turned away and bent to tug the ribbons loose from your ankles. “Well, congratulations. You interrupted anyway.”

“Didn’t mean to,” he said, stepping closer, his boots thudding softly against the stage floor. “You’re... pretty good at that, by the way.”

You paused mid-motion, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Pretty good? Gee, thanks for the glowing review.”

He smirked, his sharp eyes gleaming with amusement. “Alright, fine. You’re really good. Happy?”

You snorted, slipping the pointe shoes off and flexing your toes. “It’s been a while.”

“Couldn’t tell,” he said simply. His gaze lingered on you even as you busied yourself with tucking the ribbons back into the shoes. “You used to do that, huh? Dance, I mean.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, turning the shoes over in your hands. “A lifetime ago.”

The silence hung between while the faint hum of the violins still played in the background.

“You should do it more,” he said finally, his tone softer than you expected.

You looked up at him, startled by the sincerity in his voice. The rough edges of Logan’s demeanor didn’t usually leave much room for softness, and it caught you off guard. But before you could respond, he was already turning away, heading toward the wings, his boots thudding softly against the stage floor.

You just sat there, the pointe shoes resting lightly in your lap. You stared after him, unsure whether to laugh, roll your eyes, or call him back just to yell at him for sneaking in. But something about the way he moved—slow, deliberate, almost hesitant—stopped you.

“Logan,” you called out, your voice carrying across the empty stage.

He paused, his broad shoulders tensing, though he didn’t turn right away. When he did, his expression was guarded, like he wasn��t sure what to expect from you.

“How long have you been here?” you asked, gesturing vaguely to the space around you. “At the school, I mean.”

His brow furrowed slightly, and for a second, he looked like he was deciding whether or not to answer. “A good while,” he said finally, his tone gruff.

It wasn’t much of an answer—not something you could work with—but you tried anyway. “Hank tells me you’re just… passing through.” You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “But you’re still here.”

Logan let out a soft huff, the corner of his mouth pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but close enough. “He should mind his business,” he said, though there was no real heat in his words. He paused, stepping closer with a glint of curiosity in his sharp eyes. “You talking to Hank about me?”

You shrugged, the movement casual, but your heart was beating just a touch faster. “Me and Hank are good friends. We’ve—well, I’ve known the X-Men almost my whole life.” You hesitated, glancing down at the pointe shoes in your lap, your fingers idly tracing the frayed edges of the satin. “Been around a long time.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on you, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and searching. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You give off that vibe.”

You frowned, looking back up at him. “What vibe?”

“Like you’ve seen some things,” he said, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His tone was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that felt older than even his rough exterior let on. “Been through it. Same as me.”

You held his gaze for a moment, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you could explain. Not easily, anyway. Instead, you offered him a small, wry smile. “Yeah, well. Time has a way of kicking the crap out of you if you let it.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, the sound more genuine than you expected. “Ain’t that the truth.” He shifted slightly, his gaze dropping to the pointe shoes still cradled in your hands.

“You’re good at that,” he said finally, nodding toward them. “Dancing, I mean. I could tell. Not just talent—it’s in your bones.”

You blinked, taken aback. “What, you an expert on ballet now?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Nah. But I know what it looks like when someone’s got somethin’ that keeps ‘em going. Something they can’t walk away from, even if they try.”

The words hit deeper than you wanted to admit as you stared at him, unsure how to respond. Finally, you said, “Yeah, well. It’s not exactly something you forget. Even when you want to.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. Something was flickering behind his gaze, restless and uncertain like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t even know he had.

“You seem… familiar,” he said suddenly, the words rough, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.

Your breath caught, and you stiffened, your grip tightening on the pointe shoes. “Familiar?”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. I dunno. I get these dreams sometimes. Flashes of… people, places. Can’t make sense of ‘em half the time, but you…” He trailed off, running a hand through his dark hair. “You feel like one of ‘em. Like I’ve seen you before.”

Your heart was pounding now, and you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even as his words pulled at something buried deep in your chest. “Well,” you said lightly, “maybe I just have one of those faces.”

Logan snorted, though there was no humor in it. “Yeah. Maybe.” But the way his eyes lingered on you made it clear he wasn’t convinced.

You stood abruptly, the pointe shoes dangling from your fingers as you moved to set them down on the edge of the stage. “I should probably get going,” you said, your voice a touch too bright. “Long day tomorrow. Lots of kids to wrangle.”

Logan straightened, watching you carefully. “Yeah. Sure.” He hesitated, then added, “Hey. If you ever feel like you need to talk… about all that time kickin’ the crap outta you…” His smirk returned, softer this time. “I’m around.”

You looked at him, caught off guard by the unexpected offer. Then you nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Logan.”

He nodded back, stepping away toward the wings. “Anytime.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, you found yourself standing there, staring at the space he’d left behind, wondering if he remembered more than he realized.

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

“Leaving already?” Hank asked, his deep voice soft but tinged with disappointment as he leaned against the doorframe of your room. His sharp blue eyes swept over the half-packed duffel bag on the bed.

You turned to face him, zipping up the side pocket of the bag before offering him a faint smile. “Yeah,” you said, your tone light, though the ache in your chest betrayed you. “My job’s done. These kids learned pretty quickly. They don’t need me hanging around.”

Hank stepped into the room, his large frame taking up far too much space as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You could stay…”

His words hung in the air like a challenge, and you looked down at your hands, gripping the strap of your bag. The idea tugged at you, and you couldn’t deny it. A part of you did want to stay. It had been a few months—far longer than you’d initially planned—and yet leaving felt harder than it usually did.

Hank tilted his head, studying you. “I know he would miss you,” he said gently, his voice softening. “In his own weird way.”

Your heart gave a traitorous thud, and you swallowed hard, glancing toward the window. The late afternoon sun cast long golden streaks across the walls, the light catching the faint dust motes in the air. You knew exactly who Hank meant.

“Hank,” you said, shaking your head as if to dismiss the thought. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Hank continued, his tone a mixture of teasing and sincerity, “it’s not every day Logan actually lets someone get under his skin.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up, though it was tinged with a bittersweet edge. “Under his skin? Pretty sure he’d describe me as an itch, not a friend.”

Hank raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on his face. “Perhaps. But even Logan doesn’t get that annoyed unless he likes someone.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway made both of you glance toward the door. A moment later, Logan appeared, his usual scowl in place as he leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, his gravelly voice laced with sarcasm, though his eyes flicked to your bag with something far harder to read.

“Not at all,” Hank said smoothly, stepping toward the door. “In fact, I was just leaving.”

You shot Hank a glare, but he only smiled innocently before brushing past Logan and disappearing down the hallway, leaving the two of you alone.

“So,” Logan said, jerking his chin toward the bed. “Packing up, huh?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah. Time to hit the road. The kids are in a good place, and my work here is done.”

Logan snorted, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. “Work? Looked more like pirouettes and tutus to me.”

You rolled your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Don’t knock it, Logan. Ballet’s tougher than it looks. I’d like to see you last five minutes in a pair of pointe shoes.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” he said, the ghost of a grin flickering across his face. “I like my dignity right where it is.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you zipped up the duffel bag. “You wouldn’t know dignity if it hit you over the head.”

“Careful, darlin’,” Logan shot back, his voice teasing but low. “I might actually start to think I’m gonna miss you.”

The playful tone of the conversation faltered for a split second, the weight of his words landing heavier than either of you expected. You looked at him, your smirk fading as your eyes searched his face.

“Well,” you said lightly, trying to brush it off, “don’t get too sentimental on me, Logan. I’ll think I’ve broken you.”

Logan didn’t laugh. His expression grew more serious, his brows furrowing slightly as he stepped closer. “I’m not bein’ sentimental. I mean it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden earnestness in his voice. “Logan—”

“I’ll miss you,” he interrupted, his gaze dropping before meeting yours again. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

Before you could respond, Logan ran a hand through his dark hair, letting out a low huff. “I don’t know what it is about you,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But you feel… familiar. Like I’ve known you before.”

You froze, your pulse quickening. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to piece something together. “I’ve had these dreams,” he said slowly. “Flashes of… I dunno, a forest. Snow. And you. You’re there. You’re always there.”

Your breath caught, and you forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression neutral even as his words sent a ripple through you. “Logan, that doesn’t mean anything,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Dreams are just… dreams.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Maybe. But it feels real. Like I’m rememberin’ something I’m not supposed to.”

You took a shaky breath, gripping the strap of your bag like a lifeline. “Logan…”

He stepped back, giving you space but keeping his sharp eyes locked on yours. “I don’t know what it means, but…” He exhaled, the sound rough and frustrated. “I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is… if I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

You managed a faint smile, though your chest felt tight. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Logan nodded once, his gaze lingering on you before he stepped back toward the door. “Take care of yourself, darlin’,” he said, his voice gruff again, though the softness in his eyes remained.

“You too, Logan,” you replied, watching as he disappeared into the hallway.

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

“He isn’t here,” Hank’s familiar voice rumbled as you stepped through the heavy oak doors of Xavier’s mansion.

You froze for a moment, your breath catching in your chest before you schooled your expression into something neutral. “Who said I came back for him?” you quipped, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I missed you, you big fluff.”

Hank appeared at the top of the grand staircase, his blue fur catching the soft light streaming through the tall windows. He grinned as he descended, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet foyer. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said, his tone warm and teasing. As he reached the bottom step, he opened his arms, and you moved forward, letting yourself sink into the familiar embrace.

He pulled back slightly, his large hands resting gently on your shoulders. “My dear, I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

You gave him a faint smile, setting your duffel bag down by your feet. “Well, you were right. This place has a way of sticking with you.”

Your gaze wandered, taking in the grand entryway—the polished wood floors, the scent of old books, and faint traces of Storm’s jasmine perfume lingering in the air. It felt the same as it always had, and yet different, as if the mansion itself had shifted in your absence. It had been three months since you’d left, determined to put some distance between yourself and the memories this place stirred up. But the farther you went, the more you felt the pull to come back.

Something about being here this time had gotten under your skin, burrowed into the part of you that you usually kept locked away.

Hank seemed to sense your hesitation. His perceptive blue eyes studied you carefully, the teasing edge to his voice softening. “What brought you back this time? Missing the kids already? Or…” He trailed off meaningfully, giving you a knowing look.

You rolled your eyes, stepping away to avoid his gaze. “Don’t start with me, Hank.”

“Start with what?” he asked innocently, though the twitch of his lips betrayed him.

You bent to pick up your bag, slinging it over your shoulder as you moved toward the staircase. “I just felt like it was time to come back, okay? No ulterior motives.”

Hank followed you, his footsteps were heavy but deliberate. “Hmm,” he murmured, and you could feel his gaze boring into the back of your head. “I see.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured for you to follow him toward the sitting room. You hesitated, but the look on his face made it clear he wasn’t going to let this drop, so you sighed and followed him in.

As you stepped into the room, the crackling of a low fire greeted you, the warmth immediately chasing away the chill that had settled in your bones during your journey back. Hank moved to pour himself a cup of tea from the silver pot on the table and offered you one with a tilt of his head. You shook your head, folding your arms across your chest instead.

When Hank finally spoke, his voice was careful but direct. “Logan left shortly after you did.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the stomach. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression calm. “Oh?”

Hank’s sharp eyes flicked to you over the rim of his cup. “He went to Alkali Lake.”

Your breath caught for a fraction of a second before you forced yourself to shrug casually. “Is that so? I guess he's still looking for answers.”

Hank hummed, setting the teacup down with a quiet clink. “Indeed. He seemed… restless. More so than usual. Charles sent him there.”

You shifted your weight, pretending to be absorbed in the crackling fire, but you could feel Hank watching you, his gaze pressing against the cracks in your carefully constructed mask. “Well, you know Logan. He’s not exactly one for sitting still,” you said lightly.

Hank didn’t respond immediately, but when he did, his voice was softer, more concerned. “You knew he’d leave, didn’t you?”

You frowned, turning your gaze to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hank leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded you with that gentle yet unyielding intensity that only he could pull off. “You care about him,” he said simply. “And don’t try to deny it. I’ve known you too long.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died in your throat. Instead, you looked away, your fingers tightening into fists at your sides. “It doesn’t matter,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “He doesn’t even remember me.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it,” Hank said gently.

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders. “I think I’ll talk to Charles,” you said abruptly, moving toward the door.

“Of course,” Hank said, his voice soft and understanding. “But if you need to talk…”

You glanced back at him, offering a small, strained smile. “Thanks, Hank.”

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

You found Charles in his study, the quiet hum of his voice reaching you before you even entered the room. He was finishing up a conversation with Storm, who nodded at you in greeting as she passed by on her way out.

“Ah,” Charles said, his warm smile appearing as he gestured for you to come in. “It’s good to see you back.”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, closing the door behind you. “Why did you send him there?”

Charles raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained calm. “Logan?”

“Yes,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Hank said you sent him to Alkali Lake. Why?”

Charles sighed, folding his hands in his lap as his gaze turned contemplative. “Because he was searching for answers. And I thought he deserved a chance to find them.”

“At that place?” you said, your voice sharper than you intended.

Charles’s gaze softened, his eyes piercing yet kind. “You know as well as I do that Logan’s past is complicated. He came to me, searching for guidance. I simply pointed him toward where I believed he might find what he was looking for.”

You turned away, pacing to the window as you tried to steady your thoughts. Memories of Alkali Lake clawed at the edges of your mind, and the idea of Logan going back there made your chest tighten.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” you muttered.

Charles was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “He’s stronger than you think. And, perhaps, finding the truth is the only way for him to heal.”

You clenched your jaw, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for,” you said quietly. “He doesn’t remember.”

Charles tilted his head, studying you carefully. “And yet, it seems to me that you do.”

You turned to face him, your arms folded tightly across your chest like a shield, but you couldn’t keep the vulnerability from your eyes as they met his. He was right, of course—he was always right. You did remember. You remembered everything.

And that was the problem.

“Sometimes,” you said softly, your voice trembling just enough to betray you, “things happen for a reason. Sometimes it’s better not to remember.”

Charles’s expression softened, his piercing gaze never wavering. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his hands folding neatly in his lap as he studied you. “Perhaps you feel that way,” he said gently, “but Logan doesn’t. He wants to remember—he longs to, even if he doesn’t realize how painful the truth could be.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening against your arms. The lump rising in your throat made it difficult to speak. “You shouldn’t have sent him there,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “You could’ve just told him. You could’ve looked into his mind and shown him.”

Charles sighed, his expression tinged with a sadness that only came from decades of making impossible decisions. “I could have,” he admitted, his voice as calm and steady as ever. “But sometimes it’s best to let one discover the truth on their own. To take the journey themselves, rather than having it handed to them.”

You shook your head, pacing a few steps toward the window before stopping, your hands bracing against the ledge as you stared out at the sprawling gardens. The sky was painted with the fiery hues of sunset, the warm colors stark against the shadows creeping across the grounds.

“You don’t know what he’s walking into,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less strained. “Alkali Lake isn’t just some mystery to solve—it’s a wound that doesn’t close. Whatever he finds there… it’ll destroy him.”

Charles’s chair creaked faintly as he shifted, his voice still calm but tinged with something deeper, something more insistent. “Logan is stronger than you think. He has endured more than most men could even imagine. And while you may see Alkali Lake as a wound, for him, it may be the key to healing.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Healing? Is that what you call it? Ripping open the past just to bleed all over again?” You turned to face him, your voice rising slightly. “You think that’s going to help him?”

Charles remained unshaken, his steady gaze meeting yours. “I think,” he said carefully, “that Logan deserves the chance to decide for himself. To understand who he was, and who he could become.”

You looked away, your jaw clenching as the weight of his words settled over you. “He doesn’t need to remember everything,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Charles. “Some things… some things are better left buried.”

Charles regarded you silently for a long moment, the silence between you heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, he spoke, his tone gentle but resolute. “You could help him.”

The words made your heart jolt, and your eyes snapped back to his, wide with surprise. “What?”

“You could help him,” Charles repeated, his gaze unyielding. “You know him. You understand his pain in ways others cannot. Perhaps you are exactly what he needs.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to protest, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head as you stepped back toward the door. “No,” you said firmly, though your voice cracked slightly. “That’s not my place. He doesn’t even remember me.”

“Perhaps not,” Charles said, tilting his head slightly. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the connection. And it doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

You froze in the doorway, your hand gripping the frame as you glanced back at him. “This isn’t about me caring,” you said quietly, though even you could hear the lie in your voice. “This is about you sending him to a place that’s going to tear him apart, and expecting someone else to pick up the pieces.”

Charles’s gaze softened, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m not expecting anything, my dear. I’m simply reminding you that you have a choice. Just as he does.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening as the weight of his words pressed against the walls you’d so carefully built around yourself. Without another word, you turned and walked out, the faint echo of your footsteps fading down the hall.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting by the window in your room, the pointe shoes you’d brought with you resting in your lap. The moonlight spilled across the polished floor, painting the room in silvery shadows.

You hadn’t danced since the day Logan had interrupted you in the theatre, but now, your legs ached with the restless energy that only movement could soothe. Setting the shoes aside, you rose to your feet and began to move, the quiet hum of your memories guiding your steps.

But no matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in the rhythm, his words echoed in your mind.

“I’ve had these dreams. Flashes of… I don’t know, a forest. Snow. And you. You’re there. You’re always there.”

You faltered mid-spin, your movements slowing until you stood completely still, your chest heaving with shallow breaths. The memories he didn’t fully understand were ones you couldn’t forget. The snow, the forest, the way his eyes—wilder, more broken than—had locked onto yours as if you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

You sat back down on the edge of the bed, resting your head in your hands. You had told yourself that coming back to the mansion was about the kids, about the familiar comforts of a place you’d once called home. But deep down, you knew it was about him.

And now he was gone.

You didn’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken, but one thing was certain—if Logan ever truly remembered everything, you weren’t sure either of you would survive it.

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

You descended the staircase beside Hank, nodding absentmindedly as he launched into an animated explanation of his latest research—something about neural pathways and genetic mutations. It was fascinating, you were sure, but your thoughts had drifted. A week had passed since you returned to the mansion, and yet it still felt strange to slip so easily back into the rhythm of this place, like stepping into an old pair of shoes you’d forgotten you owned.

“Logan! You’re back!”

Rogue’s excited voice cut through the air, and you froze mid-step, your hand tightening on the polished wood of the banister. Your eyes darted to the entrance below, where Logan stood just inside the door, a worn duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looked as gruff as ever, his jacket unzipped and his hair slightly mussed, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as Rogue darted across the hall to embrace him.

You lingered on the stairs, watching the exchange with a small smile. Rogue stepped back, saying something too low for you to hear, and Logan responded with a grunt that made her laugh. The sight of it tugged at something in your chest—something you weren’t ready to name.

“Wonder why he’s back,” Hank said beside you, his voice low and tinged with curiosity.

You didn’t miss the knowing look he gave you, and you sighed, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t start,” you said, your voice teasing but edged with a hint of nervousness.

Still, your heart raced, betraying the calm exterior you were trying so hard to maintain. The thought crossed your mind—fleeting and impossible—that maybe Logan had come back because you were here. But no. That wasn’t how things worked. You had left before him, made it clear you didn’t intend to stay, and Logan… well, Logan wasn’t the sentimental type.

As you descended the last few steps, Hank still at your side, Logan’s gaze lifted. His smirk faded as his sharp eyes found yours, and for a second, something flickered across his face. Surprise? Relief? It was gone before you could name it, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

“You… made it back,” you said, your voice softer than you intended as you offered him a faint smile.

Logan’s brow twitched, and he set his duffel bag down by his feet. “Looks like we both did,” he said gruffly, his voice carrying that familiar gravelly tone that always sounded like he’d just woken up.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you admitted, stepping off the last stair. “But, you know… this place has a way of dragging you back.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, his lips twitching as though he might smile. “Does that.”

There was a beat of silence, not quite awkward but heavy enough to feel like the air between you had changed somehow. Hank, ever the socially astute one, cleared his throat and patted you lightly on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll leave you two to… catch up. I have some experiments to check on.”

You shot him a warning look, but he just grinned and disappeared down the hall dragging Rogue along with him. Leaving you alone with Logan.

“So,” you said after a moment, folding your arms casually. “Alkali Lake. Find what you were looking for?”

Logan let out a low huff, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah. Nothin’ there but snow and bad memories.”

You nodded, though your chest tightened at his words. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t let this get to you, wouldn’t let your emotions bubble to the surface. But it was hard. You knew what Alkali Lake meant, not just to him but to you as well.

“Well,” you said lightly, forcing a smirk. “Guess you can cross that one off the list.”

“Yeah,” he said, watching you carefully. “Guess so.”

There was a pause, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were working up to something. You shifted under his gaze, feeling the weight of it settle on your shoulders.

“What?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Had another dream,” he said suddenly, his tone casual, but there was an edge to it, something unspoken lingering beneath his words.

You froze, your smirk faltering. “Oh yeah?”

Logan nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. “You were in it again.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, but you forced yourself to play it cool. “You sure it wasn’t Rogue this time? Or Storm? Maybe I’m just a stand-in for all the women in your life.”

He huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. It was you.” He stepped a little closer, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, studying your face as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle. “This time you were… dancin’.”

The breath hitched in your throat, and you felt the heat rise to your cheeks. You broke eye contact, looking down at the scuffed floorboards. “Sounds like a weird dream,” you said, your voice quiet.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone softer now. “Weird thing is, it felt… familiar.”

You looked back up at him sharply, your stomach twisting. “Familiar how?”

Logan shrugged, the movement almost too casual, but his brow furrowed as though he were trying to make sense of something. “Don’t know. I just… felt like I’d seen it before. You, up on some stage or somethin’, spinnin’ around. There was music. Somethin’ old… Swan Lake, maybe?”

Your throat tightened. The memory flashed in your mind—the theatre, the faint strains of Swan Lake, the way you’d let yourself get lost in the dance only to find Logan watching you from the shadows.

“Well,” you said finally, forcing a smirk. “Maybe you’re just jealous of my skills.”

Logan snorted, his lips twitching upward. “Yeah, sure. That’s it.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, and you thought you saw the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—something uncertain, almost vulnerable. But then he stepped back, picking up his duffel bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Good to see you back,” he said gruffly, his voice dropping just enough that you almost missed it. “Place is better with you here.”

Before you could respond, he turned and started walking down the hall, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your thoughts swirling.

Logan might not remember everything, but the pieces were there buried just beneath the surface. And whether you liked it or not, it seemed those pieces included you.

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

“Charles suggested I… help him,” you said, your tone sharp as you leaned against Hank’s lab table. The polished steel was cold under your hands, grounding you as you tried to organize your thoughts. “Can you believe that? The old man won’t use his powers to look inside Logan’s mind, but he expects me to do it—in some weird, roundabout sense.”

Hank hummed thoughtfully, his attention divided as he adjusted the burner beneath a bubbling beaker. “Charles has his methods,” he said evenly. “Though I suspect he thinks you’d be a better help because you… knew Logan. From before.”

Your stomach tightened, and you crossed your arms over your chest, your gaze dropping to the tiled floor. “Hank, I’ve known almost everyone. I’ve been alive longer than any of you. It doesn’t mean I have all the answers.” You hesitated, then added in a softer voice, “And you can’t expect me to just… spill my guts to him. What if it triggers something in him? The feral side?”

That made Hank pause. He looked up from his work, concern creasing his blue-furred face. “I’ve heard about that side of him,” he said cautiously, “but I’ve never seen it in person.” His voice lowered. “Have you?”

The question made your chest tighten even more, your heart thudding against your ribs. You turned away, your eyes settling on a shelf of meticulously labeled vials, pretending to study them.

“We’ve seen it, haven’t we?” Hank pressed, his tone gentler now.

Finally, you nodded, the memory bubbling to the surface unbidden. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Hank tilted his head, his expression shifting from curiosity to quiet concern. “My dear,” he said carefully, “you’ve always made it seem as though you knew Logan in passing… like acquaintances from a battlefield. But…” His voice trailed off, and he straightened, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as realization dawned. “You’re not telling me something, are you?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if to dismiss the thought. “Hank, it doesn’t matter. It happened a long time ago. Just let it go.”

“What happened a long time ago?”

You gritted your teeth, frustration flaring in your chest. “It’s complicated,” you said, your voice low.

“I’ve got time,” Hank replied simply, leaning against the counter and folding his massive arms across his chest.

You threw him a look, but the patience in his gaze—the quiet, unyielding kind that Hank was so good at—made you falter. You pushed off the table and started to pace, running a hand through your hair as you tried to organize your thoughts.

“I met Logan decades ago,” you began, your voice tight. “During a war. A different one from the ones the X-Men are used to. He wasn’t like he is now. He was wilder, more dangerous. Barely in control of himself. A weapon, not a man.”

Hank’s brows furrowed. “Weapon X?”

You shook your head. “No. This was before that. This was… something else. Something darker.”

You stopped pacing, your arms falling to your sides as the memory gripped you. “I was passing through this remote town in the Canadian Rockies. Just trying to stay out of the way, you know? That’s what I did back then. I didn’t get involved. Didn’t put down roots. And then…” You swallowed hard, your voice dropping. “Then I heard the screams.”

Hank’s ears twitched, his expression unreadable as he watched you.

“There were bodies,” you continued, your voice distant now. “Shredded. Blood everywhere. And in the middle of it was him. Logan. He wasn’t himself—not the man you know now. He was… feral. An animal. He couldn’t even speak. Just growled and snarled like a beast.”

Hank adjusted his glasses, his expression turning grim. “And you fought him?”

You let out a dry laugh, though there was no humor in it. “I tried. I had to. He was killing anything that moved. I thought I could stop him, but… I underestimated him. He tore through me like paper.”

Hank’s eyes widened. “But your healing—”

“Exactly,” you cut in, nodding. “He saw me heal. Saw me get back up when I should’ve stayed down. I think it… confused him. Maybe even snapped him out of it a little. He stopped attacking me, but he didn’t calm down completely. He just… stared at me. Like he didn’t know whether to rip me apart or run.”

“And what did you do?”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting to the window. The late afternoon light spilled into the lab, casting long shadows across the floor. “I didn’t run,” you said softly. “I stayed. I talked to him. Calmed him down somehow. It was like he recognized something in me, though I didn’t know what it was at the time. I stayed with him for weeks after that. Helped him regain some sense of himself. Taught him how to fight his instincts. We… we bonded.”

The last words came out quieter than you intended, and you felt Hank’s gaze sharpen.

“You didn’t just know him,” Hank said slowly, as though the pieces were finally coming together. “You cared about him.”

You looked away, your jaw tightening. “I left when he got better. Disappeared. I thought it was for the best. And now he doesn’t even remember me. So, yeah, Charles wants me to help him, but I don’t know if I can. And even if I could… I don’t know if I should.”

The room was quiet for a long moment, the bubbling of the beaker the only sound. Finally, Hank sighed, his voice softer now. “Perhaps you underestimate how much of you he might still remember, even if it’s not clear to him yet.”

You shook your head, the weight of your thoughts pressing down like an old, familiar burden. “He doesn’t remember. At least, not the whole picture. And honestly? It’s better that way.” Your voice softened, but a bitter edge crept into it. “He shouldn’t have to remember all the pain he caused. All the blood.”

Hank froze for a moment, his hands stilling over the set of vials he was arranging. The soft hum of the equipment filled the silence as he carefully chose his words. “I understand—”

“No, you don’t.” You cut him off, the sharpness in your tone surprising even yourself. You turned toward him, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Hank, if you had lived as long as we have… seen the things we’ve seen, done the things we’ve done… You’d want to forget too. You’d want it wiped clean, all of it. Trust me.”

Hank straightened, his broad shoulders rising slightly as he considered your words. “You’re speaking for Logan,” he said slowly, his voice calm but firm. “You’re deciding for him.”

Your eyes flicked away, focusing on the far corner of the lab. It was easier than meeting his gaze.

“It’s not like Logan was given a choice back then,” Hank continued, his tone softening but losing none of its weight. “And now he has one. A chance to choose for himself who he wants to be—what he wants to know. You’re taking that away from him by deciding for him.”

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit, threading a knot of tension through your chest. You opened your mouth to argue, to say something to push back against Hank’s steady reasoning, but no words came.

Instead, you closed your eyes, exhaling slowly through your nose. “I’m not taking anything away from him,” you said finally, your voice tight. “I’m just trying to protect him.”

“Protect him?” Hank asked, his eyebrows rising slightly. “From what? From himself?”

“From the truth!” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. The words hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered, and you took a step back, shaking your head as if to banish the emotions bubbling to the surface.

Hank studied you carefully, his blue eyes searching yours. “You don’t believe he deserves the truth, do you?”

Your laugh came out bitter, almost hollow. “Deserve? What does that even mean? Deserve doesn’t matter when it comes to this. What Logan’s been through, what he’s done—he deserves peace. And that’s not something he’s going to find at the bottom of a memory.”

Hank tilted his head, his expression a mix of empathy and challenge. “You think peace is ignorance?”

“I think…” you said slowly, your voice faltering. “I think there are some things you can’t come back from. Some things you shouldn’t have to come back from.”

“And yet he keeps fighting,” Hank said, his voice quieter now. “Every day, Logan fights to be better. To be more than what he’s been through, more than what was done to him. But you… you’re standing in his way.”

His words struck like a blow, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

“I’m not standing in his way,” you said finally, but the words felt hollow.

“Are you sure about that?” Hank asked, his tone gentle but unwavering.

You turned away, gripping the edge of the lab table so tightly your knuckles turned white. “He doesn’t need to remember me,” you said after a long pause, your voice barely above a whisper. “Or what happened back then. He doesn’t need to carry that weight.”

Hank hesitated before stepping closer, his voice soft but unrelenting. “Maybe. But are you sure this is about what he needs? Or is it about what you don’t want to face?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded gun, and you couldn’t bring yourself to answer it.

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹🦢⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

Later that night, you found yourself sitting alone on the stage, the empty theatre shrouded in silence. Your legs stretched out in front of you, the ribbons of your pointe shoes loose around your ankles. Though the music had long since stopped, the soft strings of a violin still lingered in your mind, weaving through the restless thoughts you couldn’t escape.

Dancing used to help, used to be your escape when the weight of everything threatened to crush you. It felt like it only made things worse. The memories, the what-ifs, the fears you’d buried so deeply—all of it rose to the surface when you moved. Hank had been right, and you hated it.

It wasn’t just about Logan. It was about you. About the things you didn’t want to revisit, the things you’d worked so hard to leave behind. The terrifying truth was, if Logan ever pieced it all together—if he ever remembered everything—you weren’t sure either of you could handle it.

The quiet creak of the double doors opening snapped you out of your thoughts. You froze, your hands resting on your ankles as Logan stepped into the theatre, the dim light catching the sharp angles of his face. He looked more relaxed than he had when you first saw him after returning from Alkali Lake, like some of the tension he always carried had finally eased. Maybe his trip had given him some kind of closure. Maybe it had only left him with more questions.

You didn’t know which possibility scared you more.

You dropped your gaze to your pointe shoes, fingers fumbling with the ribbons as if untying them could somehow distract you from the way Logan’s gaze lingered on you.

He snorted, the sound soft but amused as he moved farther into the room. “Didn’t feel like dancin’ tonight?” he asked, his gravelly voice carrying a faint teasing edge.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the faint smile that tugged at your lips. “What do you want, Logan?”

He shrugged, stepping farther down the aisle until he was close enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. His expression shifted, the smirk fading as his sharp eyes narrowed. “Figured I’d check in. You’ve been avoidin’ me since I got back.”

“I’ve been busy,” you said quickly, tugging your pointe shoes off and setting them beside you. The excuse sounded thin even to your ears.

“Yeah,” Logan said, his voice flat as he folded his arms over his chest. “Sure you have.”

You sighed, pulling your legs up onto the stage and crossing them in front of you as if the position could shield you from the intensity of his gaze. “What do you want, Logan?”

His gaze dropped to the floor before lifting again to meet yours. “I think we both know the answer to that,” he said quietly, stepping closer to the edge of the stage. “You’re keepin’ stuff from me.”

Your breath caught, and you forced yourself to laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do,” Logan said, his voice low and firm. He stepped up onto the stage, closing the distance between you. “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”

You looked away, focusing on the empty rows of seats stretching out into the shadows of the theatre. “Logan, I—”

“Cut the crap,” he interrupted, his tone sharper now. “Every time I get close to somethin’, you shut me out. Every time I try to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on in my head, you’re there, lookin’ at me like you already know the answers.” He paused, his voice softening just enough to make your chest ache. “You do, don’t you?”

Your hands tightened in your lap, your nails digging into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. “It’s not that simple,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan snorted, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Nothin’s ever simple with you, is it?”

“Logan, please,” you said, finally meeting his gaze. “Let it go.”

He shook his head, stepping even closer until he was standing right in front of you. “No. Not this time.” His voice was quiet but resolute, the kind of tone that left no room for argument. “I went to Alkali Lake and found nothin’ but ghosts. I keep havin’ these dreams, these flashes, and half the time, you’re in ‘em. You tell me to let it go? How the hell am I supposed to do that when I know there’s more? When I know you’re holdin’ somethin’ back?”

You stared at him, your chest tightening under the weight of his words. “You don’t want to remember,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “Not all of it. Trust me, Logan. You don’t.”

His jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “That’s not your call to make.”

“Isn’t it?” you shot back, your voice rising as the emotions you’d been suppressing finally broke free. “Do you have any idea what’s buried in your head? What remembering could do to you?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “What’s buried in yours?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut, and all you could do was stare at him. Finally, you looked away, your gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s not about me,” you said weakly.

“Bullshit,” Logan said, stepping closer until he was towering over you. “This is about you just as much as it’s about me. You’re scared, aren’t you? Scared of what I’ll remember. Of what it’ll mean for you.”

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, fighting back the sting of tears. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Logan crouched in front of you, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were sharp, but there was something softer, almost pleading. “Then tell me. Tell me what I don’t know.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill over as you whispered, “I can’t.”

“Why?” Logan’s voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because it’ll break you,” you said, your voice trembling. “And I can’t be the one to do that to you, Logan. I won’t.”

The two of you just stared at each other, the silence between you heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, Logan stood, running a hand through his hair as he stepped back.

“I’m not gonna stop,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’m not gonna stop until I figure it out. Until I figure us out.”

You looked up at him, your heart aching at the determination in his eyes. “Logan—”

He shook his head, cutting you off, his tone low but firm. “No more runnin’, darlin’. Not from me. Not from this.”

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, blinking hard to fight the tears threatening to spill. “You—you can’t just expect me to tell you everything,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Why not?” Logan said, his gaze piercing as he stepped closer. “Is it a long story? I’ve got the time—we both do.” His voice softened slightly at the end, but the determination in his tone didn’t waver.

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “It’s not that simple.”

“All I hear are excuses,” Logan snapped, his frustration bleeding into his voice. “Excuses from Chuck about my mind bein’ too fragile. Excuses about how I’ve gotta ‘find the answers myself.’” He gestured toward you, his movements sharp. “And now excuses from you about dreams bein’ just dreams. Do you think I can’t handle it? You think I don’t deserve to know what the hell’s been bouncin’ around in my head all this time?”

“It’s not about what you deserve, Logan!” you shot back, your voice cracking as you stood suddenly, your body tense with emotion. “It’s about what you can survive. You don’t know the weight of it—the guilt, the anger, the regret. You think finding all the pieces is going to fix you, but it’s not. It’s just going to break you more.”

Logan stared at you, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides. But something in his eyes—something raw and pleading—made you falter. His voice softened, the edge fading. “Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. But it’s not your call to make. It’s mine.”

The truth of his words cut through your defenses like claws, and you sank back onto the stage, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady your breathing. The silence between you stretched, heavy and charged.

Finally, you broke it, your voice quiet but resolute. “Fine.”

Logan’s head tilted slightly, his sharp gaze narrowing as he tried to gauge your meaning.

“I’ll tell you,” you said, swallowing hard as you looked up at him. “But I can’t promise it’s going to be pretty. And I can’t promise it’s not going to hurt.”

Logan’s posture relaxed ever so slightly, and he exhaled, his shoulders dropping as he moved toward you. He sat down beside you on the stage, the movement slow and deliberate. His elbow brushed against yours, and the quiet warmth of his presence steadied the storm inside you, if only for a moment.

“I ain’t lookin’ for pretty,” he said quietly, his tone gentle now. “And I’m not afraid of hurtin’. Just… tell me the truth. That’s all I want.”

You stared at the floor for a long moment, your hands twisting in your lap as memories you’d buried for years rose to the surface, raw and unrelenting. Finally, you took a deep breath, your voice shaking as you began. “We crossed paths again a long time ago.”

Logan frowned slightly, his brows furrowing. “Again?”

You nodded, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “It was…after everything happened when I first found you.” You hesitated, your voice dropping. “I thought I’d never see you again. Honestly, I hoped I wouldn’t. Not because I didn’t care, but because… because you deserved a fresh start. You needed one.”

Logan didn’t respond, but his silence was expectant, urging you to continue.

“I was in New York,” you said softly, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “Dancing. There was this small theatre, nothing fancy, but it was mine. I was performing that night—Swan Lake, actually. I remember being backstage, nerves eating at me like they always did before a show. And then the curtain rose, and I…” You paused, shaking your head at the memory. “I saw you. In the audience.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “Me?”

You nodded, your smile fading. “You were sitting in the second row, staring at me like you’d seen a ghost. I almost stumbled through my first few steps because I couldn’t believe it was you. You looked… different. Cleaner. Put together. But the way you watched me—it was like you remembered something. Something buried.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to the floor as if searching for the memory.

“When the performance ended,” you continued, “I went backstage, thinking you’d leave. That maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. But when I came out, you were still there. Waiting. I didn’t know what to say, but then you said it first.”

Logan glanced at you, his voice quiet. “What’d I say?”

You hesitated, the memory sharp in your mind. “You said, ‘It’s you. You’re the one who helped me.’”

His expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to piece together fragments of a puzzle. “I remembered you?”

“Some of it,” you said softly. “Not everything, but enough. Enough to know we’d met before. Enough to know I’d helped you when you weren’t… yourself.” You exhaled shakily, your hands trembling in your lap. “We went out afterward. Got drinks at some dingy little bar down the street. You asked me why I helped you back then, and I didn’t know how to answer. So I told you the truth.”

Logan looked at you, his voice rough. “What truth?”

You met his gaze, your eyes glassy. “That I didn’t want to. That I’d seen what you were capable of, and it terrified me. But there was something about you, Logan. Something human buried under all that rage. And I thought… I thought if I could just reach you, maybe you wouldn’t be lost forever.”

The room fell silent, the weight of your confession settling between you like a fragile thread. Logan’s gaze didn’t leave yours, his expression unreadable but his eyes impossibly soft.

“You were right,” he said finally, his voice low but steady.

You blinked, your breath catching. “What?”

“You reached me,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t remember all of it, but I know one thing: you didn’t let me go. You could’ve, but you didn’t. And that…” He shook his head, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “That’s somethin’ I won’t forget, even if the details are gone.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and you looked away, wiping at them quickly. “I don’t know if I helped you, Logan. Not really.”

“You did,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “You still do.”

The words hung in the air but they carried a weight that settled deep in your chest. Logan reached over, his rough hand covering yours briefly before pulling back. The touch was fleeting but enough to let you know he meant it.

[hijackalx]

Headcanon thingy, but who would the boys (Gale, Astarion, Wyll, and Gortash) react to seeing their lover trying on lingerie?

felt like testing my drabble skills so i added a lil something extra to them 😎💗 enjoy pookie!!

GN!reader

SLIGHT NSFW BELOW

GALE

likes when you surprise him with it. wear some under your clothes as a little treat for when he’s undressing you 😌✨

you look so good that it makes him trip over his words. he’s too busy ogling your body to pay attention to what he’s saying. will have him laughing like a nervous virgin 😹

LOVESSSSS garters. can’t keep his hands off of them. particularly loves the way your thighs strain beneath them when you’re on your knees

instantly wants to enchant the bottoms to make them vibrate and watch you get off like that (don’t ask if that’s actually possible my brain functions on horny not logic)

your outfit is inconspicuous, plain— perfect for covering up the lingerie hiding beneath. you wait patiently in his lap as he unwraps your silken robe, biting back a smirk.

he pauses to take in the sight of the lace hugging your skin, how it flows so delicately around your shape. he tuts, shooting you a familiar, frivolous grin. “feeling naughty tonight, are we?” just moments later, his hands move to rest on your bottoms, a seemingly harmless action that results in a soft buzz and a gasp. “i can work with that.”

ASTARION

insists on going with you to pick some out. follows you into every dressing room to “make sure it fits right” lol. so picky but mostly because he loves watching you try them on

his favorites are flowy/frilly types, like babydoll tops or satin robes. also LOVES stockings of any kind

makes you feel like an actual doll ✨🌸 repeatedly tells you how perfect you are and can’t keep his hands off you. will also try to get you flustered by whispering really dirty stuff about how you look into your ear

likes when you have fun with it and show off for him— be cheeky. do a little spin. bend over in front of him. be prepared for him to pinch or smack your ass though

he sits comfortably on the dressing room bench as you approach him. “how about this one?” you pull your bottom lip in playfully, placing your hands on his shoulders as he takes your body into his grasp.

“mm,” erupts from his throat, watching as his lithe fingers slip over and under the fabric sparsely covering your skin. “now, this one i like.” he places a slow and deliberate kiss to your exposed abdomen, his ruby gaze flitting up to meet yours; there’s an impish glint to them that tells you he doesn’t plan on waiting to have you any longer.

GORTASH

likes to make sketches of you wearing it. has so many drawings of you in compromising positions with it on. definitely keeps them for when he’s alone

loves corsets and bustiers because of how they emphasize your chest, especially in blacks and reds. crotchless panties also drive him INSANE

the sluttier you act while wearing it the better. don’t try to be modest (there’s honestly no reason to be anyway, he’s a freak fr 😹😹)

a sucker for fishnets. likes to take them off and use them to tie your wrists together. will also shove them in your mouth/gag you with them on occasion

his dark irises glance up from his work every so often to study your decorated figure; they follow the arch of your back, the heart shape of your ass, and linger on the exposed area between your thighs more often than not.

“lower,” he directs, and you immediately respond by deepening the angle of your back. he hums contently, scribbles some more, then adds, “spread your legs further.”

you comply once again, happy to flaunt your body under his gaze. the corner of your lip pulls upward, anticipating your reward for being such an obedient little muse.

WYLL

bust this out on your honeymoon and he gets SOOO flustered. i’m talking stuttering/looking away/rubbing his neck

his favorites on you are lacy teddies— especially in blues, purples, and whites. more traditionally sexy styles really get him going

lowkey so obsessed with how you look in it. the kind of thing that’s on his mind 24/7. almost always asking you to put it on for him at the end of the day with a little pout 😹💗

LOVES when you strip for him nice and slow, especially how you tease him by carefully revealing each skimpy garment beneath your clothes. a lapdance is also mandatory

you spot the anxiousness simmering beneath his lax surface— he longs to touch you, but you’d rather toy with him a little more.

prowling closer to where he sits, you slowly unbutton your blouse. with each maneuver of your fingers, you reveal the lingerie lying beneath, watching how his hungry, needy gaze fixates on it.

he inhales sharply as you straddle his lap and take his hand in yours. he lets you guide it over your ornamented body, his eyes heavy with desire as he mutters a low and raspy, “you’ll ruin me.”

[moonstruckme]

Hi 💜

I sent a request a while ago about Spencer x reader academic stress. It was absolutely perfect. Thank you so much 💗

I just read the james one about reader skipping meals (it was so sweet and lovely) and I tend to do that myself sometimes not eating anything between dinner one day to the next simply because i got busy with classes and forgot until i get a migrane or get a bit dizzy. So, I was wondering if you could do a similar prompt with Spencer and reader being busy all day with work or classes or whatever and simply forgetting to eat until a migrane / dizzy spell occurs and he finds out.

I just feel like he'd be so kind and give facts about importance of not skipping meals for brain function, while coddling, feeding and spoiling reader, maybe cooking or handfeeding too I don't know whatever works for you. Thank you 💕🌸

Sorry if i wrote too much😅

Thank you for requesting lovely (and no sorries necessary) <3

cw: mention of skipping meals, dizziness/nausea

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Spencer finds you sitting down in the stairwell. You recognize him by the sound of his footsteps, lighter than Morgan’s but less clicky than JJ’s heels. Neither of you typically use the stairs, so you can only imagine that he’s come looking for you. 

“Hi,” you say to let him know you’re alive inside the tiny cavern you’ve made of your own body. You’re bent over to rest your forehead on your knees, one hand on each of your temples as you breathe slowly to steady yourself. Overall, it’s a pretty dramatic pose. And you’re definitely getting the butt of your slacks dirty on these stairs. 

Spencer’s footsteps pass you, and for half a second you think he really is just using the stairs. He stops a few steps below you. You can feel him scrutinizing the top of your head. 

“Are you okay?” he asks in that soft, careful voice of his. “You just disappeared.” 

You had sort of fled the scene. You still feel too new to the team to feel fully comfortable, and with Strauss here for the case everyone is on their best behavior, so when you’d all been walking in the hallway and a dizzy spell had nearly collapsed you into the wall, you’d dropped back from the group and stepped into the first door you saw rather than risk bringing attention to yourself. 

“I’m fine,” you say through an exhale, lifting your head from your knees. “Sorry, I just got dizzy and didn’t want to cause problems.” 

Spencer’s eyebrows bunch. He lowers into a crouch in front of you, looking up into your face. “Dizzy—do you know what caused it? Is this something that happens often?” He bypasses your rudeness in abandoning the team immediately, and the questions come almost too fast for your addled brain to keep up with. You think you need protein. Or carbs, or something. 

“Yeah—I mean no, it doesn’t happen all the time,” you say. “I just forgot to eat lunch.” 

The notch between Spencer’s brows digs in and he brushes a piece of hair behind his ear. “What happened?” 

You shrug, embarrassed. “I packed a lunch so I wouldn’t have to take a break, and then I just forgot about it. I’ve been…” you glance up at Spencer, but his eyes are too safe and open to even contemplate deceiving. “I haven’t been keeping up with my work like I should. I didn’t want to take a break, and I didn’t even remember my lunch until now.” 

“It’s on your desk?” he asks. 

You blink. “My work?”

“Your lunch.” 

“Yeah,” you say. It comes out curved like a question. 

“Okay.” He straightens, lithe limbs extending until you’re craning your neck to look up at him. “Wait here.” 

You turn, starting to protest, but Spencer sets a pacifying hand on your head as he passes. Objections acknowledged, but ignored. Following him is out of the question; just pivoting sitting down had sent your head swimming again. 

The door bangs shut after him, and a minute later he returns with your sad paper bag and a bottle of gatorade. 

“I saw you have water in here,” he says, sitting back in his place a couple steps below you, “but I thought electrolytes might help more.” He twists the cap off and hands it to you. Rather than passing you your lunch bag, he sets it in his own lap to dig through the contents. “You want your sandwich first?” 

You lower the gatorade from your mouth, wiping self-consciously under your lower lip. “Yes, please,” you say, and Spencer hands it to you. You set the gatorade down beside you. “Do we keep these in the fridge?” 

“Morgan does.” You must look as horrified as you feel, because Spencer goes on quickly, “He won’t even notice it’s gone. He likes the blue ones the least anyway.” 

You nod hesitantly, raising the bottle to your lips for another sip. “I’ll get him a replacement in case.” 

His smile is understanding, and you’re reminded that before you, Spencer was the youngest on the team. You imagine he knows how it feels to be constantly wary of getting on someone’s bad side. 

“You really don’t have to,” he says anyway. 

You take a bite of your sandwich, shrugging. “Thanks a lot for this, but you don’t have to stay here with me. Won’t we get in some kind of trouble?” 

“I think we’ll be okay here for a little while,” Spencer says. “Actually, I don’t think most people on the team even know where this door goes. None of us ever use the stairs. And they might not have noticed we’re gone yet.” 

You give him a deadpan look. “They’ll notice you’re gone.” 

He shrugs. It’s not a denial. “I don’t mind waiting with you.” 

It means more to you than it reasonably should. “Thanks,” you say quietly, and take another bite of your sandwich as an excuse to look away. 

You haven’t even polished it off yet, and Spencer’s already dipping into your bag for more. He takes the cap of a container of grapes. 

“Here, have some of these.” He holds it out, and you shove the last bite of sandwich into your mouth to take it from him. “You probably need some vitamin C,” he muses. His eyes fall to the nearly full bottle at your side. “Don’t forget to drink.” 

You almost grin, covering your full mouth with a hand as you speak. “I can’t actually do all this at once.” 

“Oh, sorry.” He looks abashed. “Take your time.” You do, swallowing before lowering your hand to give him a small smile. It’s returned. “You know, skipping meals is actually pretty dangerous.” 

Your smile fades, but Spencer holds your gaze. His eyes are gentle. 

“I know you just forgot, but low blood sugar impedes brain function. We need to be able to think clearly and quickly to do our job. So, being nourished is really important to that.” 

You nod, chastised. He taps the container of grapes, and you pop one into your mouth. 

“Are you going to tell Hotch?” you ask him quietly. 

Spencer blinks, brows twitching together. “No,” he says. “It’s not really that big of a deal, and anyway I think Hotch would just tell you the same thing. I just think it’s important for you to know.” 

You rub your lips together, bobbing your head again. “Okay, thanks.” You look at him seriously, dropping your voice into a terrible imitation of Hotch’s deep timbre. “I won’t let it happen again.” 

Spencer grins, surprised by you, and you mirror him. You’re a bit surprised by yourself too. 

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks. 

You nod automatically, not taking even the barest inventory yourself to see whether that might be true, but Spencer can obviously tell. His brown eyes search yours, scientifically probing, like they might tell him something you won’t. You’re well aware that Spencer’s a certifiable genius, and yet you’re still learning not to underestimate him. 

“We can probably go back now,” you tell him. 

His stare holds yours a minute longer. You feel pleasurably crushed under the weight of his attention. 

After a few seconds, Spencer’s expression settles into decision. “Let’s sit here for a minute,” he says. “You should finish your food. You’re owed a lunch hour anyway, no one’s ever stipulated when or where you have to take it.” 

You crack a smile. “What about you?” 

“I’m staying with you,” he says matter-of-factly. Like it’s the only option even worth considering. “I don’t want to leave you here by yourself, and it’s probably best if I take the gatorade bottle back up with us. If Morgan sees, it’ll be easier for me to take credit if I’m holding it.”

[in-som-niyah]

soft!oblivious!Jason Todd x fem!reader on her period

a/n: hey besties guess whos on the bathroom floor again haha its me!!!!! endo is trying to murder me but guess what jason's here to make it all better!!! this is entirely self-indulgent btw i wrote this to make myself feel better and to take my mind off the urge to rip my uterus out with my bare hands🫶🏾🎀🌸💝✨💖💗💕

Warnings: reader vomits, reader has a period, reader is in fucking pain, jason todd speaks spanish, reader is weakned, jason todd is a beautiful husband fuck you i said what i said

Note: reader and jason have a system where jason asks the reader what her pain is on a scale from 1-10 (10 being highest)

Jason's key turns in the lock of your shared apartment in Gotham.

To his surprise, the place is dark and lifeless. Upon checking his watch, which read 6:45pm, he noticed the peculiarity of the scene before him.

Usually, you would have started dinner by now, had some sexy 90's R&B playing (which you unashamedly sung along to) and would have greeted him babbling excitedly about what your colleagues thought about your new hairstyle.

But nope, there was nothing.

Though Jason was concerned, he tried to pass it off as a weird occurrence, until he heard a faint retch coming from the other side of the apartment.

Immediately, he parked whatever he was doing and came rushing (sprinting) to you, desperately needing to make sure you're okay.

When he found you in the bathroom hovering over the toilet, the sight clawed a hole in his chest.

You were gripping the edges of the toilet with shaky hands, trying to steady your unstable and shaking body. Your braids were tied back too tight, definitely causing you an uncomfortable and unnecessary headache.

Carefully, Jason stepped in the bathroom and lowered himself to you. He loosened your hair and re-tied it in a more comfortable way and kissed the top of your head.

In your dazed state, you barely recognized his lithe fingers in your hair, too exhausted physically and mentally to focus on anything other than the searing pain in your abdomen.

Finally empty, you reach to flush the toilet when a much bigger, scarred hand takes yours and kisses the back of it before flushing for you.

At this, you look up at him with bleary, tearful and irritated eyes, clearly indicative that you've been feeling like this for a while.

Jason's heart cracks.

Before either of you could speak, Jason pressed his forehead to yours and instructed you to steady your breathing. His hands expertly maneuver you to sit on your bum in front of him; this was not his first rodeo.

Jason was familiar with your illness, and what that meant for you sometimes. With practise, he was attuned to your needs and catered to them willingly. But still, his heart broke a little more every time he saw your body fold in on itself in pain.

When your breathing calmed he kissed your forehead just before another cramp seized your body, and your face crumpled in pain.

"Shit- You're okay sweetheart c'mere. Remember to breathe okay? In. Out."

You nodded lightly as you pushed yourself to move into his lap, the action only making your muscles strain but you were so desperate to feel his warmth you did it anyway.

As you continued to breathe Jason wrapped his strong arms around you and held you to his body, his hands came up to gently rub your lower back where he knew you were hurting.

"What's your number this time, amorcita." Jason asked in a tender voice, as to not upset your headache.

Through sniffles and shakes, you reluctantly surface your buried head from his chest to answer him.

"It was an 8 all day today..." you started, still in pain but able to speak.

"I took the painkillers too late, and they didn't work in time. I'm sorr-"

You're interrupted by Jason pulling you back into him. He would sooner take your pain than hear you apologize for a painful experience you couldn't control.

"Shhhh no sorries, princessa. You know that." He spoke into your hair.

Soon, the wave of pain settled, and you were granted a limited amount of small relief.

"I-I think I should move to the bed now. I don't know how much I have until the next one" you mumbled into his chest.

Through a positive rumble in his chest he agreed, and began to carefully untangle himself from you.

"Can you stand?" Jason asks, his eyes conveying sincerity.

You looked to the floor shook your head in shame. You couldn't believe you had to rely on Jason to help you so much.

"I'm gonna pick you up okay baby?" He says, but his eyes ask for your permission.

Upon granting it, he slips his arms under your body and lifts like you weigh nothing. He carefully walks to the bed, taking extra care in making sure he doesn't hit your head or legs on walls or doorways.

Once at your bedside, he places you down gently and presses a set of kisses to your nose, cheek and forehead. It is then when he notices how frigid your skin is, which worries him. But first, he needs more information.

"How long ago did you take the painkillers, mi vida?" He begins as he crouches to reach your eye level.

With an exasperated sigh, you close your eyes and shrug. Truly you had no idea how long it has been since you've been in such pain, much less since you've taken your last round of painkillers.

Jason returns your sigh, but with one of sadness as he reaches out his hand to absentmindedly rub your sore hips. Remembering your small remedies that help the pain, he stands and begins out the room.

Suddenly your hand grasp his ring and pinky, and he turns to face you again.

You look up at him with tears on your cheeks, silently begging him to stay.

At this, he leans down and captures your lips softly, silently letting you know that he would never do anything you wouldn't want him to.

With your hand still grasping his, he brings your hand to his lips to kiss, before breaking the silence.

"'Tell you what, amorcita. I'm gonna go get you your heating pad and boil some raspberry leaf tea, then i'll climb into bed with you and i'll rub your back as you fall asleep. But you gotta let go of me so I can do it, bien?"

Reluctantly, you took his offer and released his hand before he left a soothing kiss to your hairline and took off.

While he was gone, your were desperately breathing through another wave, trying not to scream or cry out. The pain continued to ebb and flow, but it was pain nonetheless.

When Jason returned with the tea, hot water bottle and a little square of dark chocolate he found you almost asleep, knees up to your chest while clutching your abdomen. He knew you well enough to know that your back is not enjoying the position at all.

He placed the tea and chocolate on your nightstand and carefully took his spot behind you. You slightly woke up at his shifting, but upon Jason's placement of the hot water bottle to your aching abdomen, you relaxed.

Jason breathed a silent breath of gratitude that you're able to rest easier than you were before now that you're comfortable. He moved himself closer to your body, firmly but delicately wrapping his arms around you and stretching out your aching back.

You appreciated this, the pressure releasing on your back and the soothing warmth of your hot water bottle contributing to easing your pains.

Jason retracted one of his arms from your waist in favour of rubbing your sore lower back. A sleepy hum of appreciation followed his ministrations just before you spoke.

"Jason?" you mumbled into your pillow

"Querida?" he replied, semi alert

"Thank you" you finish as you let yourself drift into a light and more comfortable sleep.

A peck to the back of your head is his response.

Jason knows he can't take away your pain. But when it cuts you deep, he'll be your remedy.

Always.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n pt2: bro im so sorry if this makes no sense im in pain leave me alone im tired its sleepytime

[asnowfern]

In Between The Lines - Bonus Scene

Summary: In her desperation to contact every friend and relative for help, a young Nesta stumbles onto a written connection with the most dangerous being of them all - a fae.

She just doesn’t know that he needed the contact just as much as she did.

OR a canon divergent AU where Nesta and Cassian becomes secret penpals while Nesta is starving and Cassian is trapped in Velaris.

Read chapter one (and the main oneshot) here on AO3 | Tumblr

A/N: This bonus scene when Cassian finds out it’s Nesta has been stuck in my head since I posted the fic and I’m happy to finally see it in words. Some quotes lifted directly from Wings and Embers (which I love wholeheartedly💗) and I hope my little take on it does it justice!

A shifting of the log, a loud spark of embers in the flames running behind them snags Cassian’s attention.

To the stray piece of paper burning in the blazing fire, scrunched up but those words. That writing.

The roaring in Cassian’s ears ebb away, taking with it some of the redness that clouded his vision at the mere thought of some worthless male piece of shit who dared to hurt her.

Because those words, the slopes and strands of every stroke — he has memorised them all, engraved them into his soul.

His guiding light in the darkness. The one thing that kept him drowning in his own ineptitude and self-loathing during those last few years trapped in Velaris. His human, his bookworm, his Nina.

His his his.

The realisation steals his breath and Cassian staggers backwards. The hand that had curled over a lithe hand on his chest slips downward, grazing each callous over soft, smooth skin. He traces the movement, catching himself in time before his legs could tremble and fall to his knees, before he could raise those quick-witted fingers to his lips and worship them the way they ought to be.

Nina. Nesta. Nina. Nesta.

Nesta Nesta Nesta.

Deep in his chest, something purrs. A feeling that he can’t shake off that, this is right. His mind refreshes those steel-cut words wielded like a blade, cutting down enemies, regardless of who they are. Fae or human, High Lord or bastard born Illyrian.

Something must have shown on his face, of his desperate relief because she wraps her fingers around the side of head, bringing his gaze back to hers. Stormy blue against hazel.

The world quietens.

Her gaze is a summer thunderstorm. Borne from the hottest temperatures, bringing stark relief to the heat that clings to one’s skin, cloying and uncomfortable. It chases away everything and remoulds the world in its image.

He raises his hand to envelop soft hands completely. Those silvery blue eyes are suddenly impossibly near. A brush of his thumb over her cheek and the tips of their noses graze each other.

Another pop in the fireplace has Nesta gasping sharply and pink blossoming across her chest.

Cassian resists the urge to press his forehead against hers and instead steps back, quick with a response before she can spit vitriol, “Lonely in this big house, Nesta?”

It’s a fruitless taunt, weak and meaningless with no true bite to it. Its effort lost in his realisation of who Nesta has been to him this past couple of years. He watches as her eyes are plagued with uncertainty even as it gathers ice, layering them over and over until it freezes over.

“The queens have not sent a reply.” She dismisses with a wave of her hand, the clothing over chest still trembling in betrayal of the jungle beats Cassian can almost hear. “Tell my sister and that High Lord of hers to send someone else next time.”

She knows it’s him.

Perhaps from the very instant Feyre made the introductions. She knew even as she sharpened her verbal weapons, exchanging blows with her distaste for the fae on full display.

But if this was the gameplay she had chosen then he would play it for now. The thought settles within him and draws out the strategic commander within him, the one that grins viciously at victory.

The Illyrian general casually takes out Rhys’s letter, his hand stretched out deliberately near her face, the back of his palm almost touching the side of the immaculate braided crown, and places the letter on the mantelpiece.

He flicks his chin upwards at the envelope and orders, “Send that to them too,” he gives a lopsided smile when a muscle feathered at her jaw at the command, “I look forward to our next meeting, Nesta.”

Her eyes are hard as she slips in the space between his larger frame and the mantelpiece, stalking gracefully towards the room door. “Send someone else.”

Cassian straightens his back, his wings tucked tight as he gives the glamour shrouding him in obscurity a once over. Satisfied, he follows his writing companion out the door. She whirls around to snipe, gesturing pointedly in the direction of the windows, “Where do you think you are going?”

Cassian shrugs, his lips lifting into a smirk. “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

The seething gaze of the human female rolls off his back, and as he spreads his wings to take flight back to Velaris, it’s with an exhilarated heart and a tight tug on his rib bone that he can’t, wouldn’t, rid himself of.

[moirasdolly]

Moira NSFW Alphabet ᥫ᭡ ˖ ࣪

Contains: NSFW, mommy kink, praise, pet names, aftercare, size difference, teasing, dacryphilia

Listening to ♪ ིྀ: Role Model - Brent Faiyaz

Notes: I’m literally so obsessed with her… i can’t I CANTTTT AHHH!! But I definitely wanna do these for more characters so if you wanna request pleaseeee do 💗🐰 You can message me or do it in my asks hehe.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Despite how mean she can get during sex she is definitely very gentle afterwards. She wipes down your thighs with a warm washcloth, gets you cleaned up nicely, dresses you in warm pajamas and holds you closely until you both fall asleep.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partners)

She is a fan of her hands. They’re veiny, lithe, and perfectly capable of pleasing you. On you she adores everything, but she loves your waist the most. She loves how her nails dig into your sides and how the soft skin is so pliant under her touch.

Cum = (Anything to do with cum)

She is obsessed with making you cum. If you get messy, she has a mouth for a reason.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory)

She loves making you cry. She thinks you are just so pretty with glimmering tears running down your soft cheeks. She’ll overstimulate you until you break, and the sight of you sobbing for her is enough to make her cum.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Moira is old of course she knows what she’s doing. She’s had many partners in the past, but none compare to you.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

She likes to cage you in under her. She’s a tall woman and you just shrink under her. Moira just loves feeling dominant and being on top of you, maybe her knee in between your thighs, and her hands roaming your body, gives her that feeling. She also loves having her face between your thighs.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc)

I think she prefers to be serious in bed, but from time to time she likes to tease you.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc)

Up to your imagination.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Moira values intimacy in the bedroom above everything. She loves degradation and for every time she calls you her slut, her whore, or anything of the sort she will follow it up with praise and a sweet act that shows she truly loves you.

J = Jack off (Masterbation headcanon)

She doesn’t often, she doesn’t really have the drive to do it. That is unless you happen to send her a video of you playing with yourself while she’s stuck at work, then she can’t help it. You just work her up so much.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

She definitely has a mommy kink… It gives her a bit of a power trip.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Strictly the bedroom, she’s a very private woman and she wants to keep your sweet noises to herself. If she knows there’s no chance of getting caught then maybe, just maybe would she would eat you out in her lab.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

When you dress up for her. She loves seeing how beautiful you look only for her to strip it off of you nice and slow.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

She will never be submissive. Ever. She likes to take care of you more than anything. When she’s on the receiving end, she will still find a way to be in control. She also never degrades you without immediately praising you. She never wants to make you feel unloved.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

She prefers giving, adores the noises you make when she’s between your thighs.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc)

Usually slow and sensual, but if you beg her to go faster, harder, she will oblige.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc)

Not a fan at all. She loves taking her time with you. She likes to see you come undone by her own doing.

R = Risks (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc)

Ehhh… not really. She knows what she likes and she knows what you like, but if you ever wanted to try something new she would try it at least once to please you.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

Oh my lord, I just know Moira can last the whole night. She’ll want to cum at least once but you? She’ll give you one release after another.

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

She definitely owns a vibrator and a strap, but she uses them on you only.

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

Normally she loves giving you what you want, but some days she just wants to see you beg for her. She loves seeing how you react to her teasing.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc)

She moans quietly, but the sound is amplified because she’ll do it right in your ear. Make you soak up every last sound she makes.

W = Wildcard (A random headcanons for the character)

She secretly loves when you *try* to take control. She gives the illusion that she’ll submit to you, but truly she’ll always be in control. She just gets off on how happy it makes you.

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

She’s pretty lean, but toned as well. Have you seen her v-line in her banshee skin? Yeah…

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Pretty high. Multiple times a week for sure.

Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not quickly at all. She likes to take care of you and make sure you’re feeling your best before even considering sleep.

[songbirdmunson]

Fuck me

you don’t have to ask twice stay right where you are I’m coming 👀

[fandomfluffandfuck]

ohhh my god steve wrecking his lil self because he can't help himself, can he? 🥵 🥵🥵 his cock being so big that you can see the shape of it on steve's belly? the way his hands can wrap around him so easily? i completely understand the urge to mess himself up like that 🥴🥴🥴 also damn, the fleshlight description?? knocked me tf out omgggg

i'm in loveeee, imagine if bucky walked in on this scene, smol!steve would be in so much trouble... 👿

(mwah chefs kiss mr s, thank u for the horny selfcest thots 💗)

related to this

I'm so glad you enjoyed that little drabble!

The fleshlight part was my favorite to write 😏 I was just imagining nomad Steve towering over his younger self, all rough edges, bearded, and thick. The bigger man is growling and handsy--feral, really. He's on the very cusp of being too fucking demanding and pushy 'cause he knows exactly how far he can bend his younger self before he breaks him.

Christ, maybe he wants to break him.

He feels his lust so hot and thick in his veins; he's out of his mind for consuming his younger self, swallowing him whole. Well, swallowing maybe later, his younger self's dick is the perfect mouthful--not throatful, mouthful--and he might as well take advantage of it. It's so easy to take all of him, overwhelm him.

But, fuck yeah, bigger, broader, hairier, and more deranged nomad Steve using his younger self like a fleshlight. Digging his paws into his lithe hips and dragging him down onto his cock, forcing him to take it deep until he's choking on it. It's bulging his tummy, and he swears he can taste it in the back of his throat. Younger Steve doesn't want to admit weakness, but there's only so long until he can't help it. At first, he's quiet, only letting out little grunts and bitten off groans, but as nomad Steve grabs and hauls him back and forth, using his slim body so thoroughly, fucking him for his own pleasure... younger Steve cracks, he whines.

The next whine builds into something choking and embarrassing, his eyes watering with the fullness, the pressure. He feels like he's going to burst at the seams with cock. It's already too much, it's too good, it can't get better but it does. Devastatingly, it does.

Nomad Steve was plowing him standing at the edge of the bed, not thrusting into him but rather dragging his younger self back onto his cock, statue still while younger Steve gasped from the friction-burn heat all over his crooked back but suddenly he is moving. He's picking little Steve up and holding him on his dick like he weighs nothing. And he doesn't. He doesn't weigh anything. The only thing left is sensation--the heavy, thick sensation of nomad Steve's cock shoved impossibly deep inside him. Deep. Deeper when nomad Steve kneels on the bed, spreading his tree-trunk thighs and sprawling his younger self across them, his thin legs loosely thrown around his muscled waist and drags him up.

Impaling him.

Spearing him.

Fucking him deep, making his body squelch. He feels like a toy. He doesn't need to do anything, he needn't move, he just, just... he just lays there, neck limp, mouth open, choking, his arms spread wide, hands twitching in loose fists, gasping harshly, while nomad Steve squeezes at and takes hold of him. Younger Steve isn't even sure nomad Steve is trying to make him orgasm, he's pulling him back onto his cock like he's just selfishly trying to get himself to cum. It's like younger Steve doesn't matter. He doesn't. He's just the toy. Just there to be used, tight and wet and a means to an end.

Guh.

He's a fleshlight. A little doll. A toy.

Oh my fucking god, don't get me started on what would happen if Bucky walked in! Charming, golden, boyish Bucky from before the war confronted with brick shithouse Rogers? He wouldn't know what to do with himself. He's not used to feeling like a twink, but next to this version of Steve? God, I think he'd be squirming and panting, eying the treatment his Stevie's getting and begging for the next ride.

Use him, too! Fuck. Use him, fuck him, and put his Stevie on his dick while it happens--Bucky on his back, taking it from nomad Steve missionary style with younger Steve between them, the filling in the sloppy sandwich--they'll be a pile of mush underneath big man Rogers. Whining and whimpering while he grabs and takes, grunting, biting, and sweating as he works them both over 😮‍💨😮‍💨

(Thank you for enjoying! I've been in a sort of funk with some of the last few writings I've done here and what's happening with my next fic, I feel like they haven't been good at all, so it's nice to hear otherwise, lol)

[gghostwriter]

Knots of Yearning

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer lies by omission or in which Spencer acts like he doesn’t know how to tie a tie just to get you to do it for him Trope: Yearning/Angst; think season 1 Spencer Reid w.c: 1.3k a/n: when i thought of this idea, i was thinking it would be some cute light hearted fluff but when i started writing it, it became angst, filled with pining and tension so I dunno what happened but i finished writing it and thought it would be a waste not to post my rambly written fic. I might write a part 2 for this just to close it out to a happy ending. Let me know if that would interest you. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗

Two halves of a whole, the perfect pairing and yin & yang. Those were just some monikers that Spencer Reid had heard describing his partnership with you that started during the academy. He, being a genius in all things academic and psychological but severely lacking in the physical and combat department. You, on the other hand, filled those gaps—acing all physicals and being well known for being a shy but killer shot. Not to say you were lacking in the other categories, no, you came only second during written exams. 

So it came as a no surprise when graduation came and you both were cherry picked to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Spencer being chosen by SSA Jason Gideon and you being selected by Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. 

The two geniuses of the BAU and the apprentices were added to the roster of nicknames.

Ever since then, he had traded in his standard issued trainee uniform to a button down and a matching tie—a tie that he badly struggles with or so Spencer made you believe. He didn’t mean to lie at first—didn’t mean it to go this far but by the time he felt the need to tell the truth, it had been too late. Each moment you’ve spent close to his space, invading it really, had become the highlight of his days and fuel for his nights. 

He often wondered if you catalogued his reaction just like how he did yours. Did you notice his staccato breathing just like how he noticed your subtle inhalation of his perfume? What about the reddening of his cheeks and neck in contrast to your trembling fingers? Or how about his eyes that convey his utter devotion as yours focus on any exposed skin in between his tie and collar? 

It seemed like a dance between him and you, to see how the other reacts and to figure out who would cave under the mounting attraction that had been building since the first ‘hello.’ 

With his choice of tie for the day hanging loosely on his neck, you would shyly smile and as if spellbound, he would shuffle to your orbit in silent plea for help that he needed.

Each glide of your finger made his encompassing thoughts about the mundane stutter into a halt. How his mind would then bombard itself with questions as to how the universe created such perfection. Each loop of your hand became vivid imagery of his own nimble fingers caressing your palm and all its engraved lines as if they contain the maps to all hidden mysteries of the world. And each tug to secure the knot transformed into a loud beating of his chest, encased within it’s cavity, with chants of waxing prose on how your very being, mind, body, and soul, call to his in a way that even his expansive vernacular could never explain. 

But no matter how much he wished for time to slow down for these intimate moments to last, it never did comply. So here he stayed, lying by omission—yearning for you to notice him, memorize him, and end his pining for the woman who seemed too unattainable for his clumsy, stuttering self.

———

 You accepted the lie well. Maybe too well.

The first time a blue striped flimsy piece of accessory hung around his neck, a sudden burst of courage took over, bringing you to a stop in front of his lithe, towering body and hands reaching up to whisper caresses on the silk to mold it into a secure neck tie that centered itself on his reddening neck—the color matching the one that bloomed on your cheeks as you realized what you’ve done. 

Your mind had rationalized someone as smart as he knew how to fix a tie but your body had moved on it’s own, having have spotted a once in a lifetime chance to invade his well protected space—the same way he had invaded your mind in every waking and sleeping moment.

That same chance turned into a routine. A blessing that you had come to look forward to, your steps having a bounce in them as you enter the bull pen and spotting a different pattern tie hanging undone on his neck every work day.

You knew, with no backing evidence that Spencer has to be doing it on purpose but didn’t want to spiral much into thought as to why he would leave that intimate action up to you.

Did he take note of every reaction you had to his presence the same way you did? The slight rocking on your heels as he inhaled your carefully chosen perfume? The biting of your lip as you felt his honey dripping eyes on your face? If he felt the same, you wondered why nothing has been done and if you had another burst of courage, would you have acted upon the tension? 

Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe that was why you settled for accepting his poorly crafted lie of not knowing how to tie a necktie. 

It wasn’t really a lie if the other party knew the truth, right? Or was it a double lie now that silence has stacked between you and him? 

If you were being slightly honest with yourself, Spencer Reid had always fascinated you. Among the sea of gym built muscles during the academy, his gazelle stature has stuck out like a sore thumb and that intrigued you. How was it that a male, younger than any of his peers, that looked like he could grace a runway was in an institution that reeked sweat and masculinity? That very same question answered when you found yourself seated beside him in a profiler career talk. His intellect, that was why and although it seemed to alienate the others, not once did you feel inferior beside him. Rather, it pulled you in more. His quiet, unsure demeanor was the next to capture your attention. It was an invisible coat that he wore everywhere he went, sewn from years of bullying and ostracizing—similar to your experiences of having skipped a grade. Here was a comrade you thought and so, you silently orbited around his gravitational pull until he took notice and uttered the words ‘hello, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid’ in a low, trembling voice. 

You didn’t know when that same fascination turned into adoration. There was never a specific moment in time that you could pinpoint when it all changed. It just happened, one day you woke up and the past truth had transformed into a half truth—and the whole truth now being, you falling and yearning for a man who had a bright future in reading people’s actions but seemed too oblivious to the call of your aching heart. 

———

Morgan and Elle shared an exasperated look as they noted the two youngest members of the team silently flirting in the middle of the bullpen, yet again. They didn’t get how obtuse the two smartest people in the room were with their feelings for one another. 

“You think we should give them a push?” He whispered to his female partner.

Elle scrunched her face. “At this point, we might just have to confess for the other.”

And in that moment, another moniker was added to the roster. The dense lovers of the BAU, a nickname that the remaining members use only behind both the duo’s back as they become bystanders to what could be a match made in heaven. If only one would admit to the other. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[carlos-tk]

thanks to all the these lovely people for the tags @thisbuildinghasfeelings @carlos-in-glasses @lemonlyman-dotcom @sznofthesticks @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @alrightbuckaroo @heartstringsduet @bonheur-cafe @whatsintheboxmh @herefortarlos @strandnreyes @fitzherbertssmolder @theghostofashton 💗

well this would’ve been the last wip wednesday of Jan if I’d posted on time, but when do I ever do that lol 😂 here’s some sentences to kick off Feb ✍🏼

TK happily lets him lick into his mouth, before he pulls back in a daze, half lidded green eyes matching the intense stare of Carlos’ deep brown pair.

“You know this doesn’t feel very professional,” TK continues.

“Mhm,” Carlos murmurs, “and what is it you feel?” he asks nipping at TK’s chin, the soft scrape of his teeth against the supple skin there.

“Well I’m pretty sure that’s not your phone pressing against my thigh,” he says with a smirk.

Carlos snorts and if he had any sense of shame, or concern for both of theirs continued employment, he’d take a step back. Would halt the press of his growing erection into TK’s, drop his tight grip from where he’s leaving fingerprint shaped bruises on his toned bicep, a reminder for TK of where his body has been, and who it belongs too.

Unfortunately for Carlos all sense is out the door when it comes to TK, especially when his lithe eager body is responding in tandem to his touch.

“Maybe you’ll have to check huh,” Carlos prompts, as he slides his hand down from TK’s bicep to his forearm, further until his fingers take ahold of his wrist and drag it down to feel where his c*ck is hard and aching.

TK’s knuckles brush across the strained fabric, causing Carlos’ controlled facade to slip momentarily as he gasps a fuck and bites down harsh on his plump bottom lip.

tags under the cut 💗

@celeritas2997 @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @inkweedandlizards @freneticfloetry @firstprince-history-huh @reyesstrand @sunshinestrand @never-blooms @noxsoulmate @birdclowns @reyestrandd @orchidscript @liminalmemories21 @ladytessa74 @fallout-mars @lightningboltreader @kiras-sunshine @chicgeekgirl89 @basilsunrise @thebumblecee + an open tag for YOU 💗

[oobbbear]

While on the topic of lovely bat ladies, I just wanted to let you know oobbbear that as an artist you are incredibly fun and talented, you are awesome and have such a bouncy personality and it reflects in your art and the way you sketch.

Soft round shapes mixed in with dynamic poses in with different angles and perspectives of environmental storytelling. When you design a character (as tough as it may be at times) you don't just make a placeholder for a trope or a role, you make that character meld into its surroundings. You can see the different little tell tale aspects of why, who, what that character is. From small flowers and jewelry pieces in the vampires hair

To the shape language utilized in making them look fluffy but still lithe and dangerous.

You, my friend, are awesome. Not just as a creator. But as a person too. Please make sure to take care of yourself, your health and well-being is more important than anything.

With that being said:

- 🐐 Anon

Thank you Goat anon you don’t understand how much these words mean to me I literally screamed I made my art teacher proud in my empty room osbksbidbdjb oh uahhhhhh jdidnnodnrijudb I- aaaaaaaaaaa💖💘💝💞💘💖💕💘💗💘💕💝💖🦀💘💞💖🦇🦇🦇💖💞

YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF TOO REMEMBER TO EAT DRINK AND SLEEP!!!!!!!!

[iheartchv]

Hiii ii

was wondering if I could get a cod matchup? preferably a romantic one (forgive me, im a bit delusional)

Im a 5'3 and rather lithe woman, but i like to wear platform boots that make me a little taller. my hair is longer with bangs and naturally black, and i have dark eyes. i come from singapore, so naturally i speak english and chinese fluently, but i'm learning japanese and russian. i have undiagnosed dpdr cuz im broke, but im planning on getting some form of help soon as it has been getting worse as of late. i have a back tattoo down my spine of a cyberpunk-esque sigil, and i have piercings on my earlobes.

my favourite characters are krueger, keegan, nikto, soap and logan, both for the lore in the campaign and the way they sound in game (oh my god when they growl into my headset i swear i lose it). Though my favourite is nikto as his DID is lowkey relatable. speaking of which, ive been playing cod for a few years now, starting with black ops 2.

im calm most of the time, but i cannot sit still for my life (unless im gaming or listening to a subject i like, like history). while i got ENTP as my result for the 16 personalities test, other sources give me a mix between INTP, ENTP and ISTP. anyways, im not shy to confront people when it is necessary, but i don't like asking for help.

in college, i study engineering and im doing quite well in terms of grades (at the cost of stress). i have absolutely no idea what i am going to do in the future, and the only thing i can think of is to become a combat enginner. this decision may or may not be affected by cod

thank you for reading my little rant of some sort, please remember to hydrate 💦

//this was tough to pick just one; if you don't like your match, all that matters is who YOU pick... 💗

🤔hmm.. I'll match you with...

Nikto

You have stolen the heart and affection of Nikto

He loves you and your features

Even though he's about a foot taller than you, he thinks you're the perfect size

He also likes your tattoo and piercings

They just add a little something to you he doesnt know how to explain

He proposes to be your partner to help practice your Russian

"отличный (otlichnyy). Excellent."

Starts giving you rewards for completing lessons 😏 yk what I mean...

During your first kiss, he will ask you to close your eyes...

You could feel him trying to be as gentle with you as he can

Knows how to treat/please a woman but wants to take it slow with you..

...because he cares about you to just treat you like he had with other women

Buuuuut as you get closer in the relationship he will take his mask off around you

He will do anything for you

He will also want to stay around you, or you stay near him

I think Nikto's love language would be physical touch

He wants to touch you and to be touched

It also keeps him ( and you ) grounded in reality with each other's help, and outside help

He promises to help you get what you need

Hugs and cuddles all the time, when you both are alone

[ingravinoveritas]

Not me finishing another fic! This was such a moment that we let go by too quickly. Started this fic in March of 2021 and now it’s finally--finally--done. Read on!

Title: The Boxer Rebellion Author: Me Rating: R/NC-17 Pairing: Michael Sheen/David Tennant Warnings: Sexual references and some language Disclaimer: Not real, never happened, 100% made up. Please don't sue. Thanks. Summary: Michael’s mouth fell open, a mixture of jealousy and pride curling in his stomach at the realization that David had just shown his underwear--and more than the barest hint of a few other things--on nationally-viewed late night television. Author’s Note: Takes place in March of 2021, when Michael was still in NYC recovering from Covid and David went on the Late Late Show and this happened:

Author’s Note 2: Dedicating this to @thetardisisblueandroseistoo who had a rough day today. Love you, my friend! 💗 (Fic also available on AO3.)

---

“You promise you’ll be watching?”

“Of course, Dai.”

Michael had already committed every detail to memory. Late Late Show. Monday.

David checked in again that morning, texting one final insistent plea:

Watch alone.

Michael obliged, reclining into the worn leather sofa cushions, the glow of the television flickering over his face. His eyes widened when David stood, deftly moving the camera to a familiar angle until his boxers came into view.

“This was my Valentine’s gift from Georgia. Look at these. Look at that beauty!”

Michael’s mouth fell open, a mixture of jealousy and pride curling in his stomach at the realization that David had just shown his underwear--and more than the barest hint of a few other things--on nationally-viewed late night television.

You cheeky bastard...

He bit his lip to keep from groaning out loud, cock stirring with interest in his boxers at what he knew was hiding underneath.

He nearly threw the remote across the room when David started to pose, turning to display the boxers. Michael stared incredulously, unable to look away from those lithe fingers daintily pulling down the fabric. He guffawed in disbelief, utterly charmed at David putting on a show under the pretense of preserving what little modesty he had left.

...But you are putting on a show, aren’t you?

His breath was coming in harder by the time David sat back down, hands itching to slowly spread those slender thighs apart. David’s face was as pink as the loud suit jacket he had on, and Michael damn well knew it had nothing to do with embarrassment.

He shut the telly off before the interview ended and grabbed his mobile from a nearby table.

“Mmh...’lo?”

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

A sleepy smirk drifted across David’s face, eyes fluttering open to see Michael grinning at him from the screen of the video call, tousled and beautiful.

He stretched languidly, long legs sliding out from beneath the bed covers. Michael opened his mouth to speak again but was promptly shushed by David pressing a finger to his lips. He tiptoed downstairs to the empty living room, draping himself across the velvet couch at the center, one arm raised attractively over his head, the hem of his t-shirt riding up to reveal a smooth line of bare hip that Michael did not fail to notice.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

Michael smiled, legs spreading open, idly tracing a thumb back and forth over his warm inner thigh, eyes raking down the length of David’s body.

“What. Were you. Thinking?”

“Wasn’t, really.”

David flushed lightly at the memory: the adrenaline coursing through his body, skin prickly and hot knowing Michael was watching.

I was thinking about you.

“You were mere inches from turning Georgia into Pinocchio.”

He snorted, stifling a laugh in the quiet, early morning dark, eyes never leaving Michael.

“I mean, truly. It was like when the monster in the Ghostbusters sequel bulges out of the painting.”

“You are absolutely not comparing my cock to a fictional 15th century tyrant.”

“I have it on good authority that if you wank too much, you will develop Carpathian tunnel syndrome.”

David threw his head back, mouthing ‘fuck off“ in the midst of muted laughter at the same time Michael dissolved into giggles. They stayed like that for several moments, joyful release gradually tapering off into quiet fondness.

“So...” Michael cleared his throat, glancing away and back at David. “Was that, ah...all for me?”

He wasn’t about to take all the credit for David abandoning his good senses. Maybe the not-so-secret exhibitionist side of him that Michael loved had run amok. Maybe he was drunk. Or one of a hundred other explanations that didn’t involve David deliberately performing for an audience of one.

“Knew you were feeling poorly. Thought I'd try to raise your spirits, as it were.”

Shit...

He hadn’t hesitated, answering so openly that it made Michael’s chest ache.

“Well, something certainly was raised,” he joked, trailing off at the concern in David’s eyes.

David didn’t say how scared he'd been when Michael was sick with Covid, stomach twisting with fear for days on end. Didn’t say how the daily checks-in were a piss poor substitute for holding him, brushing his nose along the edge of Michael’s jaw, inhaling his scent. Kissing him with ever-increasing urgency, his hands cupping either side of Michael’s face.

He watched Michael watching him, pink lips soft and striking against the marled backdrop of his beard. He shifted on the couch, hips flattening against the back, as if to make room for this powerful thing that had grown between them

A month earlier, he’d offered to fly out from London.

“Absolutely fucking not. I feel like shit. I look like shit.”

“You always look perfect to me.”

Michael laughed bitterly, tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

“Liar. I haven’t had a shower in days.”

“Not a big deal, really.”

“No, I don’t want you getting sick. Christ, I’d never forgive myself.”

David shrugged, the sinuous motion sparking Michael’s memory of pressing his fingertips into those delicate shoulder blades, David arching into his touch, back curled up against Michael’s chest.

“We’ve shared lots of things. We’ve shared a bed. We could share this, too.”

But Michael was adamant.

He still wished he’d gone.

Nothing was ever simple anymore. Not like fondling a cardboard cutout of Michael’s head--God, really, what was that?--and flashing his boxers on late night bi-continental TV in a fit of--

Madness? Love?

Maybe a bit of both...

“Emotional support pet, was it?”

Michael’s voice cut through the din in David’s head, and he realized how long he’d been quiet.

“I--well...s’just the first thing I thought of at the time, really...”

Now he’d gone the other way, too many words, vowels and consonants and assorted Scottish noises pouring from his mouth before he could stop them, and God, it was too late for this, or too early--

“Didn’t say I minded.”

Michael was smirking, lower lip tugged between his teeth. It was impossibly, maddeningly sexy, and David felt exposed and delighted all at once.

“Consider the collar on order, then.”

“Oh, fuck...”

Michael groaned, cupping himself through the thin fabric, cock already half-hard. “You can’t just say shit like that--”

 “You’d like that, yeah? Wearing a collar for me?”

“God, David...”

Arousal flooded Michael’s senses, stomach muscles tightening under David’s heated gaze. The air had gone syrupy, thick and heady, the leather cushions sticky against the backs of his knees.

“Always.”

There were a thousand things Michael wanted to say, wanted to spill out over David, smearing the words into his freckled skin like ink. He wanted to watch David touch himself, legs spread over the couch, tight arse and that perfect, puckered hole of his on display. He wanted to watch David fall apart with a keening cry as he jerked himself to blissful completion.

But he was so tired, chest and arms aching and still on the mend.

Michael hadn’t wanted anyone to know how bad it was, isolating himself away in a room of the apartment no one else was allowed in, keeping as low a profile as possible. David had called to check on him, soft and still in his thick-rimmed glasses, his eyes saying everything he couldn’t.

Tell me. Tell me what’s going on.

One look was all it took to do away with Michael’s resolve, the façade crumbling as hastily as it had gone up, and he wept, pouring out all of his fears to the man he loved so deeply.

Michael sighed, slumping back into the couch cushions. David felt his chest tighten. He wanted to be there beside him, resting his head in the crook of Michael’s neck until he felt his breathing even out.

“Fuck...”

“S’okay. We’ll have time later. Rest.”

“When I can have my hands on you again...”

 “Got your head to keep me company in the meantime.”

“Lucky you. I’ve been told I give excellent head.”

“Apart from the chafing, sure.”

Another stifled schoolboy giggle--perfect, somehow, for a schoolboy crush--and another downward glance before they both looked up again.

Slag.

David could hear it in Michael’s voice, though neither of them spoke.

Only for you.

“I’ve got to go to bed.”

“Yes, you should go to bed.”

“Love you, Dai.”

David paused, breath catching at how freely Michael always said it. Paler shades of blues and oranges had just begun to color the indigo sky, and part of him didn’t want the night to end.

“Love you, too, Michael.”

He stared at the phone long after the call ended, committing every second of their conversation to memory. The image of David in the boxers returned then, unbidden, and Michael couldn’t help but laugh--at the absurdity, and at the wonder of this man who would do something so silly for him during such a hard time.

Michael laid out fully on the couch, his last thoughts as he drifted off to sleep of David, haloed in early morning light.