#stop making people go through it and then be fine!

[moonstruckme]

Hello there! I was wondering if you would be willing to write a request that I thought up? No pressure of course. I'd love to read your rendition of it but if you don't want to that is absolutely and of course fine.

So I am a pretty emotional person, and especially when I am pmsing or on my period its a very common sight for me to be silently crying over a sad reel or a photo of a puppy or sobbing loudly if I re-read my comfort angsty fic. I really crave physical affection and coddling during my period which sucks cause I live with 2 dormmates who sleep 2 steps away from me and aren't very touchy but are very loving. Like today my friend showed me a photo of her holding a puppy who was nuzzling into her sweatshirt, claws out and hooked in her sleeve and all and ofc I started crying. My other roommate was like don't show it to her she's on her period, she will cry. But then she was like, on second thought do, I enjoy her tears 💀.

On to my actual request now, sorry for rambling 😅

So I was wondering if the reader had a similar tendency with her emotions and hormones around her cycle, how the marauders would deal with it you know? Would they be used to it, asking if its just a leaky faucet to let some emotional pressure out (that happens a lot with me lol) or actual crying. If they would be freaking out no matter how often it happens. Or how they would coddle her.. very curious to see if you pick this up! Thanks for reading nonetheless <3<3

Haha thank you for your request angel <3

cw: reader who menstruates, mention of animals in televion industry, Sirius is not good with tears

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 644 words

You try not to make a spectacle of yourself. You really do. You hide in the corner of the couch, feeling the burn of your sinuses and eventually letting a couple of tears roll down your face without lifting a hand to wipe them. Your throat squeezes. Your temples ache. 

Despite your best efforts, all it takes is one tiny sniffle to get the attention of your boyfriends. 

James’ arm tightens around your shoulders. His cheek squishes into your head, voice heavy with sympathy as you both look at the TV. “I know, angel. It ends alright, though, yeah?” 

“All he does,” you choke out, watching the dog on the screen through blurry vision, “is wait for his owner to come home every day. That’s his whole life.” 

“It’s an advert for dog kibble!” Sirius protests. 

You shrug, weeping, and Sirius gives a short laugh tinged with anxiety. Remus sets a hand on his knee. 

“Sweetheart,” Remus says gently, “I’m sure that in real life, that dog is very well taken care of. He probably gets plenty of attention and time with his owners. He’s famous, right?” 

You nod, though you can’t help a tiny sob as the on-screen dog sits straight up at the sound of a key in the door. “Right.” 

“Right.” Remus gives you a kind look. “You okay? Not upset about anything else?” 

“Yeah.” You sniffle weakly. “M’okay, just. My head hurts.” 

James makes the sort of syrupy pitying sound that has your throat contracting all over again. “Do you think it might be the crying, lovie? It’s not the first time that commercial’s been on today. You could be dehydrated.” 

“I don’t know,” you say, quietly. “I don’t think so.” 

“I’ll fetch you a paracetamol and some water to be sure.” Remus stands, patting Sirius’ thigh consolingly when the other boy shifts off his lap with the movement. He touches the top of your head as he walks behind the couch, and James kisses the spot as though to second it. 

“Baby.” Sirius turns to you with a stern look. “First the Lorax last night, and now this? The ad’s not even on anymore; it’s finished.” 

“It’s just…” You swallow, fighting to keep your voice solid. “Do you think all pets feel like that? When their people leave to go to work?” 

“No, honey,” James consoles you. “I think they’re happy to amuse themselves while we’re gone.” 

“They’re perfectly fine,” says Sirius, not unkindly. “Stop crying.” 

“Don’t be mean.” James gathers you closer. “She’s on her period, she’s entitled to some crying.”

“It’s like the hiccups, James. You’ve got to scare it off.” 

“That’s barbaric.” 

“What’s barbaric is the television industry that keeps making our girlfriend burst into tears at random points in the day!” 

“You guys.” You’re nearly laughing now. With tears still wet on your cheeks, Sirius hardly looks comforted. “Don’t fight.” 

“We’re not fighting.” James is quick to mollify you. 

“Oh, dovey.” Remus returns with your painkillers, bending to wipe your face with a put upon frown. “Are they upsetting you?” 

“God, no.” Sirius reclines back against the cushions, blowing a breath up towards the ceiling. “What chance have we of doing that, when there’s wealthy dog actors to do it for us?” 

You take the water Remus has brought you, downing the painkiller. “Do you really think the dog gets decent money from the advert?” you ask as he pets your hair dotingly. 

James ponders this. “Even if it’s not very much, I’d bet his owners put as much of it back into him as they can. He probably sleeps on a memory foam dog bed.” 

Sirius is watching your face distressedly. “Baby,” he nearly pleads. “It’s okay.” 

“No, that’s good,” you manage, voice a quiet squeak as your eyes fill again. “I just think that’s a really nice life for him. He deserves it.” 

[noharaaa]

𝐌𝐚𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧 & 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐠 (𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐬 𝐱 !𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) II

Author’s Note: Disclaimer! This plot is not to encourage drug usage! Don’t do drugs people!

• Reader has no specific gender.

• Parody fic! This is all for jokes.

Enjoy Reading!

╰᭡⿴༘͜─𖧷̷۪۪᪇ ༘᪇𖧷̷۪۪⃟ꦽ⃟:: ᰰ۪۪꧇⿴༘⃕▦᰷᰷ᰰ

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

Back in your more questionable days, Choi Su Bong was a frequent (and unforgettable) customer. He’d show up at the oddest hours, paying in cryptic compliments and half-finished rhymes while buying from your stash. You were just trying to make a living, but he treated every transaction like a chapter in some epic cosmic romance. He was the aspiring rapper who thought the universe revolved around him, and you were the unlucky drug dealer stuck listening to his "intergalactic" bars. You thought those days were behind you….until now, when fate (or bad karma) brought him crashing back into your life in the most ridiculous way possible.

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The next game, Six-Legged Pentathlon, everyone else seemed to be busy psyching themselves up or planning strategies. Forming alliances had been going well for you after the first game. You’d managed to team up with Se-mi and Min-su, both seemingly normal and mentally balanced individuals. But then, just as the timer for team formation neared its end, you caught a glimpse of something unsettling from the corner of your eye.

purple hair. Of course.

A tap on your shoulder followed, and you already knew who it was before you even turned around. Thanos stood there with Nam-gyu, a smug grin plastered across his face “Hey, dealer,” he drawled, his purple hair catching the harsh fluorescent light. “Miss me?”

Before you could say anything, the buzzer rang, locking you into a team with them.

“Great,” you muttered, already feeling a headache creeping up your brain.

As you sat in the circle waiting for the caterpillar race to begin, the five of you were herded to the starting area, each group bound together in teams. You knew a disaster was waiting to happen. You seated next to Se-mi, while the purple-haired headache was seated on your other side.

And just when you thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it.

Thanos, slipping Nam-gyu a… pill?

Your eyes widened as Nam-gyu caught your gaze and nudged Thanos, who turned toward you with a grin. “Enjoying the show?” 

You sighed, trying to look anywhere but at the visible build of sweat collecting near his hairline. He was fidgeting like a kid who’d had too much sugar, his leg bouncing up and down like he was ready to launch into orbit.

Classic signs. Oh, great. He’s freaking high.

Nam-gyu leaned over, whispering  “Boss said you’re a drug dealer?”

“I was” you corrected sharply, shooting a glare his way. “Past tense.”

“Oh, right. Boss said you were the best.”

Thanos tapped his chest unfazed, “Still got it,” he murmured, shifting his shirt slightly to reveal a silver vintage cross necklace tucked inside. “You know….in case you’re interested.”

“I’m not a dealer anymore. I’m here to survive, not relive my ‘glory’ days with your… whatever that is.” You gestured vaguely at the pill situation.

“Aw, c’mon, Dealer! Not even a little for old times’ sake?” 

“Stop calling me Dealer.”

You crossed your arms, determined to ignore him. But then the game announcer’s voice blared out, and you watched as the first group of players was led to the starting line, their faces tense and pale. Your stomach twisted in a knot.

Okay. New rule, no panicking. you said to yourself.

Except your body didn’t get the memo. As you watched the first few teams fumble their way through the grueling physical challenges, the knot in your stomach tightened. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and your body went stiff..

Thanos noticed your unease because of course he did. He always had a knack for spotting weakness and exploiting it.

“Nervous?” he asked, leaning in just enough to make your skin crawl.

“I’m fine” 

You knew that was a damn lie. You scared as hell!.

“Just a thought, you know…” he whispered. “You never know when you might need a little… boost.”

Se-mi leaned into your side, mumbling, “Is he seriously trying to sell you drugs right now?”

“Apparently. This guy has no off switch.”

He gently nudged you with his elbow, trying to get your attention again. Holding the pill between his fingers, he turned it over like he was checking for imperfections. His lips curled into a sly grin as he cast a sideways glance your way, smugness radiating off him.

"Tempting," he whispered randomly in English

You shot him a glare, but your heart was pounding, and your hands were clammy. The anxiety was bubbling up, making it impossible to think straight. You hated that he was there, with that stupid pill and that stupid face offering an easy way out.

“Fine, dammit. Just give it to me” 

Welp! There goes your stubborn pride…..

His grin widened as he pretended to ponder for a moment longer, holding the pill up to the light like it was a precious gem before finally handing it over. “Your wish is my command,”

This guy needs a good punch in the face. Maybe after you make this round.

You snatched it from his hand, swallowing it down with a grimace. As the tension in your chest began to ease, a sliver of relief crept in, though it was quickly overshadowed by irritation. Maybe, just maybe, this oversized grapehead-looking guy wasn’t entirely useless. But admitting that? Never.

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╰᭡⿴༘͜─𖧷̷۪۪᪇ ༘᪇𖧷̷۪۪⃟ꦽ⃟:: ᰰ۪۪꧇⿴༘⃕▦᰷᰷ᰰ

Author’s Note: (Leave a like! Or reblog! I respond to anyone ❤️)

@nikoeatschemicals

@audrey8864

[mysunshinetemptress]

Glitter In The Air

Grace Clinton x Y/n Albert

Warnings: Y/n snaps, feeling lost, internal homophobia, not my best but not my worst so…

You try, really you do but Grace either doesn’t notice you like want to be left alone or she simply doesn’t care.

“So what you doing this weekend.” Grace asks a hint of hope in her voice, you’ve shot her down every time she’s asked you to hang out.

You’ve been shutting her down for months, simply stating you have plans with someone else. You don’t you couldn’t you only talk to a handful of players and even it’s a push for you to do that.

But Grace has finally worn you down, you can’t take how her voice sounds so heartbroken and her shoulders sag in defeat her eyes loose their little spark and the way she says her Gs after always sound so sad.

“Nothing.” You say quietly kicking the ball back to her, Grace poses momentarily you’ve never not had plans, she’s never gotten this far.

“Would you maybe want to hang out this weekend, we-you could come over to mine and just chill or we can go shopping or get food or the cinema.” Grace rattles off different things you both can do before realising she needs a response from you.

“Eh yeah your house sounds nice just chill.” You say nervously looking anywhere but at the older girl. Grace nods clearing her throat trying to remain cool as she practically vibrates with excitement. “Yeah perfect cool, Saturday work for you.” You nod “perfect my place at 5 I’ll order food we can just chill and watch a movie.”

You feel sick for the rest of the week , you and Grace alone in her house just the two of you, you curse yourself for not being strong enough to say no, but Grace is so kind and soft you can see it as she runs around your teammates swinging out of them laugh, everyone laughing with her.

As long as you don’t touch her and get her sick it should be ok, you’ll be ok.

You stand on her doorstep hand hovering over the doorbell, you could turn around and leave you think, text her telling her your sick, text her and tell her you fell down the stairs and broke your leg, don’t text her fake your death and move countries, no you can’t she’s to good for that and that’s mean you’re just two friends hanging out nothing more nothing less no need to be so dramatic.

Grace still steps forward to give you a hug every now and then but you always counteract with stepping back. She tries again today as she opens the door but the minute you flinch she stops and offers a sad smile hiding it quickly rubbing her neck and welcoming you in.

The air is tense and you hate it, its your fault. You hate the way the thought follows you through to the living room.

The air is so tense and Grace hates it, its her fault, she didn't mean to make you uncomfortable again, god why does she always make you uncomfortable, you hate hugs she knows this but you're so soft and quite and its all she can think about.

You are all she can think about.

The living room was cozy, bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains. A plush, inviting couch sat facing a large TV, and scattered cushions added to the relaxed atmosphere. Grace had clearly made an effort; the coffee table was clear of clutter, and a faint scent of vanilla filled the air. You perched on the edge of the couch, stiff and awkward, while Grace busied herself in the kitchen.

“Pizza okay?” she called out, her voice slightly strained.

“Yeah, fine,” you mumbled, your eyes fixed on the wall of pictures, arms wrapped around people you recognise as your teamates, her family and some of her friends. You could feel Grace’s gaze on you, and it made your skin crawl. You wished you could just melt into the cushions and disappear.

Grace returned with two cans of soda and a nervous smile. She sat at the opposite end of the couch, leaving a generous gap between you. The distance didn’t ease your discomfort; it only amplified it. You could practically hear the unspoken question hanging in the air: Why are you so uncomfortable?

The pizza arrived, and you ate in near silence, punctuated only by the occasional clinking of cans and the low hum of the TV playing a movie neither of them were really watching. You picked at your food, your appetite completely gone. Every time Grace glanced at you, you looked away, your heart pounding in your chest.

After they finished eating, Grace gathered the empty boxes and cans. When she returned, she hesitated before speaking. “Is everything alright?” she asked softly, her eyes filled with concern.

You shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah, fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” Grace persisted, her voice gentle. “You’ve been really quiet.”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. The truth was a tangled mess of anxieties you couldn’t articulate. You didn’t want to hurt Grace, but you also couldn’t pretend everything was okay.

“It’s just…” you began, then trailed off, searching for the right words. “I’m not really good at this kind of thing.”

“This kind of thing?” Grace echoed, tilting her head slightly.

“Hanging out,” you clarified, feeling your cheeks flush. “Just the two of us. I… I don’t do it much.”

A flicker of understanding crossed Grace’s face. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I didn’t realize.”

Silence descended again, but this time it felt different. The tension hadn’t completely dissipated, but it had shifted, becoming less sharp, more… understanding.

“It’s okay,” Grace said finally, a small smile gracing her lips. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just… be.”

You looked at her then, really looked at her. Her eyes were warm and inviting, and for the first time that evening, you felt a glimmer of ease. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Grace picked up the remote and scrolled through the movie options. “How about a comedy?” she suggested. “Something light?”

You nodded, a small smile mirroring hers. As the movie started, you shifted slightly on the couch, closing the gap between you and Grace just a little. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant. It was a tentative step towards a connection you had been too afraid to make.

As the movie played, Grace occasionally offered quiet comments or chuckled at a funny scene. You found yourself relaxing, drawn into the shared experience. You were still nervous, still self-conscious, but the suffocating anxiety had begun to recede.

Towards the end of the movie, you felt a gentle weight on your shoulder, and the world seemed to collapse in on itsself. You jump throwing yourself away from the girl causing Graces body to fall sideways her head hitting the couch.

"I need to go, I-I'm sorry i-I-I'm so sorry" you stutter not giving the midfielder a second to respond as you race out the door.

You sit in the car unable to move, of course you had to mess it up, you and your sickness. Grace she-she's to good.

The slam of the front door echoed in the quiet house, leaving Grace momentarily stunned. She blinked, her head throbbing where it had connected with the couch. Disorientation quickly gave way to confusion, then a sinking feeling of dread. She sat up slowly, rubbing the back of her head, her eyes fixed on the now-empty doorway.

The image of you recoiling, your face contorted in a mixture of fear and panic, played on repeat in her mind. The mumbled apologies, the frantic escape – it was all a blur, a whirlwind of sudden, inexplicable terror.

Grace’s heart ached. She had thought, just for a moment, that things were finally starting to ease. She had felt you relax, seen the flicker of a smile on your face. And then… this.

She stood up, her legs feeling unsteady. The remnants of your shared evening – the half-eaten pizza, the discarded soda cans, the paused movie on the TV screen – seemed to mock her, a stark reminder of what had just happened.

Back in the car, you gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. The image of Grace’s head snapping against the couch replayed in your mind, fueling the rising tide of panic within you. You had hurt her. You had scared her. You had ruined everything.

The word “sickness” echoed in your thoughts, a constant, nagging reminder of the invisible barrier that separated you from others. It wasn’t a physical illness, not in the traditional sense, but it was a sickness nonetheless, one that manifested in crippling anxiety and an inability to connect with people on a normal level.

You started the engine, your hands shaking so badly you almost stalled. As you drove home, tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You felt a profound sense of shame and self-loathing. You were a mess, a broken thing, incapable of even the simplest social interaction.

Meanwhile, back at Grace's house, she was trying to piece together what had just happened. She replayed the evening in her mind, searching for any clue, any indication that you were about to react so drastically. She remembered the moment your eyes had widened, the way you had flinched away from her touch as if burned.

A chilling thought crept into her mind: Did I do something wrong?

She had been so careful, so mindful of your discomfort. She had avoided touching you, given you space, tried to create a relaxed and comfortable atmosphere. But clearly, it hadn’t been enough.

Grace felt a wave of self-doubt wash over her. Maybe she was just bad at this. Maybe she was too forward, too eager. Maybe she was just… too much.

She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over your contact. She wanted to text you, to ask you what had happened, to offer her apologies if she had somehow overstepped a boundary. But she hesitated. What if she made things worse? What if she pushed you further away?

She sighed, placing her phone back on the coffee table. She felt lost and confused, adrift in a sea of unanswered questions.

The following days were strained. You avoided Grace at practice, keeping your distance, your eyes fixed on the ground whenever she was near. Grace, in turn, respected your space, but her eyes often followed you, filled with a mixture of concern and sadness.

The team noticed the shift in your dynamic. Whispers circulated, curious glances were exchanged. The easy camaraderie that usually characterized their practices felt muted, replaced by an unspoken tension.

One afternoon, after practice, Grace approached you as you were packing your bag. You tensed, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Can we talk?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated, your eyes darting around the changing room, searching for an escape. But there was nowhere to run.

You nodded slowly, your throat tight with anxiety. Grace led you to a quiet corner of the gym, away from the prying eyes and ears of your teammates.

“What happened Saturday?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm. “You… you seemed really scared.”

You bit your lip, unable to meet her gaze. The words caught in your throat, refusing to come out.

Grace waited patiently, giving you the time you needed. Finally, you managed to stammer out a response.

“I… I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to… I just… I panicked.”

“Panicked?” Grace echoed, her brow furrowed. “Why?”

You took a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain the tangled mess of anxieties that plagued you, trying to come up with another lie.

"I-Why did you that-why did you put your head there." You felt your stomach twist with unease as you began to turn everything on her, make it her fault, push her away.

The question hung in the air, sharp and accusatory. Grace blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in your demeanor. The gentle concern in her eyes was replaced by a flicker of confusion, then hurt.

“I… I didn’t mean to scare you,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “I thought… we were having a nice time.”

“Well you thought wrong,” you snapped, your voice rising in volume. You couldn’t stop the words from spilling out, a torrent of pent-up anxiety and self-loathing disguised as anger. “You just… invaded my space. You didn’t even ask.”

“I…” Grace trailed off, her eyes welling up with tears. She felt a lump forming in her throat, making it difficult to speak. “I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling. “I didn’t realize it would make you so upset.”

“Clearly,” you retorted, turning away from her. You couldn’t bear to see the pain in her eyes. It was a mirror reflecting your own brokenness, and you hated it.

Grace stood there for a moment, her heart aching. She wanted to reach out to you, to tell you that it was okay, that she understood. But the wall you had erected between you was too high, too impenetrable.

She turned and walked away, her shoulders slumped in defeat. The quiet corner of the gym suddenly felt colder, emptier.

You watched her go, a hollow feeling settling in your chest. You had pushed her away, just as you had pushed everyone else away. You were alone again, just as you always were.

But this time, it felt different. This time, there was a pang of regret, a flicker of doubt. Had you gone too far? Had you ruined any chance of a real connection with Grace?

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter eight: Cracks in the Armor

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

Pt 1 Pt 2 P t 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10 Pt 11

The day that followed felt like a delicate balancing act. You and In-ho moved through it like two people walking on tightropes—never quite crossing the line, but always just teetering on the edge of something more. The small moments that had once seemed so insignificant were starting to carry weight. A glance that lingered too long. The sound of his voice, softer than usual when he spoke to you. The way he seemed to watch you when he thought you weren’t looking.

It was these tiny shifts, these tiny changes, that were starting to wear on you. Each second you spent in his presence, you felt like you were learning something new about him, even when he said nothing at all. His mask was always on, and yet, for some reason, you were starting to see past it. Or maybe you were just starting to look harder. Either way, it felt like something was shifting. Something was changing.

But the more time passed, the more you wondered if it was all in your head. Was it real? Did he really feel what you were starting to feel? Or were you simply projecting your own desires, your own confusion, onto him?

The thing was, you couldn’t deny it anymore. There was something. Even if it was just a flicker. A fleeting moment that was too brief to hold on to, but still too strong to ignore.

That morning, you had just finished breakfast. The sound of silverware scraping against your plate echoed through the quiet room as you set it down, the clink of it loud in the otherwise still air. You weren’t in the mood to talk, but you could feel the tension hanging between you and In-ho. It had been there for days—this quiet undercurrent that neither of you had addressed. Something unsaid. Something hanging in the space between you, getting heavier by the minute.

He had walked into the quarters from the sprawling hallways of the complex, his usual mask in place, the slight hum of his footsteps on the polished floor the only noise as he approached. The tablet in his hands was open to some report, something to do with the Games, no doubt. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t looking at you. You weren’t looking at him either, but the silence was suffocating. Every minute felt like it was stretching out in slow motion.

It was unbearable. And you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Why are we doing this?” The words spilled from your mouth before you could stop them. Your voice cracked, breaking the calm like glass shattering underfoot. It wasn’t even a question you had thought through. It was more of a desperate plea for something—clarity, understanding, maybe even a glimpse of the truth behind the mask he wore so rigidly. You didn’t even realize how much emotion was in your voice until it came out.

In-ho’s eyes flicked up from his tablet, his gaze flickering toward you. His jaw tightened, the briefest of flickers passing through his dark eyes, but his expression remained unreadable. “Doing what?”

“Playing this game,” you said, the frustration in your chest leaking into your words. You stood up from the table, pushing your chair back a little harder than necessary. The tension was suffocating, crawling under your skin like ants. “Pretending everything is fine when it’s not. Pretending that this” you gestured between the two of you, “is fine. Pretending that this marriage is fine. That everything in this place is fine, when nothing about it feels real.”

You wanted to take the words back immediately. To shut up. To go back to the cold silence where everything was easy to hide behind. But it was too late. You’d said it, and now it was out there, hanging like a raw nerve between you. The words felt like a release, but they also felt like a mistake. You had no idea what to expect from him.

In-ho was silent. His eyes were still locked on you, but the look in them had shifted, no longer the calculated distance that he usually kept, but something deeper. Something heavier.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “I just… I can’t keep pretending. Can’t keep going through the motions when it feels like we’re both stuck in a game neither of us wants to play.”

In-ho set the tablet down on the counter, his fingers lingering on the edge for a second before he finally looked up at you. He didn’t speak right away. His expression was distant, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, a recognition. Maybe even a kind of understanding.

“Because we have no other choice,” he said, his voice low and quiet. There was no edge to it, no anger or frustration—just an emptiness. Like he had said it a thousand times before, and maybe he had. The words didn’t sound like an explanation; they sounded like resignation.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest, frustration and sorrow mixing together. “But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you whispered, shaking your head slowly. “We don’t have any other choice. And that’s why everything feels like it’s slipping through our fingers. Like we’re drowning, but we can’t even admit it.”

There was a heavy silence that followed your words. You could feel his gaze on you, his eyes watching, studying. You wanted him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t. And you couldn’t bring yourself to speak again. It felt like if either of you said anything more, something inside would break.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, just looking at him, feeling the weight of the moment press in on you both. The room felt small, too small for all the things you had just laid bare.

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, In-ho spoke.

“I know,” he said simply, his voice quieter than before, like the words had drained the last bit of weight from him. “I know exactly what it feels like.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. He knew. He knew. The realization hit you hard. The man behind the mask, the man who had spent so long behind walls of silence and distance, was human. Just like you. He was stuck too.

He didn’t say anything else. But at that moment, you didn’t need him to. The truth between you felt like a raw nerve, an open wound that neither of you knew how to heal. But it was the first time you hadn’t felt like you were talking to a stranger.

You felt like you were talking to someone who understood the weight of this world—the weight of the Games. The weight of being forced to play a role you didn’t choose. You weren’t alone.

In-ho looked down, his fingers rubbing the edge of his tablet absently. “I didn’t sign up for any of this either,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear. But the words were there. He didn’t sign up for this.

You weren’t sure what it meant, but in that moment, it felt like the first crack in the wall he’d built around himself. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Before you could speak again, he turned towards his office. His back was to you as he walked toward the door, but just as he reached it, he stopped.

There was a long pause before he spoke again. His voice, softer now, more human than you’d ever heard it.

“I didn’t choose this either,” he said quietly, almost as if to himself. He turned back to you, his mask still in place, but there was something different in the way he stood. “But I’m still here.”

And with that, he walked into his office, leaving you alone in the room, the weight of the conversation hanging between you like the air after a storm it was heavy, thick, full of possibility.

———————

Chapter eight!!! Yippee! Lemme know what you think! 🫶

Tag list:

@sunny21200

@lucinda-reads

@shakysif

@whoisbriannaa

@allmylovegoestomusic

@swthrtbyeol

@strawberrychita

@hoddystark

@livelaughcelica

@foulbreadpaenut

@write-from-the-heart

@angelofthorr

@sylviavf

@missroro

@siloveyourmoms

@luv1ze

@audrey223

@khaylin27

@gay4hotmilfs

@mimis-u3u

@captainlunaxmen

@cdej6

@ritaaaz07

@chateaumarmontt

@eepgirls

@ushouldhmhas

@fedsvenable

@dahliawarner

@fyodorssimp1

@nanamilkbread

[rose24207]

Just a salesman pt.2

Summary: Your perfect world shatters when a furious stranger bursts into your home, accusing your loving, devoted husband of being a monster responsible for countless deaths.

Genre: angst, dark

TW: mention of death, little gaslighting, reader is a little twisted about the situation, the games in general

A/N: Wow I didn’t expect for pt. 1 to blow up like that and for so many requests about a second part. But here we go! I take requests about squid game btw. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Pt.1

Masterlist

The room fell into an unbearable silence as you stood there, trembling, your tears streaking your face. Gi-hun’s words echoed in your ears like a bell you couldn’t unring. Your husband, your safe harbor, was a killer. A manipulative, calculating man who had built a world of lies around you.

And yet...

As much as your heart screamed in betrayal, it also whispered something darker. A small, insidious part of you—a part you didn’t even recognize—wanted to protect him. Wanted to believe that somehow, some way, this could still make sense.

“Leave,” your husband said, his voice low and commanding. It wasn’t directed at you, but at Gi-hun.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gi-hun spat. “She deserves to know the full truth.”

“I said, leave.” Your husband’s tone grew colder, sharper. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed at his side as though itching to act.

Gi-hun took a step forward, his jaw set. “You think you can scare me? After everything I’ve been through because of you? I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m not—”

“Stop,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Both men turned to look at you, surprised. You wiped your face, straightened your back, and forced yourself to meet Gi-hun’s eyes. “Please. Just… go.”

“What?” he said, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I need to talk to him,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “Alone.”

“You can’t trust him,” Gi-hun argued, gesturing toward your husband. “He’s a monster. He’ll manipulate you, just like he’s done to everyone else.”

You shook your head. “I don’t care what you think. This is my marriage. My life. And right now, you’re not helping.”

Your words were harsh, but your heart felt like it was being ripped apart. Gi-hun looked at you, his face contorted with disbelief, before letting out a bitter laugh.

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shot your husband one last glare before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence settled over the room once more. Your husband stood there, watching you cautiously, as though waiting for you to lash out or collapse. But you did neither. Instead, you walked to the table, picking up the strange card Gi-hun had left. You turned it over in your hands, the cryptic design doing little to ease your growing unease.

“Is it true?” you asked finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “What he said about the games? About you?”

Your husband hesitated, his jaw tightening. Then, to your surprise, he nodded. “Yes.”

The word hit you like a physical blow, but you didn’t falter. You set the card down and looked at him, your tears drying as a strange calm settled over you. “Why?”

“For you,” he said simply, stepping closer. “For us.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, your voice cold. “Why would you do something so… horrific? Why would you—”

“Because it’s the only world I know,” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “And it’s the only way I could give you the life you deserve. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

“For me?” you repeated, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and something darker. “You think I wanted this? That I’d ever want you to hurt people—kill people—for me?”

He stepped closer still, his eyes locking onto yours. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “The world isn’t kind to people like us. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t take control, who don’t make the hard choices. I made those choices so you wouldn’t have to.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. Every instinct told you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand there and listen to him. And yet… you didn’t move.

“Do you love me?” you asked suddenly, your voice raw.

His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw the man you’d fallen in love with. “More than anything,” he said. “You’re the only good thing in my life.”

Something inside you twisted at his words, at the sincerity in his voice. He was a monster, yes—but he was your monster. The thought made your stomach churn, but it also filled you with a strange, horrifying sense of power. He had done terrible things, but he had done them for you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can ever look at you the same way.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said quietly. “But I need you to understand that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To keep you with me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you took a shaky breath. “You’re going to tell me everything,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. “No more lies. No more secrets. If you want me to stay, I need to know exactly who you are.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by something darker. He nodded. “I’ll tell you everything.”

As he began to speak, unraveling the web of lies and horrors he’d kept hidden, you felt yourself sinking deeper into a world you didn’t understand—a world you weren’t sure you wanted to understand. But one thing was certain: you weren’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @blueyesuguru, @annimoony, @jasmineee05, @astrophe0, @riri53

[jjscrybaby]

thinking about “who did this to you?” and frat!boy rafe 🤭 his girl is always at his frat house and one night at a party, he’s looking for her and can’t find her. He eventually finds her crying and maybe with light bruises on her wrists or something? protective frat!rafe 🥰

rafe cameron x fem!reader | hurt & comfort | (creepy guy, wrist grabbing, bruising, protective!rafe, mentions of anxiety, sort of shy!reader,)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The lights were giving you a headache. Topper thought it was funny to repetitively switch the main light on and off, to try and give the room a rave vibe. Most people inside were too fucked up to be annoyed by it, but you weren’t. You’d only had two vodka cranberries, and honestly all you wanted to do was crawl into Rafe’s bed and go to sleep.

During the majority of these parties you’d be glued to your boyfriend’s side, hanging off his arm like a trophy, but tonight was different. You were trying to branch out more, stop being so anxious at these things. Rafe loves a party, and being his girlfriend you should as well. So, for the last hour you’ve been roaming around; making minimal contact with him.

You left the main room with a huff, rubbing your temple as you walked out into the hall. There was no-one in sight, and you let out a sigh of relief that you had a moment alone. You sat down on the floor, leaning your head back against the wall. The door to the bathroom opened and a boy, one you hadn’t seen before, walked out.

“You alright?” He asked, looking down at you in amusement.

“I’m fine, just takin’ a break,” you explained. You didn’t want to speak to him, but it would be rude to send him away; especially with the mission you were on tonight.

“Mind if I join you?” He questioned. You didn’t even get to respond, he was already sitting down next to you. “I’m Parker, by the way.” You introduced yourself, shaking his outstretched hand. “Ah, you’re Cameron’s girl?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, just the mention of him had your mood lifting. Maybe you should just give up with the outgoing thing, maybe you should just go and find—

“You don’t seem like his type.” The statement caught you off guard, all thoughts leaving your head as you looked at him with furrowed brows.

“What does that mean?” You wondered, trying to sound calm.

He let out a hum, as if deep in thought, before shrugging his shoulders and giving you a smirk. “Rafe’s, like, into all this shit, y’know? Parties, drinking, drugs. You’re sat in the hallway alone.”

“Opposites attract,” you shrugged back, picking at the pink nail polish on your nails.

“That is the saying,” he laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “I just think maybe, a pretty girl like you, deserves someone that’s more like her. Someone that would sit with her in the hallway, for example.”

You thought he was degrading you, like the rest of Rafe’s fanboys usually did. But, you realised now that wasn’t the case. He was your fanboy. You let out an awkward chuckle, looking to the door that hadn’t opened since you stepped out. You prayed for someone, anyone, to need the bathroom.

“I’m gonna head back in—” you decided to screw the anxiety, and just do what was necessary.

“Why?” He interrupted. He didn’t sound quite so friendly anymore. “We’re hangin’ out, don’t go in yet.”

“I need to find Rafe.” You tried to stand, but his fingers gripped onto your wrist to stop you. You winced in pain, his hold only tightened. “Get off.”

“No—” your prayers were answered as the door opened, a drunken couple came stumbling through. The sudden interruption had him letting go of you, and you swiftly rushed away.

You ran upstairs, through the corridor of boy’s bedrooms, until you reached Rafe’s. With tears in your eyes, you pushed open the door and laid down in his bed.

It only took ten minutes for the door to open again, you flinched; thinking that maybe Parker had followed you up here, but you let out a shaky sigh of relief at the sight of Rafe.

“Hey, baby. There you are, been lookin’ all over— are you crying?” He interrupted himself, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No,” you blatantly lied through your tears, voice coming out muffled.

He wrapped his arms around you, wiping your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Hey, what happened? It get a bit overwhelmin’? You could have told me, you know I’d much rather sit up here with you.”

“Not exactly…” you reached up to move your hair from your eye-line, you realised your mistake the moment that gentle look in his eyes dropped.

“What is that?” He grabbed your arm, not harshly but forcefully. Your wrist had turned a bright red colour, bruises would be forming soon enough.

“Nothing!” You squeaked out, trying to pull your arm away from him.

“Don’t bullshit me. That wasn’t there earlier. What happened?” He demanded to know. You knew he was serious, the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice.

You gave in, tears rolling down your cheeks as you explained to him what happened with the boy. He stroked over your wrist, a moment of silent going over the two of you before he leant forward and kissed your temple.

“Get changed, put on a movie. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?” He murmured softly.

“Where’re you going?” You asked nervously, you were pretty sure you already knew the answer.

“To sort out that fuckin’ kid. No one puts their hands on you, get it?” He stated, pecking your lips before getting off the bed.

You didn’t argue, there was no point. Rafe was too in love with you, if someone hurt you he’d do just about anything to get payback.

[keferon]

"Once Swindle says Blurr’s name out loud, there will be no going back. Swindle has no doubts Onslaught will approve. He has no doubts Blurr will say yes." - A closer look at what might have been going through Swindle's mind at the end of Blurr Chapter 3

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

Swindle’s hand moves subconsciously to grasp the phone in his pocket as he thinks.  It’s not his work phone.  No.  This is a phone with only five numbers in it.

Swindle can feel Onslaught watching him across the desk.  He shifts to cover the extra time it’s taking him to respond – to think.  Not that Onslaught is likely fooled.  They know each other better than just about anyone else could.  But the act is such a habit that it’s impossible to drop. 

And Swindle does need to consider this -- carefully.  Because he knows exactly the kind of person Onslaught’s looking for.

Five numbers in the phone.

Only four of them are active.

And that number could drop at any moment.  That’s been the reality of their lives for years now.  Ever since Vortex. 

Swindle doesn’t even entirely know why he keeps Vortex’s number in the phone except perhaps out of habit.  It’s not as if he’s actually expecting to ever use it again, whatever Ons might say about ghost activity in his accounts.  Swindle has never received a ghost call.  He never expects to. 

One number is dead.

Three others are at risk.  Always have been.  That’s reality.

And the last…. 

Does Swindle really want to add the last number – the only outsider to make the list -- to their reality?  That’s the question he has a fraction of a moment to answer.

Because once he says Blurr’s name out loud, there will be no going back.  Swindle has no doubts Onslaught will approve.  He has no doubts Blurr will say yes.

That thought makes something twinge in Swindle’s gut.  He knows now, as they’ve gotten older, that Blurr was never quite as naïve, never quite as ignorant to the realities of the world outside his own privileged lifestyle as Swindle had believed him to be when they first met.  But still, the exact extent of what Blurr does and does not understand about Mecha is known only to the man himself. 

Swindle has never told Blurr their secrets and he has no intention of starting now.  It has always been nice to have someone who Swindle can act like he’s living a normal life with, even if just for an hour or two.  Swindle will lose that, he knows.  But they’ve all lost things before.  They will lose things again.  That’s reality.  They’ve already come this far.

Onslaught says they need someone to act as a social shield between the average pilot and the higher ups.  Someone who can be recognized as the person behind the machine.  Someone who can bring attention to basic issues like mech safety.  Someone far enough on the outside to still believe in things like the goodness of people and the heroic premise of saving humanity that Mecha has built up.  (Someone that hasn’t had that belief stamped out of them by years of the training and the testing and the unceasing, caring violence of the war.) 

Blurr meets all their criteria, Swindle knows.  Blurr will agree if Swindle asks, even as Swindle knows he will have no idea exactly what it is he’s signing on to. 

Blurr can act as their shield.  And Swindle – Swindle will take on the responsibility of shielding Blurr from the truth.

Ooohhh fuck oh I love this gmdmfjjgkd

The inactive number PLEASE. It's. Yes. Swindle would bitch about Vortex being huge pain in the ass and then keep his number saved after his death. I'm fine

Also Swindle basically destroyed his last little island of normal life when he got Blurr involved and I can easily imagine he would often regret it. He would also question the decision A LOT after the incident with the fire.

Damn...Imagine hating the shiny smiley guy who lured you into literal hell and then one day looking at yourself and thinking - I'm that guy now...

Side note. Because I can't stop thinking of it. What if Vortex decides to call Swindle during the whole Shockwave situation? You know..like. When he breaks free from Shockwave's mind control he also breaks the programming that was preventing him from moving without a pilot? And for the first time he has actual freedom to do whatever he wants?

What if he tries to call Swindle? What if after all those years Swindle's phone rings and for a second Swindle can't even fucking believe his eyes when he sees who is calling? Just. You know haha. Just a thought:)

[p0orbaby]

I Feel Alive in the City That You Like

summary: who doesn’t like a bit of gossip?

warnings: none !

a/n: something short for our fav actress, with a little cameo from ale

word count: 1.5k

part 1

-

The bar is tucked away in a side street that smells of sea salt, diesel fumes, and hot pavement—the kind of place you only find by accident or through someone who’s “been coming here for years.” It’s called La Mala Vida, which feels pretentious in an almost charming way, like it’s trying to convince you it’s grittier than it actually is. Inside, the walls are painted a deep crimson that almost glows under dim lights. The ceiling is low enough to feel oppressive, and every table is crammed with people leaning too close, talking too loud, the air thick with cigarette smoke despite the supposed indoor ban.

Your friends are already at a corner booth when you arrive, practically shouting over the music—something vaguely Latin remixed with techno—and you spot Frances first, her sharp red lipstick and a blonde bob so precise it could have been cut with a laser. She’s dressed for drama, as always, in a vintage YSL blazer so cropped it’s practically a shrug, paired with leather trousers that look like they might have been painted on.

“We’ve been here for an hour,” she announces the moment you approach, her tone loud enough to carry over the din of the bar. “I thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you reply, pulling off your jacket—a lightweight cashmere thing that you’d brought only because the evening forecast had mentioned a breeze. You hang it over the back of the chair, careful to keep it away from what looks suspiciously like a puddle of spilled sangria.

“She thought you were avoiding us,” Georgia chimes in, already halfway through her first glass of wine. She’s dressed in an oversized white button-down that she’s knotted at the waist, paired with frayed denim shorts and silver hoop earrings big enough to be used as hula hoops. The effect is effortlessly cool, though you know for a fact she spent 45 minutes in front of a mirror before leaving her hotel room.

“I don’t avoid people I love,” you say, sliding into the seat between them.

“Except Alexia,” Frances says, her grin razor-sharp. “When she’s too far away for you to stalk”

“Frances,” you warn, though your voice lacks any real edge.

“Oh, please. Don’t pretend we haven’t all read the headlines. ‘Football Star’s Mystery Lover’—that was my personal favourite. Or was it the one about how you’ve been jetting between continents like a lovesick heiress?”

“Stop,” you groan, but Georgia is already laughing, her wine glass wobbling dangerously in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “We didn’t fly all the way to Barcelona just to interrogate you. But we will be taking the opportunity since we’re here”

“You didn’t fly here to see me at all,” you point out. “You’re here for Georgia’s ridiculous ‘self-discovery retreat’”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Georgia protests, though her tone suggests she knows exactly how ridiculous it is. “It’s wellness. I’ve been stressed”

“You live in a Soho loft and do Pilates every morning,” Frances deadpans. “What could you possibly be stressed about?”

“Life,” Georgia says, as though this explains everything.

Frances rolls her eyes, but before she can respond, the waiter arrives to take your drink order. You glance at the menu briefly before asking for a vodka lime and soda.

“Make it a double,” Frances adds for you. “She’s going to need it”

As soon as the waiter disappears, Frances leans forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands like a particularly nosy house cat.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “How’s Alexia?”

“She’s fine,” you reply, keeping your tone deliberately neutral.

“Fine?” Georgia echoes, clearly unimpressed. “That’s all we get?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Frances says, her grin widening. “Something juicy. Like how she’s already convinced you to move here and start a life of domestic bliss”

“Or how she’s secretly awful in bed,” Georgia adds.

“She’s not awful in bed,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, and both of them pounce on the admission like hungry wolves.

“Ah-ha!” Frances crows, pointing at you. “See, now we’re getting somewhere”

“Stop being so tight-lipped,” Georgia says. “You’re glowing. Look at you. That’s post-orgasm skin”

“Stop it,” you hiss, though your face is already burning.

“Don’t be shy,” Frances says, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied smirk. “We’re your friends. We’re just curious.”

“She’s curious,” Georgia corrects. “I just like making you uncomfortable”

“Why do I hang out with you?” you mutter, though the question is purely rhetorical.

“Because we’re fabulous,” Frances says.

“And because we rescheduled our chemical peel to spend time with you,” Georgia adds. “Now, come on. Give us something. What’s she like when the lights are off? Or on, we won’t judge”

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

“Fine,” Frances says, waving a hand dismissively. “If you don’t want to talk about that, tell us what you two do when you’re not shagging”

“Normal couple things,” you say.

“Like what?” Georgia presses.

“Like… cooking together,” you offer.

“Boring,” Frances declares.

“Or watching TV”

“Also boring”

“Taking her dog for walks?”

Frances sighs dramatically, as though your relationship is personally offending her. “You’re no fun”

“I’m plenty of fun,” you argue.

“Prove it,” Georgia says.

“How?”

“Call her,” Frances says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Right now”

“She’s busy,” you protest, though your hand is already hovering over your phone.

“She’s not too busy for you,” Georgia says in a sing-song voice, grinning like the devil.

Frances leans back in her seat, folding her arms. “Prove it. Call her. Right now. Or we’ll start making assumptions, and you know we don’t hold back”

“Fine,” you snap, swiping your phone off the table. “But if she gets annoyed, I’m blaming both of you”

“Blame away,” Frances replies, looking positively gleeful.

You don’t bother stepping outside for privacy—this is what they wanted, after all. The bar’s music fades to the background as you scroll for her name, your thumb hesitating for a brief moment before you press call.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Hola,” she says, her voice warm and slightly hushed, like she’s leaning in closer to the phone to hear you better.

“Hi,” you reply, already feeling the tension ease at the sound of her voice. “What are you doing?”

“Dinner with the team,” she says. “What about you?”

“Out with Frances and Georgia,” you say, shooting them a look across the table. “They’re being infuriating, as usual.”

Alexia chuckles softly, and even though the distance between you stretches across an ocean, it feels like she’s right there. “What did they do now?”

“They’re insisting I call you so they can be nosy,” you admit, ignoring the way Frances pretends to yawn theatrically beside you.

“Well, I hope I’m living up to the hype,” Alexia says, the smile evident in her tone.

Frances immediately leans forward, practically yelling into the phone. “She’s not doing you justice, Alexia! We’ve heard nothing spicy”

You slap a hand over the phone’s speaker. “Frances!”

Alexia’s laugh is louder now, melodic and unrestrained. “Is that Frances?”

“And Georgia,” you say, glaring at them both as they descend into a fit of giggles.

“Hi, Alexia!” Georgia shouts, waving as if Alexia could somehow see her through the phone. “How do you feel about long-distance frustration?”

“Ignore them,” you say, lowering your hand from the speaker, though Frances has already leaned halfway across the table.

“Alexia, quick question,” she calls into the receiver. “On a scale of one to ten, how insufferable is she as a girlfriend?”

“Frances!”

“Eleven,” Alexia replies without missing a beat, her voice warm with amusement.

Frances clutches her chest in mock offense. “A woman with taste. I approve”

Georgia’s cackling now, practically falling off her chair. “She’s funnier than you. I like her more already”

“Okay, this was a mistake,” you mutter, though you can’t help the way your lips curl into a smile.

“You’re handling it well,” Alexia teases. “And you haven’t hung up yet, so maybe you secretly enjoy it”

“Maybe I just like hearing your voice,” you counter, softer this time.

There’s a slight pause, just long enough for Frances and Georgia to exchange exaggerated ooohs like a pair of primary school children.

“I miss you,” Alexia says, the sincerity in her voice cutting through their antics.

“I miss you too,” you reply quietly, forgetting for a moment that you aren’t alone.

Frances doesn’t forget. She leans so close you can feel her breath on your shoulder. “Tell her you love her!” she stage-whispers, loud enough to draw stares from the next table over.

You shove her back, pressing a palm to your forehead. “I’m hanging up now”

“Coward,” Frances mutters, smirking.

“Goodnight,” Alexia says, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

“Goodnight,” you reply, the word carrying more weight than usual.

When you finally set your phone down, Frances and Georgia are watching you like vultures circling a carcass.

“Admit it,” Frances says, taking a triumphant sip of her drink. “You’re smitten”

“Completely pathetic,” Georgia adds.

You don’t even bother denying it. Instead, you flag the waiter down for another drink, shaking your head as they burst into fresh fits of laughter.

[wchswift]

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ‘harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[deathofpeaceofmiiind]

Kill my time // Quinn Hughes

In a city full of lonely people, I just want you all to myself

summary: birthday celebrations causing jealousy while struggling to turn a certain age

warnings: drinking, clubbing, smut (18+)

── ∘◦ ⛤ ◦∘ ──

“I can’t believe I’m going to a bar like I’m in my early twenties again.”

I smoothed my dress down, picking apart everything wrong with me as I looked in the mirror. Turning thirty felt like my world was about to collapse, and what made it worse was knowing my boyfriend was only turning twenty five just two days after me.

“Not to mention with a bunch of guys who are twenty one.” My roommate added as she fixed us a couple of drinks. I saw her bring out a bottle of tequila, knowing I was going to be in for a long night.

“Ugh, what did I get myself into?”

“Girl, it’s fine! Quinn doesn’t care about your age so why should you?” She asks, passing me whatever concoction she made. A took a small sip, realizing it was tequila and soda…more like tequila with a splash of soda.

Deep down I knew she was right, because when I told Quinn I was older than him it didn’t phase him at all, I completely expected him to run. He told me the idea of being with someone older was a big turn on for him, something he didn’t discover until he met me. As for me, it didn’t matter what age the men were I dated, they were all extremely immature. I knew it was a risk with Quinn but he definitely didn’t act like men his age. After all he was the captain of an NHL team, he had to have a strong head on his shoulders.

An hour later I was making my way through a busy drunken crowd, holding onto Quinn’s hand for dear life. For whatever reason, his teammates chose this club to celebrate his birthday tonight. Wouldn’t have been my first choice, and I don’t think Quinn was thrilled on it either but he was too quiet to say anything. We always made the best of a bad situation and I knew tonight wouldn’t be any different. House music and lights were bouncing off the walls, making it hard to focus on where we were going. We finally got into our booth and a heavy sigh left me, I definitely wasn’t drunk enough for this.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Quinn’s velvet voice echoed in my ear, calming my nerves. His eyes were bright green, almost enchanting as they peered into mine. My face grew hot, wondering how it was humanly possible for someone to be this gorgeous.

“Yeah it’s just been a while.” I wasn’t lying either. I spent most of my time in breweries with my friends since most of us were over going to clubs. Quinn likes to tell me he doesn’t like going out, but give him a few drinks and he makes a liar out of himself.

He pulled me closer to him, so close I could feel his stubble on my neck. “I won’t leave your side at all, I promise.”

“Okay.” I nodded before he gently brushed his lips over mine. I got lost in our own little world, the music melted away and I forgot we were in the middle of a busy club surrounded by strangers.

“Let’s celebrate, it’s your birthday after all.”

I rolled my eyes, “it’s also yours in two days.”

“Yeah, but …” his words trail off as he runs the pad of his thumb over my lip, “today brought me you.”

“How does it feel to be with a thirty year old?” The words falling last my lips causing my eyes to roll again. That number just didn’t sit right with me. “I’m officially an old lady.”

“Thirty has never looked better.” He mused, his hand running up my hip and pressing me closer to him. I pulled him into another kiss, his cologne hit me like a tidal wave causing butterflies in my stomach. His hand ran up my neck and gripped me tighter while his tongue begged to enter my mouth. We stayed like that, blissfully unaware of reality until his teammates came over with trays of various shots.

“Okay lover boy that’s enough. Let’s get you drunk.”

One thing about partying with hockey players is all of them have no limits when it comes to spending. I had to finally stop accepting every shot they brought around after the room began to spin. Best part of the night though was that the Devils were in town, so Jack and Luke, Quinn’s brothers were here to celebrate with everyone. This was only my second time meeting them but they were extremely welcoming and treated me like I was their sister. Jack at one point asked me to go dance with him and I couldn’t help but say yes.

“So how does it feel to be thirty?” Jack yelled into my ear as we danced to one of my favourite John Summit songs.

“Terrible. I’m almost a decade older than you!”

“You make thirty look so good though.” He smirks as Luke came behind me and picked me up, causing me to scream at him to put me down. As much as I fought he kept me over his shoulder.

“I just want you to know we fucking love you and you make my brother so happy.” Luke added as he finally put me down, the room was still spinning so I had to brace myself against him to make it stop.

“Thanks buddy.” I jumped a little, feeling Quinn’s hand on my back. His face was flushed, telling me he was taking shots without me.

“Can I have my girlfriend back now?”

“Sorry bro!” Luke kissed the top of my head before him and Jack ran off to grab more drinks.

“You okay?” I asked Quinn as I turned to him, he smelt like whiskey and honey as he brought his lips to my neck.

“I will be.” He mumbles, burrowing his face into my neck. “I’m glad my brothers like you, but you’re my girlfriend. Not theirs.”

“Do you think they’re gonna steal me?” I clasped my mouth, trying to hold in my laughter because I know he was being serious. It was downright adorable.

“Maybe.”

“But I’m yours” I assured him, pressing closer to his body. My hands teaching behind his neck, slipping stands of his hair between my fingers. “No one will ever steal me from you.”

“Prove it.” He replied with such confidence, not taking his eyes off my lips. His hands reached up to my hips, pressing me even closer to him. I gasped as I felt his erection brush up against my leg, “come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.” He mumbled, his eyes glazed with desire and whatever was in his system. I grabbed his hand, not knowing where he was taking me.

Quinn guided me into a private bathroom and locked the door. His hand brushed gently over my chest, hooking his finger under the strap of my dress. I watched him with intent, my heart pounding so fast I was surprised he didn’t feel it.

“You belong to me.” He whispered, slowly bringing me closer to him. My hands braced onto his chest as he captured my mouth into a kiss that started off sweet but grew sloppy.

“Let’s not wait then, birthday boy.”

He smirked so devilishly that I felt something more than butterflies in my stomach. Our kisses were met with biting of lower lips and Quinn grabbed my dress so tight I thought it was going to split. I wasted no time and began to unbutton his pants, dropping to my knees in the process. His dick sprung out of his boxers, dripping with pre-cum as my eyes widened.

“Stick your tongue out baby.”

My exposed tongue was met with his tip as he gently circled over my taste buds. I could taste him already, it was making my mouth salivate and run down my chin.

“Such a good girl.” He breathed as his free hand tugged on my hair. “Open your mouth for me.”

I did as I was told and Quinn slowly slid his erection into my mouth, inch by inch until his tip hit the back of my throat. He bit his lip as I began to slide my mouth up and down, his grip on my hair getting tighter.

“Fuck, baby this feels so good.” He deeply moaned, making me feel it in the back of my throat. “Such a good girl taking my whole dick in that pretty little mouth of yours.”

I could tell he was getting close with how laboured his breathing became. I removed my mouth from him and began to lick his tip that was glistening with my spit. He looked down at me with pleading eyes, as if me mouth fucking him was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Come in my mouth Quinn, I know what you want to.”

“Not yet.” His voice sounded so husky as he motioned for me to stand up. I wiped my mouth, taking a long look at him. “Your turn birthday girl.”

I couldn’t help but giggle as he picked me up and sat me on the bathroom counter. My back rested against the mirror as he spread my legs, situating himself between them. When our eyes met my heart felt like it was going to explode, I’ve never seen him like this before.

“How bad do you need me right now?” He asked, slowly taking my lip between his teeth again.

“I need you so fucking badly.”

He makes his home between my thighs and begins to tease me with his tip. I regretted wearing underwear tonight but feeling his pre cum soak the lace was the sweetest form of torture, and he knew it.


“Tell me again…how bad do you need me?” I couldn’t get a word out. His laugh was dark as he fluttered his somber eyes at me, “use your words sweetheart, what do you want for your birthday?”

“I want you.”

“That’s a good start.” He muses, applying pressure on my thighs with his thumbs, “where do you want me?”

No words were leaving me as I gasped for air. Quinn began to run his mouth over my jaw, down to my collarbone, nipping slightly at the skin. I grabbed his hand and guided it between my thighs, his thumb instantly pressing onto my underwear.

“Right there?” He asks, slowly moving my underwear to the side. A small gasp in satisfaction left him as he felt how soaked I was for him. I just nodded, whimpering already from his touch. “Tell me how much you wish this was my dick instead?”

“Quinn, I need you please … I’m yours.”

“That’s my girl.” He replied so proudly, pushing his tip inside of me slowly. His head falls back once he’s fully inside me and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “Fuck you feel so good, so fucking good.”

Quinn started off slowly, teasing my clit simultaneously with each stroke. He leaned into my ear, continuously praising me as his strokes became faster and harder. Sweat rolled down me as the building started up in my stomach, that familiar flutter began to take over and I knew I was done for. My nails dug into his back as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder as my orgasm left my body.

“Fuck I’m gonna -“

It only took a few seconds before he spilled into me. His hands gently found my face, guiding me to look at him. My legs were still shaking as he kissed me so softly. I was in a complete haze as we broke apart, that one unruly strand of hair fell in front of his face as he studied me. He was so beautiful, there were no other words to describe him.

“Happy birthday, baby.” He mused, gently kissing all the tattoos on my arm. Funny thing,

I never thought he’d go for a girl with a full sleeve and dark hair like me. He struck me as someone who went for blonde Instagram models but, once again he proved me wrong.

“You definitely just gave me the best birthday present ever.” I lightly laughed.

He titled his head to the side, cupping my cheek, “I don’t think anything will be beat the gift you gave me.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

[pandapetals]

Healing

Something shifts in you after Jean and Scott have their baby making you wonder if you and Logan should have kids.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair, trying for a baby, angst, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of blood, triggering topics, self-loathing, healing

a/n: been sitting on this one for a while. Not going to lie this fucking hurt to write. I cried so much. I have never been through this but i know a few people who have and i can’t even imagine the pain and strength they have.

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

divider credit: @enchanthings

Jean beamed, her face glowing with a soft pride, as she held her baby boy close. His tiny hands curled around the fabric of her shirt, his chubby face peaceful as he dozed off in her arms. Over the past few months, you’d watched him grow from a fragile newborn, all soft whimpers and sleepy eyes, into a curious, squirming infant. It seemed like only yesterday he was swaddled and still, but now here he was, wide-eyed and alert to the world.

Scott stood beside Jean, his posture softer than usual, his typically intense gaze almost watery as he watched her gently rock their son. He looked at them both like they were the center of his universe. A quiet awe in his expression that made something tighten in your chest.

"He’s so precious," you said quietly, unable to tear your eyes away from the little family in front of you. The warmth between them radiated out, a kind of contentment that was hard to describe but impossible to miss.

Jean glanced up at you with a knowing smile, one that made you feel as though she could read you like an open book. "He is, isn’t he?" she said, her eyes sparkling. Then, almost without thinking, she added, "Makes you wanna have one, I bet?"

The words hung in the air for a second too long, and you felt your breath catch, an awkward chuckle slipping out before you could stop it. "Oh, kids aren’t really my thing," you blurted, your voice a little too quick, a little too high. "I mean, I love kids—who doesn’t—but, me... well..."

You trailed off as both Jean and Scott turned toward you, exchanging a quick, subtle glance. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity and mild confusion, like they hadn’t expected that answer, like maybe they were wondering why someone like you—someone married to Logan, no less—would feel that way.

The truth was, you’d never really discussed it. Not in depth. Sure, it had come up in passing a few times, but it was one of those conversations that lingered at the edges of your relationship, something neither of you had pushed too hard to figure out. Logan, with all his complications and dark past, never really seemed the type to want a family. And you? You weren’t sure if you did, either. It was easier not to think about it, to enjoy the life you had now—the two of you, perfectly in sync, no added weight of expectation.

But something had shifted recently. Maybe it was watching Jean and Scott, the way they orbited around their son like he was their entire world. Or maybe it was something deeper you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel until now.

"Do you want to hold him?" Scott asked, his voice gentle, trying to break the tension he had sensed creeping in.

You shook your head quickly, hands coming up in protest. "No, it’s fine, really—"

Before you could finish the thought, Jean was already moving, carefully transferring her sleeping son into your arms. You froze for a moment, a rush of panic flooding through you as the small, warm weight of the baby settled against your chest.

"There you go," Jean said softly, stepping back with a smile.

For a heartbeat, you felt a strange rush of anxiety—what if he started crying? What if you held him wrong? As the baby squirmed lightly against you, something softened inside. His small face scrunched up for a moment, but he didn’t stir, and before you knew it, the panic eased into something warmer, something you weren’t sure you were ready to name yet.

"You’re a natural," Jean whispered, her smile widening as she watched you gently cradle her son.

You glanced down at the tiny face, his soft breathing rising and falling steadily, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade away. There was something so... peaceful about it. The weight of him in your arms, the delicate rise and fall of his chest. It was calming in a way you hadn’t expected. Your mind drifted, just for a second, imagining what it would be like to have a child of your own, one that looked up at you with Logan’s piercing eyes, with his stubbornness and strength.

The thought caught you off guard, making your chest tighten. You had always been so certain that kids weren’t part of the plan, or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Now with this small life cradled in your arms, you weren’t so sure.

Logan’s low, familiar voice broke through your thoughts. "There you are," he muttered, stepping into the room. His eyes softened immediately when he saw you holding the baby, though he tried to hide it behind his usual gruff expression. "Didn’t know I was married to a babysitter now."

You smirked, though your heart was racing a little. "Jean practically forced me."

Logan grunted in response, but there was a subtle shift in his expression as he watched you. His eyes lingered on the baby for a moment longer than usual, and you could see something flicker there. He stepped closer, his hand gently resting on your lower back, warm and reassuring.

"Doesn’t look like you mind too much," he said, his voice softer than usual, his eyes meeting yours.

You shrugged, feeling the baby shift slightly in your arms. "It’s... nice," you admitted quietly, surprising even yourself with the truth of it. "Holding him, I mean."

Logan didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel him studying you, the way he always did when he was thinking something over. Finally, he nodded toward the baby, his voice low. "You look good like that."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Like what?"

His eyes dropped to the baby in your arms before meeting yours again. "Holdin’ him," Logan said quietly, his voice rough but filled with something more. "You look... happy."

You smiled, but there was a knot forming in your chest now, a new kind of weight pressing down. You couldn’t shake the image from your mind—Logan, holding a baby of your own, the two of you together as parents. It wasn’t something you had let yourself picture before, but now that it was there, you couldn’t unsee it.

Later that day, as you watched Logan outside, talking to Jubilee with that soft, fatherly look he sometimes wore, it hit you again. The way he was with her, with Rogue or the younger kids at the mansion—it was so natural, so instinctive. He had this way of guiding them, protecting them, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You started to wonder if maybe Logan would make an incredible father. As much as you tried to deny it, the thought made your heart ache.

When Logan caught you watching him, he smirked as his eyebrow raised in curiosity. "What’re you lookin’ at?"

You shook your head, smiling softly. "Just you."

Logan came closer, wrapping his arm around your waist, his usual smirk softening. "Yeah?" he murmured. "What’s that look for?"

You hesitated, biting your lip. "Just... thinking."

"‘Bout what?"

You glanced up at him, your eyes searching his, and for the first time in a while, you didn’t brush the thought aside. "Logan," you started softly, your voice unsure but steady, "have you ever thought about... having kids?"

Logan’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the question. He was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowing as he considered your words. Then, after what felt like forever, he sighed softly, pulling you a little closer. "I dunno," he admitted quietly, his voice rough. "Never thought I’d be good at it. But... maybe." His gaze met yours, something unspoken lingering between you. "What about you?"

You swallowed, your heart pounding. "I think... maybe I’m starting to."

Logan didn’t say anything, but his hand slipped into yours, his calloused fingers curling around yours. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his silence saying more than words could at that moment.

𓂃

In the days that followed, you couldn’t shake the thought from your mind. It was as if a switch had flipped inside you, and now you were noticing every little thing Logan did—the way he spoke softly to one of his students who was struggling, the way he offered a stern but patient lecture to one of the kids running down the hallway, his voice rough with that familiar gruffness but still carrying a warmth that hinted at something deeper. Every time, your heart tightened, as though it was trying to tell you something you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

The idea of having kids had never seemed urgent. It was like a vague notion floating somewhere in the distance, something other people did after getting married. For you and Logan, it hadn’t felt like a natural progression. You liked your life the way it was—just the two of you, wrapped up in each other. Lazy evenings spent tangled up on the couch, quiet mornings with coffee and teasing banter, spontaneous trips to the city where you wandered hand-in-hand without any real plan.

Now, with every small act of kindness, you saw Logan show, you couldn’t help but imagine him as a father…and it scared you.

The thought of having a child felt like a seismic shift—one that would change the landscape of everything you loved. It wasn’t just about the sleepless nights or the endless responsibilities. It was deeper than that. You worried that the closeness you shared with Logan, the way your lives intertwined so effortlessly, would somehow slip away. That all the little moments you cherished would be replaced by the constant demands of a tiny person who needed everything from you, leaving little room for the quiet intimacy you had now.

Most of all, you worried that your love for each other would get... lost. That Logan, with all his quiet strength and unspoken fears, would pull away when faced with the weight of fatherhood.

It was late one evening, the two of you curled up in bed, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand. Logan was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other draped over you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your shoulder. You were nestled against his side, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, but your thoughts were racing.

You hesitated before speaking, your voice barely above a whisper. "Logan," you began, your tone uncertain. "Can I ask you something?"

He tilted his head slightly, looking down at you with those piercing hazel eyes, his expression softening as he nodded. "Always," he said quietly.

You swallowed, trying to find the right words. "Do you ever... do you ever feel like we might lose what we have if things change?"

Logan’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of concern in his eyes. "What do you mean, darlin'?" His voice was low like he was afraid to push too hard.

You took a deep breath, your fingers absently tracing the outline of his chest. "I mean, if we had a kid," you whispered, the words feeling strange on your tongue. "If we became parents… I’m worried that we’d lose... us. The way things are now."

Logan was silent for a moment, his hand stilling on your shoulder as he considered your words. "You think a kid would take that away?" he asked, his voice gruff but gentle.

"I don’t know," you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. "I just—everything would be different. We wouldn’t have these quiet nights or our spontaneous trips. We’d have to give up a lot." You paused, feeling the weight of your confession settle between you. "I’m scared that I won’t have as much time for you. Or that… you’d pull away."

Logan’s gaze softened, a deep sigh escaping him as he pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your shoulders. "I get it," he murmured. "I’m not gonna lie, I’ve thought about that too." He hesitated, his eyes drifting to the ceiling for a moment before returning to yours. "Hell, I’m scared of a lot of things when it comes to havin’ a kid. What if I’m no good at it? What if I… pass on the worst parts of me? All the anger, the darkness?"

You reached up, your hand cupping his jaw as you turned his face toward you. "You wouldn’t," you said firmly, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty. "You’re more than that, Logan. So much more."

He looked at you, his expression raw. "I try to be," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "But there’s a lotta things I can’t control. And I don’t know if I’d be any good at raisin’ a kid. I’ve spent most of my life tryin’ to protect people by keepin’ ‘em at arm’s length. How do I protect someone I can’t keep away from everything bad in the world?"

His words sank into you, and you could see the fear in his eyes, the way his past haunted him in a way that was hard to put into words. It wasn’t just about fatherhood—it was about feeling worthy of it. Of deserving that kind of joy.

"You protect me," you whispered, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. "Every day. And you do it without keeping me at a distance. You let me in, Logan. That’s not easy, but you did it. You do it. And if you can do that, then I think you’d make a great father."

Logan’s eyes searched yours, his breath hitching slightly as your words settled in. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there like he was drawing strength from the contact. "I’m not sure I deserve you sayin’ that," he murmured against your skin. "But it means more than you know."

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your hand slipping down to rest over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your touch. "I’m scared too," you confessed. "I’m scared of everything changing, and of not being able to handle it. But I’m also scared of… what if we don’t even try? What if we let fear decide for us?"

Logan’s expression softened, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as he held your hand. "If we do this," he said, his voice low and steady, "we do it together. No matter what. It won’t always be easy, but…" He hesitated, his voice breaking just slightly. "I’d rather face that with you than spend the rest of my life wonderin' if we shoulda tried."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, and suddenly, the idea didn’t seem as overwhelming as it had before. It was still scary, yes, but knowing that Logan was just as unsure, just as scared, made it feel more... real.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, letting it linger, your fingers curling into his hair as you drew him closer. "So… we're gonna try for a baby?" you whispered, the words slipping out softly.

Logan’s arms tightened around you like he was anchoring himself to the moment. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours with a mix of uncertainty and quiet determination. There was a heartbeat of silence before he nodded. "Yeah," he murmured, the sound almost lost in the space between you. Then, with more conviction, he added, "Yeah, why the hell not." His lips curved into a small, genuine smile.

𓂃

Trying for a baby had started out exciting—a new chapter to explore with Logan. You’d always had an active and passionate sex life, and the thought of intentionally building a family together made your heart swell. 

It wasn’t the act of trying that was hard—it was the waiting, the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. You had been so sure, so confident at the start. But now, after months of trying and nothing to show for it, doubt had begun to creep in like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Standing by the window in the quiet library, you stared out at the sprawling gardens, but your gaze was unfocused. Your mind was too busy unraveling itself. Why hadn’t it happened yet? Was it you? Was something wrong with you?

Your thoughts drifted back to the last four years of marriage with Logan. You couldn’t help but wonder why you hadn’t gotten pregnant sooner, even by accident. Not once had there been a scare, not even a close call. The questions swirled in your mind, each one more suffocating than the last. Was it my body? Did I do something wrong? Am I broken?

“Hey.” Logan’s familiar voice broke through the haze. You hadn’t even heard him enter the room.

You felt the warmth of his arm as he wrapped it around your shoulders, his touch gentle, steady. “What’s wrong, darlin’?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern.

You stiffened slightly, shrugging his arm off and taking a small step away. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” you whispered, your gaze still fixed on the window.

Logan hesitated. He wasn’t the type to push when you didn’t want to talk, but this—this distance, the way you’d been pulling away lately—was starting to worry him. He could see the weight you were carrying, the exhaustion etched into your face, even though you tried to hide it behind small smiles and quick deflections.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice almost a plea, “you don’t have to talk to me if you’re not ready. But… you gotta talk to someone. You can’t carry this by yourself.”

His words broke something loose in you, and you bit your lip hard to keep it from trembling. A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. “I just don’t understand,” you finally said, your voice cracking. “I thought I’d be pregnant by now. I thought it’d be easy… but it’s not, and I can’t stop feeling like—”

“Like what?” Logan pressed gently, stepping closer but keeping his distance enough to not crowd you.

“Like a failure,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavy leaving your mouth, as if speaking them made them more real.

Logan’s expression softened instantly, his brow furrowing with a mix of concern and heartache. “Darlin’,” he said quietly, closing the gap between you and gently cupping your face in his hands. He tilted your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You listen to me,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “You’re not a failure. Not even close. Don’t you dare think that.”

“But, Logan,” you choked out, your tears now spilling freely. “What if it’s me? What if there’s something wrong with me? You deserve someone who—”

“Stop,” he interrupted firmly. His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t put all this blame on you. We don’t know why it hasn’t happened yet, but it sure as hell isn’t because you’re not enough. You’re everything to me.”

Your knees felt weak at the raw sincerity in his voice, and you leaned into his touch, letting his warmth hold you together. “I just… I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

Logan pulled you into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel shielded from the weight of the world. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured into your hair. “Together. However long it takes, whatever we have to do—we’ll figure it out. But I need you to promise me somethin’, okay?”

“What?” you asked, your voice muffled against his chest.

“Promise me you’ll stop beatin’ yourself up over this. You’re not weak, darlin’. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. And if this doesn’t happen the way we planned, it doesn’t change a damn thing about how much I love you.”

His words wrapped around your heart like a warm blanket, soothing the ache that had been gnawing at you for weeks. You tilted your head back to look at him, your hands resting on his chest. “You always know what to say,” you whispered, a faint, watery smile tugging at your lips.

He gave you a small, lopsided grin, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Guess I’ve got a good reason to.”

You took a deep breath, feeling a flicker of hope reignite in your chest. “You know, sometimes I wonder if this is harder on you than you let on,” you said softly.

Logan hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment before he looked back at you. “It’s hard,” he admitted. “But not because of me. It’s hard seein’ you like this. You’ve always been the one who makes things feel right, and I hate seein’ you doubt yourself.”

Your heart swelled at his honesty, and you leaned up to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I love you so much, Logan. No matter what happens, I’m just glad I have you by my side.”

His hazel eyes softened, and he pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you more, darlin’. We’re in this together, okay?”

You nodded, letting the warmth of his embrace settle over you like a safety net. The quiet hum of the library wrapped around you both, cocooning the moment in a kind of stillness you hadn’t felt in weeks.

𓂃

It was a few weeks later, and life had settled back into its usual rhythm—teaching classes, grading papers, and the occasional chaos that came with living in a mansion full of mutants. But something was… different. At first, you didn’t think much of it. Everyone felt off sometimes, right?

The fatigue came first. You yawned at least five times during one of your lectures, earning amused glances from your students. “Long night, Professor?” one of them teased, and you waved it off with a laugh, though you were secretly confused. You’d gone to bed early the night before, and yet you still felt like you could curl up under your desk and sleep for hours.

Then, there was lunch. Your usual favorite—whatever Logan had grilled up the night before—suddenly turned your stomach. The smell alone had you rushing out of the dining hall, your hand clamped over your mouth as you tried to breathe through the nausea. Jean had given you a concerned look, but you waved her off, blaming it on some "bad leftovers."

By the third day of these strange symptoms, you couldn’t ignore them anymore. Your mind began to piece things together— the fatigue, the nausea, the way your favorite coffee suddenly tasted too bitter to drink. A flicker of hope sparked in your chest, but you tried to push it down. Don’t get ahead of yourself, you told yourself. It could be anything.

Still, the thought wouldn’t leave you alone. That night, after Logan had gone to bed, you slipped out of your shared room and quietly headed to the mansion’s lab. You grabbed a pregnancy test, your hands trembling slightly as you tucked it under your arm and snuck back to the bathroom.

What if it’s negative again? What if this hope I’ve been holding onto is just… nothing?

But then, something shifted. A small voice in the back of your mind reminded you of Logan’s words. We’re in this together.

Finally, you took a deep breath and glanced down at the test. Your heart stopped.

Two lines.

Tears welled in your eyes, your hand flying to your mouth as a soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you. Positive. You were pregnant.

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the test as joy bloomed in your chest, spreading through you like sunlight breaking through clouds. The months of waiting, of disappointment, of wondering if it would ever happen—all of it melted away in that instant.

You couldn’t wait to tell Logan. He deserved to know right away. But you wanted it to be special, something he’d never forget.

The next morning, you woke up earlier than usual, your excitement too much to keep contained. While Logan was still asleep, you snuck into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets for supplies. If there was one thing Logan loved as much as you, it was breakfast—specifically pancakes.

You whipped up a batch, taking extra care to shape them into letters. The smell of warm batter filled the air, and you couldn’t help but smile as you arranged the pancakes on a large plate, spelling out: You’re going to be a dad.

By the time Logan wandered into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in every direction and his usual gruff morning expression on full display, you were practically bouncing on your toes.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he headed for the coffee maker.

“Morning,” you chirped, barely containing your excitement.

He turned, narrowing his eyes at you playfully. “What’s got you so chipper this early?”

You gestured to the table, where the plate of pancakes sat waiting. “I made you breakfast.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious as he stepped closer. But the moment his eyes landed on the pancakes, his entire body stilled.

His gaze moved slowly over the words, his expression unreadable at first. Then, his eyes shot up to meet yours, wide and filled with a mixture of disbelief and hope. “Darlin’… are you serious?”

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes as you whispered, “Logan, we’re going to have a baby.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, he let out a shaky breath, a hand running through his hair as he took a step toward you. “You mean it? You’re… we’re…”

You smiled, nodding again as tears slipped down your cheeks. “Yes. It’s real.”

Logan’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you tightly against his chest. You felt his body tremble slightly as he held you, his face buried in your neck. “I don’t even know what to say,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Just… be here with me. That’s all I need.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hazel eyes shining with a rare vulnerability. “I never thought I’d get to have this,” he said softly. “A family. You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved.”

You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears that had slipped from his eyes. “You deserve everything, Logan. And I can’t wait to do this with you.”

A soft, genuine smile curved his lips as he leaned down, capturing yours in a kiss. His hand cradled your cheek, his touch warm. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against yours. 

Logan’s gaze flickered downward, his expression softening even more as his roughened hand moved to rest on your stomach. His palm was warm against you, and for a moment, he seemed almost in awe, his thumb brushing gently over the fabric of your shirt.

A chuckle rumbled through him, deep and affectionate. “Things are about to get a whole lot more interesting,” he murmured, his voice carrying both wonder and a touch of that familiar, teasing tone.

Your lips curved into a smile as you rested your hand over his, fingers threading together as your eyes followed his gaze to where your hands now lay. “Yeah,” you whispered, the word carrying a quiet awe of your own. “They really are.”

The world outside the kitchen faded away as you both stood there, the enormity of what was to come settling in. Logan’s thumb idly traced circles over the back of your hand, his expression a mix of pride, love, and something almost boyish—like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“You know,” he said softly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, hazel and filled with an emotion so raw it made your breath catch, “I’m not sure how we’re gonna do this, but… I can’t wait to figure it out with you.”

Your chest tightened, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you held his gaze, your hand squeezing his. “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but full of certainty. “Together. Like we always do.”

Unable to resist, you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, your arms slipping around his waist. He held you close, his hand still protectively resting on your stomach as the other wrapped firmly around your back.

“You’re gonna be a great dad,” you murmured into his chest.

Logan let out a low, soft laugh, his chin brushing the top of your head as he pressed a kiss there. “I’ll try, sweetheart,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with emotion. “But with you beside me… I think I might just figure it out.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes again, a tear slipping free but your smile unwavering. “You already have,” you said softly, your fingers gently brushing along his jaw.

𓂃

Everything was going great—or, well, as great as could be expected when you were juggling teaching, mutant chaos, and the excitement of being newly pregnant. You’d gone to the doctor for a check-up, double-checking everything was on track, and Logan had been, well… different.

Attentive wasn’t even the right word for it. Logan had turned into an overprotective force of nature. He refused to let you lift anything heavier than a book, shot you a look of warning anytime you so much as bent down, and always seemed to be hovering nearby like he thought the baby might need saving from a falling bookshelf or something.

Not that you minded. In fact, you found it… sweet. Especially when his rough hands would slide under your shirt at the end of the day, his palms brushing over your barely-there bump as if he could somehow connect with the life growing inside you. The way he looked at you—at both of you—made your heart feel like it might burst.

But of course, Logan's changed behavior didn’t go unnoticed.

You and Logan stood outside on the mansion’s back patio, enjoying a rare moment of peace. The fresh air wrapped around you like a soft blanket, and you leaned back into his chest as his hands gently rested on your stomach, his thumbs absentmindedly brushing little circles there.

“I like that it’s just between us,” Logan murmured into your ear, his lips grazing the shell of it as his arms tightened around you.

You hummed in agreement, resting your hands over his. “Me too, but… we can’t hide it forever, you know.”

Logan chuckled low and warm, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Pretty sure Chuck already knows,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk. “And Jean. She’s probably just sittin’ on it, waitin’ for you to spill.”

You tilted your head back to glance at him, a knowing grin on your face. “Oh, she’s definitely sitting on it. Jean loves a good secret almost as much as she loves saying, ‘I told you so.’”

He grunted in agreement, lowering his head to press a soft kiss to the side of your neck. “If you wanna tell everyone, darlin’, just say the word. I’ll follow your lead.”

You sighed, closing your eyes as his lips trailed down your neck in a way that made you forget about anything other than the warmth of his embrace. “Should we do something special? Oh! What if—”

“Is there any place you two won’t get freaky in?”

The voice startled you both, and Logan quickly yanked your shirt back down as you peeked over his shoulder to see Scott and Ororo walking toward you. Ororo had a toolbox in hand, presumably for the greenhouse, and Scott, as usual, was looking far too amused for his own good.

You burst into laughter, unable to help yourself. “We were just—”

“Just about two seconds from Logan ripping your clothes off,” Scott interrupted with a smirk.

Logan shot him a glare, his arms still loosely wrapped around you. “I was not,” he growled, though the faintest hint of pink dusted his cheeks.

You grinned, turning in Logan’s hold to face them. “We were enjoying the fresh air, Summers. You should try it sometime. Might do wonders for your sunny personality.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but his expression grew suspicious as he glanced between you and Logan. “Something’s… different.”

“Yeah,” Ororo chimed in, narrowing her eyes at Logan. “He’s not acting like himself. He didn’t even make a sarcastic remark about Scott interrupting his make-out session.”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to will away their nonsense. “I’m right here, you know.”

Ororo gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “No witty remark again? What in the world is happening? Is Logan… soft now?”

Scott snorted, crossing his arms. “What’s next? Is Logan volunteering to help with art class? Baking cookies for the kids?”

You bit back a laugh, looking up at Logan with mock seriousness. “You have been oddly chipper lately. You’re not sneakin’ cookies out of the kitchen again, are you?”

Logan shot you a look, though the faintest twitch of a smirk betrayed him. “Real funny, sweetheart.”

“Actually,” Ororo interjected, her eyes narrowing in playful suspicion, “maybe it’s not the cookies. Maybe you’re the reason Logan’s gone all soft and smiley.”

Scott’s eyebrows shot up, his lips curving into a sly grin. “Ohhhh, I think ‘Ro’s onto something. Spill it, you two. What are you hiding?”

Logan sighed, running a hand down his face as he grumbled, “Can’t a guy just be happy without you nosy lot diggin’ into it?”

Ororo and Scott exchanged knowing looks, but before they could press further, you took pity on Logan and looped your arms around his waist. “Honestly, I think Logan’s just been spending too much time with you two,” you teased. “It’s rubbing off on him. Maybe we should keep our distance, huh?”

Scott chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Whatever’s going on, I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Logan muttered, shooting Scott a glare as he led you back toward the mansion.

Once you were out of earshot, you rose up on your toes, your voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Well, that went… better than expected. Look at you, handling things so maturely.”

Logan glanced down at you, his signature smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone low and teasing. “I’ve still got plenty of gruff left in me.”

“Oh, I know,” you quipped, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as you leaned into him. “But maybe you should save a little of that charm to keep them from growing even more suspicious. You’re practically glowing, Logan.”

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest as his fingers brushed absentmindedly over your stomach. “So, let me get this straight—you’re tellin’ me to be grumpy? Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

You grinned, nudging him with your elbow. “Hey, mister, I love you and all your grumpiness. You can’t just go soft on me because we’re having a baby.”

His lips twitched, but he wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze had shifted, fixating on your stomach with a quiet intensity, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you—and the life you were carrying. His fingers stilled, brushing softly over the fabric of your shirt as if he could feel the baby beneath it.

“Logan,” you said, trying to stifle a smile as you reached up to cup his jaw. You tilted his face back up toward yours, catching his hazel eyes. “Eyes up here, tough guy.”

He blinked, snapping out of his daze, though his lips curved into a sheepish smirk. “Can’t help it,” he muttered, his voice softer now. “Kinda hard to believe, ya know? That it’s… really happening.”

Your heart squeezed, and you ran your thumb gently along the scruff of his jaw. “It’s happening,” you murmured, your voice tender. “And you’re already doing so much. You’re gonna be the best dad, Logan. I know it.”

His hand slipped up from your stomach to rest against your hip, grounding himself in your touch. “Dunno about the best,” he said, his voice low and raw, “but I’m sure as hell gonna try. For you. For them.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Instead, you leaned up, brushing your lips softly against his. “You’ve got nothing to prove, you know,” you whispered against his mouth. “You’re already everything we need.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, just let his forehead rest against yours as he closed his eyes. His hand found its way back to your stomach, resting there protectively. “You make this gruff old guy believe in things he never thought he’d have,” he finally murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

“Good,” you replied with a small smile, threading your fingers through his. “Because we’re not going anywhere, Logan. You’ve got us—gruffness and all.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before wrapping his arm around you and guiding you back toward the mansion. “Guess I better start practicing my grumpy dad voice, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you teased, leaning into him as the warmth of his presence surrounded you. “You’ve got a reputation to maintain, after all.”

𓂃

A few days later, you stood in front of your class, pacing slowly as you explained the finer points of literary symbolism. Your voice was steady, your gestures fluid, but the dull ache in your lower back that had been nagging you all morning suddenly sharpened, sending a jolt of pain through your abdomen.

You froze mid-sentence, your breath hitching, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.

“Mrs. Howlett?” a girl in the front row asked hesitantly, her wide eyes filled with concern. “Are you okay?”

You forced a smile, straightening up despite the discomfort clawing its way through you. “I’m fine,” you replied, your voice gentle but strained. “Just… give me a moment.”

The room felt too warm, the air heavy, and the students’ curious gazes only amplified your unease. You gripped the edge of your desk to steady yourself, taking a slow breath.

“Claire,” you said, turning to the girl who had spoken up, your tone soft but firm. “Can you keep an eye on the class for a few minutes? I’ll be right back.”

She nodded quickly, her concern etched into her features, and you grabbed your bag, clutching it tightly as you made your way to the door.

The hallway felt endless as you walked, the sharp pain twisting in your abdomen with every step. You tried to focus on your breathing, on the soft click of your shoes against the tiled floor, but panic was starting to creep into your mind.

By the time you reached the bathroom, your hands were trembling. You pushed the door open, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow as you stumbled toward the sink. The pain was intensifying, and a sense of dread settled heavily in your chest.

The sound of the bathroom door shutting behind you echoed in the silence, but you barely heard it over the pounding in your ears. Something was wrong—very wrong. Your hands trembled as you stumbled into a stall, the sharp pain in your abdomen making it hard to catch your breath.

You fumbled with the clasp of your bag, searching desperately for aspirin, though deep down, you knew no pill was going to fix this. Then you felt it—a warm, wet sensation and your heart plummeted.

“No, no, no…” you whispered, your voice cracking as you yanked open the bathroom stall door and hurried to the sink.

With shaky hands, you splashed cold water on your face, trying to calm your racing thoughts. But when you glanced down and saw the crimson staining your pants, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

Panic clawed at your chest, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. “Please, no… please…” Tears blurred your vision as you stumbled back, your legs giving out beneath you. You crumpled to the bathroom floor, clutching your stomach as sobs wracked your body.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be.

In the hallway, Logan was walking back to his classroom after helping a student with a project. He’d been in a surprisingly light mood—until he heard it. The sound of your sobbing carried faintly down the corridor, and his entire body tensed.

He broke into a sprint, following the sound to the bathroom door.

“Darlin’, you in there?” His voice was urgent. The sound of his voice only made you cry harder. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, couldn’t find the strength to tell him what was happening.

Logan didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed open the bathroom door, and the sight before him made his heart stop.

You were curled up on the floor, your arms wrapped tightly around your stomach as you sobbed uncontrollably. The crimson streaks on the tiles told him everything he needed to know.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice breaking as he rushed to your side. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over you like he wasn’t sure where to touch without hurting you further.

You looked up at him, your tear-streaked face filled with anguish. “Logan… I think—I think we lost—”

Your words dissolved into a fresh wave of sobs, and Logan’s chest ached with the weight of your pain. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, holding you as if he could shield you from the cruel reality of what was happening.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m here, darlin’. I’ve got you.”

You clung to him, your fists gripping his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart. Logan’s hand found its way to your hair, stroking it gently as he rocked you back and forth.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “Do you hear me? It’s not your fault. Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”

“I… I wanted this so badly,” you choked out between sobs, your face buried in his chest. “I wanted this for us, Logan. And now it’s… it’s gone.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He hated how powerless he felt—how he couldn’t fix this for you, couldn’t take away your pain.

He gently scooped you up into his arms, cradling you like you were the most precious thing in the world. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “Let’s get you outta here.”

You buried your face against his neck, your tears soaking into his shirt as he carried you down the hallway. Logan’s usual gruffness was gone, replaced by a quiet, tender resolve to be whatever you needed him to be at this moment.

When he reached your shared room, he gently laid you down on the bed, pulling the blanket over you. He sat down beside you, his hand never leaving yours, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles.

Your words were barely a whisper, fragile and heavy. “I’d gotten used to the idea of us… us being parents.” The tremble in your voice made Logan’s chest tighten, and he couldn’t stop the pained expression that flickered across his face.

He leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and raw. “We… we just have to find a way to keep going.”

You gave a small, broken nod, tears slipping down your cheeks as your fingers reached out, trembling slightly, to cup his cheek. “I just… I wish I could fix this, Logan. I wish I could do something to make it better.”

Logan’s jaw clenched as he swallowed hard, his thumb brushing over your cheek, wiping away a tear. “There’s nothin’ to fix, darlin’,” he said quietly, though his own voice cracked at the end. “This ain’t on you. It never was.”

But you shook your head, your voice breaking into a sob. “It feels like it is. What if—what if my body just… can’t? What if this is because of me?”

The words spilled out, laden with guilt you couldn’t seem to shake. Logan’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He hated seeing you like this—so vulnerable, so broken, carrying the weight of something that wasn’t yours to carry.

“Stop,” he said firmly, though his tone was still soft, his hand gently tilting your chin up so you’d look at him. His hazel eyes, glassy with his unshed tears, locked onto yours. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”

You shook your head again, unable to stop the wave of tears that came. “But what if it’s me, Logan? What if I can’t—”

“Enough,” he cut in, his voice barely above a whisper, but the rawness of it stopped you in your tracks. “It’s not your fault. You hear me? This… this is just somethin’ that happened. And it hurts like hell, but it doesn’t mean you failed.”

His words cracked something inside of you, and you turned away, burying your face into the pillow as another sob wracked your body. Logan didn’t pull away. He stayed close, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles on your back, his presence grounding you even as your world felt like it was crumbling.

After a moment, Logan’s voice broke the heavy silence, softer now, as if he was speaking to himself as much as to you. “Darlin’, we’re not givin’ up. We’ve faced worse. We’ll get through this, too. But you gotta stop thinkin’ this is somethin’ you did.”

Your muffled voice came from the pillow, shaky and raw. “But I wanted it so badly, Logan. I already—I already pictured everything. The nursery, the little shoes… us holding—now it’s been ripped away from us.”

Logan’s chest ached at your words, and he let out a shaky breath, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I wanted it too. I already saw you as a mom, sweetheart. I still do. I always will.”

You turned your head slightly, your tear-streaked face meeting his gaze. His honesty—his vulnerability—broke through the wall of guilt you’d been building. “You still…?”

“Always,” he said firmly, his thumb brushing away another tear. “I’m not gonna let this define us. We’re more than this pain. And I know it feels impossible right now, but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

A shaky sob escaped you as you reached for him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you close, holding you tightly against him, his hand tangling in your hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmured, his voice a quiet promise. “We’re in this together, no matter what. You and me.”

You allowed yourself to lean fully into him, your tears soaking into his shirt as he held you. His arms were strong and steady, and the way he cradled you made you feel, just for a moment, like maybe things could be okay again.

“I love you,” you whispered into his chest, the words muffled but heavy with meaning.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion as he rested his chin on top of your head. “More than anything. Don’t forget that.”

𓂃

Life was supposed to keep moving, but for you and Logan, it felt like time had stopped. The days blurred into weeks, and while the mansion hummed with the usual chaos of students and X-Men missions, you both drifted through it like ghosts.

The weight of the miscarriage hung heavy between you, unspoken but ever-present. You couldn’t bear to talk about it, not yet. Not to anyone except Logan, and even then, words often failed. Nights were the only solace, the quiet hours where he held you tightly in his arms as you sobbed until exhaustion finally overtook you. In those moments, he didn’t say much—what was there to say even as his own grief simmered just beneath the surface.

Logan hated feeling helpless, but this was something he couldn’t fight, couldn’t fix. He saw the pain in your eyes every time you avoided his gaze, the way you masked your tears with a smile that never quite reached your face. And it scared him. His mind spiraled into dark places late at night when he couldn’t sleep. What if this broke you? What if it broke your marriage? What if you left him because he couldn’t give you what you wanted?

The others started to notice. It wasn’t just that you both were quieter than usual—it was the way Logan didn’t bite back as much during arguments or how your laughter, which used to light up any room, had grown rare.

“You two seem pretty... off lately,” Scott had commented to Logan one morning in the kitchen.

Logan barely glanced at him, too tired to muster a sarcastic reply. “We’re fine,” he muttered, his tone gruff but unconvincing.

Scott frowned, crossing his arms. “Fine? You’ve barely said three words to anyone all week, and she’s not much better. Is something going on?”

Logan clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the coffee mug he was holding. “Drop it, Summers,” he growled before walking out, heading upstairs to check on you.

But Scott didn’t drop it.

It was a Friday night, and the team had gathered in the living room for what was supposed to be a relaxing evening. Someone had put on a movie, but the dialogue barely registered as you sat curled up on the couch next to Logan. His arm was draped around your shoulders, protective as always, but you could feel the tension in his body. You weren’t much better, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket you had pulled over your lap.

“Alright,” Scott said, breaking the lull in conversation. “I can’t be the only one who’s noticed something’s off with these two.”

You froze, your fingers tightening on the blanket as all eyes turned toward you and Logan.

“Scott,” Jean warned, her tone cautious.

“What?” Scott pressed, looking around the room for support. “They’ve been acting strange for weeks now. Don’t tell me none of you have noticed.”

You forced a smile, trying to deflect. “We’re fine, Scott. Just busy, that’s all.”

Scott wasn’t convinced. “Busy? Come on. You guys are like the most annoying, lovey-dovey couple in this place. Now you’re quiet and avoiding everyone? Something’s up.”

“Scott, maybe—” Ororo started, but Scott cut her off.

“No, I’m serious. If something’s wrong, we can help, but we can’t do that if you don’t tell us what’s going on.”

Logan’s grip on your shoulder tightened, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. He leaned forward, his jaw clenched, his voice dangerously low. “I said drop it, Summers.”

“Why? What’s the big deal? We’re just trying to—”

Before he could finish, Logan shot to his feet, his voice breaking as he shouted, “Because we lost our baby, alright?”

The room fell into a stunned silence. Logan’s chest heaved, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stood there, raw and vulnerable in a way none of them had ever seen.

You stared up at him, your heart breaking all over again as you saw the tears streaming down his face, the anguish he’d been holding back finally spilling over. Logan, the man who never cried, was now sobbing in front of everyone, his shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—to pull himself together.

“Logan…” you whispered, rising to your feet and reaching for him.

He shook his head, his voice cracking. “I—I couldn’t protect the baby. I couldn’t do anything. It’s my fault, sweetheart. I let you down.”

“Stop,” you said firmly, wrapping your arms around him despite the way he tried to pull back. “Logan, stop. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

He collapsed into your embrace, his head resting against your shoulder as he clung to you, his sobs muffled against your skin. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice broken.

Tears streamed down your face as you held him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you whispered, “You didn’t let me down. You could never let me down.”

The others sat in stunned silence, their initial shock giving way to quiet understanding. Jean wiped at her tears, her hand resting on Scott’s arm to keep him from saying anything more.

“It’s going to be okay,” you murmured into Logan’s ear, your voice trembling under the weight of your uncertainty. The words felt hollow, like trying to patch a dam with a handful of sand, but you needed him to hear them, to believe them.

Logan pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hazel eyes brimming with unspoken pain. His rough edges, the walls he so carefully built, seemed to crumble in that moment. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice hoarse and raw, each word a struggle.

“You don’t have to know,” you whispered, your fingertips brushing a tear from his cheek, the small gesture grounding both of you.

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he was searching for something—hope, strength, maybe even forgiveness. Then, with a shaky exhale, he let himself lean into you, his weight resting against your shoulder as though surrendering to the vulnerability he so often avoided.

You guided him back to the couch, easing him down with gentle hands. Logan found your hand gripping it firmly, almost desperate, as if letting go would make the pain worse. You stayed by his side while the rest of the team sat in stunned silence. Their usual chatter and banter were gone, replaced by an unspoken understanding that this was something fragile that required care.

Jean broke the stillness, her voice soft but resolute. “Why don’t we give them some space?”

One by one, the others stood, their footsteps hesitant as they left the room. Scott lingered near the doorway, his expression conflicted. He seemed rooted to the spot, torn between leaving and staying.

“I’m sorry,” Scott finally said, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. He took a step closer, his gaze darting between you and Logan. “I didn’t mean to push earlier. I didn’t know…”

Logan lifted his head slightly, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. The tension in the room was palpable, but there was no anger in his gaze—just a quiet exhaustion.

Scott ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I was out of line,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t realize… I just thought something was off, and I pushed when I shouldn’t have.”

Jean stepped into the room, placing a steadying hand on Scott’s arm. She looked at both of you, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Scott didn’t mean to make things worse,” she said gently. “We’ve… we’ve been where you are.”

You blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Jean hesitated, her fingers tightening on Scott’s arm as if drawing strength from him. “Before we had Nathan, we… we lost a baby.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of her confession filled the room.

You felt your chest tighten before glancing at Logan, who looked just as surprised as you. Scott’s usual stoic demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that you had never seen before.

Scott cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the floor. “We didn’t tell anyone. Not even the Professor. It was early… and we thought we could handle it on our own.” He let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching at his sides. “But it was hard. Harder than we ever expected.”

Jean nodded, her eyes glistening as she looked at you. “We blamed ourselves. Blamed each other. But eventually, we realized… it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just… it happens.”

You blinked, the tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill over again. “I didn’t know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Scott let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No one did. I thought if I buried it deep enough, it wouldn’t hurt as much. But seeing you two...” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “I’m sorry for pushing earlier. I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Jean stepped closer, her hand reaching out to yours. “It’s going to take time,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to go through it alone. If you ever need to talk… we’re here.”

Her words, simple but heartfelt, broke through the wall of grief that had been suffocating you. You nodded, a small, grateful smile breaking through your tears. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Scott extended a hand to Logan, who hesitated for a moment before shaking it. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the beginning of an unspoken understanding, a bridge between two men who had rarely seen eye to eye.

As they left the room, you turned to Logan, your hand squeezing his. “That… helped. A little.”

Logan nodded, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Guess even Scott has his moments.”

You managed a weak laugh, leaning into him as he pulled you close. For the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest felt slightly lighter even if you knew this was only the beginning of trying to find a new normal. 

𓂃

Months had passed since the miscarriage, and while life had begun to find its rhythm again, the pain lingered like an uninvited guest. The grief wasn’t as sharp as it had been in the beginning, but it still loomed over you and Logan, casting a shadow on your once-effortless connection. You both knew it wasn’t your fault, but knowing and feeling weren’t always the same.

Logan, always the protector, had become even more so in the aftermath. His hand rarely left yours, as if letting go for even a moment might cause something else to slip away. He hovered constantly—not in a stifling way, but in a way that spoke volumes about his fear and guilt. While you appreciated his care, you could see that he was holding something back, burying his pain in the only way he knew how.

It wasn’t until one late night, when you reached out for him in bed and found his side cold and empty, that you realized just how much he was struggling. Pulling on a robe, you wandered the quiet halls of the mansion, searching for him. It didn’t take long; you heard the familiar snikt of his claws in the training room.

Peeking inside, your heart broke at the sight of him. Logan stood shirtless in the dim light, sweat dripping from his forehead as he lunged at the sparring dummy. His movements were wild, full of rage and frustration. His claws tore through the dummy with brutal efficiency, slashing and stabbing until it was shredded to pieces. When the dummy finally collapsed in a heap, Logan dropped to his knees, his claws retracting with a metallic hiss. He leaned forward, bracing himself on his hands, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.

You stayed in the doorway for a moment, debating whether to give him space or step in. But as you saw his shoulders slump, the weight of his grief almost palpable, you couldn’t hold back.

“Logan,” you called softly, stepping into the room.

His head whipped around, his eyes wild for a second before softening when he saw you. He wiped a hand across his face as if trying to compose himself. “What’re you doin’ up, sweetheart?” he asked gruffly, his voice low and strained.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you replied, walking closer until you stood in front of him. “I woke up, and you weren’t there.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening. “Just needed to… work some things out.”

You knelt in front of him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You can’t keep doing this, Logan. Pushing it all down, burying it in anger. It’s not going to help.”

His eyes flickered back to you, and for a moment, you saw the raw vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. “I don’t know what else to do,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “I can’t… I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. I don’t know how to make it right.”

You cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t have to make it right,” you said softly, your voice trembling with emotion. “We can’t fix this. We just have to accept it and move on.”

His eyes filled with tears, and he shook his head, his hands coming up to cover yours. “I just wanted to protect you. To give you… everything,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I couldn’t even do that.”

“You did,” you insisted, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Logan, you were there for me every step of the way. You held me when I thought I wasn’t worthy of it. You loved me through it. That’s everything. But you have to let yourself grieve too. You can’t keep punishing yourself like this.”

He looked up at you, his hazel eyes searching yours as if trying to find some kind of answer. Finally, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against him. You felt his chest heave as a sob escaped him, and it broke your heart all over again. You stroked his hair, whispering soothing words as he finally let himself feel the weight of his grief.

After a while, when his breathing steadied, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Logan,” you began gently, “we need to get out of here. Just for a little while. Go somewhere quiet, just the two of us. We need time to heal.”

He hesitated, his brows furrowing. “You think runnin’ away’s gonna fix it?”

“It’s not running away,” you said firmly. “It’s giving ourselves a chance to breathe. To remember who we are together. We’ve been so caught up in the pain… we need to find our way back to each other.”

He considered your words for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Where do you wanna go?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Somewhere peaceful. Maybe the cabin up north? Just us. No distractions, no one else.”

Logan exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly for the first time in what felt like weeks. “Yeah,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “I think that’s exactly what we need.”

You leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips feeling a flicker of hope. It wouldn’t be easy, but you knew that as long as you had each other, you could find a way forward.

𓂃

The secluded cabin was tucked away in a quiet corner of nowhere, surrounded by towering trees that swayed softly in the breeze. The air smelled of pine and earth, and the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds. It was peaceful, untouched, and exactly what you and Logan needed to find each other again.

The calm of the place had worked its magic over the past week. The tension that had weighed heavy on your shoulders began to ease, and you could see the same was true for Logan. His usual gruffness was quieter here, softened by the stillness of the forest and the warmth of the cabin.

As you laced up your hiking boots near the fireplace, you glanced out the window at the sun filtering through the trees. “I’m gonna walk the trail,” you announced casually, straightening up and brushing your hands against your jeans.

Logan’s voice rumbled behind you as he walked into the small living room. “Do you want to go alone?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as a small, warm smile played on his lips.

You turned to face him, quirking an eyebrow as you stepped closer. “Depends… are you gonna be good company, tough guy?”

That earned you the smallest huff of laughter, his smirk tugging wider. “There she is,” he murmured, his tone warm and teasing as he reached out to pull you into his arms. His lips brushed against the bridge of your nose, lingering for just a moment before he tilted his forehead against yours. “I missed those little remarks,” he admitted quietly.

You chuckled, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest. “And here I thought they annoyed you,” you teased, glancing up at him with a playful glint in your eyes.

Logan rolled his eyes, though the grin that spread across his face betrayed him. “Darlin’, I’d be lost without ‘em,” he said, his voice softer now. His hazel eyes searched yours for a moment, and his hand came up to gently cup your cheek. “I love you,” he added, the words quiet but weighty, as if they held the sum of everything he couldn’t quite say.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, and you leaned into his touch, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “I love you too,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a promise. Then you grinned, breaking the moment with a playful nudge to his side. “Now hurry up, or I’m leaving you behind.”

Logan smirked, dropping his hand to give your hip a playful squeeze. “Don’t get cocky. Let me grab my boots.” He turned toward the door, muttering something about you always keeping him on his toes, but there was no bite to his words—just affection.

A few minutes later, the two of you were walking side by side down the dirt trail, surrounded by the serene beauty of the forest. The sunlight trickled through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the ground. You could hear the crunch of leaves beneath your boots and the faint trickle of a nearby stream.

For a while, neither of you spoke, content to simply exist in the quiet of nature and each other’s presence. Logan reached out to take your hand, his fingers wrapping securely around yours. You glanced up at him, catching the way the golden light softened his rugged features. He looked more at ease than he had in months, and it made your heart ache.

“You know,” you began, a teasing lilt in your voice, “I didn’t peg you for the hand-holding type.”

Logan glanced down at you, one brow arching. “Don’t start,” he warned, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“What? I think it’s cute.” You swung his hand slightly, earning a quiet groan.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he muttered, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.

You laughed, leaning into his side as you walked. “Admit it—you like it.”

He let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “Maybe I do,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Can’t say I mind when it’s with you.”

Your chest swelled at the admission, and you stopped walking for a moment, turning to face him. “Thank you,” you said, your voice earnest.

Logan frowned slightly, confused. “For what?”

“For bringing me here,” you explained, gesturing to the forest around you. “For… letting me have this time with you. I needed it.”

His expression softened, and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I needed it too,” he admitted, his voice low. “I didn’t know how much until now.”

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “You know, this whole reconnecting thing looks good on you, Logan.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s already there,” you teased, slipping your arms around his waist. “Now, let’s see if you can keep up, old man.”

Logan let out a bark of laughter, his hand sliding to rest on your lower back. “You’re gonna regret that, sweetheart,” he warned, his voice full of playful challenge.

“Promises, promises,” you shot back with a grin, taking off down the trail as Logan chased after you, the sound of your laughter carrying through the trees.

Eventually, Logan caught up to you, his strong arms wrapping securely around your waist as he pulled you to a stop. Your laughter echoed through the trees, a sound that seemed to brighten the peaceful forest around you. “I was so sure I was gonna win,” you teased, still catching your breath as you squirmed halfheartedly in his grip.

Logan let out a low chuckle, the rumble of it vibrating through you. “Guess I’m not as old as you think I am,” he shot back, his smirk smug as he held you against his chest.

“Oh, you’re definitely old,” you teased, leaning back into him. “I mean, just look at your white—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, gorgeous,” Logan warned, cutting you off with a playful growl, though the amusement in his voice betrayed him.

You turned in his arms, grinning as your fingers reached up to play with the strands of his hair. “You know I love you,” you said softly, letting the teasing drop for a moment. “Pretty sure if I met you… say ten years from now, I’d still fall for you. Still, marry you.”

Logan’s expression softened, his hazel eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. “I don’t doubt that,” he murmured. “But for the record, darlin’, I’m glad it didn’t take ten years.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his neck. “Me too,” you whispered. The peaceful silence of the forest wrapped around you both, and for a moment, everything felt still, like the world had paused just for the two of you.

Logan’s hands settled on your hips. “You’ve been thinkin’ about the future a lot lately, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice quiet but full of understanding.

You hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted. “I mean, with everything that’s happened… I guess I just wonder what’s next for us. Like, are we supposed to keep trying? Or are we supposed to let it go?”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze dropping to where his hand rested on your waist. After a moment, he sighed and looked back up at you, his eyes steady and sure. “I think… maybe we don’t need to push so hard. If it happens, it happens,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “But what we’ve got right now? It’s enough for me. You’re enough for me.”

His words hit you like a warm wave, washing away the doubt and guilt that had lingered for weeks. “Logan…” you began, but your voice caught, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. You swallowed hard and managed a smile. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “I don’t need anything else, sweetheart. Just you. The rest? That’s just… bonus.”

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, leaning your forehead against his. “You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

He smirked, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You grinned, shaking your head. “Well, for what it’s worth, I feel the same way. I don’t want us to lose ourselves trying to force something that’ll happen when it’s meant to.”

Logan’s arms tightened around you. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t want to miss a single second of us, just the way we are.”

[stxrslutrestored]

party girl ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

starring; rafe cameron . sweetie!reader

synopsis; when you somehow end up in the hands of rafe cameron at a party, you find yourself trying all sorts of things that you’d never imagine yourself doing

content; use of cocaine, intox, slight coercion, dry humping, exhibitionism, taking of virginity (depending on how u view virginity), topper and kelce’s existence 

note; trying a new layout to match my new theme

“uhm… I think I’m just gonna go find my friends.” you try to excuse yourself from the conversation you’d find yourself caught up in with rafe cameron, you’d heard from many that he would be very bad news for you. 

he chuckles, “oh, nah,” he shakes his head, smirking down at you, “you don’t even know where your friends are. a girl like you shouldnt be walkin’ around all alone at a party like this, why don’t you come sit with me and my crowd huh?” 

you hesitate for a moment, the more rational side of your head thinking you definitely shouldn’t follow and alleged drug addicted psycho and possible murderer to his second location. the less rational side is thinking that you don’t want to be wondering around for ages looking for your friends, as it would be easier to just go with rafe and hope for the best. 

you eventually nod shyly, “okay, i guess..” you look down as rafe smiles and starts to lead you through the party, you follow him all the way downstairs to a corner where there are multiple chairs and couches placed around a coffee table that is scattered with cups, plastic baggies, pills and powder. 

rafe leads you to one of the couches, sitting down in what was presumably his spot before he went on the detour on which he acquired you. there isn’t any more space on the couch so you make to perch on the arm next to rafe, he smiles up at you. 

one of his friends – you recognise him as kelce – speaks up, “what’chu doin’ here sweetheart?” his voice is loud and yet barely audible over the buzz of the party around you. “didn’t think you were the type for this scene.” 

you shake your head timidly, doing your best to speak up and answer him, “rafe brought me,” you tell him, “i lost my friends.” kelce smirks, so does rafe’s other friend topper and you watch all three of the boys exchange looks you can’t tell the intention of.

you feel quite out of place as the men around you are all completely comfortable. they are loud and rowdy, all of them drinking or doing lines or both. you are drinking a pink fruity cocktail that you didn’t actually want for the alcohol and only asked for because it was cute and you could. 

you feel scared to chime into the conversations, so you end up not speaking until you’re finally spoken to. rafe turns up to you, that same wicked smirk plastered across his lips, “you ever done a line sweetheart?” he asks, voice carrying a suggestive tone. 

you immediately shake your head, “of course not. that stuff is so bad for you… i couldn’t ever destroy my body like that.” you say confidently, but then immediately realise your mistake of criticising the use of drugs, in a room full of people who do drugs, everyone is looking at you now. you smile uncomfortably, “but i don’t mind that you guys do it.. that’s.. just fine.” 

rafe chuckles, patting your shoulder, “no you’re right. shits terrible for the body,” he affirms your point, “feels too good to stop though.” he finishes, before leaning down to snort another line off the table. 

topper looks up to you, “maybe you should try some,” he suggests, “would make you understand us, not be so quick to judge.” he smiles smugly up at you. 

“i’m not sure,” you rush out, “i don’t know if my tolerance will be good enough for coke.” you try to make an excuse. rafe sits up, looking right up to you, his hand comes up to wrap around your shoulder, making it hard for you to not slip off the arm of the couch and land in his lap. 

rafe speaks, “nah it’s not that bad.” he assures, “toppers right. why don’t you try it, to expand your horizons.” 

you shake your head, “I couldn’t possibly—“ but rafe cuts you off, clearly set on his motive now. 

“just a little bit,” he smiles, holding a line on his thumb, right there for you to accept. you feel like you can’t say no. 

“I don’t know how to do it,” you inform him and he chuckles, patting his leg. with everyone watching there’s really not much you can do, so you scoot over to sit on his lap, looking around the room self consciously. 

rafe chuckles, lining his hands up under your nose, “when I say, you just sniff, okay?” he says and you nod timidly. a few seconds pass and then rafe speaks, “go.” you immediately sniff, scrunching your face up as you feel the powder go up your nose. you feel the urge to sneeze but you just about manage to hold it back.

rafe smiles, rubbing your back as the others around the table cheer just a little. it’s already starting to hit you, the high, its weird, like everything is a bit distorted, sounds muffled, faces blurred, you feel good. 

soon you’re the highest in the room, despite probably being the one on the least substance. you’re now completely comfortable in rafe’s lap, leaning against his chest and almost constantly giggling at something in passing. 

something else is happening too, you’re starting to shed, that means you are beginning to want to get more comfortable, first taking your hair down and then removing your coat, now you want to take off the tights under your dress. with no social awareness due to the fact that well, youre up in the clouds, you stand from rafe’s lap and begin to pull them down as if undressing yourself. 

“woah there,” topper laughs, “bit forward don’t you think.” he jokes, looking to kelce as they both laugh at your behaviour. rafe smiles up at you, a different look in his eyes. 

“getting hot there?” he asks and you nod, assuming he’s referring to temperature. “need somethin’ to calm you down a little bit? i think you do.” 

you frown, “like what?” 

rafe smiles and leans back on the couch, spreading his legs and patting his leg, “come here and get yourself off.” he says, it’s blunt and forward and surprising. but in your drug addled mind, it just doesn’t take you aback.

almost without hesitation you start to approach, the only thing that makes you stop and think is topper and kelce in the back, laughing and saying something about ‘oh shit she’s really about to do it,’ and ‘didn’t think his plan would really work.’ 

you only look back for a second though, you decide fuck it! you climb into rafe’s lap, straddling him. you lean into his chest and without second thought you start to grind against his crotch. the material of his pants is rough against your pussy that is only covered by your thin little panties.

but you allow yourself to forget that, and soon you’re losing yourself in the feeling of deep, pleasurable stimulation. your head is thrown back and you’re moaning out loud, uncaring of the looks you get from all over the room. 

its minutes of total bliss for you until you finally reach an orgasm, you nearly scream in pleasure. you’re so high and happy that you don’t even register the fact that this is the first ever orgasm you’ve experienced. 

when you’re done with your moment of bliss you flop into rafe’s chest, completely spent and ready to crash from your high. the last thing you hear before basically passing out is something from toppers mouth, “guess she really is a party girl.” 

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

HELLO can I ask for sol,hyugo and geo with a mc that is obsessed with it's own appearance, like having a strict diet, body and skin care religiously and wearing uncomfortable clothes like corsets just to be pretty.

Sorry if it's too long, love you writing 🍬💕

ENSNARED

This is the second oldest request I have in my inbox, hope this fulfilled your expectations, Anon! Thank you so much for choosing me to write this for you. <3

TW: There are themes involved with hating your body, as well as depriving it of food, sleep, etc. to feel attractive.

You all have traits that make you worthy. Remember that.

-- Signed solemnly by @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer AKA Sky Fort(resse)s and Burning Citadels

To commence this: Sol is a very insecure man. He may not appear it, nor act it, but deep in that depraved mind of his - looks are crucial to him. He has standards, of course. He dresses the way he wants, wears whatever makeup he wants, but he still ensures he looks ‘pretty’. Especially for you, he’s willing to ditch all his values and morals for you, just say the word. In short, he understands the urge to appear perfect or have glass skin or to be the most fashionable.

He’s always found you beautiful, to be fair everyone does (they’re not worth your time, he thinks), but you’re ethereal in his eyes. Always was, always will be.

You are by far one of the most fashionable people in all of your classes: your hair is pinned and styled, your clothes scream wealth and expense, your perfumes and cosmetics are a compliment to your features and by God your outfits fit your figure so well. You’re a model, essentially. People state you’ve been stopped on the streets by alleged modelling agencies.

You didn’t trust them enough to accept, however. As you should’ve, this city is dodgy and shady in more ways than Sol has jacked off to you - and that’s a massive achievement tbh.

On the surface, you appear unfazed by the envious looks of passer-bys, confident and composed in your own skin. However - like he knew suspected - as he got to know you, he recognised all the signs, all the subtle cues that indicated just how ‘perfect’ you had to look. How obsessed you were about your appearance, often losing sleep and forcing yourself to avoid food just to feel like you were becoming more ‘beautiful’.

You both should watch The Substance let’s be ffr, that movie perfectly explains what it’s like to be you. (sidenote: the movie’s fine but honestly it went way off the rails halfway through - just my opinion though)

He would often compliment you, and you would smile and thank him. Deep down, however (which he eventually realised and panicked about) was the intrusive, all-consuming thought: He likes this version of me, he could never like the real me, I’m too fake for someone as authentic as him. And then you go even deeper into that cycle.

In terms of romance, it’ll probably stem from a moment of rage or frustration, mostly on your part. You’re so tired or maintaining, editing, fixing yourself every fucking day that you lose it. Fully fucking lose it. You tear at your hair, pull at your skin, smear your makeup and just sob in the shower.

You don’t go to school that day, by then Sol and you (and Hyugo!) were friends for a while, and he was nervous when you weren’t around that day. They both texted you, with little response if any at all. So he brings your favourite snacks (he knows you don’t eat sugar so he brought dried fruits instead). 

What goes down is a mix of you being comforted, him relating to you, both of you opening up, maybe sleeping ontop of each other (look you’re tired okay). 

Obviously it’s a lot more violent and volatile than just that, but you’re in deep. You’ve been stuck in this cycle for years, it’ll take a lot to start pulling you out.

So you guys agree to pull each other out together.

Him (and Hyugo) both value their own appearances, but their aim is to convince you to dress well for YOURSELF, not anyone else.

When you and Sol are dating, you’re still very vain and worried about how you look, but the urge isn’t as potent, more as a source of comfort than anything else - or so you say. Sol definitely makes you eat and sleep more though, and to an extent (hint: a huge one), you feel a lot lighter. A lot saner and a touch happier.

You’re both pulling each other out together, and Sol often displays his love for you (and your body) through significantly more than just validation…

Mans definitely hugs and holds you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear about how worthy of love and affection you truly are.

Maybe one day you’ll grow to tell such kind things to yourself.

“You look gorgeous, pumpkin. Heh, who am I kidding, you always do.”

“Nothing makes me happier than seeing you at ease and content, darling.”

“I love all of you, always have, always will.”

Hyugo is a raging fan of hot and cool women (shh dw he thinks hot men are epic too); he absolutely loves them, he thinks they’re awesome. He’s someone who can definitely appreciate a person who caters to themselves and generally hold themselves in high regard; and from the looks of it…you seem to be both of those things. After all, you’re considered a beauty by most if not all of the school (and some faculty members but that’s for him to use as blackmail in the future).

He 110% does consider you appealing at first glance, you’re put together, composed, sure of yourself. In short: confident. He likes that trait, the ability to see yourself highly and to deflect any hits that are tossed your way.

He originally doesn’t see it as much more than that, a small acknowledgement of ‘that person’s cool’…until that day on the rooftop.

Then it turns into something a touch more…intimate? I mean, violence is an intimate thing, in certain contexts. It’s just not a type people would want to find themselves in…heh, well, normal people at least.

After him and Sol acquaint themselves with you well enough, he begins to perceive cracks in this facade of yours - Hyugo has a very highly-tuned sixth sense (canon idfc this is something he has to have with the shit he gets up to) - and gets curious.

You seem like a nice person, a good person even, but there’s something *off*. He tries to think about it, tries to put his finger on what he suspects you conceal from the world. So, like the magnificent detective he is, he decides he’s going to investigate and through his many contacts he discovers you’re extremely vain and self-regulatory about your physical appearance.

He doesn’t think that’s the cause at first, until he gets to know you better and it hits him just how willing you are to damage yourself just to fit the standards of the year, if not month. He notices how trendy you are, how you always seem to have the newest bags, clothes, makeup, shoes, etc. 

He does some digging, in his spare time (only due to intrigue, totally out of curiosity and nothing else) and finds that you’re in a very deep debt. Mainly from your obscene amounts of fashion-esqe purchases. That’s when he fully realised how bad this compulsion of yours is.

During your friendship, he starts gingerly bringing up things about trends, usually starting from his end - video games - and you end up mentioning fashion and clothes.

Then he picks up on how gaunt you look, even under the contouring and makeup, his bony your hands are, how frail you seem to be.

He’s contemplating kidnapping you at this point, and eventually he bites the bullet and just bluntly asks you why you’re starving yourself. You become highly defensive, immediately shutting down the conversation.

Soon enough he becomes more forward with his prior gestures of offering food, being a touch insistent you eat. You look like you’ll collapse at any second, and he has to fully resist his urge to force-feed you - mostly to remain on good terms with you - until you actually collapse.

Most people are shocked, but the more perceptive ones aren’t remotely surprised how bad it got. You had a conviction that beauty was everything, and you were stubborn as they come.

It’s when you’re finally allowed out of the hospital that the two of you get into an actual argument. He’s upset that you’re willing to die in pursuit of something entirely subjective and you’re angry he thinks he has the right to boss you around.

Soon enough it explodes, and he blurts out his feelings, freaks out, and storms off; deciding to end it there before he reveals anything else.

You, on the other hand, are shooketh.

Con? Fuzzled.

Bam? Boozled.

Flabber? Gasted.

Eventually, you start to see things from his perspective, from other peoples’ perspectives and you feel depressed all over again. You fucked up. You failed to maintain perfection. It’s the imperfections that made this happen.

Obviously you know it’s not true, logically there’s no way it is. But you’ve not cared about logistics for a long fucking time.

You find him soon enough and you both talk, actually talk. Something something feelings and hurt and comfort something something let’s date.

Hyugo has plenty of his own secrets, as do you, but despite it all? You both know the other would never leave, because…you just feel it. Some small hopeful part of you feels safe with this partner…and soon so do both of you.

He’s a very supportive partner, he even helps you get out of debt ffs, he’s willing to do a lot to help you. Often compliments or expresses affection whenever he sees you, especially if you’ve eaten or he knows you’ve been taking care of yourself. Encourages you to list good traits of yourself, or to do something that involves not thinking, like crocheting. Or shooting. Or cooking. Stuff that grounds you. Whether you take any of those on is up to you, but he’s a caring person, and despite the shit he’s done he does want you to be and feel better. Sometime later on, you feel a sliver of that light return to the pit of hollow self-loathing and the world feels a touch less grey.

“Hey! How’re you feeling? Awesome, hey uh, wanna go out today? Just us two, no pressure. :)”

“As a certified sexy person I wish to remind you that you look very sexy this fine day.” 😔🫡😈 (this is said very solemnly mind you)

“You smell nice...” *subtly inhales*

To summarise this entire extract, Geo has his own insecurities - but they’re significantly more repressed than any other member of the main cast (Hyugo being a close second imo). He can empathise with the desire to feel content with ones’ own appearance, not that he’d ever state it.

He’s someone who does value fashion - cosmetics in particular, he definitely wears eyeliner and lipstick- and the art of taking care of yourself and your wellbeing, but he never felt the urge to destroy himself in the pursuit of beauty like you do. 

He considers Crowe one of his ‘close’ friends and considering how highly Crowe views you, he’s got some tidbits of info on you, like how you’re incredibly self conscious. He found that odd, because from whatever times he may or may not’ve seen you around, you emanated self-assuredness - if not cockiness - alongside your particularly fancy way of dress.

He can admit, he was a touch impressed with how dedicated you were to maintain yourself, until he began noticing small things in your stature and general nature. He doesn’t know why he observed such minute details, but whenever you hung out with the group, you seemed a touch out of it. A bit depressed, especially when someone complimented you - like Brittney or Jess.

He was somewhat certain you were fishing for compliments, until he realised that he doesn’t trust compliments either, so he somewhat erases that thought of you.

He does end up liking you after a long time, for your personality - we all hope (it is dw) - but he does notice how you alter your outfit style and makeup to something more conventionally appealing in Japan (idk man someone out there’s definitely done this to impress a crush), or just noticed how if you realise he likes something, especially in terms of physicality (it’s not for attraction it’s for the ✨aesthetic✨) you end up adopting said traits.

He eventually does recognise (probably because someone pointed it out, like Deryl - bless his heart he had no bad intentions) that you are doing this to impress him.

He’s not impressed, if anything, he feels a tad peeved. To him, actions like that indicate desperation, and he does not want to be surrounded by desperate people (he’s got too many simps and he doesn’t need anymore)…but you’re not a shallow person, he feels that.

Unfortunately he has fuck all idea on how to actually bring this up, so he doesn’t.

In fact the only way you stop is when he makes a snarky remark about it (he didn’t mean to come off as an asshole he swears) and you just look…melancholic.

In your eyes, you’ve learnt that beauty and appearance is what gets you people, and it’s worked so well before…so why isn’t it working now. You don’t want to seduce or trick anyone, but you want to be seen as pretty. Beautiful, even.

Geo’s indirect rejection of this made that void in your heart - that one that convinced you long ago how shallow and unworthy you genuinely are - swell and pulse. It stung.

That, along with the magnitude of invalidating, cruel thoughts sent you into a spiral. You let yourself go, and you let yourself drown.

And everyone noticed, when you marched into school after a couple days with makeup messily caked onto your face, your hair done in a way that tore at your scalp and hair strands and your outfit so tight that you had to move like a machine just to get around. The desire grew stronger, grew in intensity and you were losing it.

Geo does not understand until Brittney realises it that he may or may not have been a catalyst for this. He has no clue how to deal with this, like he’s so stumped that he has an argument with ChatGPT.

Soon enough, he decides to just try and interact with you and pray this doesn’t end up in flames.

Something something awkward confession something something angst and hurt comfort something something eventually romance starts.

Anyway in terms of romantic relations, he’s unsupportive of these inhumane rituals you’ve been doing on yourself, so he makes you cease.

He doesn’t want to be nasty about it he just thinks it’s stupid and doesn’t want you to suffer anymore. He does care for you.

Will drop random words of validation every month or so, and you cling onto those words, because they’re genuine. They’re authentic, and you grow to feel more comfortable in receiving them, and, most importantly: giving them to yourself and accepting them. Bit by bit.

“You look nice. This suits you.”

“You’ve eaten, I hope?”

“You look healthier. Keep it that way..”

Banger women and banger tits: two things that Brittney Claire has in spades and also highly appreciates (mantits also count dwdw). She’s someone who values appearance as well, often putting in insane amounts of time for her hair snd skincare alone (Geode quivered in fear when he heard the number). She’s also someone who’s experienced her fair share of dark times and loneliness, so she definitely understands what it feels like to need to feel attractive, to feel wanted and needed, even if it’s ingenuine. 

She’s someone who - like you - displays confidence and self-assurance, especially in the face of people she holds disdain and even resentment towards. Someone who understands the empty feeling that comes with years of self-loathing and the undying belief that you’ll never be worth anything if you’re not beautiful. What worth does someone - especially a woman - have if she’s not beautiful?

Looking back, from the perspective of someone with a much healthier support system and overall mindset, she knows she has worth, knows she’s awesome and has good qualities…but some days those feelings return. So she gets it. 

Frankly, the first time she meets - hell, even sees - you, she instantly knows. How could she not, she used to be similar to you. Trendiest outfits, being the circle of attention, knowing all the news and rumours and pop culture references (she still knows them, just refuses to change herself for them). She believes she only genuinely stopped trying to fit in when she discovered Gyaru fashion, almost slipped back into it when she got humiliated that one time, and crawled back out when she had Jess and Crowe (and to a minor extent, Geo) for support.

She knows you don’t have genuine friends, or ones that possess depth; so she decides to try and get to know you through shared classes.

You originally somewhat ignore her (totally not due to your envy of her being able to be herself no never), which tempts her to give up, but she’s a spiteful lady sometimes. Spite is a very good motivator.

Eventually, you both end up talking and the more comfy you become, the more she realises how similar you both were and still are. She decides to introduce you to her friend group, to which you reluctantly agree (due to the rumours) and you’re pretty well-received. 

Brittney does eventually start opening up to you, and you do as well - bonding over your shared experienced and values - her offering an olive branch if you want support, to which you agree…but never take up.

Hell, soon enough you grow distant again, and oddly enough she’s peeved. She doesn’t get why, well…she does, but you seem to mostly avoid her specifically. Did she appear fake to you? Did you think she wanted to harm you?

Maybe, honestly. She had - still has - that same mindset to an extent. That jaded outlook on reading peoples’ angles and intentions.

When she eventually confronts you, you both escalate it to a fight, mostly because she’s genuinely trying to help - despite having the communication skills of a tortoise in water - while you’re being hyperdefensive over yourself and your habits of extremist beauty obsession.

You confess you’re jealous of her. Highly jealous, the fact she has genuine friends, that she can fit in, be herself, etc. You apologise for being such a bitch, but it hurts you deeply.

She eventually relents and calms down, before you both start a proper friendship. You two and Jess are a banger trio, often going shopping together, going to cafes or simply talking. A group of support and trust, one that’s rare in a place like Titan City.

It’s then you two begin to develop feelings, and eventually things happen and you two get together.

She’s gonna be protective of you, you both defend the other from rumours and shitty people and serve as pillars for the other when they’re feeling low. You guys empathise with one another in ways many others simply cannot - and that’s a bond neither of you are willing to squander.

You guys definitely do each others’ hair and makeup and nails btw.

“You look…pretty! Pretty…uh…yeah. Very pretty.”

“Ugh, times are hard for hot people like us, right? Jessie Sitrus agree with me this instant!!” 🗣🗣

“I get it, but hey! It gets better, trust me. I’d know. And we’ve got each other, right?”

[animedancer14]

I wanted to reblog this because this happens way too often to good writers who enjoy their communities and make stories for not only for themselves but others to enjoy. I've said this so many times in communities I'm apart of but I'll say it again.

I've been on the internet for a while. I have been through a lot of changes within the Fandom culture. One thing that always stays the same in that if the people who want to be a stick in the mud see that everyone else is having fun they have to ruin it.

People are entitled to their opinions but when your opinions hurt writers and authors who don't deserve that hate that's when it's a problem. Just because @redvexillum made a character white in THEIR STORY to enhance the plot then something be it.

If you don't like it because it doesn't fit your narrative that's fine just stop reading and consuming that type of media but don't go after writers and artists who are good people.

And one more thing. If you have to hide anonymously because you're too afraid of backlash then don't be on social media. If you can't throw on your big person pants and face consequences for your actions then you have a lot of growing up to do.

@redvexillum keep on creating and inspiring. I think i follow you if I don't I will now but your stories are joys to read. Your little community is wonderful keep being yourself.

PSA: RACISM, BIGOTRY, ENTITLEMENT IN HAZBIN HOTEL FANDOM

CONTENT WARNING: Inflammatory hate speech, White hate, political baiting, gaslighting, racism, death threats

The messages I’ve received and am addressing below contain upsetting and harmful language that has no place in any community. If these topics are distressing to you, please prioritize your well-being and feel free to stop reading here. Thank you for taking care of yourself.

I never imagined I would find myself addressing this, but here we are. This post is regarding my recent story, Stay With Me, which has stirred up unexpected controversy due to my decision to imply the reader’s race as white. I want to clarify that this choice was made purely for plot purposes.

The story is set in 1920s Louisiana, a time and place where racial and class dynamics were deeply significant. This backdrop was essential to the narrative’s themes of tension and forbidden love, as it explores the societal barriers that would have made a relationship between Alastor and the reader virtually impossible. The decision to depict the reader as an upper-class white individual was not arbitrary—it was intentional, aimed at heightening the drama and emotional weight of their story.

I deeply value the Hazbin Hotel fandom and the x-reader community. Writing for this space has brought me immense joy, and I’ve formed wonderful connections with both readers and fellow writers. That’s why receiving such hateful and inflammatory messages has been incredibly disheartening. The accusations of racism, the vitriol, and the twisting of my creative choices into something they were never meant to be—this has shaken me more than I can express.

To the anonymous senders of these messages: I want to make it clear that my work comes from a place of love and passion. My intention has always been to tell compelling stories that explore complex emotions, societal norms, and the human condition—stories that resonate with readers on a deeper level. To reduce my work to a political agenda or an act of prejudice is deeply hurtful and entirely unfounded.

I want to echo sentiments shared by Kit (please check out her explanation here), another writer in the fandom, who also explored the racial and class dynamics between characters. Like them, I am fascinated by the tension and drama that arise from star-crossed love stories, particularly when societal laws and prejudices forbid such relationships. Writing the reader as white in this context wasn’t about excluding or favoring anyone—it was about creating an authentic narrative rooted in the realities of the era.

For those questioning why I made this choice, I ask: if you can suspend disbelief to fall in love with a cannibalistic, asexual deer demon, why is the reader’s race—chosen for specific plot reasons—the line you cannot cross? My goal as a writer is to craft stories that make sense within their own context. The entitlement to demand otherwise, or to impose personal prejudices onto my work, is unfair and unwarranted.

I hate that I’ve had to turn off anonymous asks. Some of the most heartfelt and hilarious messages I’ve received have come from anonymous users, and losing that connection with my readers pains me. But unfortunately, the actions of a loud, hateful minority have left me with no choice. I will not entertain further discourse on this matter after this post.

To those who have supported me, who have read my stories and shared kind words: thank you. Your encouragement is what keeps me going. Writing for this fandom has been a labor of love, and I pour my heart and soul into every piece I create—for free, might I add. It’s devastating to feel that love overshadowed by hostility.

I won’t let this stop me from creating, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t made me question my place here. To anyone who feels entitled to tear down what others create out of hatred or spite: I hope you take a moment to reflect on the harm your words can cause.

To my true supporters: I appreciate you more than words can express. Your kindness reminds me why I love writing in the first place. Thank you for standing by me.

[mim16s]

Survival in Game

Cho Hyun-ju x Autistic!Fem!Reader

•I'm not autistic, but I have a brother and a cousin who are, so I used my experience living with them to write this character. English is not my first language, but I tried my best to write this without spelling errors. This is my first story on this app, so I hope it is good.

This wasn’t what you wanted for your life. Honestly, you didn’t even understand how you had gotten to this point. All you wanted was to take care of your mother, to repay all the effort she had put into you. And you knew how hard it had been for her.

She got pregnant young and raised you on her own, with no support system. Your father? Well, you never knew him. He disappeared as soon as he found out about the pregnancy. Your grandparents, embarrassed that she had gotten pregnant so young and without even getting married, abandoned her too. That’s how your mother faced the world alone, with you in her arms.

And things got even harder. You knew that being autistic made everything more challenging for her. As a child, you didn’t speak, and your first words came only after many therapy sessions, which were expensive. But she never gave up. You remembered seeing her come home, exhausted after a long day of work, but always with a smile.

— Mom is fine. You’re everything I need to have strength, — she would say, trying to hide her exhaustion.

But you knew the truth. You knew how much she fought, how she struggled to meet all your needs, to make sure you never lacked anything. Everything fell apart when she got sick. You were 19. The illness took all her strength, and she could no longer work. That’s when the weight of the world fell on you. You had to find a job, but no matter how hard you tried, no one wanted to give you a chance. When they saw you weren’t neurotypical, they wouldn’t give you a chance.

Life became a daily struggle. You survived doing small jobs here and there, while some kind neighbors helped with food baskets. But the money was never enough, and the debts started piling up. Your mother’s treatments were expensive, and with each unpaid bill, the despair grew.Then he appeared. The man in the suit.He appeared out of nowhere, as if fate had sent him. With a piercing look, holding a briefcase in his hand. He stopped in front of you while you were resting in one of the subway chairs, with a smile that made you just as uncomfortable as it did curious.

— Looks like you need an opportunity, don’t you?—You hesitated, unsure of what to respond. He seemed to know exactly who you were and what you were going through.

— I want to propose something to you.

And that’s when you got a card with geometric symbols and a phone number. You stared at it, your heart racing without fully understanding it.

---

And now, here you were: in a strange hall, surrounded by people you didn’t know, in a place you had never seen before, wearing clothes you didn’t even remember putting on, and the fabric itched. You weren’t the only one confused. Perplexed looks crossed the room, and nervous whispers filled the air.

Then they appeared: masked soldiers, wearing uniforms that seemed more threatening than functional. You couldn’t help but shrink back, a heavy feeling that something was terribly wrong.They began to speak, explaining what was happening.

— Excuse me! — A voice echoed. Your eyes followed the sound until they landed on a beautiful woman, who seemed just as indignant as she was confident. — They said it would just be some games, but you kidnapped us. And you still want me to believe this?

— We apologize, — one of the masked soldiers replied, the voice distorted by some sort of modifier. — It was a necessary measure to ensure the confidentiality of the games we are organizing.

Questions started popping up from all sides, but the answers provided no comfort, only more tension. You wanted to understand better, but it was hard to follow. The questions, the sounds around you, the smell of sweat and fear in the hall, everything was pulling you in different directions. You began to rock back and forth slightly, trying to focus. It was something that always helped. But the discomfort persisted.

---

You were led to a large open field, surrounded by high fences and cameras that seemed to record every movement. It was announced that the first game would begin soon. When a desperate man screamed that, if anyone was eliminated, they would die, a chill ran down your spine. It couldn’t be true... right? But when the game began, the illusion of safety shattered. The sharp sound of a gunshot cut through the air. Your eyes widened, shock paralyzing you. That sound — loud, deafening to your sensitive hearing — seemed to hammer in your head. You instinctively wanted to cover your ears to block out that deafening noise, but you felt someone hold your hands firmly, preventing any sudden movements.

— Don’t move, it’s dangerous. — The voice came from behind. It was the beautiful woman from before. There was something in the firmness of her tone that managed to cut through your panic, bringing some calm.

— My ears hurt, — you murmured, your voice trembling.

— I know. But you have to hold on. Just a little longer.

Chaos spread around you. People were screaming, some running in desperation, while others were falling to the sound of new gunshots. You felt terror take hold, a heavy knot in your throat. Your legs felt like stone.

— If you don't cross the line in time, they'll still kill you! Look at the doll's eyes! They're cameras that scan for motion! But it's not able to detect you if you're behind something! — screamed one of the players, his voice desperate. — So if you short, line up behind someone who's taller than you!

Your body wouldn’t respond. You were frozen, the noise and the fear trapping you in place.The beautiful woman stopped in front of you, blocking your view of the rest of the field.

— Keep going. — Her voice was urgent, yet gentle. — You need to keep going. Don’t worry, I’ll stay in front of you. Just follow me, okay?

You couldn’t verbalize, but when the music started again, you followed her. Each step behind her felt like an eternity, but she kept her promise, protecting you as you moved forward.

After the game ended, everyone was taken back to the room. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with fear and despair. Lost looks, uncertain steps — everyone seemed terrified, and you were no different.Sitting on one of the beds, you rocked back and forth, an automatic motion, a desperate attempt to find comfort. But it didn’t help. Your breathing was uneven, the sounds around you seemed amplified, and all you wanted was to leave. Your mind raced in circles, always returning to the same question: Why me? You just wanted to help your mother. Everything you did was for her, and now you were trapped here, too scared to do anything.Then the voice of the masked soldiers echoed through the room, imposing order, the man from before who said he had already participated in this game proposed the vote.At first, the idea of voting seemed like an escape. A chance to get out of that terrible situation.

But then they revealed the amount of money accumulated by the people who had died. The sum gleamed in a giant safe suspended in the room. The shine of the money seemed to hypnotize some. Murmurs started to arise. Many were considering staying. You felt a tightness in your chest.

When the vote began, the sound of buttons being pressed was like a constant drum in your ears. You watched the people go to the ballot box, one by one, pressing their votes. Some hesitated, others went with determination.When it was your turn, your hands trembled as you walked up to the ballot box. The panel blinked in front of you: a circle to stay and an “X” to leave. You could barely see properly, your vision blurred by the tears at the corners of your eyes.Your finger pressed the “X.” You wanted to leave, go home. You needed your mother as much as she needed you. But when the final vote was recorded and the numbers were revealed, your heart sank.The majority had chosen to stay.Panic took over you again. Your fingers began to tremble uncontrollably, and you went back to your bed, feeling your whole body tighten. Your mind was in chaos. The rocking movement returned, but this time even more intense, as if your body was trying to compensate for the avalanche of emotions.You felt helpless. You wanted to scream, to cry, but all you could do was try to hold onto the little control you still had.

The terror was greater than anything you had ever felt before. And, even worse, it was just the beginning

Part 2:

[ifindus]

Human names for HWS Norway

I’ve seen several posts about human names for the nations going around lately and I wanted to offer my own opinion on Norway’s name, as a Norwegian person. This is not meant as critique of other people’s headcanons, it’s just my personal opinion and meant to offer some insight into the cultural and historical background of certain Norwegian names. I’ve made several posts about this topic, but I realize that it’s been years since last time and I think it’s about time to make a new one.

First; some background on naming traditions in Norway. In Norway surnames especially are very diverse and carries a lot of history and meaning behind them as they often are names of farmsteads or places where the families lived in the 1920s. This is when it became mandatory to inherit surnames from your parents. Before this, people often changed names when they migrated and took the name of the place they moved to, as a sort of “nickname” when people needed to distinguish you from other people with the same name. “Oh yes, that’s XXXX from this farm, not XXXX from that farm” etc. The patronyms had a similar function to this and prior to 1920 everyone was named in official documents in this fashion: “First name, Name of father -daughter/-son, Name of place/farmstead”. This explains the origin of the modern surnames ending with “-sen”, where “sen” means “son”. These surnames were inherited by people who did not have a connection to a farm or a place, perhaps because they lived in the cities and were working class.

Next; a critique on the more widely used name in the fandom: Lukas Bondevik. Neither of these names are good picks for Norway in my opinion. Starting with the surname; Bondevik. As its own name, it is fine, it means “farmer’s bay”. The problem with it is due to its close association with a conservative politician who at one point was prime minister in Norway. The Bondevik-government is not uncommon to talk about and when I just google the name “Bondevik”, every single result on the first page is of this politician. Again, because Norwegian surnames are so personal and geographically locked, you end up giving Norway a history relating to this specific family. There are only 201 people in Norway with this surname, most of them are related to each other, and the name will be associated with this conservative politician. It would be similar to England being named Arthur Thatcher or Arthur Churchill, or America being named Alfred F. Kennedy or Alfred F. Reagan. There is no avoiding this.

Continuing with the critique on Lukas. There is no way around this name as it has been the go-to choice for the fandom for several years now, picked out of a list of names Hima suggested. Personally I do not think this name fits Norway as a character due to both cultural and historical Norwegian associations. Lukas is not a name that was used in Norway before the 1990s and it did not become a popular name until 2008. Lukas is not a name with Norse origin, its origins are biblical, and is a new trendy name that has entered the Norwegian society with the globalisation and Americanisation of our media. It is a very young name and you will not find people over 35 with this name still today. If you talk about hws Norway where he exists before 1990, he would not have this name. It is both culturally and historically inaccurate. It is also, in my opinion, a bit of a fuck-boy name – it gives modern, upper-class or city boy vibes. Not a name that I think fits hws Norway.

Lastly; my own suggestions of names for Norway. I will never stop advocating for Sigurd as the best name for Norway. It is a name of Norse origin and has been relatively popular through all time periods, never going out of fashion, a solid Norwegian name. Because of its history you can find this name in any social class (though perhaps not upper-class today?), and it does not betray any age nor will it ever become outdated. Its meaning is “victory” and “guardian”. I must admit it does not sound very good when pronounced in English, but it is a very pretty name in Norwegian (the "d" is silent). The name has a long history, but is not closely associated with one specific person. There is a famous myth/story with origins to before the Viking Age about “Sigurd Fåvnesbane, the dragon slayer”, and I like the parallel between hws Norway and this myth, and hws England and the story of King Arthur. Sigurd is a good Norwegian name and its connotations fits the character of Norway very well.

My suggestions of surnames for Norway are Nordvik and Ødegård. I still cannot choose between these two as I love them both. Nordvik means “northern bay” and it is such a generic surname you can find it everywhere in Norway where there’s water. I like it because it ties in with the original meaning of the name “Norway”, the way to the north, and associates with the sea, which has been of huge importance to Norway through history. Ødegård means “desolate farm” and only became used as a surname/nickname after the Black Plague, which saw many farms abandoned. Ødegård was the name these farms got and people who moved there took it as a surname in the process previously explained. I like this name because it is not tied to any specific region either, so the geographical origin becomes more intangible and creates an air of mystery.

This is my personal take on the names for hws Norway, and again; is not meant to be a critique against anyone using the popular fandom names. I know habits are hard to change and at this point is probably very integrated when talking about the character. Anyone is free to use any name they want of course, I am just offering some cultural and historical background and insight on them as “Norwegian names”. If anyone has other name suggestions for Norway they are unsure about or wish to know more about, I’ll gladly make an input if Norwegian advise is wanted.