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rafeskai · 2 months ago

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Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Two

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the movie "Life as We Know It"!

Masterlist: Here

It had been three days since you’d found yourself in Rafe’s house, a place that now felt more like a cage than a refuge. You hadn’t had much time to adjust to the new reality. Between the funeral, the endless meetings with lawyers and child services, and the sudden responsibility of Willa, everything seemed to blur together in a haze of exhaustion.

You had told yourself you’d stay at the house more often, that you’d help Rafe get into a routine with Willa, but the sheer weight of everything had left you in a constant state of uncertainty. It wasn’t just that you were suddenly her guardian, it was that you were also navigating a delicate, complicated dynamic with Rafe. Every time you thought you had a handle on things, another obstacle seemed to rise up in front of you.

But life didn’t stop, and the bills still needed to be paid. So, you found yourself at the local café by 7 a.m. every morning, working the early shift as if it were a lifeline to some semblance of normalcy. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries helped ground you, a comfort amidst the chaos.

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That morning, you found yourself staring blankly at the coffee machine, lost in thought as you tried to get a fresh batch brewing. Willa’s laugh echoed in your mind, that small, joyful sound she’d made when you’d managed to make her smile that morning at Rafe’s house. But then there was Rafe—his disheveled hair, his barely-contained frustration as he tried to make breakfast, as if he were a stranger in his own life.

You shook the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. You couldn’t afford distractions right now.

"Hey, [Y/N], you okay?" Jess, your co-worker, asked as she slid into the back room, eyeing you with concern. Jess had been your friend since you started working at the café, and while she wasn’t a mind reader, she could always tell when something was off.

You nodded quickly, putting a smile on your face. "Yeah, just a little tired. You know how it is."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press further. "Well, the morning rush is about to hit, and we’re already behind, so I’ll let you catch up. Just take it easy when you can, alright?"

You offered a grateful smile, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. Jess had a way of reading you, and the last thing you wanted was to let her know the extent of what you were juggling.

The morning rush came and went, the familiar frenzy of orders, refills, and people coming and going. By noon, the crowd thinned, and you finally got a break. You slipped into the back room, sitting on one of the crates as you checked your phone, hoping for a distraction.

You had a few missed texts, mostly from Sarah’s family offering condolences, a few work-related messages, and then... one from Rafe.

Can you come over tonight? Willa’s been fussy all day. I can’t figure out what she wants.

You stared at the message for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen. You’d been trying to keep your distance from Rafe, only coming over when absolutely necessary, and still, he was asking for help. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with his emotions, but there was something about the way he’d written this message that gave you pause.

You knew it wasn’t just about Willa—it never had been. There was still tension between you and Rafe, an unspoken rift that neither of you had quite figured out how to cross. Yet, here he was, reaching out.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You’d been trying to balance it all—work, helping Rafe, and processing the grief that seemed to be dragging you under—but it wasn’t easy. You needed to be there for Willa, but you also needed to keep your job, and your sanity.

After a moment of contemplation, you typed out a reply. I’ll be there around six. I can stay for a few hours.

You didn’t know what you expected, but you sure as hell didn’t expect the quick response.

Thanks. I’ll make dinner. She’s been restless.

You felt a strange knot form in your stomach at the offer. Dinner? From Rafe Cameron? A part of you wanted to laugh, but another part—an irrational, confusing part—wondered if this was his way of trying to do something right, for once.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur. You tried to focus on the coffee orders and the chatter of the customers, but all you could think about was Rafe and the odd, fragile dynamic that had begun to take root.

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By the time you pulled into Rafe’s driveway later that evening, you could feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. But Willa needed you, and whether or not you wanted to admit it, Rafe did, too.

You took a deep breath before getting out of your car, trying to mentally prepare yourself for whatever awaited inside.

The house looked even bigger at night, the lights from the interior casting long shadows across the front yard. As you walked up the stone path, you noticed the faint scent of something cooking—garlic, herbs... something surprisingly warm and inviting.

When you stepped inside, the familiar coldness of the house hit you, but this time, there was something different. The warmth of a home-cooked meal filled the air, and for the briefest moment, it almost felt like things could be normal again.

Rafe was in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up as he stood over the stove. He looked up when you entered, a slight tension in his posture as if he was still waiting for you to call him out on some unseen mistake.

“Hey,” you said quietly, watching him carefully. “Dinner smells good.”

He nodded, but didn’t meet your eyes. “It’s nothing fancy. Just pasta, I—uh, thought it might help if she had something warm.” His voice faltered, just a little, but he quickly recovered.

You glanced over at Willa, who was in her high chair, her small hands gripping the edge of the tray as she watched Rafe. She looked so small in the expansive room, and the sight hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You walked over to her, gently picking her up from the chair. “Hey, little one,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Rafe turned away from the stove, his hands gripping the counter as he stared down at the floor. "I don't know what I'm doing. She won’t stop crying, and I... I don’t get it."

You felt a pang of sympathy, despite everything. You moved toward him, your voice soft. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine. It’s all new for both of us. You don’t have to have all the answers.”

Rafe looked up at you, his expression tense but vulnerable. "Yeah. I guess I just... I want to do right by her. I don’t want to screw this up."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in.

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The sound of Willa’s cries echoed through the vast kitchen, filling the space with a noise that felt almost too loud for the house. She was tiny, yet her cries were fierce, relentless. It had been over an hour, and you were beginning to feel like you were running out of options. You had tried everything.

You’d fed her, changed her, rocked her. But no matter what you did, she wouldn’t stop. Willa’s little fists clenched and her body writhed in your arms, the tears never slowing, never quieting.

“Come on, Willa,” you muttered, trying to soothe her with the kind of gentle rocking you’d seen Sarah do a million times. But nothing worked. You glanced over at Rafe, who was standing across the kitchen with his arms crossed, looking both helpless and frustrated.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Why the hell won’t she stop?”

You didn’t have an answer. Honestly, you didn’t know why she was crying, either. She had been fine all afternoon, playing with her toys, laughing when you made funny faces at her. But now, she was inconsolable, and it was starting to tear at your patience—and Rafe’s too.

You rocked Willa more gently, trying to keep calm. "I don’t know," you said softly, your voice low and soothing. “Maybe it’s... something else. She could be tired, or maybe she’s just upset. Babies have their moods.” You spoke from experience, but your words felt thin in the moment. You hadn’t expected to be thrown into this role, and you were starting to feel every bit of the weight of it.

Rafe glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Do you think she’s sick?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

You shook your head. "I don't think so... I mean, she doesn’t have a fever. Maybe it's just... a bad moment." You were doing your best to sound confident, but even you didn’t believe the words you were saying.

Willa’s cries intensified, her tiny body wriggling in your arms, making it even harder to calm her. Your chest tightened with frustration, helplessness. It was hard enough to balance everything with the weight of the situation, but right now? You felt completely out of your depth.

“I don’t know what else to do,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You looked over at Rafe, who hadn’t moved an inch since you started holding Willa. His face was tight, his eyes narrowed in frustration, but there was something else there, too—something you hadn’t expected: vulnerability.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. After a few more seconds of Willa’s crying, he finally broke the silence.

“Maybe I could try,” he offered, his voice a bit softer, tentative.

You were surprised at the offer. You’d never seen Rafe with kids—never even imagined him with a child this young. But there was something in the way he said it, a quiet desperation, that made you nod.

“Yeah. Try.” You handed Willa to him, careful not to jostle her too much as she continued to wail. She was still kicking her legs, her face scrunched up in distress.

Rafe hesitated for just a second before adjusting her in his arms, awkwardly holding her against his chest. His expression was uncertain, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this tiny person who was now his responsibility.

“Hey, Willa,” Rafe said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We got you.”

He bounced her lightly, just enough to make her feel the rhythm of his movements. For a moment, nothing changed. Willa’s cries didn’t soften, but Rafe didn’t seem to mind. His focus was entirely on her, like he was determined to make it work.

You watched him for a moment, trying not to show your surprise. You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafe in this light. The way he moved, the way he spoke to Willa—there was something different in his tone, something real.

But the crying didn’t stop. Willa’s cries just seemed to escalate, as though she was testing him, testing you both.

Rafe gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold on her again, more firmly this time. “Alright, little one,” he muttered under his breath, his voice still trying to stay calm despite the rising frustration. "We’re gonna get this right. I swear."

He then shifted, trying a different approach, gently patting her back. He’d seen Sarah do it before, you knew, but it still felt foreign coming from him.

You, not sure what else to do, knelt beside him, trying to be as calm and soothing as possible. You placed a hand gently on Willa’s leg. “Shh… Willa, sweetie, it’s okay,” you cooed, matching Rafe’s rhythm.

And then, something unexpected happened. Slowly, gradually, Willa’s cries began to soften. Her body stopped wriggling as much, her little fists loosened. It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t magic, but her wails started to turn into quiet sobs, then sniffling, then, finally, she rested her head against Rafe’s chest.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"See?" you said softly, your heart still racing. "I told you it was just a moment."

Rafe, his face still a bit tense but now with a faint trace of relief, looked down at Willa. Her eyelids fluttered as she finally, finally, drifted off to sleep.

“I don’t get it,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “I tried everything, but... she calms down when you do that. When we’re both here.”

You shrugged, feeling the exhaustion in your own body. “Sometimes... it just takes both of us. Babies are unpredictable.” You didn’t know what else to say, because, truth be told, you didn’t really understand it either. But you knew one thing for sure—despite your differences, despite the chaos, this was something you could do together.

Rafe shifted his weight, still holding Willa carefully. “Thanks,” he said quietly, as if he hadn’t just gone through a whirlwind of frustration. It was brief, but there was sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t think... I mean, I wasn’t sure I could handle this.”

You glanced up at him, and for the first time in a long time, you saw something different in his eyes—something that wasn’t defiance or anger, but something closer to gratitude.

“You’re not alone in this,” you said softly. “We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.”

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The house had fallen into a strange stillness after Willa finally settled into bed, her little form bundled up in the crib, tucked in for the night. The hours of chaos, the endless crying, the uncertainty—it had all melted into a tense kind of quiet that felt almost too heavy to breathe through. You and Rafe were both exhausted, physically and emotionally, but the weight of the situation hadn’t lightened one bit.

You leaned against the counter in the kitchen, your fingers wrapped around a mug of warm tea, trying to find some semblance of calm. The silence was comforting in a way, but also suffocating. You and Rafe hadn’t exchanged many words since Willa had fallen asleep. There had been a brief moment where you’d both sat at the kitchen table, exhausted, sipping coffee in silence, but now it felt like the quiet was pressing in from all sides.

Rafe was standing by the window, his arms crossed, looking out into the darkened yard. He had been quiet for a while, but you could feel his presence like a weight in the room. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

"You know," he began, his voice low but firm. "I’ve been thinking. Maybe it would be better if you just moved in here."

You froze, your fingers tightening around the mug in your hands. "What?" You turned to face him, the surprise evident in your voice. "What are you talking about? Why would I—"

He cut you off, not giving you a chance to react. "Look, we’re both her guardians now, right? I get it—you have your life, your job, but you can’t keep going back and forth between here and the café. Willa needs us both, and we both need to be there for her."

You blinked, trying to process his words. "That’s... a huge thing to suggest, Rafe." You shook your head, stepping away from the counter, moving to the other side of the room. "You think it’s easy for me? You think I don’t have a life outside of this? I’ve got my job, my own responsibilities. I can’t just—move in here."

He turned, his gaze sharp as he watched you. "I’m not saying it would be permanent, but Willa... she’s not going to be okay if we’re both stressed out all the time. You’re already running yourself ragged. This way, you wouldn’t have to go back and forth. You could be here when she needs you, and you wouldn’t have to worry about missing shifts or running out of time."

You felt your pulse quicken, frustration creeping in. "You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just about time. This is my life, Rafe. I’m not just going to—what?—move in with you? Because that’s what you think is best?"

Rafe’s face hardened. "It’s not about what I think is best, [Y/N]. It’s about what Willa needs. You think it’s easy for me, either? I didn’t sign up for this. But here we are, and we both have to step up. We both have to make sacrifices."

Your breath hitched, your voice shaking with the weight of it all. "You think I haven’t thought about that? But this isn’t just about ‘stepping up,’ Rafe. This is about our lives. You can’t just dictate how things are going to work because you suddenly want to play house. I’m not some—"

"Not some what?" he snapped, cutting you off, his jaw tightening as his temper flared. "You think I’m asking for you to live with me because it’s some great idea? I’m trying to help you. You can’t keep doing this alone, and neither can I."

You felt a sting of anger rise in your chest, the frustration of everything spilling out. "I don’t need you to help me, Rafe. I don’t need you to fix everything. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this!"

There was a long, painful silence that hung between you both, a tension that had been building ever since that damn phone call, and now, it seemed like it might tear everything apart.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging slightly as the heat of his anger cooled into something more complicated, more raw. "I’m not trying to fix everything," he muttered, his voice quieter now, laced with frustration. "I’m just trying to do the right thing. I didn’t ask for any of this, either, but I can’t keep pretending it’s just going to work if we’re both barely holding on. You need help. I need help."

Your heart ached at the words, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. But you pushed it aside, unwilling to let the floodgates open.

"I don’t need you, Rafe," you repeated, more firmly now. "I need to figure out how to do this on my own. We’re both her guardians, but I’m not going to make this—whatever this is—worse by complicating it. I can’t just move in here and pretend like that makes everything better."

His face tightened, the walls going back up, the Rafe you knew slipping behind his defenses. "Fine," he said, his voice flat. "Then keep living your life. Keep juggling it all, and see how far that gets you."

You shook your head, your words coming out in a rush. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t care? I care, Rafe. But this isn’t just about what’s easiest for you, or me, or anyone else. It’s about Willa. And right now, she needs more than just two people fighting over what’s best for her. She needs stability. She needs peace."

Rafe was silent for a long moment, the tension still thick in the room. His eyes flickered to the hallway where Willa’s room was, the soft rise and fall of her tiny chest visible through the crack of the door. His face softened for just a fraction of a second, but then he steeled himself again.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter now, though there was still a trace of frustration. "She needs peace. And maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the right call." He turned his back to you, his body tense as if he was still holding onto something you couldn’t see.

You felt your anger begin to ebb, replaced by a quiet weariness that settled deep in your chest. You wanted to argue more, to fight for your space, for your independence. But the truth was, Rafe’s idea, crazy as it seemed, did make some sense. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to agree.

You stayed silent, the space between you growing more and more uncomfortable, until Rafe finally broke the stillness.

"I guess we’ll just have to figure it out, huh?" he said, his voice distant.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you were agreeing with him—or just acknowledging the mess you’d both gotten into.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I guess so."

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you both wasn’t just filled with tension. It was filled with uncertainty.

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It had been weeks since the argument, weeks since you and Rafe had first clashed over what was best for Willa, what was best for the two of you. You’d spent those weeks bouncing between your place, Rafe’s, and the café, and with each passing day, it was becoming more and more clear that you couldn’t keep it up. You were running on fumes, your mind spinning with the constant demands of work, the responsibilities of being Willa’s guardian, and the weight of your personal life crumbling under the strain.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

It was a quiet morning when you finally made the decision. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft, golden glow across the living room of your small house. You hadn’t been home in days, had barely slept in your own bed. Willa was still adjusting to the routine, and the nights at Rafe’s were becoming more frequent. The constant back and forth was wearing you down.

You stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the coffee mug in your hand, the warmth barely reaching you. It was still early, and the sound of Rafe’s truck hadn’t yet filtered through the house. But today, you had to make it right.

You had to admit you couldn’t juggle it all.

The idea of moving in had been haunting you for days, but admitting it was another thing entirely. Rafe’s offer wasn’t just about practicality—it was about more than that. About Willa, about what you and Rafe were going to have to become for her. You’d been resisting it, pushing it away because it felt like giving up control of your life. But you knew you couldn’t keep going on this way.

And so, you made your decision.

When Rafe finally walked through the front door a few hours later, his presence filled the space like it always did—big, heavy, almost too much to ignore. He didn’t say anything at first, just kicked off his boots and moved to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water before leaning against the counter, his gaze flickering over to you.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You set your mug down, taking a deep breath before you spoke. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, your voice steady but with an undercurrent of hesitation. “And I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep bouncing between my place, yours, and work. It’s... it’s too much.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed slightly. “So what does that mean?”

You met his gaze, the weight of what you were about to say pressing down on you. “I’m going to move in. I can’t juggle all of this alone. But there are some conditions.”

Rafe tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly in curiosity. “Conditions?” he echoed, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “Like what?”

You took a breath and laid it out, clear and firm. “First, I’m not giving up my job at the café. I need that. I need a space where I can breathe and do something for myself. I’m going to be there on my shifts, but I won’t be running myself into the ground. So, we need to find a rhythm that works. I can’t just be at home all day, every day. I have my own life, too.”

Rafe nodded slowly, processing the first part. “Okay. Makes sense.” He crossed his arms, waiting for the rest.

“Second,” you continued, your voice unwavering. “I’m not going to just be a ‘housewife’ or whatever. I need to be treated as an equal, I’m her legal guardian too, not some babysitter. I’ll help with Willa, but I can’t take on the full load. If we’re doing this, we’re both sharing it.”

Rafe didn’t argue with that. He gave a slight nod, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were preparing for the next condition.

“And third,” you added, stepping forward, your gaze never leaving his. “We set some boundaries. This is for Willa. We’re doing this for her, but I’m not moving in here for any other reason. We need to keep things professional—for her sake. I’m not moving in here just to... make things weird.” You paused, feeling the tension rise between you. “If we’re doing this, it’s for Willa. Nothing more, nothing less.”

There was a long silence between you two as Rafe absorbed your words. He was silent for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, a sound of reluctant agreement. “Fair enough,” he said. “I can deal with that. We both need to be in this equally. No one person doing more than the other.” He glanced over at you, a little more seriously now. “And about the boundaries... I’m not trying to make this any more complicated than it has to be. I get it. You’re here to help with Willa, and I’m not going to make that weird.”

It was strange, the way things were shifting between you both. There was a subtle shift in his tone, something closer to understanding. As much as Rafe might have wanted to fight you on it, you knew he respected the fact that you were being clear about your limits.

“So, what now?” he asked, breaking the silence. “You move in today?”

You nodded. “Yeah. But, you’ll have to help me get my stuff together. I’m not just leaving everything behind, Rafe.” You allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to tug at the corner of your lips. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Rafe smirked, the tension breaking between you two for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll help. Just don’t expect me to pack your clothes.”

You laughed quietly, feeling the weight on your chest lift just a little. “I don’t need you to pack my clothes. I just need you to be... not a pain in the ass while I get settled in.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “No promises there.”

You shook your head, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. It was a step in the right direction, you told yourself. A step toward figuring out how to make this new life work.

Maybe it wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe it would take time, patience, and more compromises than you had ever imagined. But one thing was clear: you couldn’t do this on your own. And maybe, just maybe, with Rafe by your side, you could figure out what it meant to be a family, even if it wasn’t the family you’d ever expected.

With a deep breath, you took the first step.

"Alright," you said. "Let’s go get my stuff."

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #outer banks x reader #obx #obx x reader #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron request #rafe cameron season 4 #drew starkey fanfiction #lifeasweknowit

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mcrdvcks · 1 day ago

Text

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ my girl, my man

chapter summary: You and Logan plan for your wedding.

word count: 9.9k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i could've dragged out them getting engaged (i couldn't help myself) and i could've dragged out them finally getting married (i just couldn't help it😭).

also, i meant to post this a few hours ago, but i had a dentist appointment and the roads here in texas are awful. so, if you live in california, stay safe! and if you are in texas, stay warm! xoxo

(you can imagine whatever ring you'd like, but i got bored one day and searched around for a vintage ring so here's what it looks like)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, summer break, wedding, honeymoon

series masterlist - chapter 1 → chapter 3

“Do you think we’re missin’ something?” Jean wondered aloud.

Scott didn’t look up from his book, “about what?”

“About Y/N and—”

“Oh, yes. I thought I was the only one,” Ororo said, her tone carrying the faintest hint of amusement as she looked up from her book. She exchanged a knowing glance with Jean, who sat cross-legged on the couch across the room.

“Wait,” Jean said, closing the folder she’d been reviewing. “You’ve noticed it too?”

“Of course,” Ororo replied, leaning back in her chair with a small smirk. “It’s hard not to, the way Logan’s been acting.”

Scott finally looked up from his own book, his brow furrowed. “What are you two going on about?”

Jean rolled her eyes affectionately, setting the folder aside. “Come on, Scott. You must’ve noticed how Logan is with Y/N.”

“Not really,” Scott said with a shrug, earning an incredulous laugh from Jean.

“Men,” Ororo muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “He’s softer around her, more patient. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at her? It’s... different.”

Jean nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not just that. It’s different than before. When me and Scott went to the store yesterday Logan asked for mango juice and yogurt-covered pretzels. Now who’s the only person we know who even likes those things?”

Ororo’s smirk grew. “Y/N.”

“Exactly,” Jean said, leaning forward. “I’m telling you, something’s shifted. They’ve always been close, but now? It’s like… there’s an extra layer to it.”

Ororo set her book aside, her tone teasing. “I’ve noticed other things too. She asked me for a bunch of yeast and some other ingredients last week—odd things for the lab. Then, two days later, she came by looking flustered, mumbling something about brewing beer. My guess? She’s making it for him.”

Jean grinned. “That sounds like her. She’s so shy about doing anything big, but she puts so much thought into the little things.”

Scott, still sitting with his arms crossed, frowned. “So, what? They’re dating. We all know that.”

“Yes, but this is different,” Jean insisted. “Logan’s been... softer, more relaxed. And Y/N? She’s been letting herself open up more. They’ve always had a connection, but this feels… more serious.”

Ororo nodded. “And the PDA. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not exactly hanging off each other in public, but it’s there. A little more than usual.”

Scott still didn’t look convinced. “I think you’re reading too much into this. Logan’s always been protective of her, and she’s been trying to come out of her shell. That doesn’t mean anything’s changed.”

Jean sighed, exchanging a look with Ororo. “You can be so dense sometimes, Scott.”

“Hey, I’m just saying! Logan’s Logan. He doesn’t strike me as the type to do anything halfway, but I’m not seeing what you two are apparently seeing.”

Ororo shrugged. “Give it time. You’ll notice eventually.”

---

Scott was heading down the main hall when he caught sight of Logan walking toward him. Logan had his usual brisk stride, but the large stack of magazines in his arms gave Scott pause.

“Logan,” Scott called, stepping into his path. “What’s with the reading material?”

Logan slowed to a stop, glancing down at the stack in his arms. Bridal magazines, at least half a dozen of them, with glossy covers featuring elaborate white dresses and floral arrangements.

He barely missed a beat. “For the fire,” Logan said gruffly, his tone so deadpan it took Scott a moment to respond.

“For the fire?” Scott echoed, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah. Fireplace needs kindling,” Logan replied, his expression unreadable as he shifted the magazines under one arm.

Before Scott could press further, Jean approached, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the magazines. “Logan, is that…?”

“Magazines,” Logan cut in, his voice low. “For the fire. Don’t read into it.”

Jean’s lips twitched, barely holding back a smile. “Uh-huh.”

Logan let out a low grunt, clearly uninterested in continuing the conversation, and walked off without another word, leaving Jean and Scott standing in the hall.

Jean turned to Scott, her eyebrows raised. “Still think we’re imagining things?”

Scott glanced back at Logan’s retreating figure, the bridal magazines tucked under his arm. “…Okay, maybe something is going on.”

Jean smirked. “Told you.”

---

You rolled out from under the Blackbird with wire cutters laying on your stomach and an electric screwdriver in your hand. “Alright, fixed it. Still don’t know why you couldn’t ask Scott.”

Jean rolled her eyes, “I did. And he said ‘later’. It’s been 4 days.”

You gave her a small smile. “Figures.”

Sliding the wire cutters onto the small tool tray beside you, you sat up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. Jean crouched down next to you, handing over a clean rag.

“Thanks,” you said, taking it to wipe the faint smudge of grease off your arms.

“Not bad for a physics professor,” Jean teased, her tone warm.

You shrugged, pulling off the gloves with a small tug. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there.”

Ororo, perched nearby with her arms crossed and a bemused expression, added, “If you weren’t so dedicated to teaching, I’d say you might have a future in mechanics.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “I’ll leave the big repairs to Hank. I just know enough to get by.”

As you spoke, you folded the gloves neatly and set them on the tray. That’s when Jean’s eyes caught something—a glint of light on your left hand.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she tilted her head. “Y/N… is that—?”

You glanced at her, confused for a moment, before realizing what had caught her attention. Your engagement ring, a delicate band with an antique setting, was visible now that the gloves were off.

“Oh,” you said softly, instinctively touching the ring with your thumb. A shy smile tugged at your lips.

Jean’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and delight flashing across her face. “Wait a second. When did this happen?”

Ororo stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What’s she talking about?”

Jean pointed at your hand. “Look at her ring finger.”

Ororo’s gaze followed, and her eyebrows lifted. “Well, well, well. I didn’t realize we had a bride-to-be among us.”

Your cheeks warmed under their scrutiny. “It’s… recent,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jean’s grin grew as she leaned in, her tone playful. “And by ‘recent,’ you mean…?”

“Two… maybe three weeks,” you said, trying not to squirm under her gaze.

Ororo let out a low whistle. “And you didn’t tell us?”

You looked between the two of them, your fingers fiddling with the ring. “We weren’t keeping it a secret. It just… hasn’t come up.”

Jean crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced. “Hasn’t come up? You’ve been engaged for weeks, and none of us noticed?”

You bit your lip, feeling a mix of nervousness and amusement. “Well… Logan and I aren’t exactly the ‘big announcement’ type.”

Ororo chuckled. “That, I believe. But still, congratulations are in order. It’s beautiful, Y/N.”

Jean nodded, her eyes softening as she looked at you. “It really is. And it suits you.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, glancing at the ring again. Despite the attention, there was a quiet happiness bubbling inside you.

Jean gave you a knowing look. “So… when were you planning on telling the rest of us? Or were we just supposed to figure it out on our own?”

“I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And Logan—well, you know how he is.”

Jean laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine his reaction to a big group toast.” She put on a gruff voice, imitating him. “‘No need to make a fuss.’”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Exactly.”

Ororo smiled warmly, her teasing tone softening. “Well, fuss or no fuss, we’re happy for you. And you better let us know if there’s a wedding date.”

“Of course,” you promised, the warmth in their voices making you feel more at ease.

Jean reached over, giving your hand a quick squeeze. “Congratulations, Y/N. You two deserve this.”

“Thanks,” you said again, this time with more confidence.

Before the conversation could go any further, Logan’s voice carried down the hall. “Darlin’? You done with the jet?”

You turned toward the sound, seeing him leaning casually in the doorway. His usual gruff expression softened as his eyes met yours.

“Yeah, all set,” you called back, standing and brushing off your jeans.

Logan gave a small nod but didn’t move, his gaze lingering on you in that way that made your heart flutter.

Jean smirked, glancing at Ororo. “And there he is.”

“Don’t,” you muttered under your breath, feeling your cheeks flush again.

Ororo laughed softly, but neither she nor Jean said anything more. As you walked toward Logan, you caught the amused glances they exchanged, but you didn’t mind.

Logan met you halfway, his hand resting briefly on your lower back as you joined him. “Ready to head in?”

“Yeah,” you said, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

As the two of you walked away, you could still hear Jean and Ororo chuckling behind you, but Logan didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer an explanation. Some things were just better left between the two of you.

---

“Please?” you said, drawing the word out with an exaggerated pout as you held up the scissors, comb, and spray bottle. Your tone was teasing, but your eyes carried a hopeful glint.

Logan crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “Darlin’, I’m tellin’ ya, it’s fine. It doesn’t need fixin’.”

You arched a brow, stepping closer. “Logan, it’s summer, and your hair’s gettin’ way too long in the back. I’m not saying you need a whole new look, just a trim.”

He gave a low grunt, clearly unconvinced, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve been dealin’ with this hair longer than you’ve been alive. It’s manageable.”

“Sure it is,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “But wouldn’t it be more manageable if it wasn’t sticking out at weird angles?”

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you said sweetly.

He stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head. “Alright, fine. But on one condition.”

Your eyes lit up. “Name it.”

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “We do it outside, and you sit on my lap while you’re at it.”

Your cheeks immediately warmed, and you stared at him, wide-eyed. “Logan,” you began, your voice dropping in embarrassment.

“What?” he said with a smirk. “You wanted this, didn’t ya? Gotta make it worth my while.”

You huffed, but your lips quirked up in a small smile despite your best efforts. “Fine,” you said, trying to sound exasperated. “But don’t blame me if you end up with a lopsided cut.”

Logan chuckled, his hand settling on your lower back as he guided you toward the back patio. The warm summer air greeted you as the two of you stepped outside. The mansion’s sprawling yard stretched out around you, the sun casting a golden glow over the lawn and the distant trees.

Logan grabbed one of the sturdy wooden chairs from the patio table and plopped down, spreading his legs slightly as he leaned back with a lazy grin. He patted his thigh. “Hop on.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing around to make sure no one else was nearby. Though Logan wasn’t shy about showing affection, you were still getting used to moments like this. When the coast was clear, you let out a breath and moved to sit sideways on his lap. He shook his head, catching your waist and turning you so you straddled him instead.

“There,” he said, his voice low and pleased. “Much better.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips as you picked up the spray bottle and gave his hair a quick spritz. He leaned back, his hands resting casually on your hips while you combed through his damp locks.

��You know,” you said, keeping your tone light as you snipped at the ends, “this is kind of nice. Just us, the fresh air…”

Logan’s lips quirked. “Don’t get too used to it, darlin’. This is a one-time deal.”

“Sure it is,” you teased, snipping another section. “I’ll remind you of that next time your hair gets out of control.”

He gave a low chuckle, and you felt his thumb brush lightly against your side. It was such a small, unconscious gesture, but it sent a warm flutter through your chest. You leaned in a little closer, focusing on your task.

“Y/N!” Jean’s voice rang out from somewhere near the house, and your head whipped up in alarm. “Have you seen—oh.”

Jean rounded the corner, her steps slowing as she took in the sight of you perched on Logan’s lap, scissors in hand. Her lips twitched, clearly fighting a grin. “Am I interrupting something?”

You felt your cheeks flame, and you tried to slide off Logan’s lap, but his hands on your hips held you firmly in place. “Jean,” you said, your voice higher-pitched than usual. “I was just… cutting Logan’s hair.”

“Right,” Jean said, crossing her arms and giving you a knowing look. “Because clearly, that’s the only thing happening here.”

Logan, unbothered, smirked up at her. “You need somethin’, Red?”

Jean waved a hand dismissively. “Nope, nothing that can’t wait. Carry on.” She turned to leave but not before shooting you a wink over her shoulder. “Nice technique, Y/N.”

“Jean!” you called after her, but she was already walking away, laughing softly to herself.

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. Logan’s chest rumbled with laughter beneath you.

“Relax, darlin’. Let her have her fun.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, narrowing your eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a grin, his hands squeezing your waist gently. “But hey, you wanted to do this, remember?”

You sighed, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips as you went back to trimming. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Logan said, his voice warm and full of affection.

---

Logan reached his hand out haphazardly to close the bedroom door, the motion almost careless in his urgency. His other hand remained firmly planted on your lower back, guiding you with surprising gentleness as your lips stayed locked.

The click of the door shutting barely registered before he backed you into the wall, his movements smooth and deliberate. You gasped softly against his mouth, one of your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair while the other found its way to the back of his neck.

“Logan,” you murmured breathlessly, breaking the kiss for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you spoke.

“What?” His voice was low, a rough edge of amusement to it as his lips sought yours again. “You’re the one who started this, sweetheart.”

Your laughter bubbled up, light and almost involuntary. “I did not—”

“Oh, you absolutely did,” he teased, his hands settling more firmly on your hips. He nipped at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you, his grin mischievous. “You looked at me like that, darlin’. Don’t blame me for followin’ through.”

A flush spread across your cheeks, but you couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped you as he leaned in again, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one was slower, softer, but still filled with the same electric energy that seemed to hum between the two of you whenever you were close.

You tightened your arms around his shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into his skin. He grunted softly, the sound half amusement, half approval, before his hands slid down to the backs of your thighs.

“C’mere,” he muttered, his voice husky as he gripped you firmly and lifted you effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and he pinned you against the wall more securely, his body pressed warm and solid against yours.

“Logan!” you squeaked, a mix of laughter and surprise in your tone. “You’re gonna drop me.”

He smirked, his lips brushing along your jaw before he kissed the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you,” he said, his tone low but teasing. “When are you gonna figure that out, huh?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, the lights in the room flickered and then went out completely, plunging everything into sudden darkness.

You gasped softly, instinctively tightening your hold on Logan. “What just—?”

“Power’s out,” he muttered, his tone shifting to mild annoyance. He pulled back just enough for you to feel his breath against your skin. “Perfect timing.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, the absurdity of the situation cutting through the moment’s intensity. “Guess the mansion’s old wiring isn’t built for summer storms.”

“Guess not,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, smiling despite yourself. “But we might want to move before someone walks in on this.”

He chuckled, his hands still steady beneath you as he adjusted his grip. “I don’t care who walks in. Let ‘em.”

“Logan,” you groaned, but you couldn’t hide the grin in your voice. “Don’t even joke about that.”

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before pulling back with a smirk. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you down.”

He set you on your feet gently, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment longer before stepping back. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the playful glint in his eyes.

“Maybe we finish this later,” he said, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress another smile. “Maybe.”

As you both moved to find a flashlight, the sound of voices and footsteps echoed faintly down the hall. The chaos of the power outage was clearly drawing everyone out of their rooms, and you shot Logan a knowing look.

“See?” you whispered, smirking. “Someone was bound to walk in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but the small, satisfied smile on his face told you he wasn’t too worried about it.

---

You might’ve gotten a bit carried away looking at magazines instead of working on your research. The lab was quiet, save for the soft hum of equipment, and you’d tucked yourself into a corner with a stack of physics journals. But one wedding magazine Logan had given you sat on top of your pile, its glossy pages begging to be flipped through. Before you knew it, you were lost in images of lace trains and intricate veils, your fingers idly twisting a strand of hair.

“Hmm, wedding dresses?”

Jean’s teasing voice pulled you from your daydream. You jumped, snapping the magazine shut and turning red. “Jean! I—uh, it’s not what it looks like. I was just…taking a break.”

Jean smirked, plucking the magazine from your hands. She flipped it open to a page you’d dog-eared. “Sure, just a break,” she said, her tone laced with playful skepticism. “You’ve already got a few favorites marked. This one’s beautiful,” she added, pointing to a gown with delicate floral embroidery.

You pushed your glasses up nervously. “I mean, yeah, but it’s too soon, right? Logan and I haven’t even set a date yet…”

Jean ignored your protests, holding up the magazine like it was her life’s mission. “Nonsense. Come on, let’s go into town and try some on.”

Your eyes widened. “Try them on? Jean, no—I couldn’t! What if someone sees? What if—”

“Relax,” she said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “It’s summer break, most of the students are gone, and you deserve a little fun. Besides,” her lips quirked in a knowing smile, “Logan gave you this magazine for a reason. You think he’d mind?”

You hesitated, torn between your shy instincts and Jean’s infectious enthusiasm. Finally, you relented. “Fine. But just for fun.”

---

The bridal boutique was a cozy, sunlit space tucked away on a quiet street. Jean wasted no time pulling dresses from the racks while you lingered nervously near the dressing rooms.

“This one,” Jean said, holding up a sleek satin gown, “or this one?” She gestured to a gown with layers of delicate tulle.

“They’re both gorgeous,” you said, shifting on your feet, “but maybe too much for me…”

Jean rolled her eyes. “You’re the bride! There’s no such thing as ‘too much.’ Now, go try these on.”

The first dress was beautiful but too heavy, and the second didn’t quite feel like you. By the third, you found yourself laughing at Jean’s exaggerated commentary.

“Okay, but look at this!” she said, adjusting the train. “You could glide down the aisle like a queen.”

“Jean,” you giggled, shaking your head, “I think I’d trip over this and take Logan down with me.”

After an hour, you still hadn’t found ‘the one,’ but the experience left you feeling lighter. “Thank you,” you said as the two of you walked back to the car. “That was actually…fun.”

Jean grinned. “Told you. And now we know what styles you like. We’ll find it when the time’s right.”

---

Back at the mansion, Logan was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a beer, when you walked in. He raised an eyebrow at your slightly disheveled appearance. “Where’d you two run off to?”

Jean, smirking, answered before you could. “Tried on wedding dresses.” Logan’s gaze immediately snapped to you, and his lips twitched into a small smile. Jean patted your arm. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, disappearing down the hall.

You shifted nervously, tugging at your sleeves. “It was her idea,” you blurted out, feeling the need to explain. “I wasn’t—well, I mean, we didn’t find anything. And it’s probably too soon anyway, right? We don’t have a date or a venue or—”

“Darlin’.” Logan’s deep voice cut through your rambling. He stepped closer, his hands gently settling on your arms. “You don’t have to plan every detail right now.”

You looked up at him, your cheeks warm. “But—”

He shook his head, a rare softness in his expression. “I don’t care what you wear or where it happens. Hell, we could go to a courthouse tomorrow and sign the damn papers for all I care.” His voice dipped, quiet and rough with emotion. “I’m just happy I finally get to marry you.”

His words hit you like a wave, their weight sinking in as you stared at him. “Logan…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He cupped your cheek, brushing his thumb gently over your skin. “What matters is you, sweetheart. That’s it.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of overwhelming love and relief bubbling up. You leaned into his touch, a small, teary smile breaking through. “Okay,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his. “I guess I can live with that.”

“Good,” he said, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Because you’re already perfect to me.”

---

This was a mistake.

One big, grand mistake.

Your chest heaved as you bent down with your hands on your knees, sweat dripping down your back. The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the mansion’s gym, but it offered no comfort. You were a mess—hair sticking to your face, glasses fogged up, and your lungs protesting every second of this so-called ‘workout.’

“This,” you panted, glaring at Logan, “was a mistake.”

Logan smirked, unbothered as he stood nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was barely sweating, his usual tank top clinging just enough to show off his ridiculous muscles. “You’re the one who said you wanted to get stronger.”

“I didn’t know you’d try to kill me,” you shot back, collapsing onto a nearby mat. Your legs were jelly, your pride in shambles, and Logan looked way too amused.

He sauntered over, grabbing a towel from the bench. “You’re not dead,” he said casually. “You’re just outta shape.”

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. “You’ve been alive for 100-something-years or whatever. Cut me some slack.”

“That’s not how it works, darlin’.” His voice was teasing, but there was a hint of warmth beneath it. He crouched next to you, the scent of his woodsy cologne mixed with sweat making your stomach flutter. “You gotta keep at it.”

You peeked out from under your arm, watching as he leaned closer. Logan reached out with the towel, gently wiping your forehead. “Thanks,” you mumbled, your cheeks heating from more than just exertion.

He didn’t stop there. The towel traveled down to your neck, then lower, dabbing at the sweat gathering at your collarbone. You tried not to squirm, but when he moved to the beginnings of your cleavage with a cheeky smirk, you slapped his hand away.

“Logan!” you hissed, sitting up abruptly, your face now definitely on fire.

“What?” he asked, his expression the picture of innocence. “Just helpin’ out.”

You glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugged, tossing the towel over his shoulder and standing up. “Yeah, but you love me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t argue with that. “I’m never working out with you again,” you grumbled as you stood, wobbling slightly.

“Sure you are.” Logan’s hand shot out to steady you, his grip firm but gentle. “You just need the right motivation.”

“And what’s that supposed to be?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that always made your heart skip. “Maybe I’ll tell ya if you survive the next session.”

You groaned, pushing past him toward the water cooler. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he called after you, his laughter echoing in the gym. “You love me, remember?”

You muttered something under your breath that made him chuckle even harder, but despite your protests, you couldn’t stop the small smile from forming as you took a long sip of water. Maybe—just maybe—you’d let him drag you back here again. But next time, you were bringing Jean for backup.

---

“How did venue hunting go?” Jean asked, walking into the foyer where you and Logan just entered.

You let out a huff as you took off your jacket, your purse and notebook in Logan’s hands. He responded for you, “none of ‘em fit her standards.”

The jacket was draped over your arm as you snatched the notebook out of Logan’s hands. “They’re not high standards,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

Logan shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “Looked like every venue had a list of what they didn’t have instead of what they did.”

“That’s not true!” You flipped open the notebook, pages filled with scribbles, sticky notes, and circled bullet points. “I just want a place that works for everyone. Is that too much to ask?”

Jean smirked from where she leaned against the foyer wall. “Define ‘works for everyone.’”

You gestured with the notebook, tapping on your list. “It has to be wheelchair accessible for Charles. Child-friendly because the students will want to attend. Not too stuffy, so Logan doesn’t feel out of place—”

“Darlin’, I’m out of place everywhere,” Logan cut in with a smirk.

You ignored him, continuing, “And not too far from the mansion so the team can help in case of emergencies. Oh, and it has to have enough space for dancing, good acoustics, a separate area for food—”

“You’re planning a wedding or a state summit?” Logan teased.

Jean stifled a laugh, clearly enjoying the exchange. “She’s just thorough, Logan. You should’ve seen her face when one venue didn’t have a backup generator.”

“Backup generator? For a wedding?” Logan raised an eyebrow at you.

“Have you met us?” you shot back. “I’m not risking a power outage in the middle of the first dance.”

Jean laughed outright this time, shaking her head. “I think you’ve got your work cut out for you, Logan.”

“I always do,” Logan muttered under his breath, smirking when you swatted his arm.

“Don’t act like you’re suffering,” you said, rolling your eyes as you headed toward the living room. Logan followed, still grinning. Jean waved you off with a knowing smile before disappearing toward the kitchen.

---

A few days later, you sat cross-legged on the couch in the mansion’s common area, surrounded by more open notebooks and wedding magazines. The team buzzed around you as usual, some heading out for training while others settled in for their break. Logan strolled in, a beer in hand, and plopped down beside you.

“Still at it?” he asked, glancing at the scattered mess.

You sighed, closing one of the notebooks with a soft thud. “We’re not getting anywhere. Nothing feels right.”

Logan leaned back, taking a swig of his beer. “Then stop lookin’ so hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered. “You’re not the one trying to make sure everyone’s happy.”

“Darlin’, nobody cares where it happens. They care about you.” His tone softened as he reached over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Hell, we could do it right here, and it’d still be perfect.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Here? At the mansion?”

“Why not?” he said with a shrug. “Big lawn, plenty of space, and it’s already home for most of us.”

You hesitated, glancing around the room. “It’s… not the worst idea.”

“‘Not the worst’ is high praise coming from you,” Logan teased, earning him a half-hearted glare.

“I just mean…” You bit your lip, considering it. “Who would even decorate?”

At that moment, Rogue walked by, arms full of laundry. Logan raised his voice without missing a beat. “Hey, Rogue! You feel like decorating for a wedding?”

Rogue paused, glancing between the two of you. “Uh… sure? What kinda wedding?”

Logan smirked, gesturing toward you. “Ours.”

Her face lit up. “Oh my God! Yeah, totally! I’ll get Kitty and Jubilee to help. We’ll make it look amazing.”

You blinked, overwhelmed by how quickly she agreed. “Wait—are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure!” Rogue said, beaming. “This is gonna be fun.”

As she hurried off, Logan leaned closer, his smirk widening. “See? Problem solved.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love me,” he said, pulling you into his side.

You didn’t bother arguing. Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder, letting yourself imagine it: the mansion’s lawn, your friends and family, and Logan waiting for you at the end of the aisle. For the first time in weeks, the thought of your wedding didn’t feel overwhelming—it felt like home.

---

This was officially your third time going wedding dress shopping, and this time Ororo had tagged along with Jean, who had practically dragged you out of the mansion with a determined look in her eyes. The three of you entered the boutique, greeted by racks of pristine white fabric, sparkling embellishments, and soft lighting that screamed bridal fantasy.

You adjusted your glasses nervously, clutching your notebook against your chest as Jean grinned at you. “This is it,” she said confidently. “Third time’s the charm.”

Ororo gave you a calm, reassuring smile. “No pressure, Y/N. Let’s just have fun with it.”

You exhaled a little laugh. “Easier said than done. Every dress I’ve tried on feels…wrong.”

Jean looped her arm through yours. “That’s because you’re overthinking it. Trust me, when you find the one, you’ll just know.”

The three of you wandered through the racks, pulling out dresses and debating the merits of lace versus satin, mermaid cuts versus A-line. Jean’s enthusiasm was contagious, and even Ororo—usually so composed—couldn’t resist chiming in with the occasional suggestion.

“I think Logan would like something simple,” Ororo said, holding up a sleek gown with minimal embellishments.

Jean snorted. “Logan would think she’s perfect in anything. He’d probably prefer she showed up in her lab coat.”

You flushed at the thought, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He’s… not that bad.”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Y/N, he kissed you in front of half the team last week just because you brought him a sandwich.”

“That was not—it was just a kiss on the cheek!” you protested, but your voice wavered.

Ororo chuckled, her eyes sparkling. “A lingering kiss on the cheek. We all saw it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “I’m going to die of embarrassment before this wedding even happens.”

Jean patted your shoulder. “If you survive Logan’s public displays of affection, you’ll survive anything.”

The teasing made you relax a little, and you found yourself smiling as the three of you continued browsing. Eventually, the shop assistant approached, her cheerful demeanor instantly putting you at ease.

“Looking for something specific?” she asked.

You hesitated. “Not really. I just…want something that feels like me.”

She nodded knowingly and began pulling a few options. One by one, you tried them on, stepping out to show Jean and Ororo each time. They offered their opinions—Jean was quick with compliments, while Ororo provided thoughtful feedback—but none of the dresses felt quite right.

Until the assistant brought out a gown you hadn’t noticed before.

It was displayed at the back of the boutique, almost tucked away as if it were waiting for someone to find it. The assistant carefully removed it from the rack and carried it over to you with a soft smile.

“This one just came in,” she explained, holding it up. The gown was breathtaking: an off-shoulder silhouette with intricate lace detailing across the bodice and delicate long sleeves. The fabric flowed into a soft, sheer train, giving it an ethereal, timeless feel.

Your breath hitched. “It’s beautiful.”

Jean’s eyes widened as she took in the dress. “Y/N, you have to try that on.”

Even Ororo, usually more reserved with her reactions, gave an approving nod. “It’s stunning. I think it might be the one.”

You hesitated, running your fingers over the delicate lace. “What if it doesn’t fit?”

Jean rolled her eyes, grabbing your shoulders and steering you toward the dressing room. “That’s what fittings are for. Go try it on. Now.”

The assistant ushered you into the dressing room, helping you into the gown. The fabric was soft against your skin, and as she adjusted the zipper, you caught your reflection in the mirror. For the first time, you felt… right.

“Ready?” the assistant asked with a knowing smile.

You nodded, stepping out tentatively. Jean and Ororo were mid-conversation but stopped as soon as they saw you.

“Oh. My. God,” Jean whispered, standing up. “Y/N, you look—wow.”

Ororo smiled warmly. “It’s perfect.”

You turned toward the mirror at the end of the room, your heart racing as you took in the sight. The dress hugged you in all the right places, the off-shoulder design framing your collarbones elegantly. The lace sleeves felt delicate but strong, and the train flowed behind you like a whisper.

“Do you think Logan will like it?” you asked softly, fidgeting with the edge of the lace.

Jean laughed, stepping beside you. “Y/N, Logan would probably think you look perfect in a potato sack. But this? He’s going to lose his mind.”

Ororo tilted her head, considering. “It suits you. It’s elegant but understated. Timeless.”

You blinked back the sudden sting of tears, overwhelmed by how right it felt. “I think… this is it.”

Jean grinned, squeezing your hand. “Finally! I told you third time’s the charm.”

The assistant beamed. “I’ll get the paperwork started and schedule a fitting to tailor it to perfection.”

As she walked away, Jean leaned closer, a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, how long do you think it’ll take Logan to rip this off you after the wedding?”

“Jean!” you squeaked, your cheeks flushing.

Ororo chuckled, shaking her head. “Some things never change.”

You buried your face in your hands, muttering, “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love us,” Jean teased, looping her arm through yours. “And because you knew we’d find you the perfect dress. Which we did.”

You couldn’t argue with that. For the first time since you’d started planning the wedding, you felt a sense of peace. This was happening. This was real. And you couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle and see Logan’s face when he saw you in this dress.

---

Later that evening, you were back at the mansion, lounging on the couch in the common room with a cup of tea. The dress was safely tucked away, but the memory of it lingered, making you smile softly to yourself.

Logan strolled in, fresh from a workout, a towel slung over his shoulder. He spotted you immediately, his brow quirking at your dreamy expression.

“What’s got you smilin’ like that, sweetheart?” he asked, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

You shook your head, trying to hide your grin. “Nothing.”

He gave you a look, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Nothin’, huh? That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

You rolled your eyes, but your blush gave you away. “Fine. I found the dress.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back, taking a long look at you. “Yeah? You happy with it?”

You nodded, the smile returning. “I think so. It feels… perfect.”

His expression softened, and he reached over, brushing a thumb along your cheek. “Good. That’s all that matters.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the hum of the mansion in the background. Logan’s hand found yours, his rough fingers threading through yours gently.

“You’re sure you’re okay with the mansion for the wedding?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He chuckled. “Darlin’, as long as you’re the one walkin’ toward me, I don’t care if it’s in a field, a church, or a damn parking lot.”

You laughed softly, leaning into his side. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Hold me to whatever you want,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

And in that moment, surrounded by the comfort of Logan’s presence and the thought of your future together, you couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.

---

It was three weeks away from the start of the new school year when the wedding took place. At first, you were checking on everyone—Rogue to make sure that her, Kitty, and Jubilee were making progress with the decorations outside, and on Scott and Hank who were somehow tasked with food.

At least, until Logan noticed and locked you in the makeshift bridal suite.

Jean was laughing as she turned the key in the lock, leaning against the door while you protested from the other side. “This is for your own good, Y/N! You need to relax. Everything’s under control.”

“Jean!” you called, rattling the doorknob, though your voice lacked any real anger. “I just want to check on the decorations one more time!”

“Nope,” Jean replied cheerfully through the door. “Logan’s orders. He said, and I quote, ‘she’s gonna drive herself crazy. Lock her in if you have to.’”

You groaned, leaning your forehead against the door. “I’m not crazy.”

Jean’s voice softened. “Y/N, everything’s perfect. Trust us, okay? You’ve done enough. Now let us take care of the rest.”

Ororo’s calm voice chimed in from somewhere in the room. “She’s right, you know. The decorations look beautiful. Jubilee and Kitty outdid themselves. And Scott and Hank are handling the food just fine.”

You sighed, finally stepping away from the door. “Fine. But only because I’m outnumbered.”

Jean unlocked the door and peeked her head in, grinning. “That’s the spirit.” She stepped inside, followed by Ororo, who carried a garment bag carefully over her arm. “Now, let’s focus on the fun part: getting you ready.”

You couldn’t help but smile as Ororo unzipped the bag, revealing your wedding dress. The sight of it still took your breath away. The off-shoulder gown with intricate lace detailing and long sleeves was everything you’d dreamed of, and you felt a little thrill of excitement knowing you’d soon be wearing it.

Jean gestured for you to sit down in front of the vanity, where she had already laid out an array of makeup and hair tools. “Okay, here’s the plan: Ororo’s on hair, and I’ll handle your makeup. By the time we’re done, Logan’s gonna lose his mind.”

You laughed softly, settling into the chair. “He’d better not. I don’t want him passing out before the ceremony.”

Ororo chuckled as she began gently brushing through your hair. “I think Logan’s been ready for this day since the moment he met you.”

Jean smiled warmly, her hands deftly organizing the makeup. “He really has. It’s sweet, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.”

Your cheeks flushed at their words, but you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through your chest. Logan had been a constant in your life, his gruff exterior hiding a heart that had always been devoted to you. The thought of him waiting for you at the end of the aisle made your nerves fade, replaced by anticipation.

“Okay, close your eyes,” Jean instructed, and you obeyed, letting her work her magic. The soft strokes of the brush and the hum of conversation between her and Ororo were soothing, and for the first time all day, you felt yourself relaxing.

By the time they were finished, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Your hair was styled in soft waves, pinned delicately to one side with small, sparkling clips. Jean’s makeup was subtle but elegant, enhancing your features without overwhelming them. You looked… radiant.

“Wow,” you breathed, turning your head slightly to take it all in. “You two are amazing.”

Jean grinned, squeezing your shoulder. “We aim to please.”

Ororo helped you into your dress, carefully fastening the buttons along the back. Once the gown was in place, she stepped back, her smile warm and approving. “You’re ready, Y/N.”

You turned to face the full-length mirror, your breath catching at the sight. The dress fit perfectly, the lace shimmering softly in the light. It was everything you’d hoped for and more.

Jean wiped at the corner of her eye dramatically. “I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Thank you, both of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ororo placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “That’s what friends are for.”

There was a knock at the door, and Rogue’s voice called out. “Y/N? It’s time.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Jean and Ororo exchanged excited smiles. Ororo grabbed your bouquet, a beautiful arrangement of white roses and greenery, and handed it to you. “Let’s get you married.”

The three of you made your way downstairs, the sound of soft music drifting through the mansion. The transformation of the lawn was breathtaking. Rows of chairs lined the grass, adorned with white ribbons and small floral arrangements. An archway covered in more roses stood at the end of the aisle, with Charles waiting beneath it, his wheelchair positioned just so.

And there, standing at the end of the aisle, was Logan. Dressed in a sharp black suit, he looked both rugged and unbearably handsome, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He looked as though nothing else in the world existed but you.

Jean gave your hand a squeeze before stepping aside to join Scott, and Ororo took her place with the other bridesmaids. Rogue beamed at you as she adjusted your train one last time. “Go get him, girl.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening around your bouquet, and then you began to walk. The world seemed to blur around you, the murmurs of the guests fading into the background as Logan’s gaze held yours. Every step brought you closer to him, to the life you were about to begin together.

When you reached the end of the aisle, Logan took your hand, his grip warm and steady. He leaned in slightly, his voice low but filled with emotion. “You’re beautiful, darlin’.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Logan’s mouth quirked into a soft smirk, but there was an unmistakable warmth in his eyes. “Didn’t want to embarrass you, darlin’. Figured I’d at least try to look the part.”

You chuckled softly, feeling the nerves melt away now that you were standing in front of him. “You look perfect.”

Logan reached up, his hand brushing lightly over yours where you gripped the bouquet. “Not as perfect as you.”

Before you could respond, Charles cleared his throat gently, his voice calm but filled with quiet authority. “Shall we begin?”

Logan’s hand tightened just slightly on yours as you both turned toward Charles, who was seated in his wheelchair beneath the archway. Behind him, the soft rustling of leaves and the faint hum of summer added a serene backdrop to the moment.

Charles’s expression was serene as he looked between you and Logan. “Today is a celebration—not only of love but of the journey that brought these two together. A journey that, I suspect, was not without its share of challenges.” His eyes twinkled with a hint of knowing, though he didn’t elaborate. “Yet here you stand, hand in hand, ready to face the future together.”

Logan’s thumb rubbed gently over the back of your hand, a quiet reassurance. You glanced up at him and found his gaze still fixed on you, steady and unshakable. It was as if the entire world could collapse around you, and Logan wouldn’t notice or care as long as you were by his side.

Charles continued, his tone gentle and deliberate. “Marriage is not just a bond but a partnership. It is built on trust, respect, and an unyielding commitment to each other. And, knowing the two of you as I do, I have no doubt that your bond is as strong as the adamantium in Logan’s skeleton.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from the guests, even Logan’s lips twitching into a smirk. You felt the corners of your mouth lift too, though your heart was pounding in your chest. Charles’s words resonated deeply, a reminder of everything you and Logan had been through to reach this moment.

Charles’s gaze softened as he addressed Logan. “Logan, do you take Y/N to be your wife? To stand by her side through every challenge, to share in her joys, and to love her fiercely for as long as you live?”

Logan didn’t hesitate for a second. “I do.”

The firmness in his voice sent a shiver through you. There was no doubt, no reservation—just pure, unwavering certainty.

Charles turned his attention to you, his expression kind. “And Y/N, do you take Logan to be your husband? To stand by his side through every challenge, to share in his joys, and to love him fiercely for as long as you live?”

Your voice came out soft but steady, the words carrying every ounce of truth you felt. “I do.”

Charles nodded, his hands resting on the arms of his wheelchair. “By the power vested in me and with the love and support of everyone here, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Logan, you may kiss the bride.”

Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and filled with passion. The cheers and applause from the guests barely registered as you melted into him, the world fading away until it was just the two of you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice low and gruff but filled with emotion. “We did it, sweetheart.”

You smiled, your fingers brushing over the lapels of his suit jacket. “We did.”

The applause grew louder as Logan took your hand, turning to face the guests. You caught sight of Jean wiping her eyes dramatically, grinning as Scott shook his head in amusement. Ororo and Rogue both looked radiant, their smiles wide as they joined the applause.

As the two of you made your way down the aisle, Logan’s hand never left yours, his grip steady and reassuring. The world felt brighter, lighter, as if every piece had finally fallen into place. You were married.

---

You walked with your eyes closed, your fingers intertwined with Logan's as he guided you through the bustling streets of Paris. The sounds of the city surrounded you—the distant hum of cars, the chatter of people, and the occasional soft clink of a café cup—but it all felt muffled, as if the world was holding its breath for the moment you’d finally open your eyes.

Logan’s grip on your hand was steady, comforting. It was an anchor, reminding you that this moment, this moment with him, was real. His voice, gruff yet affectionate, came from just above you. “Just a little bit further, darlin’,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

“Logan, this better not be some kind of elaborate prank,” you joked, trying to suppress your smile. “You know how easily I get nervous when I don’t know what’s going on.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm in your chest. “No pranks. Just wait, you’ll see. You’re gonna love it.”

You had no idea where you were going or what he had planned. It was just you and him, alone in the magic of Paris. You’d never been this far from the mansion before, and the city felt like a whole new world, full of promise and adventure.

The air smelled different here, cleaner somehow, and there was a faint coolness to the evening breeze. You could hear the distant sounds of tourists and Parisians going about their evening, but it all felt so far away as Logan led you further down the sidewalk.

Finally, Logan stopped walking. You could sense the change in his posture, a subtle shift in how he held you.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, his voice lowering to a more serious tone. “Open your eyes.”

You hesitated for a moment before slowly lifting your eyelids, the city’s lights momentarily blinding you as you adjusted. And then—there it was.

The Eiffel Tower. Towering before you, it glittered with thousands of lights, shining bright against the darkening sky. But it wasn’t just the Eiffel Tower that took your breath away. Above it, the sky was painted with the vivid greens, purples, and blues of the Northern Lights.

You gasped, your eyes darting between the two spectacular sights before landing on Logan. “Logan… how… how did you know this was happening? The Northern Lights don’t usually appear in the summer…”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Guess I know a few things about the world you don’t, darlin’.” He paused, taking in your stunned expression. “I might’ve had a little help, but I wanted tonight to be perfect for you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “This… this is perfect,” you whispered, unable to tear your eyes away from the sky. “I can’t believe you knew this was going to happen.”

Logan shrugged casually, though his expression softened as he took a step closer. “I don’t know about the stars aligning, but I know how much you love the idea of things being right when they happen. Couldn’t let you miss this.” He reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wanted you to see this. To know that, no matter what, there’s beauty in this world that’s meant for you.”

You stood there in stunned silence, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You had never imagined a moment like this—not with Logan, not in a city like this. He had this way of surprising you, of pulling something beautiful out of thin air when you least expected it. The man who had been your constant across so many lifetimes, always there, always remembering you when you had no memory of your past lives… and now, here he was, giving you a memory of your own.

You finally looked up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

Logan’s lips quirked up, the corners of his mouth softening. “You deserve everything, sweetheart,” he said, his hand finding yours again. “Everything and more.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep through your skin. The world around you seemed to slow, as though the Northern Lights had wrapped the two of you in a blanket of time. Here, in Paris, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower with Logan beside you, you felt like maybe—just maybe—this life would be different. Maybe this time, there would be no goodbyes.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words feeling lighter than they ever had before.

Logan’s expression softened even more, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I love you, too. More than anything.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and steady. “You’re my everything, darlin’.”

The stars twinkled above you, and the Northern Lights danced in the sky, but in that moment, all you could see was Logan. His warmth. His presence. His unwavering certainty that you were meant to be together.

---

You scrunched your nose at the sky, the rain falling steadily as it soaked into the streets of Paris. The rhythm of the downpour created a gentle symphony against the canopy above you, and though the evening had been filled with so much warmth, the weather had shifted unexpectedly. But, despite the rain, Logan’s hand remained steady in yours, and the storm outside couldn’t quite dampen the mood between you.

Logan turned toward you, a hint of mischief playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Want to run through the rain, sweetheart?” he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Run through the rain?”

Logan's smile spread, and he raised an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, sweetheart. What’s the worst that could happen? We get a little wet? Besides, you look great when you’re soaked.” His voice was playful, and there was a lightness to it that made you laugh again.

You glanced at the rain, the droplets now beginning to fall harder, streaking down the cobblestones of the Parisian street. It wasn’t the kind of weather you had imagined, but somehow, with Logan beside you, it felt like the perfect opportunity to break from the ordinary.

You shrugged, a smile creeping onto your face. “I guess if you can handle it, then I can too.” You squeezed his hand, trying to act more confident than you felt. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got to be in Paris, on your honeymoon, with Logan by your side.

Logan’s grin turned into something softer, and his fingers tightened around yours as he pulled you closer. “You sure about that? We can always head back to the hotel,” he said, his voice low, the warmth of it settling around you.

“No way,” you replied quickly, your tone more playful now. “Let’s do it. Just try to keep up.”

Logan chuckled under his breath and nodded, his eyes lighting up with that mischievous spark that had always drawn you in. “Alright, sweetheart. Here we go.”

Before you could take a step, he tugged you gently toward him, and in one swift motion, he was off, pulling you with him. You laughed, the sound mingling with the soft patter of rain against the street, as you ran beside him through the warm summer rain. The water splashed at your feet, your clothes quickly soaking through, but it felt like freedom—like this moment was just for the two of you.

Logan’s laughter echoed in your ears as you both sprinted down the street, the Parisian cityscape around you a blur. You felt lighter than you had in weeks, months, maybe even years. Everything was perfect. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about the past or what the future might bring. You only had the here and now, and Logan, the one constant in your life.

Eventually, you both slowed to a stop, your breathing heavy but your hearts light. You couldn’t help but smile at Logan, who was grinning, his hair slightly damp and his shirt clinging to his chest in the most endearing way.

“That was... definitely worth it,” you said, breathless, your voice filled with amusement.

Logan caught his breath too and wiped the water from his forehead. “Told you you’d love it,” he replied, his voice softer now. He stepped toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and before you could say anything else, he cupped your face with one hand, pulling you toward him.

His kiss was slow, tender, a contrast to the spontaneity of your run. The world seemed to stop in that moment, the sounds of the rain, the city, all fading away as you kissed him back, feeling the warmth of his lips against yours. There was something magical about it—about how he always knew how to make you feel special, even in the most unexpected moments.

When you finally pulled back, you both stood there, laughing quietly, your fingers still interlaced. “Okay, now I’m soaked,” you said, your smile never fading.

Logan chuckled, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand. “Doesn’t matter. You look beautiful either way,” he said, his voice gruff but affectionate.

You shook your head, but the smile on your face grew wider. “You’re impossible,” you teased, though the warmth of his words made your heart swell. “But I guess I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk never leaving his lips. “Good. I’ve got a few more surprises up my sleeve, darlin’. Just wait.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be worried.”

Logan pulled you closer again, his hand resting on the small of your back, his thumb gently tracing circles. “Trust me, sweetheart. No need to worry about anything. It’s just you and me. Always.” His words, soft and certain, settled in your chest like a promise.

For a moment, you closed your eyes, letting the sound of the rain and his steady presence wash over you. The night had become everything you’d dreamed of and more. There would be no worries, no regrets—not as long as Logan was by your side.

Finally, Logan broke the silence with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what do you say? You wanna keep running through the rain, or should we head back to the hotel and dry off?”

You glanced at him, your heart racing from both the run and the way he made you feel. “I think I’m ready for a change of pace,” you said, your voice soft, almost teasing. “But don’t think I’ll forget this.”

He chuckled again, his hand slipping into yours as he led the way back toward the hotel, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as the two of you walked together, side by side, under the Parisian night sky.

if you want to know what year it is, it is 2005!

(also, again, you can imagine whatever wedding dress you want, but i based it off of this one i found when i was, once again, bored)

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time #i love you always and forever

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forsworned · 5 months ago

Text

JINX! YOU OWE ME A SODA! ft. KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK

Author's note: Because Kyle does not get enough love and I really wanted to write for him and the little interactions between the 141 :)

Tags: Sexual Content, Masturbation, AFAB!Reader, Brainrot convos amongst 141 men, Team Building and Banter w/141

It's breakfast time in the mess hall and Kyle is navigating to the usual spot that the 141 hangs out in. Clandestine, blue rusty bench right against the large panel windows, with a clear view of the crisp evergreens and wildflowers stretching out in the horizon. A peaceful outlook for a proper meal and some banter.

"Brekkie for a champ." Johnny winks up at him, noshing on his breakfast burrito.

Kyle chuckles as he takes his assigned-unassigned seat next to the friendly Scotsman and they start chatting about last night's fútbol game. It is followed by Simon sliding his tray, seating himself opposite Johnny with a quiet clatter as he attempts to slip his large body onto the bench. And then it's Price coming from behind him, jostling the skull-masked behemoth to scare him, but it's lost on Simon because he's just giving him an uninterested stare that causes the table to shake with laughter.

And you? You're sitting there from the outside, munching on your home fries with a pang of envy at their camaraderie. Never really having a taste of it as you sit alone most days unless you're on the go, rushing to a mission and you're sharing a ration bar with whatever squad they stick you in. But let's face it, no one really wants to be around you.

Jinx.

That was your nickname. Luckless, star-crossed with death, always skulking closely in your shadow.

Your reputation presided over you. Seven squads KIA, and you were the only one to survive them every single time.

So, it's no wonder you're a lone wolf in a mess hall full of lively, rowdy soldiers.

"Why don't we sit here?" A new recruit inquires to their Sergeant.

Their superior takes one glance at you before giving you a tight-lipped smile, "Actually, I just remembered Corporal Dunn (s/o to my mans) needs us back in his office, so let's just have lunch there, yeah?"

The rookie's wide, naive eyes peer over at you and they wordlessly nod at their CO and you don't even bother to see if they've glanced over their shoulders, whispering to one another about you.

"...seven...?!"

"Keep your voice down, soldier..."

"...sorry."

But somebody seems to have their sights set on you and your sharp, feline-like eyes are on the Sergeant tables away, tucked away into a corner and he can't help but jump a little as he's downing his morning brew.

And suddenly he's snorting it up and his teammates are throwing jests his way.

"Keep y'er coffee in y'er mouth, dammit!" Johnny bellows as he erupts into laughter, patting his back.

And there's something inaudible said by Kyle and you're studying the way his pretty, plump lips move.

"'s that Sergeant over there."

And suddenly four Brits are shamelessly turning your way and you're not tearing your gaze away from them as you're scoffing down your scrambled eggs.

"Heard she's lost seven squads, only one to make it out alive." Simon speaks in a nonchalant tone, popping a piece of celery into his mouth before his face contorts into something that resembles disgust.

A "Bloody hell, that's disgusting." is drowned out by the continued conversation between the three of them about your unfortunate rep.

"'s not the lass's fault." Price adds, leaning back a little to crack his spine. "Oh, yeah, tha's the stuff." A satisfied groan leaves his lips as he rests his elbows on the table, listening in on the little shred of gossip.

This time, it's between Johnny and Simon as Kyle zones them out and his honey eyes are training back on you. A frisson runs up his spinal column when he realizes your gaze never strayed. Like a cat, you're fixating on him, wagging your tail, not yet ready to strike just simply observing with a piquing interest.

And then the subject changes when Simon decides to make a jab at how Johnny's overgrown mohawk resembles a porcupine and he's chuckling to himself as the Scot gets riled up. Kyle thinks that one last glance won't hurt, but you're gone. Not even a trace of maybe some crumbs left from your English muffin. He's intrigued to say the least.

Kyle is spending his days in search of you. You're like an apparition that only gets spotted on odd days of the week at unsuspecting time frames, nestled snugly into unfrequented areas on base. He's trying hard to remember the way your hair looks, your lips, the curve of your nose but all that's burned into his memory is your pointed gaze burring holes into his vision.

He stays up late when he catches a glimpse of you in the armory as he's passing by it, in deep conversation with his Captain about how Koala bears do indeed have chlamydia. And he's backstepping to gaze through the window, but you're gone and he's starting to think that maybe you are a ghost.

How stealthy and lithe your body must have to be under that black, compression tee and those tight, tight tactical pants...

And he's fisting away at his dick, half frustrated and half aroused by the allure of your mystique. Little black cat, thumping her tail against the concrete with enigmatic, hypnotizing eyes that entrance him.

"Fuck!" And he's spilling all over his sheets, taut, heaving abdomen, and humiliatingly enough, right on his chin. He dabs at the cum that's dripping on his face and then gazes over the opulent arousal, before throwing his head back and groaning.

Why was you being such a quandary turning him into a fucking pillock?

"...Kyle...Kyle!" Price's hasty voice rips into his stupor, slinging him back into reality.

"Goddammit, Kyle, ya missed th' shot..." Price clicks his tongue, shaking his head under his gilly suit as he makes up for his mistake. "Are ya soft in’t head or summat?"

"No, sir." Kyle mumbles, embarrassed at the fact that his Captain is cleaning up after him.

"He's gey glaikit" Johnny pokes over the comms.

"English, MacTavish." Simon presses the Scotsman.

"He's fuckin' dazed." Johnny quips. "Fuckin' cunt."

And then there's a collective laughter amongst the four soldiers and Kyle can breathe again, the memory of you tossed into the backlogs of his mind as he's back in the fray.

But then it's 2am on the base, and he can't sleep so he's in the kitchen trying to whip up some Pinterest drink,

"Angel's milk?" He scrunches his brows at his phone screen as it casts a blue shadow over his flummoxed features.

He shrugs his shoulders as he squeezes the bottle of honey into the bottom of his mug, followed by a generous amount of milk, and then he pops it into the microwave for a minute and a half. He leans against the kitchen island and lets out a sharp exhale.

"You were supposed to add vanilla."

He practically feels his skeleton jump out of his skin at the voice, but he can't lie about the fact that he was more than elated to see who was standing beside him.

Hell's fuckin' bells, as Johnny would say.

She was standing beside him, arms crossed, hair in a cutesy haphazard manner, dark circles carved under your eyes, dressed in a little pink striped VS lounge set. And fuck, you smell so good. Like warm vanilla, candied almonds, and maybe coffee? It is difficult to say because he is too flustered by your abrupt appearance.

Your presence and how striking you were up close as you were far away, breathing, existing right next to him.

"Bloody hell, you scared the shite outta me." He swallows thickly, and for the first time, he sees the corners of your lips gracefully turning up into a smile. And oh man, it's making his dick twitch pretty violently in his blue-white tartan pajama bottoms.

"Did I?" Not bothering to hide the satisfaction in your voice nor your expression.

"Ya did, indeed."

And the tension is so palpable. His eyes are skimming over the exposed skin of your thighs, from the fresh baby pink manicure on your nails to your shiny, lacquered lips. You were a sight for sore eyes.

Thump, thump, thump.

He can practically hear your metaphorical tail thudding against the kitchen tiles right now.

The beeping of the microwave rips through the suspense and he pushes himself off the counter to retrieve his heated mug. Opening the utensil drawer to pull out a spoon to stir the little concoction, but his brows are raising when you reach over to squeeze two drops of vanilla extract into his drink.

"Tryna poison me, are ya?" He teases, peering over at you. You have a mischievous glint in your eye as you put the cap back on and carefully tuck it away into the cabinet for later use.

"Don't need to."

"Why's that?"

But you've already turned away, walking back to wherever you came from, hips swaying in your satin pajama shorts that outline every curve of your sweet body.

"Because you'd already be dead by now if it were up to me." You state over your shoulder and then you disappear into the abysmal hallway.

And then he's back in his room again, tightly coiling his hand around his slippery cock that's soaking with his own saliva and maybe a little bit of lube. Same shit, different night, though, this time he was blessed with an addition to his hyperactive imagination.

This time he's thinking about how you would look bouncing on his cock, smiling down at him with your hands around his neck. Pretty, shimmering lips parting as those sharp eyes drift to the back of your head and--

"Shiiiiiiiit."

He's shamelessly cumming all over the hardwood floor of his room, milking out his semen as it comes out in steady ropes and he is heaving. He feels how his cock is convulsing in his hand and he lets out a winded breath before tossing himself against his mattress with heavy eyelids. He goes to bed wondering how worn out he'd be if he ever got his hands on you.

"Oi, Johnny, how many bloody times d'ya need me to tell ya? Pick up y'r fuckin boxers after ya've had y'r shower, ya daft twat!" Simon's roaring echoed through the hallways of the base, shaking up the new recruits but just another day to passing soldiers who had been there for longer.

Price and Kyle merely observe the pair from the sofa in their living room as Johnny's form peeks out to an irate Simon who is standing in the doorway to the shared washroom. Johnny is nonchalantly drying off his mohawk that's now touching the nape of his neck as he peers at the rubber ducky boxers pinched between Simon's fingers.

"Why, ye get frightened over a pair o' kecks?" Johnny is totally poking the bear that is Simon 'Ghost' Riley, and Kyle and Price have to stifle their laughter. But truly this was better than reality TV, so they let it go on.

Simon merely blinks down at the impish grin on Johnny's face.

"You fuckin'..." Simon begins to say.

"No, you are fucking YOU ARE FUCKING!" Johnny boasts out and there is a twinkle in his eye and the two are at it.

"Fuck YOU BLOODY BASTARD BITCH!" Simon plays along as he starts shouting back at Johnny and that just riles him up like the giddy puppy he is, continuing the brainrotting bit. Add that to the laundry list of things that's already on the post-mission 141 routine.

And then there's a rapping at the door that cuts off the laughter and the ridiculous comedy skit that Johnny and Simon are playing out.

"I'll get it." Kyle volunteers getting up from the couch to peer through the peephole, but he feels a lump in his throat at the sight.

"What is it, Kyle?" Price asks in a hushed tone. He must've seen the way the Sergeant visibly stiffened.

"It's her." Kyle emphasizes in a way that lets on a little more than he's willing to admit.

"The lassie from the other day?" Johnny pipes up, suddenly very intrigued.

There's a chorused 'Shh!' at Johnny, who's baby blue eyes widen a bit as a small smile appears on his face.

"A'right, sheesh."

The room is quiet for a brief moment before Kyle just decides to bite the bullet and jingle the door open. And there you are, dressed monochrome as hell, like a second skin in your normal attire. Long-sleeve, slate-grey henley fitting snugly around your upper extremities while the black cargos are hugging tightly around your thighs, but is falling baggy below the knee.

He shifts his weight against the doorframe, supping up your every feature, pretending like he isn't falling apart on the inside at your mere presence.

"Can we help you?" He asks, coolly.

Smooth, Kyle. Smooth.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Actually, yes." You mimic the way he folds his arms across his chest before you take a deep breath.

"Laswell sent me over."

Price enters your line of sight, pressing his palm at the base of the casing, and peers down at you with a cocked brow.

"Laswell, you say?"

You shamelessly size up the Captain, not caring how your eyes are lingering a little longer than they should on him and his Sergeant. The pair cock an amused brow at your behavior before you shift on your other foot.

"Yeah, she said you could use my expertise, I suppose." You shrugged indifferently. Whether they choose to bring you on board wasn't really a huge concern of yours. By now, you were sure that they knew of your reputation, so if they took a chance on you right now, you'd be more than elated to join their elite task force even for just one mission. A huge part of you was itching to get back in the field, and honestly, you had a feeling that these men were a lot more resilient and capable of handling themselves enough to not get killed in the line of duty.

Price turns around to Johnny and Simon who approach from behind and they all share a look before peering down at you

"Let's get to work then, yeah?"

It is laborious work withholding himself from not jumping over the table and biting the flirty Scotsman's head off when he sees the way he was making you giggle. Using his boyish charm to woo you as he puts his arm around the back of the sofa to show you just how easy it is to hack into Russian portal sites to access any organized terrorist emails, threads, or private chats on any relevant intel they could muster up.

Making dirty hacker jokes like, "Ye got an access point fer me?"

To which Price shoots Johnny a knowing 'down boy' look and, of course, he just gives him a coy smile in response. It's infuriating.

So instead of simmering like a twat, he gets up to make himself a cup of coffee. And if it weren't for the smell of candied almonds and vanilla drowning into his senses, he would've never felt your presence standing beside him.

"Ya followin' me or are ya actually after a brew?" His eyes fall on you as he moves to lean against the counter and sip at his coffee.

"Make me one?" You ask with a reticent smile.

He swears he can feel the lump in his throat expanding as his pretty honey eyes flicker to you. He licks his dry lips before casting you a half grin and sets aside his mug. Kyle is a gentleman. He would never deny a lady's request. If the lady wants a coffee, then she will get a coffee.

He wordlessly prepares the machine once again, popping in the K-cup, letting it run until the mug is full and offers it to her. She sweetly thanks him and even her voice is enough to get a little rise out of him, but not long enough before he watches her hand the fucking brew to Johnny. Fingers tighten around the handle of the ceramic, but before it can crack a gloved skeleton hand reaches over his own and puts it down for him.

"Don' let tha' twat get to you." Simon's gruff voice cuts into the Sergeant's head. "He's jus' takin' a piss on ya."

They both glance over at the two who are back to being friendly, kicking their feet up before returning to their respective roles. But Johnny flickers his gaze to the hard stare he's feeling on him and gives them a cheeky wink and grin, toasting his mug to him before sipping at it. Kyle scowls at him.

"A Twat, he is."

The day of the mission is like any other day, but your scent is literally driving him into a maniacal state as he's adjusting the laces on his leather boots. This time it's reminiscent of musky prickly pears, and figs that are infused with your natural scent, and it's making him break a sweat.

But he snaps himself back into his domain. He spurns any invitation from you to sidetrack him when he's prepping. Humiliating himself in front of his Captain the last go around certainly exceeds the threshold of mortification he could handle. Add you into the mix and it's a recipe for disaster.

It was a simple enough objective. They were conducting a training exercise. A sweep and search to detect and disarm IEDs that were at a high risk to civilians inhabiting the south side of London without alarming the public. You were specifically instructed to wear concealed weapons, plain clothes, and a cigarette or two to blend in, but damn. Your ass looks so good in those low-rise jeans and the henley that's unbuttoned a little too far down...

Focus, Kyle.

"Mission like this is elementary for someone like you, innit?" Price breaks the silence, as he adjusts the gun in his holster. His brows raise at you as he chews on some cinnamon gum.

You playfully scoff, "Didn't make it this far to die on a simple sweep and search."

"Awe, don't look too doonfaced that ye haven't been sent on a real mission yet." Johnny ribs winking at you.

That earns a little chuckle from the gentlemen around you except for Simon. He's gazing out the window in a far-flung daze, and you bump your knee into him. His dark eyes flicker to you and he bumps your knee back in acknowledgement. Just black cat things.

Surprisingly that doesn't wrack Kyle's nerves. Instead, it just brings a smile to his face. Being aware of your status within the base made the small interactions you shared with them all the more charming. The skittish black cat in you began to emerge from the alleyway, hesitant to be petted but still willing to brush her tail against their calves.

Cute.

"Mate, if you take any longer, 'm gonna blow myself up for fun."

"Oh, feck off."

Playful banter is exchanged between Simon and Johnny, as they work in pairs to disarm the 'bombs' scattered throughout the city while remaining undercover. Thankfully, the five of you were out of earshot from any residents because you'd all have a field day with that one and something tells you that Price doesn't exactly have the patience for that kind of thing.

"Suprised you're not complaining." Kyle speaks up as he surveys you to cut the last wire to neutralize the threat. The grass is dewy, and there's a hum of cars passing on the slick streets as civilians shuffle past, huddled in coats.

"Nice work, [name]." Price praises, seeing that you completed your task. You cast a smile his way.

"Thanks, Cap."

And he's moving back to Johnny and Simon who are too preoccupied with one another to see that their Captain is a bit disgruntled with their lack of urgency.

"They're such knuckleheads." You chuckle to yourself.

Kyle glances over at the three who are now bickering over something that was now completely unrelated to the task. His smile grows.

"That they are."

"So, do I pass or what?" You stood up straight, glancing over at your Captain. He gives you a good-natured grin.

"Don't get too cocky now. It's still an op, y' know?"

You nod your head. He was right about that. It still was an active operation that could flip at any moment. Intrusive thoughts flood your mind and you feel frozen.

"Hey," You feel a grounding hand on your shoulder. You glance up to see Kyle warmly smiling down at you. "You'll be alright. We'll be alright."

Price feels pride wash over him as he looks at his Sergeant and then back at you as he folds his arms over his chest. "This isn't like any team you've ever been on before."

"I've heard the stories." You mimic your Captain's gesture. "barely hangin' off a heli and still managing to rush the enemy? Impressive."

"Upside down at that." Price claps Kyle's shoulder, causing him to become bashful at his Captain's words.

Your Captain averts his gaze to Johnny and Simon, who are on their last disarming. "Are you lot finished, yet?"

He goes on to berate the two who were taking a wee bit too long for his liking, leaving the both of you alone. Kyle awkwardly shifts his weight as he hovers his hand over his gun.

Your gaze is intense on him, not even bothering to pick up any conversation. He can practically see your tail twirling, feeling at ease with his presence while he feels himself gnawing away at his insides to say anything.

He takes a breath. "You're a lot calmer than I thought."

You shrug. "Well, when you've outlasted seven crews, what's eight?"

"Yeah, about that," You both pause for a moment, observing as a throng of pedestrians treks on the sidewalk just a few yards away, but they disappear behind the buildings unaware of your militant presence. "you wanna tell me why you're the only one who's made it out?"

You narrow your eyes at him. He is right to be suspicious, but you didn't feel like being scrutinized for the nth time. You were proven innocent in every situation, but something lingers in the back of your mind that makes you feel guilty every time. The memories of your missions have gone south, the sharp sting of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you dodge ricocheting bullets. But you shake the thoughts away. "Another time, maybe. Don't wanna jinx it, do we now?"

Kyle grins at that. His honey eyes fixate on you, searching your expression for anything that will give way to what you're really thinking.

Before either of you can say more, Price's voice cuts through the air. "Enough chit-chat. We've got one more to disarm and I want it done before anyone catches wind of what we're up to."

The tension between you dissolves as a new one accumulates in your shoulders as you refocus on the task and approach the final IED. You begin to feel the reality of the situation hit you when you realize everything could go insanely wrong. The public may be unaware, but the consequences of failure are all too real. Your consequences, your failure.

Price gestures for you to take the lead on this one, after all, you're the one he's really examining. You don't realize it, but he has full belief in your abilities. He's read your file and he knows damn well what you're capable of. You're under the scrutiny of your teammates, but one shoulder squeeze from your Cap gives you the morale boost to drop to one knee and begin your work.

Upon investigating the device, you realize it's like the other devices and you feel yourself relax a little. Kyle is at your side, and trepidation seeps into your fingers as they cruise over the wires.

"Blue or red?" he asks.

You don't even skip a beat. "Blue." you reply, trusting your instincts. "On my count."

Kyle readies himself with his wire cutters. "One. Two. Three."

You both carefully snip the wires, and for a moment it feels like the world stops. Your eyes watch as the device powers down, neutralizing the threat.

"That's it." you breathe out, feeling relief wash over you as allow your shoulders to relax.

Price steps forward, and claps you both on the back. "Good work, Wisp, both of you. Civvies are starting to get curious around here."

Wisp?

"Yeah, Wisp! Tha's a good one, Cap!" Johnny cheers, holding out his hands to give you a double high five. You giggle at the unexpected enthusiasm, but you high-five him back and intertwined your fingers together and he does a mini jig.

"Did a fine job." Simon politely nods, respecting your space, unlike his idiotic, cutesy counterpart.

Kyle clicks his tongue but is grinning otherwise at your success. The Scotsman can flirt all day with you, but he knows there is some brimming between you two. It was simply a game of cat and mouse at this point.

Wisp.

As you gather your gear, a lingering sense of impending doom still skulks in the back of your mind. You feel an itch under the skin where your past scars have healed over, but it's duller than usual. Pushing it to the back of your mind, you fall into step with Kyle feeling as though something has shifted in your dynamic with everyone.

In that crucial moment, Kyle trusted you. They all trusted you. It lingers in your mind, a question left unasked.

Kyle nudges, catching your gaze. His smile stretches beautifully across his face. "Guess we make a good team don't we, Wisp?"

Wisp.

You can't help but return the smile, feeling the butterflies settle in your stomach. You feel reborn. "Guess we do."

As you walk away from the site, blending back into the hustle and bustle of the city, you can't help but wonder what your next mission will bring. Whether the tension that is rising between Kyle and you will go unspoken. For now, you'll allow yourself to savor your victory. You've come out of it unscathed. They came out of it unscathed. As awful as it was, that's more than what you could ever say about your last teammates.

And as the rain falls softly around you, you feel like the hell you've endured is somehow worth it.

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hynzsn · 6 months ago

Text

★ CHAPTER ONE: BERRY BEST BEGINNING ★

chapter one of ₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕STRAWBERRY KISSES ꒱ ˚₊

☆ choi soobin x male reader

-> sunshine baker!soobin x grumpy (secretly soft) farmer!reader

꩜ .ᐟ fluff

contents: loosely inspired by strawberry shortcake (tv show), opposites attract, m/m, strawberries, romance, slice of life, slight enemies to lovers (at least grumpy x sunshine potential), humor, bakery, farm, forced proximity, small town setting, mutual pining (brewing already!), summer, summer vibes, lighthearted & sweet, slow burn, feel good, height difference, summer berry festival, awkward encounters, did someone say strawberries?

wc: 2.3k

summary: meet soobin, the sunshine baker known for his award-winning pastries and infectious laugh. his bakery, "crumbs & co.," is the heart of shortcake springs, especially during the annual summer berry festival. but disaster strikes – he's out of strawberries, his star ingredient! enter you, the gruff but handsome owner of "sun-kissed berries," known for your organic, mouthwatering produce. soobin, desperate and flustered, begs you for help. you, initially hesitant due to the last-minute request and your own demanding schedule, is charmed by soobin’s passion and agrees to help, setting the stage for a week of unexpected collaboration.

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

welcome to shortcake springs, a place where life was as sweet and satisfying as a perfectly crafted strawberry shortcake. nestled amidst rolling hills and fields bursting with color, the town was a patchwork of charm and rustic elegance. the air, always tinted with the sweetness of ripening berries, carried the laughter of children playing in the town square, a space as inviting and comforting as a fluffy biscuit base. quaint brick buildings, their faces adorned with overflowing flower boxes, lined main street, each shop a treasure trove of local delights, much like the hidden pockets of juicy strawberries within a well-made shortcake.

and just like the crowning dollop of whipped cream, the annual summer berry festival was the pinnacle of the town's year, a celebration of all things fruity and joyful. it was a time for neighbors to come together, for traditions to be shared, and for the air to be filled with the irresistible aroma of freshly baked dreams.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the aroma of baking bread and simmering fruit usually heralded the dawn in this quaint corner of the world. but today, a different kind of energy crackled through the air - a blend of rising panic and the sweet, sharp scent of desperation. it clung to choi soobin like a fine dusting of flour as he frantically rummaged through his walk-in refrigerator.

"no, no, no!" the word escaped him, a low groan that echoed off the stainless steel shelves, starkly contrasting with his usually disposition. his bakery, "crumbs & co," was a symphony of warmth and light, the kind of place where worries melted away with the first bite of a blueberry muffin. but right now, the only thing melting was soobin's composure.

he was out of strawberries. completely, utterly, devastatingly out. and not just any strawberries - these were the plump, ruby-red jewels destined for his legendary strawberry shortcake, the crown jewel of the annual summer berry festival, just a week away.

"okay, soobin, think," he muttered, pushing a hand through his already-tousled hair. he looked like a classic storybook baker, flour-dusted apron slightly askew, a smudge of strawberry jam on his cheek, and eyes wide with a mixture of distress and determination. "who has the best damn strawberries within a fifty-mile radius?"

the answer, as clear and bright as the summer sky outside, slammed into him like a runaway pie cart. it was a name whispered with reverence by townsfolk and pastry enthusiasts alike: y/n, the enigmatic owner of "sun-kissed berries."

y/n. even your name sounded like something out of a folk song, rough around the edges yet undeniably alluring. soobin had only caught glimpses of you at the local farmer's market, and there was always one thing that stood out to him the most - your eyes. your eyes which could probably melt glaciers with a single glance. you had a reputation for being a bit gruff, a man of few words and even fewer smiles. but damn, could you grow some strawberries.

soobin glanced at the calendar on the wall, each day marked with a reminder of the rapidly approaching festival. it was a long shot, a desperate plea. but desperation, as they say, was the mother of all questionable life choices. and right now, soobin was ready to adopt that questionable life choice and call it his own.

"alright y/n," soobin muttered, grabbing his keys and mentally preparing himself for potential rejection. "time to see if those rumours about your heart being as soft as your strawberries are actually true."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the drive to "sun-kissed berries," was a blur of verdant fields and soobin's increasingly frantic internal monologue. he'd rehearsed his plea at least a dozen times, each iteration more desperate than the last. he just had to convince you to part with your precious strawberries. his reputation, his sanity, and possibly the entire happiness index of the town depended on it.

he pulled up to the farm, a charmingly rustic spread with a weathered wooden sign that read "sun-kissed berries - taste the difference." soobin's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that rivaled the beat of a hummingbird's wings. he took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of freshly turned earth, and, yes, the unmistakable sweetness of ripe strawberries. it was like walking into a goddamn fruit-themed fairytale.

he spotted you immediately. you were bent over a row of strawberry plants, a straw hat shading your eyes as you inspected the fruit with a focus that bordered on reverence. even from a distance, soobin could see the way the sun glinted off your hair, the way your shoulders moved with an easy strength that made his stomach do a weird little flip.

"okay, soobin," he whispered to himself, "play it cool. be charming. channel your inner pastry god."

he strode towards you, each step a symphony of squeaking sneakers and mounting anxiety. as he got closer, he could hear you humming a low tune, a melody as warm and comforting as a summer breeze. you still hadn't noticed him, too engrossed in the world of your berries.

"um, hello?" soobin called out, his voice a little higher-pitched than intended.

you straightened up, turning to face him with a slow deliberateness that sent a shiver down soobin's spine. your eyes, sharp and startingly intense, met his, and for a moment, soobin forgot how to breathe.

"can i help you?" you asked, your voice a low rumble that resonated deep within soobin's chest. it was the kind of voice that could narrate audiobooks and make grocery lists sound like poetry.

"i, uh..." soobin stammered, his carefully rehearsed speech dissolving like sugar in rainwater. he felt like an idiot, standing there with his mouth flapping like a landed fish.

you raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes. "cat got your tongue?"

"more like strawberry stole my vocabulary," soobin blurted out, mentally kicking himself for the lame joke.

to his surprise, a low chuckle rumbled from your chest. "that's a new one." you leaned back against a weathered fence post, crossing your arms over your chest. "so, what brings the town baker to my humble berry patch?"

soobin took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to slow down to something resembling a normal rhythm. "right, well, you see, y/n," he began, trying to inject his voice with a confidence he definitely didn't feel, "i'm in a bit of a predicament."

"predicament?" you echoed, tilting your head slightly. the sunlight caught the side of your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the faintest hint of stubble. soobin briefly wandered what it would be like to trace those lines with his fingertips, then mentally scolded himself for having inappropriate thoughts about a guy who could probably bench-press a tractor.

"yes, a predicament of epic, pastry-related proportions," soobin said, wincing internally at his own rambling. "you see, the summer berry festival is in a week..."

"i'm aware," you interrupted, a hint of amusement in your voice. "it's kind of hard to miss all the posters plastered around town with that giant strawberry mascot on them."

soobin blushed, realizing he was stating the obvious. "right, of course," he mumbled. "well, the thing is, my strawberry shortcakes are, like, a huge thing at the festival. people line up for hours. there are even rumours of a black market for the last few boxes."

you chuckled, a deep throaty sound that sent a pleasant shiver down soobin's spine. "sounds serious."

"it is!" soobin exclaimed, his desperation finally breaking through. "and the thing is, i, uh, i may have...miscalculated...the amount of strawberries i needed."

"miscalculated?' you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

soobin cringed. "okay, fine, i completely forgot to order more and now i'm completely out and the festival is in a week and..." he trailed off, realizing that he was starting to hyperventilate.

you studied him for a moment, your gaze intense and unnervingly perceptive. soobin felt like you could see right through his flour-dusted apron, into the depths of his slightly panicked soul.

"so," you said slowly, "you're asking me..."

"for your strawberries?" soobin blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "please. y/n, you're my only hope! your strawberries are legendary! they're like little drops of sunshine kissed by angels!"

okay maybe he went a tad overboard with the description, but he was desperate!

you didn't reply right away. you just stood there, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on your face as you surveyed soobin with those intense eyes. soobin resisted the urge to fidget, reminding himself that he was a pastry god, a master of dough and sugar, and he could handle a little bit of awkward silence.

"you know," you finally said, your voice deceptively casual, "most people place orders in advance."

soobin winced. "yes, i’m aware of how business transactions usually work," he said, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "but this is... a unique situation. a perfect storm of baking enthusiasm and forgetfulness."

you let out a low chuckle, the sound unexpectedly pleasant. "let me guess, you were up all night perfecting a new glaze, lost track of time, and by the time you remembered the strawberries, it was too late?"

soobin stared at you, his mouth slightly agape. "how...how did you know that?"

you shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. "lucky guess. plus, you've got a bit of flour in your hair."

soobin's hand flew to his head, self-consciously brushing away the stray but of baking evidence. he was mortified. he prided himself on his usually impeccable appearance, but clearly, his strawberry-induced meltdown had taken it's toll.

"look," you said, your voice softening slightly, "i appreciate the...enthusiasm. and your shortcakes do sound legendary."

"they are!" soobin interjected. clutching at the compliment like a lifeline.

you held up a hand, silencing him. "but," you continued, "my strawberries are spoken for. i've got contracts with half the restaurants in town, not to mention the farmer's market this weekend."

soobin's heart plummeted. he knew it was a long shot, but hearing you confirm it felt like a punch to the gut. his festival dreams, his reputation, his very existence as a baker flashed before his eyes.

"but..." you added, and soobin dared to hope again.

you pushed away from the fence post, tilting your head back slightly to meet soobin's eyes. even with the height difference, your gaze held steady, those same intense eyes studying him with an unnerving perceptiveness. soobin was really fighting the urge to fidget under your scrutiny, but he also couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the way you had to look up at him.

"i might," you said slowly, your voice low and a touch of conspiratorial, "have a small surplus."

soobin's head tilted in response, hope surging through him like a shot of espresso. "you do?"

"maybe," you said, a playful glint in your eyes, "but it'll cost you."

soobin would have empties his bakery fund, his savings account, and possibly sold his prized collection of vintage rolling pins at that moment. "anything," he blurted out. "name your price."

you let out a deep an rich chuckle, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you. "relax, baker boy. i'm not going to bankrupt you. at least, not today." you paused, tapping a finger against your chin thoughtfully. "tell you what. you help me around the farm this week, leading up to the festival - i’m harvesting the last of the season's - and those surplus berries are all yours."

soobin blinked, momentarily distracted by how close you were now. he could practically smell the fresh earth and sunshine clinging to your clothes. "help you...on the farm?"he echoed, trying to focus on the conversation ad not the way your presence seemed to fill his senses. he couldn't help but picture himself, covered in dirt and probably a few insects, fumbling his way through a field of strawberries. it wasn't exactly the image he usually projected.

you seemed to find his hesitation amusing. "don't worry, i won't put you to work on any heavy machinery," you said, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "unless you're secretly a tractor enthusiast in disguise."

soobin laughed, a wave of relief washing over him. "i think i'll stick to my ovens for now," he said. "but a deal's a deal. you've got yourself a farmhand, y/n."

you extended your hand, your grip firm and surprisingly warm against soobin's. "welcome aboard, soobin," you said, a genuine smile finally spreading across your face. it transformed younfrom gruff owner to someone....well, someone soobin could definitely see himself spending a lot lf time with, both in the strawberry fields and maybe, just maybe, somewhere a little more...private. he quickly shoved that thought aside. focus, soobin. strawberries. festival. right.

"so," you continued, your voice snapping soobin out of his daydreams, "be here bright and early tomorrow, and wear clothes you don't mind getting dirty. and soobin?"

"yeah?"

"leave the fancy pastries at home. we'll have our work cut out for us, and i prefer my sugar rush in the form of freshly picked strawberries."

soobin grinned, his heart feeling lighter than it had in days. "deal." he gave you a little wave, unable to contain his happy energy. "i should probably let you get back to it. i’ll be here bright and early tomorrow, ready to work...and maybe sample a few strawberries." he added the last part with a playful wink, earning himself another chuckle from you.

turning to leave, soobin felt a lightness in his step that hadn't bee there before. as he walked back to his vespa, the setting sun casting long shadows across the farm, he couldn't shake the feeling that this unexpected turn of events might just be the sweetest thing. he'd stumbled upon all year.

he slid onto his vespa, the scent of strawberries clinging to his clothes, his apron, and pulled away from "sun-kissed berries," his heart full of anticipation for the week ahead. he had a feeling that it was going to be a berry good one.

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sirenedeslily · 21 days ago

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VIDEO OBSESSION〻ᯇ # matthew sturniolo

✦ SEARCHING FOR PROFILES… two results found !

result ONE out of TWO — @FallenAngels

Y/N GREENBLATT, streamer known for her gaming skills and pretty visuals. seven stars cigarette. moon during a snowstorm. mtl › nyc. thé matcha 26. nyx cold brew lip liner. ‘03 stargirl. coy. cinephile. back tattoos. vanilla vodka infused. alluring. chrome heart uggs. silver jewelry. white orchid. dazed. tangled & wired headphones. black cat. sirene gaze. sullen girl by fiona apple. sweet talker. guarded. shows care in subtle ways. handwritten letters. sensitive. classic black eyeliner, smudged like a memory. mushishi. overpriced coffee. blue velvet (1986). her dream collab? a limited-edition hoodie with cibo matto album art, designed by a tumblr artist she once reblogged. midnight ‘silent hill 2’ streams.

VICTORIA WALKER, cheetah print. manicured nails. dean blunt. monchhicci. started off streaming with y/n, now focusing on her music. tumblr girl gone global. fur boots. london › nyc. betty boop. tom ford vanilla sex. pocket-sized camcorder. ‘01 baby. rick owens. reclusive but magnetic. spider lily. ipod nano. minecraft. angels by a$ap rocky. paradise kiss. 11:11. chrome heart grills. dream collabs? yves tumor, peggy gou, and a track with a.g. cook that’s “still in the works.” mismatched tiffany bracelets. unreleased a$ap mob.

AERI UCHINAGA, pink-haired enigma. macbook photobooth. mean lesbian. twitch streamer turned cultural icon. cherry blossom. prettiestproblem on and offline. perfect blue (1997). harajuku streetwear. retired scene kid. björk. self-released ep titled “petal circuit”—a mix of shoegaze and hyperpop with haunting vocals. tokyo › nyc. widowmaker main. paranoia agent soundtrack. byredo’s blanche. ‘00 doll. two weeks by fka twigs. synth lab streams with modular glitches. dating ning yizhuo; model. domo.

HAMZAH SALEH, slush puppie. bone comics. vintage quiksilver tees. duct-taped backpack. messy. tony hawk fingerboards. his youtube history? “how to ollie without looking lame”. polar bears. co-runs slushy noobz; a youtube channel. created a subreddit called r/CherrySlushiesAnonymous. circa ‘02. napoleon dynamite (2004). cherry airheads. sega dreamcast he won’t shut up about. ck one. spider-man pez. xbox 360. unbrushed curls. owns a lego keychain of marah; his girlfriend. scrawny by wallows. steve lacy.

MARAH ADEL, doll eyes. celestial paradox. possession (1981). iced lavender lattes, leaves the last sip untouched “for the spirits”. heaven by marc jacobs. medieval angelology. ethel cain. ‘03 angel. tattoo artist of the hidden soul, her studio, melancholie, drips in velvet, candied amethyst light, and the faint hum of dusty jazz vinyl. etruscan art. dario argento films. night drives to nowhere. secretly hid a chipped rose quartz under hamzah’s bed. antique heart lockets. soft leather boots. faded polaroids. sparse. mtl › nyc. messy bangs. labdanum no. 3. seperpentskirt by cocteau twins.

back to masterlist! - profile two @ChromeHearts

🖥️𓈒ིུ✧꫶᳜᳝͟ᰭ✿⃨ TRENDING NOW ! matt sturniolo was known for many things: his striking looks, his dominance in the gaming world, and his complete inability to keep his cool around beautiful women. so it’s almost poetic—almost—that his fiery temper explodes during an intense fortnite match, broadcasted live to thousands, only to discover later that the player who completely shattered his pride was y/n greenblatt, one of the most beloved streamers in the community—and undeniably beautiful.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ plsplsplspls send asks about these characters !!!

TAGLIST ( open ) ; @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @waitforyrlove @elizabebabe @ncm9696 @marrykisskilled @l34n @sturniolossss @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @mattscoquette @chratts-left-ball @jetaimevous @angelesqve @starlace111 @secretlocket @starkeyszn @etherealval @slut4chriss @star-yawnznn @nickmillersn1gf @sturnsmia @tastesousweet @strnilolover @xoxo4chrisss @ifwdominicfike @emely9274 @maggot3647 @fratbrochrisgf @2augustsago @sturn777

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buzzcutlip · 5 months ago

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Hiiii... For your dialogue prompts could you do 'can't sleep?' or 'don't look at me like that' please?

You choose the character, whoever you think fits best.

Much love <3

Hi Amy, thank you for sending the prompt, here's one for you :) It exist in the Obsession universe (because I'm obsessed with it).

Prompt: "Don't look at me like that" Richie Jerimovich x Fem!Reader 1000+ words (happens in this universe, and after this - but I don't think you need to read it, however, it can be a bit vague)

Through the gaps between the guests' bodies, their shoulders and arms, you spot Richie. He’s shoving canapés into his mouth, the delicate, bite-sized bruschettas and caviar blini looking especially small in his long, thick fingers. It’s obvious he hasn’t eaten, which is typical Richie—he’s the “only coffee and cigarettes until midday, at least” guy, then grabs something quick, just to stuff himself with greasy fast food later in the evening.

You hate how well you know him, how hard it is not to notice his presence in Nat and Pete’s living room, crowded with close and extended family members, Pete’s co-workers, and of course, The Bear crew. Richie’s dressed in an unusual outfit—not a suit, but not his typical sweatsuit either. He’s wearing washed Levi’s and a dark gray henley.

You’d be lying if you said he doesn’t look good. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t still a little heartbroken over what he told you two weeks ago. This can’t happen again.

Petulantly, you don’t go over to greet him. Instead, you talk to Marcus, then catch Pete to congratulate him on the baby, handing him a card in a nice, expensive envelope. In the kitchen, you pour some fresh orange juice, bypass the alcohol, and cram as many ice cubes as you can into the glass. You don’t watch Richie directly, but you’re aware of his every movement.

Donna’s trying to shush everyone because Natalie’s putting the baby down in the nursery, which strikes you as funny—funny and ironic. You have little patience for parents who messed up their kids’ lives, whether it’s your own parents, Donna Berzatto, or the countless irresponsible people who should never have had children.

By the large window overlooking the garden, Richie finally approaches you. Small victories.

“What’re you doing?” His voice, once soothing, now grates on you.

That catches you off guard—it’s not what you were expecting.

“Celebrating the baby,” you reply, raising your half-empty glass of juice.

Richie scoffs, glancing up at the ceiling. It takes you a moment to catch up. He’s so simple, yet so complicated.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Richie warns, and you realize he’s noticed your constant awareness of him.

“Like what?” you play dumb.

“Like it’s all my fault,” Richie snaps, his voice rising slightly. One of the uncles turns to look.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you decide not to react. With so many people around, you don’t want to cause a scene. Under Richie’s heavy gaze, you leave the room and head upstairs in search of a bathroom.

Once you’ve freshened up, wiping the black mascara marks from under your eyes and reapplying your lipstick, you feel a bit better. But as soon as you open the door, Richie is right there, hooking his arm through yours and leading you into the nearest room—a guest room, from the look of it.

“What?” you snap, shaking him off and turning to face him.

“I wanna know what’s going on with you,” Richie growls, leaning down until your faces are mere inches apart.

The tension between you is thick, a mix of unresolved emotions and an undeniable physical pull. You both stand there, breathing heavily, caught between the chaos of the party downstairs and the storm brewing in this quiet room.

You can’t believe him. “What’s going on with me? You said things couldn’t happen again, but they did—once, twice. And it was you who initiated it.”

The weight of unspoken words and unsaid truths hangs heavily between you.

Richie steps back, half-turning as he groans loudly, covering his eyes with his large palm.

“Now you wanna pretend nothing ever happened?” you accuse, your voice sounding weaker than you intended.

Richie looks at you with an intensity that both excites and terrifies you. “Because it has to be that way. Fuck—I could be your dad. Jesus.” His hand flexes at his side, like he’s trying to hold himself back.

“But you’re not!” you shout. Richie steps back into your space, gripping your bare arm with one hand while covering your mouth with the other.

“There are people,” Richie hisses, his gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes.

For a second, you freeze, then you shake him off and step away. You don’t know this side of him—serious, cold, holding on to his façade as tightly as he can.

“I’m tired of never talking about it,” you say, shaking your head, glowering. You still call it “it,” avoiding the truth.

Richie frowns at you, his deep blue eyes searching for something. The noise from downstairs is loud—laughter, clinking glasses, doors opening and closing. It’s a wild new baby celebration, Berzatto-style. Better laughter than screaming.

A hollow feeling grows in your chest with each passing second. You’re afraid to speak up, so you wait for Richie to make a move.

“What if I said I wanted it?”

“Wanted what?” you ask, trying to mask the tremble in your voice, scared to hope that he means what you think he does. Would a man like Richie really give in? It’s never simple with him—his demons, his baggage, all the walls he’s built.

“If I wanted—this,” Richie waves between the two of you, avoiding your eyes.

Your stomach tightens. It’s not what you’d hoped for deep down, and a pang of disappointment hits you, but you knew this was coming. You step closer to him, your chest brushing against his. The magnetic pull between you is undeniable, and you know if you give in, it’ll consume you both. Maybe that’s exactly what you want. Friends with benefits never ends happily.

In the end, it’s Richie who reaches for you, kissing you with Earth-shattering force. His fingers, smelling faintly of olives, chives, and cigarettes, cradle your face, and you weakly cup his cheeks, feeling his beard under your palms.

You hear yourself whimper as your tongues meet, your eyebrows knitting together as your face crumples. You’re on the verge of tears. Maybe you are crying—Richie doesn’t understand anything, he’s so fucking stupid, and you can’t tell him, because then he’ll leave you and never come back.

The thoughts spur you on. You lead the kiss, desperately pressing closer, standing on your tiptoes, licking into his mouth, biting his lip. He grabs your wrists, as if he wants to say something, but you don’t let him.

Then a loud cracking noise from downstairs jolts you both, and you pull apart, fear of getting caught overtaking the need within you.

Your eyes are heavy with want, arousal pulsing through your body. Richie doesn’t look any better.

“Okay,” you say, though your heart flutters with a mix of anticipation and caution. “But if we’re doing this, it has to be clear—no more mixed signals. No denial.”

Richie’s eyes darken as he steps closer again, his hand trailing down your arm. “Deal,” he says, his voice low, filled with that familiar, irresistible edge. He leans in, his breath brushing against your lips. “We stick to what we know.”

#I don't even know anymore #if this makes any sense #...#richie jerimovich #the obsession verse #the bear #richie jerimovich x reader #richie jerimovich x you #richie jerimovich fanfic #richie jerimovich fic #the bear fanfic #the bear fanfiction #ebon moss bachrach

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miguelhugger2099 · 1 year ago

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Dr. Miguel O'Hara Everyone knows about the pretty boy at the lab, Miguel O'Hara. He's confident, intelligent and maybe not the friendliest. Also might be the loneliest. So, you decide to shoot your shot on a whim. No Warnings. First post, kinda nervous. Not proofread at all. Just something to get out my system. Word Count: 1,805

Breathe in and breathe out.

That’s what you told yourself as you clutched a stack of papers to your chest. You squeezed your way through a pack of people in the hallway, murmuring your excuses as your mind was somewhere else. While bumping into your boss, he requested your help on sending out documents as he was busy with other pressing matters. To keep your job, you smiled and accepted it with outstretched hands. The stack was heavy enough to make you huff and lug it against you for a more comfortable position.

The slight burn in your arms made you switch between the two sides of yourself and you became nosy to peep through the names on the documents. You noted that the papers came stapled together in packets along with names at the top left corner. Some names were recognizable and some were not.

Dr. Octavius

Dr. Connors

Dr. O’ Hara–

O’Hara.

Ah.

You stopped in your tracks as you stared at the name. O’Hara was no stranger by any means. Women and men alike would either fawn or scowl at the mere mention of his name. It was weird how popularity and gossip thrived even in the workforce but you quickly shrugged it off eventually. You'd' only been working at Alchemax for a few months now after moving to Nueva York from your hometown. Despite all that, you’ve gained the pleasure of eavesdropping on your female co-workers shamelessly talking hot gossip between themselves during lab hours about Dr. O’Hara. He was incredibly handsome, no doubt– you’ve seen him yourself. You two have passed by each other since your lunch breaks were fairly close to one another.

It was an uncommon hour, done at an earlier time than most so usually you’d be the only one in the breakroom to collect your lunch. He’d pop in the breakroom with a deep frown on his face, and his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. His large frame would swiftly move to the coffee machine and his broad shoulders would essentially cover the entire counter while the buzz of the brewing began. He seemed to be in his own world, staring intently as the brew dripped into his mug. When the machine notified him it had finished, he’d sniff his nose and push his glasses back up on his nose bridge before coughing slightly, taking his mug and exiting the room without another word. He was rarely ever around people and rarely ever smiling– always focused on his job.

His attractiveness was undeniable but he wasn’t much of a talker. You didn’t mind though. You weren’t much one either. So, even though there was a leap in your chest whenever your eyes landed on him, you never really did much outside of it. You’ve thought to yourself many times to maybe strike up a “hello” but even that felt too much. But today, in this moment, with his name plastered on the documents in your hand, you gained an impulsive urge to maybe, possibly talk to him.

There was a huge chance he’d reject you but the adrenaline of the idea was already seeping through your veins and nothing could stop you in this moment. So, you made your way doing your job to deliver these papers as you had a vague idea of where these scientists offices were with the help of a few people you asked along the way. The stack eventually became much lighter as you went through them and soon enough you got to O’Hara’s office.

You faced the door with his name engraved at the top. It was shut closed and you could vaguely hear the click-clacking of the keyboard. With a deep breath and a small pep talk to yourself, you gently knocked on the door with your knuckles. You heard a pause on the other end before the typing continued.

“Come in.” A gruff voice was muffled. You took that as your sign to enter inside, opening the door with a careful squeak on the hinges. Inside was a fairly large room, occupied with various beakers, labels and notes stuck on pin boards around the walls. It was best described as an organized mess evident when he stood up and plucked a clipboard from his other desk under the rubble of scientific clutter before sitting back down at his computer desk. If you hadn’t literally just heard him give access to enter the room, you would’ve thought you trespassed with the way he barely acknowledged your existence.

You craned your neck around to take in his space and ultimately settled your eyes on him. He glanced at both his clipboard and computer screen, probably typing up one of his written reports. You walked over to his side and neither of you spoke. In your mind, a part of you was wondering if this was a good idea and the other part of you realized that he is much much more handsome than the rumors let on. Sure, you’ve seen him but only at a glance. Up close, you noticed he had small wrinkles above his forehead that became prominent when he raised his eyebrows to fix the glasses sliding down his nose. His plump lips pursed slightly when he made a mistake on his computer, furiously pressing backspace. His hair was brown with a tinge of a red hue in them and a bit of stress gray strands of hair. Accompanying it was a small face with a sharp jawline and equally strong cheekbones. It was clear he took care of himself. He really was pretty.

He obviously felt you staring. The silence became unbearable when it was awkward so he coughed that sounded like a grunt. “Did you…need something?” He asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. His voice had a soft rumble to it, you noted.

You flinched softly, blinking as he popped you out of your thinking. You fumbled with the papers in your hands, quickly flipping through the files to hand him the one with his name on it. “Dr. Stone informed me to give you these copies of the recent results from the data collected earlier this week,” You offered it to him with one hand while your other hand held the rest of the stack against your hip.

He accepted the papers with a hesitant small nod, taking them carefully and placing it beside him by moving a few knick knacks away. He pushed his glasses back up with his index finger and gave you another neutral look. “Now if there isn’t anything else…” His eyes darted towards the door and back at you, his body prepared to turn back to his work.

“Well, there is this one thing…” You fiddled with the other papers in your hand nervously. “I was thinking maybe, if you'd like to have lunch with me one of these days.” You didn’t look at him, opting out for the colorful sticky notes stuck to the side of his monitor. You wondered what ‘call him’ was about.

He raised an eyebrow at you, his brown eyes studying your face carefully before speaking again. “Lunch?” He repeated, his tone was still on guard. “I don’t remember wanting to have lunch with anyone.”

You knew he was blunt so you didn’t take it too personally, but couldn’t he have been a little nicer? The confidence you had built up was slowly falling apart by the second. You stammered over yourself as you tried to explain with a crack in your self-esteem. “I didn’t mean to assume that you wanted to, just that maybe you’d like to. Although, I guess it would be presumptuous of me to think you’d agree to have lunch with someone you’ve never met before. But I thought it’d be a nice change of pace because I don’t have anyone to have lunch with either,” You realized how that came out and began panicking to explain your explanation. “Not to say you’re like me or anything! You probably have friends. Not probably, you do!” You rambled on and on, tripping over words and realizing that you should’ve never let that random impulse drive your decision making.

O’Hara stared at you for longer than necessary, his eyes looking at your face with a plain look but he was considering your offer. He turned back to face his monitor in his swivel chair, beginning to type again. Without looking at you, he spoke, “Alright. I’ll humor you,” He said. “We can go out for lunch tomorrow. For some fresh air and whatnot.”

A spark of hope bloomed in your chest. Despite the caution in his voice, a smile grew on your face. “Tomorrow? Yeha, great! I-I know this place–a cafe spot. You like coffee, right? They also have tea. They have loads of stuff–I can show you the menu!” Your voice got a bit loud from excitement.

He raised an eyebrow again, trying to hide his annoyance at your enthusiasm. “Coffee’s fine,” He said reluctantly, “but just that. I don’t waste too much time on lunch anyway.”

His annoyance went over your head and you mistook it for acceptance. “Sure! I promise it’ll be good,” You smiled at him. Looking down at the papers, you remembered the reason you were originally here for. “Well, I have to send out the rest of the papers, but I’ll be back tomorrow for lunch.” You let out a small sigh of relief and head to the door, waving excitedly. “Bye!” Giving him another warm smile before exiting the room.

O’Hara shook his head softly and continued working like nothing out of the ordinary happened. However, inside, he was battling with conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to reject you completely, shutting you and anyone else from pushing his boundaries. This was work after all, but another part of him was curious. He’d seen you before but his brain just blurred your face out with the rest of his co-workers. He sighs and leans back in his chair with his eyes focused on the screen but not reading anything in particular. Taking off his glasses, he tosses them to the keyboard and rubs his face. The unease in his chest wouldn’t go away. It was uncomfortable and he hated it. But he already agreed to it so he had to suck it up. He groaned and picked up his glasses again, placing it on his nose and took a look at the packet of documents you handed him earlier.

Meanwhile, you had a pep in your step since you left O’Haras office. This was progress, you told yourself. For yourself and Dr. O’Hara. You hummed happily while delivering the rest of the papers, buzzing with excitement that maybe, just maybe, something good will come out of this.

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel ohara

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resowrites · 8 months ago

Text

Special Brew - oneshot.

Summary: Henry’s interview gets gatecrashed…

Pairings: AU!Henry Cavill x Reader/Wife!OC, Interviewer

Warnings: fluff, banter/British humour, fake interview, language, dialogue heavy, nondescript reader/OC body type/appearance, hastily written/lightly proofread.

WC: 2221

A/N: Hi folks I know it’s been a while, work’s nuts these days. This is very rushed and was meant to be longer (I wanted to base it on something I’d written previously) but for the sake of just getting something uploaded I decided to post as is. Sorry I can’t post regularly anymore but I hope you enjoy all the same - R x

Remember, this is pure fiction (as in completely made up), and not in any way meant to reflect reality. My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Gifs/pics not my own. Thanks for visiting!

Special Brew - oneshot.

The following is an excerpt from an article that can be read in full here.

— It's at about the halfway mark in my interview with the 41-year-old Hollywood actor, Henry Cavill, when I notice his attention is caught by something offscreen.

"Where did you get that?" I think I hear 'the fridge, you dickhead,' in reply. He grins. But instead of resuming our discussion about his upcoming role in the rebooted 80's classic, Highlander, he starts gesturing for someone to join him. It fails. So seconds later his partner is pulled onto his lap despite some very loud protestations. He tells her it's her fault for taking his last tin of lager. She tells him she needs it more. What then follows is an almost a four-and-a-half minute squabble - yes I actually timed it - which ends with Henry relinquishing the can on the proviso that if he has to be interviewed, she does as well. I don't take offense but soon wondered if that was premature:

"Who's interviewing you? The Telegraph?"

"No, The Guardian--"

"Wouldn't the Telegraph be more interested?" He gestures in my direction.

"Well, I assume Mark is all the same!"

"And how long have you been keeping this poor bastard?"

"We've not even been chatting half an hour!"

"Oh… have you got a second question for him?" I smile. The 35-year-old financier first met the actor in 2015 and they were rumoured to have married in 2022. Not that either of them, his publicist, or even various social media accounts provide much in the way of confirmation. This seems to stem more from a desire for privacy where possible than anything else. Though it must be said, at first glance they make for an incongruous pair. She catches me peering at her still towel-wrapped hair, Celtic jersey, and joggers combo and wastes no time striking first:

"That's a nice shirt--"

"Don't be cheeky, just 'cos you could have made more of an effort--"

"It's my day off! At least I don't look like an undercover policeman." Is she referring to Henry or myself?

"I don't know, stand up," I laugh but he just rolls his eyes. "Has he apologised for Aryglle yet? To be fair that was actually my fault, I wanted a new kitchen." This lays the ground for what is arguably one of the most chaotic interviews I've experienced in a while.

"Do you see what I mean, Mark? It's not that she wouldn't be media trained, it's that she couldn't." Now she rolls her eyes.

"See, he thinks he's being slick by making me look bad--"

"I'm the one who does that?!"

"So he looks better by comparison--"

"Is that right? And what was wrong with Aryglle?!"

"Nothing! It's the best thing you've ever done. Even if you didn't mean for it to be." She coughs to try and cover a laugh. I ask for her thoughts on his most recent box office offering (Guy Ritchie's spy action comedy, The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare) but for a split second, the title escapes me.

"You mean The Manly Ministry of Something?" Henry tuts and grabs back the can. I dare to question if she has a low opinion of the profession in general. "No, it's more to do with the actors themselves." How so? "Well, considering they're usually the biggest gobshites you'd think it'd be great craic hanging out with them--" he quickly interjects.

"Who are you calling a gobshite?!"

'What do you mean?"

"You know fine well what I mean!" Henry turns back towards me and continues. "Even her own mother took me aside a couple of weeks after we started dating to try and warn me--"

"She never! What did she say?"

"Do you really want to discuss that right now?!" It can't be that bad then, I respond. He shakes his head, despairingly. "Oh no, just that she once walked on stage at a school assembly and instead of graciously accepting an award, pretended to trip so she could drag every single trophy off the display table!"

"… Can you tell he went to a private school?" I almost spit my drink out.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you not realise how tame that sounds?!"

"But that was just the first month you were there!"

"Then I deserved an award--"

"Hang on, she also told me that when you had an after-school detention on your birthday, you climbed out the window of the room you were being supervised in--"

"Normally I'd just get on the bus and go home so that time they gave me a personal escort--"

"And then refused to come down from the roof unless they gave her a birthday cake!" Laughter rings out between our two screens. "In the end, they had to call the fire brigade and she became the reason why their school couldn't properly open their windows any more--"

"I also got a ride home in a fire engine so, hands down one of my best birthdays." Henry sighs. I wonder aloud how this contrasts with his own experiences of school.

"Er, I mean I was a bit of a goody-two-shoes, so I felt a bit intimidated by that sort of thing."

"He still is." He now chokes on his drink. Does this mean they wouldn't have crossed paths as kids?

"Nah, she'd have bullied me then as well." They both laugh. So she hasn't mellowed at all in the intervening years?

"I would say I have, yeah… you do as you get older." Henry's eyebrows hit the ceiling.

"Oh right, so I just hallucinated that night at the Bafta’s then?" She clears her throat and takes a large swig from the can. Is this why she doesn't typically attend red carpets with him?

"Ugh, I'd rather shit in my hands and clap--"

"That and the fact you're a fucking liability!" She shrugs as he explains. "A few years ago, I made the mistake of dragging her along to the after-party--"

"Well, that explains why I didn't fucking remember. Why did I have to come? You didn't win anything you were just presenting--"

"Oh fuck off! I even promised to take her on holiday for a couple of weeks if she at least tried to behave herself--"

"'Cos that's a good incentive--"

"And Jesus Christ, never again. If I wasn't blackballed in this industry before, I was that fucking night--"

"No, it's 'cos you won't take acting lessons." Henry smirks and tries to cover her mouth this time.

"At least I didn't go up to a circle containing Judi Dench, Helen Mirren--"

"Look at him dropping names! And it's Dame Judi…"

"And last but not least, the Meryl Streep--"

"You know, of Mama Mia…" A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

“Only to ask them where their cauldron was!"

"But that's the great thing about being a nobody, you can say whatever want--"

"You're not a nobody--"

"No, I'm your plus one…" They howl with laughter. "The best thing is to underdress slightly as well so they think you're staff, the reactions are even better." And what was the response? "None of them heard me." He snorts.

"Judi just burst out laughing--"

"Judi! Like they're friends! Yeah, well she saw us arrive together so I think she was onto me."

"Luckily she's got a robust sense of humour…"

"Not like that other one. Oh, what's his name? You know… the one that says he'd rather be making shoes?" Sir Daniel Day-Lewis?

"Yeah, she asked him if he wanted her to go look for his top hat." I can feel my own jaw drop.

"That's how he reacted! Oh God, I'd give my left tit to relive it…" I ask where Henry is when these interactions go down. "Usually trying to find the nearest exit--"

"Is it any wonder!"

"But we were only there twenty minutes--"

"And he wasn't even the first Daniel you managed to piss off!" And who was that?

"Dan Snow." The broadcaster? Henry glances heavenward, exasperated.

"No, Jon Snow - and she means Kit Harrington. She got talking to him and somehow things managed to go south even quicker than usual." I can see how referring to him instead as the 50-year-old historian might have that effect. "No, it wasn't that, it was when he asked whether she was enjoying Game of Thrones--"

"Which is presumptuous isn't it?" For once even I'm at a loss for words.

"And so she asked him if that's the show with dragons and when he said 'yes,'" he starts cracking up, "she went 'then, no.'" I don't think I've ever seen a man look so crestfallen - not even when you accosted Sam." Mr. Rockwell? I'm assuming that took place while Henry was still on the Argylle press tour?

"Oh yeah that was a gas, I waited until we were a bit better acquainted--"

"So the poor sod had his guard down--"

"And on the last day, I asked if he'd sign a picture for me. I think he assumed it was for a friend or something so he wasn't expecting me to thank him for gifting Henry his picture to put above the toilet--"

"What's worse is that it was that still from The Green Mile, you know? Literally, the first one that pops up on Google!" This anecdote puts me in mind of a similar story I heard on the grapevine during the first season of Netflix's The Witcher. Against my better judgment, I ask him if knows what I'm talking about and immediately his eyes flash in recognition.

"Yeah, and it pains me to say that's also true."

"What is?"

"Your stunt at the Witcher premiere…" For a moment she looks genuinely confused. "Don't pretend you can't remember!"

"Remember what? I wasn't even there!"

"And even that didn't spare me!"

"Oh I can't fucking win Mark, all I did was try and bring a smile to his face 'cos I knew he was sad about me having to work that night--"

"So naturally you had an 8x10 still printed of me with Orlando Bloom's head (as Legolas), photoshopped on top? Which, by the way, you could have just messaged me. But what did you do instead? You made dozens of copies and had my bodyguard hand them out to fans for me to sign." She waits for a beat.

"But how long did it take for you to notice?" Gentle reader, when I tell you this is one of only a handful of occasions I've ever laughed so hard in an interview, it's because I want you to know how rare that's actually been over a 35-year career in entertainment journalism. Still, I imagine that if she was brazen enough to taunt some of Hollywood's most influential stars, far worse shots have since been fired.

"Oh yeah, why don't you tell Mark how you recently mouthed off to Aaron Taylor Johnson?" Even she begins to look sheepish.

"Yeah, but I was only trying to make conversation." Henry's head falls into his hand. She snickers. What on earth happened? "Honestly, nothing. I just said I hoped he really was being considered for Bond ‘cos he looks great in a suit." I hardly know how to respond. "Now that I think about it, he probably just thought I got you two mixed up--"

"Stop it right now!"

"What? You bought me in on this interview!" This of course is true and seems to serve a more serious purpose the longer our conversation continues. That he adores her is plain - his eyes never leave her. But it's the fact she can keep making him laugh, even under the scrutiny of being interviewed, that seems to make all the difference. Is that the key to the success of their relationship? "Well, that and the fact he's gone for six months out of any twelve--"

"So all the messages saying you miss me is just lip service?"

"Oh alright, it's cos he's got a huge… heart. Almost as big as his bank balance." Henry's legs are suddenly thrown in the air. At first, it seems he lost his balance, but judging from how quickly he then chases her from the room, I assume it was she who pulled the lever on his office chair that sent him hurtling to the floor.

A couple of days later, I received a brief email from her which apologised for them both having 'christened more than a couple of ships' that day and explained how she was grateful that even though she 'had a lot of baggage' before they met, Henry refused to give up on her. She signed off with the following; 'His biggest problem is his limited self-belief. But seriously, he's admired because, in a professional and personal life full of arseholes, he's still, as Virginia Woolf said of her husband right before she died by suicide, 'entirely patient and incredibly good'. I'll never be drunk enough to say that to his face so I've cc'd him in.' I double-checked and saw that she had indeed emailed him as well. It's an oddly moving, albeit characteristically funny postscript and one that underlines her devotion to him no matter what. We should all be so lucky.

The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare is on Amazon Prime Video.

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

@fanfictionaddiction99 @luclittlepond @caffeinatedfestivalsheep @summersong69 @ushijimbo @livesinfantasyland @jackjanira @thearcana-moonlight

#henry cavill #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader

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matrixbearer2024 · 2 months ago

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Fire and Flames

Related to this post here of the twins being unhinged in my time lord AU because frankly we need more content of these two being menaces to society- so yeah, have a moment of how brutal the twins could be and exactly why the multiverse should be wary of them.

That and well- traversing the multiverse and seeing all sorts of things could genuinely change somebody's perception of normal. This included.

Context: The Stan twins go after some hooligans that think setting people on fire is entertaining. A horrible painting of death and flames ensue.

The room reeked of gasoline, its pungent sting filling the air like a forewarning of the chaos to come. The stench clung to everything— the walls, the floor, my skin— as if the very molecules of the room knew what was about to transpire. I stood over them, these pathetic creatures, crumpled in their misery at my feet. They whimpered and squirmed, drenched and beaten, their arrogance drained alongside the cheap plastic water pistols I’d so carelessly discarded moments ago. Their misery didn’t inspire pity; no, it awakened something far darker. Something barely restrained, coiled like a viper ready to strike.

The thought made me laugh. Two frail old men, was it? Easy targets, just another set of wandering fools to torment for entertainment. That’s what they thought. That’s what they all thought. And yet here they were— broken, bleeding, drenched in their own fear, and begging for mercy they would never receive.

I shifted, sneakers scuffing against the grime-ridden floor as I tilted my head to the side, watching their trembling forms with clinical curiosity. The gasoline glistened on their skin, catching the dim light as if mocking them with its inevitability. They had doused themselves in sin, and I was merely the one to light the match.

“I trust you still have your lighter?”

I asked, voice smooth but brimming with anticipation. The words rolled off my tongue like silk, but the smirk tugging at my lips betrayed the storm brewing beneath my calm facade.

Stanley didn’t even need to reply; the wicked gleam in his eye said everything. That familiar little tin box danced between his fingers, its edges worn from years of habit, its crude engraving catching the faint glint of light. I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of his eagerness— barely restrained, barely hidden, just as it always was when we found ourselves in these situations. My twin, my partner, my balance. He wanted this as much as I did, and gods help me, that knowledge was as intoxicating as it was empowering.

“Oh, c’mon,”

He said, his voice thick with amusement,

“did ya really have to ask?”

The lighter stopped its twirling, coming to rest in his open palm like an offering. A ritual, sacred in its own twisted way. This was our unspoken agreement— our unholy dance. Lee might bring the tools, he might observe, but he’d never soil his hands with the final act. He left that to me, and I was all too eager to bear the weight of it. The one untainted thing I could preserve in this bloody, merciless life was him. Even if the flames reflected in his eyes betrayed just how deeply he wanted to watch the deepest darkest pits of the world burn.

I took the lighter with a reverence that felt almost ceremonial. My fingers brushed his for the briefest moment, and I felt the unspoken understanding pass between us. He didn’t need to say a word, but I knew he approved. He always did. My chuckle rumbled low in my chest, a sound that felt like the prelude to an orchestra. Below me, the delinquents writhed, their pathetic pleas rising into a crescendo that only fueled the fire building inside me.

Burning helpless people for fun, was it? Well, let’s see how it feels when the tables turn.

The flick of the lighter was sharp, decisive, a beacon of warmth and destruction. The flame sprang to life, small yet mighty, and I couldn’t help but stare for a moment, mesmerized by its simplicity. Such a small thing, and yet it held the power to consume. To purify. To destroy. My smile widened, slow and deliberate, as I turned my gaze back to the quivering bodies at my feet.

“Burn, baby, burn~”

I murmured, my voice laced with a sing-song cruelty as I tossed that little tin box without hesitation.

The gasoline caught instantly, the fire roaring to life with a hunger that matched my own. The screams that followed were exquisite— raw, primal, and symphonic in their agony. They clawed at the air, desperate and futile, as the flames consumed everything they thought they were. It was justice in its purest, most visceral form, and I reveled in it. This was not mercy; this was a reckoning.

Beside me, Stanley watched, his expression alight with a satisfaction that mirrored my own. His grin was sharp, feral, and the faint reflection of the flames in his eyes made him look almost otherworldly. He didn’t say anything, but the way he stood— shoulders square, head tilted just slightly— told me everything. He didn’t regret this. Neither of us did.

The fire roared, the heat licking at my skin as I stepped back, giving the flames their space to work. My pulse thrummed in my ears, adrenaline coursing through me like a live wire. This wasn’t just vengeance; this was art. And as the last of the screams faded into crackling embers and ash, I couldn’t help but feel... satisfied.

“Looks like we’re done here.”

I said, my voice calm despite the chaos surrounding us. I turned to my brother, whose grin hadn’t faltered for a second. He simply nodded, the lighter now back in his pocket, a fitting end to our symphony of flames.

And with that, we walked away, leaving the fire to burn away the filth, to turn their sins to smoke. Two frail old men, was it?

Oh, how wrong they were.

I hope you enjoy this little thing, comment or like if you want to see more of this or of the AU in general!

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otipe · 1 year ago

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Neuvillette x Fem!Reader

Coffee shop AU

[Fallin in love is hard. Falling in love with someone who is away from your reach and possibly in love with someone else is even harder.]

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

Tick-tick-tick

Glancing at the clock, you sigh a shaky breath, feeling your body sag from the nervousness when you realize it's time.

You start the shift at the bar with clean cups and soft voices from your co-workers in the background, brewing the fresh coffee for the upcoming clients with carefulness, and ignoring the sudden palpitations of your heart as the seconds pass by and the awaited moment approaches.

And then, after retrieving your apron and carefully putting away your tools, the bell from the door echoes with a soft clink in the background while a man walks in the shop.

As if memorized a script, and never breaking in character nor actions when he comes closer with his usual calm demeanor and expressionless eyes, you cannot take your sights off him the first few seconds, mouth ajar and cheeks warm with embarrassment when you catch yourself in the act—because it's impossible to react differently, when all the man does is impress you with his elegance and beauty.

Is like a practiced play.

She knows the answer, the man never asks for anything different since his first visit, but she purposely tries to prolong his stay for as long as she can to seek the opportunity to start a conversation in hopes today will be different.

The girl at the register smiles brightly at his presence, unbothered and swiftly taking charge, and asks the same question she's programmed to do to every customer.

“What would you like to order?”

You watch from afar their interactions with nothing but contemplation, heartstrings tugging the edge of your heart and getting lost on the way his silver hair flows like a cascade and frames his broad shoulders like a shield from the sunlight.

His lilac eyes watch the list of beverages rapidly, as if deep in thought and indecisive, as if he were considering choosing another item to try out despite having a routine.

“One black coffee.” Is his reply, the usual. His voice is deep, curt and cold, but it makes her blush nonetheless, smiling behind her hand and tucking away a strand of hair while ringing the order.

The reaction she has is ridiculous, yet you can't find in yourself to blame her.

You're embarrassed to admit he has the same effect on you, after all this time, even when you've never crossed words—but you'd rather die than let anyone else know you fancy the mysterious man from your morning shift just like the register lady.

The man seems unfazed by her attitude though, paying for the order before retrieving his figure to the nearest available window and sits there in silence.

And now is your turn, the next act follows.

You have three minutes until you have his order.

Three minutes to take advantage of your position and glance over whenever you want to admire him from afar without his knowledge, to enjoy and indulge in the fluttering of your heart and warmness spreading to your cheeks when you think about striking a conversation to the man you’ve found liking for a long while.

Would he be kind, or perhaps rude?

Is there something else beneath the persona he sells when he goes out of his house and into the world? Or does he know about the enchanting aura he carries flawlessly anywhere he goes?

Does he know you exist beyond the display of pastries? A singular person pinning for a stranger they found infatuated with since day one?

The answer might not be something you wish to know, already regretting your weakness into daydreaming about said man with him present.

But dreams are free and painless, and the safest way to cope with your unrequited feelings.

“Did he talk to you?,” one of the cooks whispers to the girl.

She shakes her head, “Cold as ever, but I think he's just pretending.”

“He was looking your way a few moments ago! Maybe he's shy.”

Alas, it's all but a fantasy in your head.

He's beautiful, a gorgeous being out of a fairy tale, and enchanting on his own. It would make more sense to ask the pretty cashier about her growing crush on the man and its advances than the coffee girl who never dares interact with the crowd.

You suppose that's how it's meant to be.

Everything has an order and law, the handsome lead and the pretty girl together. They look like the main couples from romcoms about to have their destined encounter and waiting for the right time to develop their romantic relationship, with obstacles and problems in between to make it the more entertaining.

And every romcom needs to have the antagonist, someone who also desires to be with the leads, to have their own fairytale and love to cradle with gentleness without regarding anyone but themselves—but you don't want to play that part, you don't have it in you to be brave and jeopardize your own feelings nor be mean to get in the way of two destined people.

Is something you've accepted a long time ago and try not to dwell much on the thought.

“Is the coffee ready?"

Nodding your head, you lend her the cup with the lid tightly closed. She smiles and thanks you, jogging to the man at the window and delivering the beverage before returning behind the register.

So deep in thought, you are unable to tear your sights off him when he gets ready to leave.

And then, both of your eyes meet in-between.

The air gets stuck in your throat from the sheer surprise. His eyes are enchanting, like a sweet siren’s song, melting your insides and penetrating to the depths of your soul in silence.

The man blinks slowly, lips parting and turning his body to face you, and you feel your heart leap in your chest when he takes the first step in your direction.

Suddenly, you are too aware of your surroundings and what it means for him to still maintain eye contact after an uncomfortable time. So to save yourself the embarrassment, you turn around to face the wall and try to calm down your hammering heart.

It takes a while, but when the bell from above the door echoes once again, you look over your shoulder and notice the man has since left the coffee shop.

It is said it takes eight seconds to fall in love at first sight.

You wonder if that's how long it lasted for you to end up bewitched by his presence.

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

The boss arranges a gathering with all the coworkers to celebrate the coffee shop's anniversary since the grand opening a few years ago.

He says it's nothing out of this world, but a celebration he wants to have to not forget all he's worked for and that dreams come true for everyone if they work hard on it—besides, it's a way to get back at his roommate, whatever that means.

Is a cute incentive, and you'd be more than eager to participate if it weren't on your only day off of the week. But what could you do? Coming one more day to interact with people and blend in with the joy they'll share shouldn't be that bad.

Besides, you appreciate the boss just like everyone else. He's a good man, he deserves the attention and love from his workers. That's the reason you accepted going in the first place.

“You should come this Saturday!”

The cashier extends a little pamphlet to the beautiful man, to Neuvilette, in hopes to establish a conversation.

You have half the mind to ponder about her attempts when you've finally acquired a name to match the face.

Neuvilette, that's a really pretty name, unique on its own, and fitting.

“I'm not a worker.”

“But everyone is invited to celebrate! You should come by, since we will have discounts on drinks and all.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “I know you usually don't come on Saturdays, but it would mean a lot to have the usual clients celebrating with us.”

Neuvilette reads the pamphlet in silence, as if pondering and giving it a thought, but gives it back to the now pouting cashier after a second, “Thank you, but I must decline.”

At the pit of your stomach, you feel disappointed. If she was unable to convince the pretty man, who says anyone else would have a fair chance at talking to him?

Being in love is hard when you are actively seeking it, you realize.

“Hey! Boss is asking for everyone's favorite color, need yours, too!”

Despite the interactions with Neuvillette, she doesn't seem deterred by the failure and carries on with a smile and notepad in hand after delivering his order.

You avoid any sort of comment towards her behavior after the rejection—the least you want is to converse about him and give her the wrong idea. She's kind, but a gossip at heart. You want your little crush dying with you instead of being outed to the rest of the crew for saying something out of pocket.

“I like blue.”

Raising a brow, she shakes her head and sighs.

“The colors are for custom cups the boss is making for us to share this Saturday,” she replies, “What about a light green? I think that color would suit you.”

“I like blue.” You repeat like a parrot.

The cashier purses her lips, shaking her head and writing down your request.

“Don't blame me if the cup comes out ugly.”

You wouldn't dare, since it is not her job to ensure the aesthetic. As long as the requests arrive with no delay and on time for the little event, you will have no complaints about it.

“That would be everyone, then.” she mutters, looking longingly at the window, “Hopefully, we will have better weather by Saturday.”

Is raining quite heavily outside, with the pit-pat pit-pat hitting the glass in a harmonious melody.

The sound is soothing alongside the machines surrounding you, vibrating under your hand when you pour another cup for yourself on this fine morning and watch the pouring outside in silence.

Neuvillette stands from his chair when he gathers his thing, catching your attention once again: an umbrella hooked to his arm, and the other holding his suitcase and cup of coffee. You try to not follow him with your eyes when he walks towards the exit, but you are unable to when he suddenly stops at the door, turns around and walks with quick steps to the counter to take one pamphlet and exits the shop hurriedly.

The squeal from the cashier is hard to miss when she jumps and runs to the kitchen to tell her friends about this development, assuming the meaning behind his actions.

Alone and with the silence vibrating, you think that yeah, that certainly was something.

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

The morning is cold.

Clouds are overtaking the sky menacingly, gray and blues fighting to take control over the city, and there is a faint humidity in the air that warns you enough about the upcoming rain about to pour.

The cashier is helping you out unwrapping a box containing the personalized cups and organizing it in alphabetical order for better handling for the toast. Most of the colors are bright and colorful, some with pastel tones and gentle details on the sides that you find adorable.

You’re surprised to see your cup, a soft baby blue with tiny white stars in the corner, being handled by the girl with a gentle smile on her face.

“It ended up being cute.” she says, an apologetic smile on her face.

You only nod, taking it from her hands and placing it under the coffee machine. You never minded her comment in the first place, so you find yourself ignoring her embarrassment to make the most of your morning and finish quickly.

Understanding you don't want to talk, she starts humming under her breath while picking up the tossed paper wraps and putting them inside the now empty box. She nods to herself, giving you a thumbs up when you deem you've finished and you return the gesture with a soft smile.

“Do you think he's going to come today?” she asks, standing up. There is a pout in her glossy lips, and you blink owlishly at her sudden change in mood.

“Um, not sure.”

“Should I have told him to come later? He comes early every morning, but never on weekends. The paper never says at what time we are celebrating.”

She sounds so sad you don't know a thing to try and comfort her. Finding it difficult to interact with the cashier outside work-related stuff, you pat her back shyly in an attempt to reassure her.

“He always comes around this hour,” you continue saying, catching her attention. You feel your face warm, “Sometimes he takes his time, but he always comes, doesn't he?”

She nods, sighing and sagging against the register. “Yeah, but today is Saturday! And I'm sure he's coming, moreso because he took the pamphlet with him.”

Wearing your apron, and readying your tools, you end up being her focus to pour her feelings about Neuvillette and how pretty he is, since none of her friends were coming today until later.

Is a little tiring, but you are kind enough to nod or give short replies to let her know you were listening.

Despite feeling a little jealous over her feelings for Neuvillette, you know this is just the immature and childish part of you that cannot speak freely just like she does, and for that, you commend her for her bravery.

Gushing over someone sure does seem fun, in truth.

When she starts talking about…not so decently about him, it is when the bell above the door rings loudly in the empty coffee shop and gets you both attention.

When Neuvillette comes through the door and the cashier is ready to greet him, both of you fall silent. Because you are faced with blue, instead of silver. You are faced with a Neuvillette dressed up like this were his wedding, instead of his usual casual attire.

There are a few streaks of blue on his hair, all brushed back and tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing a low ponytail, loose strands of hair framing his long face, and the gasps from the cashier echoes what you’re currently thinking: He looks gorgeous.

The sudden change in his looks has the both of you flabbergasted and blushing on different levels.

He seems composed as ever, if not slightly nervous for the way he fidgets with the cuffs of his suit constantly while he walks up to the cashier, stopping and clearing his throat to catch her attention.

It suddenly crashes on you, oh.

He has dressed up. For her.

The realization of such a small, but meaningful, action makes your heart throb in pain and jealousy, biting your lower lip and avoiding to look at him for even one more second.

Disappointment was the first emotion to swirl in your mind when smashing the coffee beans on the machine, loud enough to avoid listening to their conversation and focus solely on your job.

There is the urge to cry, too, and you almost scoff at the absurdity of your reaction upon realizing that her feelings might as well be reciprocated by the beautiful man. And you’re once again standing behind the curtains of a play.

The doors open with a strength that has you breaking out of your thoughts, raising your head nervously and thinking that the last thing you want is to deal with troublemaker customers.

“Good morning, my lads!” Your boss walks through the main entrance, blindingly beautiful and energetic as always. He graces the two of you with a smile of his and a simple bow to Neuvillette who seems startled by such a greeting. “Ah, my dear ____, you didn't have to work today. You could have come later in the evening for the celebration!”

Oh, your saviour.

His outburst is enough to override the sadness tugging at your heart and entertain you while finishing his usual order.

“Is okay, Kaveh,” is all you can reply, a forceful smile on your features. “I like doing this.”

He nods, “Of course you do! But I can replace you if you get tired, yes? Is a miracle itself you've come today, I don't want you to regret it because you felt pressured to work.”

“The cups came earlier today, just before we opened, and she was helping me arrange them.” The cashier chimes in, ringing the order for Neuvillette who hasn't moved an inch from his spot since Kaveh entered. “I roped you in, sorry about that.”

Shaking your head, you take the receipt and read the order despite knowing what it is already.

Kaveh takes that time to rummage through the cabinet to check everything is in order while the cashier curses under her breath when Neuvillette leaves to sit by the same window as always.

“Everything in order, yes.” he nods to himself. Craning his neck a little, he smiles up to you, “Could you make me a caramel macchiato? I think I'm going to work here until the rest of the crew comes.”

“Sure,” reciprocating his smile, you begin working on his beverage, “Hot or cold?”

Taking his things to the back of the kitchen, he yells, “Cold, please! Thank you, love!”

You roll your eyes at the pet name, but don't argue it. Despite Kaveh being so affectionate with his crew, you know he does it with good intentions and the love he has for his workers. He's said so himself, and you believe him.

Still, you cannot help the blush covering your cheeks at being addressed so lovingly.

“Oh, the ingredients have come!” You can hear the excitement in Kaveh’s voice from inside the kitchen. Is not long until he comes through the door, motioning to the cashier to come in. “I need to make an inventory and a pair of hands might help!”

“O-oh, I—uh,” she looks bashful for being targeted. She looks between you and Kaveh a couple of times, pondering whether to reject him and offer you as a help, instead, but nothing comes out of her mouth in time.

Kaveh, blissfully unaware of her inner struggle, happily takes her wrist and drags her to the back with a peppy step, leaving you now at the front to take care of the register and the orders.

It was just your luck no one else was here to distract you. Being Saturday morning, the influx of people coming in so early were pretty low, so you had all the time to relax and make the order to the utmost best despite knowing what happens next.

Do you approach Neuvillette and give him his drink? Or do you call him to take his beverage?

A part of you wanted to go and strike the conversation you've always wanted, now without the prying eyes of your coworkers, but the anxiousness and nervousness were getting the best of you—besides, it would only hurt you further if you keep longing for a man who is clearly not interested in you.

“Neuvillette?”

Your call seems to break him from a trance, blinking up once, twice, before registering you were calling out to him.

Neuvillette approaches with the slowest walk you've ever witnessed—time stopping for you to admire him from close and afar, making his way to the counter and gingerly picking up his cup.

But he doesn't move.

He stays still at the same spot in front of you, clearly flustered and embarrassed. But for what reason? Neuvillette isn't speaking, nor looking at you to guess what he needs.

Does he want sugar? A napkin? Another shot of espresso?

If he asks me for her number I swear to god—

“What is your name?”

The question quells your irritation quite easily, blinking up at him confused and lost.

His lilac eyes maintain eye contact with you for a long time where you don't answer, opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water and unable to understand his sudden want to…talk.

“You don't carry a tag,” he continues, a finger tapping to the side of his coffee, “I was wondering what your name was, since you know mine.”

Is a stupid attempt to satiate his curiosity, and you've known because you have thought of the same before.

You tell him your name, breaking eye contact and continuing to work on Kaveh's order with your heart hammering inside your ribcage. But curiosity gets the better of you and when you glance back, he smiles at you. He smiles so blindly.

It takes all your self-restraint not to swoon right then and there.

“Such a fitting name,” he says, “It's beautiful.”

Where is this coming from?!

Panic seizes you for a moment when your brain short-circuits from his compliment. Warmness spreads through your cheekbones and you yelp, embarrassed and suddenly in pain, when you realize you dropped the hot shot of coffee on your free hand and not on the cup you were aiming for.

“Fuck,” running to the sink, you do your best to conceal the pain from the burn and ignore the sudden warmth at the back of your neck for committing such a careless action.

The cold water makes you hiss in pain, and that is enough to make the man break out of his shock.

Neuvillette walks around the counter and tresspasses the station where you deem as worker's space to hold your wrist gently between his gloved hands to see how bad the accident has been.

“Is nothing serious,” he twists your wrist gently to the other side, and nods to himself, “keep your hand under the water. Do you have a towel we can use for your hand? I'll place some ice on the towel and wrap it to keep it cool on your skin to lessen the burn.”

“The towel on top of the coffee machine, you can use that.”

He goes to retrieve the object, leaving you with your hand tingling from his touch. He turns the faucet off and dries your hand gently before taking a few pieces of ice, wrapping them up, and lays it on your skin softly to ease you into the sudden change of temperature. Neuvillette never backs off, but walks a little closer, making it obvious the difference in sizes, and suddenly making you aware of his warm touch.

“I-I can hold it myself,” you mutter, taking a step back. You don’t know how much you can handle the closeness without fainting, “Thank you.”

Blinking owlishly, he nods, returning to his previous spot behind the counter. But just like before, he doesn't move from there.

Slightly anxious from his out of character actions, you clear your throat, peeking up at him.

“Do you need something else?” you dare ask, fingers twitching under the towel.

Neuvillette seems pensive, eyes roaming your injured hand to your face. His stare is unwavering, and it makes a slight shiver run down your spine from the intensity of his lilac eyes examining your features.

“It has come to my attention that…you seem involved in some sort of romantic aspect with your boss, yes?” He begins.

What.

“And whatever I might say will come off as rude or simply crossing boundaries, so I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me for my indecency.” Neuvillette seems bashful, “If you could give me some of your time to hang-out, like the young say, I can prove myself worthy of your affections and daresay, your love.”

Huh?

“But if your relationship with your boss is on a serious note, a respectable commitment and admirable, I won't meddle in between the young love and will proceed to exit the establishment for I have overstayed my visit.”

The fuck.

The silence that follows is so dreadful you think you're dreaming. You are the only one who seems affected by such claims of love and misunderstanding of the situation, because Neuvillette looks composed as ever if it weren't for the blush on his face betraying his nervousness.

What could you even say?

Is like the spotlight has suddenly shifted to where you’re standing; you’re suddenly the main character to this story where you believed wasn’t even to have you as part of the play. With the main lead, nonetheless!

Most of your thoughts don't lead you anywhere and confuses you further. It looks like this is some sort of joke, a distasteful one, and the dread of uttering a single yes might break you apart from the seams until you’re drowning in your own self-pity.

“If my words have made you uneasy about my presence or uncomfortable in any way, I can see myself out,” He whispers the last part, as if regretful for giving you the option, “But, if you also harbor the same feelings as I do, please do tell—”

“Why did you dress up today?,” you blurt, cutting him mid-sentence. The bitterness in your voice doesn't go past him, “Why…why did you come…like this?”

Is such an innocuous question but nags the back of your head, eager to hear the reply because, whatever his speech has told you, he has made aware that he likes you, too.

He likes you.

Neuvillette brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ears where you can make out the silver lining of an earring decorating it. You cannot help but think: Does this man have anything that is not hot and gorgeous on himself?

“I asked a close acquaintance how to win the affections of someone I haven't had the pleasure to meet yet, and they called me a buffoon for attempting a ridiculous thing. Despite their insult, I searched through the internet to find a solution to my plight.”

Cocking your head to the side, you raise a brow, unable to comprehend the correlation, “What…does that have to do with you dressing up?”

“You said your favorite color was blue.” He says, the corner of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, “I don't own anything blue, so my next good suggestion was to dye my hair. Sadly, I underestimated the amount of hair dye I’d need, and the kind lady at the store didn't know it was for the entirety of my hair. Despite the little mishaps, I believed it would be nice to present myself more elegantly to make a better impression.”

His heartfelt confession does nothing but accelerate the rate of your heart, fanning your face because of how hot you're starting to feel.

“If my attempt wasn't clear, I apologize for that matter.” he chuckles, Neuvillette's smile broadening, “Can't help a man who is smitten, for all he will do is embarrass himself further without good communication. But I couldn't wait any longer after listening to your conversation with your boss, believing I have lost a battle that never began...”

“...I dare say, I was feeling defeated, and very jealous, over the fact that he calls you love. I thought: maybe one day I will get to call her mine.”

How can he say this…so shamelessly!

Neuvillette speaks without shame and so earnestly, baring his heart and intentions to you when all this time you've deemed him as someone who comes out of a fairy tail and out of reach. The kind of man who wouldn’t bat an eye at your presence just because, but he’s gone out of his way to look appealing enough to your tastes to get your attention when all this time he’s had it.

“Perhaps this comes as a shock to you, but I've been intending to court you since the first time I came here.”

“...What?”

Nodding softly, smiling, he offers his hand for you to take. Unable to resist his attempt, you extend the good hand and burn from the inside when he holds you gently, caressing the skin of the back of your palm affectionately.

“It has been an agonizing journey for me. To understand my own emotions and intentions for me to act accordingly has been taxing, but it has given me plenty of time to finally see that I would love to have you in my life.”

And this is it.

Neuvillette has given you the whole story in a plate of gold, sincerely and open-hearted, that there is no doubt in your mind that he wants you, and no one else.

No tragedies to come, no twists in the story for more excitement, it's you and him, and no one else.

“I’m not dating Kaveh,” is what you say, lips trembling from the emotion, “I’m not dating anyone. He’s just, very loving to his friends.”

And oh, to rejoice in his open expressions and the relief that courses through him from hearing that yes, you’re available and not straightly rejecting him.

“Oh, that’s good to hear,” smiling apologetically, he shakes his head, “Sorry, that must have sounded rude.”

You laugh, brightening up at him, “Don’t worry, you are just fine.”

The coffee has gone slightly cold by now, too deep in words and confession through a little accident, that the beverage has become less important. A little voice at the back of your head tells you that Kaveh is taking a long time sorting things out with the new delivery, but you don’t mind, you are in good company, anyways.

“I think you deserve a proper question now, don’t you? Now that everything has been cleared up,” he asks, raising a brow. Clearing his throat, he straightens his back, never letting go of your hand, “Will you do me the pleasure of going on a date with me?”

Covering your mouth with your free hand, you nod. The hold he has on your other palm tightness slightly, showing the excitement he feels.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Neuvillette.”

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

“By the way,” you ask, leaning on the counter. You delight from the sudden blush on his cheeks, “how old are you?”

“Ah, I’m forty-seven, love.”

Oh, lucky you.

#neuvillette x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin fic #neuvillette/reader #he my baby girl my sun #otip writes

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trashmouth-richie · 1 year ago

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series masterlist

series summary: Hawkins Annual Halloween Festival is in town, and this year you and your friends were lucky enough to work the event. But when some of your co-workers are missing, and a trail of blood leads to the woods behind the festival. Your friends work together to find out what’s going on. A killer is on the loose but who could it be? Or is it the town’s spooky secret of what really happened at Hawkins Lab?

chapter summary: darkness falls, reader takes a trip down memory lane with eddie, corroded coffin performs, the things start to go bump in the night.

chapter warnings: major character death, violent death, minor character death, blood, gore, monster descriptions, slaughter.

CH 3. THE ROCKSTAR AND THE REDLIGHTS

The green puddle of freshly brewed puke slapped hard and wet along the ground.

Another victim of Eddie, who long ago threw away the rule book and Creels poem about ride times.

You slam another dollar into his outstretched cocky palm, hoping it stung.

“Well thank you m’lady,” he says, batting his eyelashes, his dimple digging deep into his cheek, “Eddie 3, Pebs zilch, zero, nothing!”

You shove him hard in the chest and it only makes him laugh harder, “c’mon sweetheart, you know I’m just fuckin with ya.” His big brown eyes squeeze at the edges and his lip turns to a frown when you throw up your chin and a middle finger his way.

“S’not fair,” you pout, “you have control of the rides!”

Eddie waves you off and pockets the cash, “Don’t be a sore loser.”

Arms crossed you stare high above him, “ ‘m not!”

You were.

Always had been.

Racing down the bumpy lane of Forest Hills Trailer park, Eddie’s clumsy ass would somehow always win, even when you had gotten new tennis shoes in the summer of ‘79.

You’d pout and Eddie would spend the rest of the day trying to win you over. You always were a flair for the dramatics, but he never did mind your pouty lips and furrowed brow.

In his eyes, there just wasn’t any other girl who could compare.

He slings an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a death grip of a hug. Pinning your arms tight against his chest so you couldn’t move, he shook his long hair in your face, the curls tickling your nose until you squealed, and gave up. A surprised heat in your cheeks.

He’s out of breath, a Cheshire grin on his face and deep huffs fan across the apples of your cheeks, fluttering your eyelashes. His grip hasn’t wavered, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t breathed at all as you look up at him, giggling.

His fingers move to your jaw, and down the slope of your neck, fingering the necklace and the neckline of your shirt.

Eddie blinks slowly and wets his lips, you can feel the pounding from both of your chests as you look up at him through your lashes with a stuttering breath.

“Still mad at me, baby?”

The shiver that runs down your body and hits like a lightning strike in your underwear is colossal. Baby. You’d hang onto that pet name the rest of your days.

“I never was.”

He smirks, and something that had been developing for years was suddenly flourishing, seeds planted and finally getting the sunlight and water that was needed to grow the crop.

Whatever breath you let out he inhaled, but before he could move in closer, the familiar clink of Creel’s cane was right beside you and you both straightened up and put on a serious face.

He looked deranged. You had never seen the black crumbled mess of teeth left in his mouth but suddenly they were on display, gums rotted, red and swollen around each jagged edge of decay.

“I'm pulling the plug on rides, we’re starting the concert early, get these kids off here, you got fifteen minutes, hurry up!” He barked, before clicking away his cane hitting the gravel as he muttered nonsense to himself.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie spins and quickly brings levers forward and backward, unlocking each basket full of teenagers and shooing them away.

Locking up the rides with the heavy chains and locks, you snap the padlock shut ensuring its strength and join Eddie in his quickened pace to the rear entrance of the carnival where the stage was set up for Eddie’s band Corroded Coffin.

Your mind is spinning with what ifs and did we just almost kiss? You wonder if he felt the same jolt of electricity you felt when you hadn’t leaned away from him. Wiping sweaty palms on your shorts you work hard on evening your breathing as you both stomped in the dirt with racing minds in silence towards the stage.

—

“One cotton candy, a small popcorn and a medium Coke, two straws.”

Steve pulls out his leather wallet and pays with a crisp fifty. Nancy frowns and rolls her eyes.

“What?” Steve says, nonchalantly, tucking the change back into his tight jeans having changed once all the ice cream was gone and he closed shop, “It’s all I have.”

Nancy sighs, “thank you,” she says to the man behind the booth counter, reaching up and grabbing the sweet and salty snacks.

The man grumbles something under his breath, and slams the window shut with a snap, flicking the lights off just as quick.

Nancy turns to follow Steve, matching his footsteps looking over her shoulder at the now foggy and desolate windows of the concessions booth they were just at.

“That was weird,” she said softly, mostly to herself.

Steve dives a large veiny hand into the popcorn, shoveling kernels into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough of the tasty treat.

“I know right?” He says crunching through the buttery snack, “five dollars for burnt popcorn that tastes like buttcrack, what a fucking ripoff.”

Nancy shakes her head, “yet you're still eating it?”

Steve ponders this but keeps eating, “I’m hungry Nance, Creel never gave me a break, and Robin fucking bailed on me.”

“You poor thing,” Nancy feigns to humor him, “need me to draw you a bath and rub your feet?”

“You can rub something else if you’re offer— okay! okay, it was a joke, jeez!”

Nancy thumped Steve one more time on his ear for good measure, “I meant that guy… he didn’t seem right.”

Steve shrugs, “is anyone at this place? Fuck, look around.”

It was true, more people showed up to start working than any of you had anticipated, all looking stranger and sort of sickly, like they hadn’t seen daylight in years nor having the common skill to hold a conversation.

“I'm just happy this holiday is almost over, I hate Halloween. ” she shudders, allowing herself to be tucked into the crook of Steve’s arm, slurping the flat pop and grimacing at its soured taste.

—

The spray painted bed sheet reading “Corroded Coffin” rippled with the light breeze, the boys had already been setting up, Eddie’s warlock tucked safely into the worn guitar case by his microphone.

“Nervous?” you ask as he breeches the steps. Grabbing an amp and moving it around to his liking.

Eddie blows air through his mouth, as he lowers an amp down, “nah, never— its like breathing to me y’know? Second nature or whatever you wanna call it.”

You nod along , hiding a smile with your hand curled into your lips, and you don’t see the way he smiles at you. His muse. He’d written songs about you for years now, ones he scribbled into a composition notebook and shoved into the depths of his mattress and the wall.

His fingers reach out to pick a stray thread from the sleeve of your shirt, and the heat from his fingers pricks at your skin.

“Gonna be where I can see you?” he asks, already knowing the answer but wanting to relish in your words, knowing that you were here for him. And you’d be in the crowd, front and center staring up at him.

“Always am.”

And there it was again, the shock the magnets pulling you two together. Him leaning on one knee down to you and your face looking up at him like he hung the moon.

“Munson! Hurry up, that old creepy bastard didn’t give us any fuckin’ time!”

—-

The trees were spinning. She was certain of that. Robin may not have the greatest sense of direction and when she stumbled into the woods on floaty brain cells and twinkly red eyes, the thought of getting lost hadn’t crossed her mind once.

The hallucinations hadn’t stopped when she saw Vickie’s body hanging limply from that tree. She swore she heard two men yelling at each other, blaming one another for something they had lost.

After over an hour of tripping over branches and a sour smelling buck covered in its own blood, Robin finally emerged from the treeline, more confused than when she went in.

The screech from Eddie’s microphone made the crowd cover their ears in unison and he mutters a shit, sorry, with his hair hanging in his face.

The moon was large, shining a burnt dandelion yellow shaded by the dark indigo clouds.

You loved watching Corroded Coffin play. Going from their garage band days to performing on top of Eddie’s trailer for his birthday, and when they scored Tuesday nights at the Hideout— you, Eddie and the rest of the band drank until you were all sick, throwing up all over Jeff’s basement. Now they were playing a real outdoor event, and you couldn’t be more proud of your friend being one step closer to chasing his dreams.

They’d been playing for the better half of an hour, the crowd singing along to today's favorites heard on the radio, requested specifically by Creel. It didn’t take long for Eddie to learn them, his ears could tune a fart in a steel bucket.

Robin was clutching onto you, screaming lyrics along with Eddie and guzzling beer after warm beer, trying like hell to numb the feeling of rejection. She came stumbling out from a makeshift bar, a sinister look in her eyes, and when you asked what was going on— she shook her head and told you it was just the redrum.

The buzz you were feeling from earlier never left, and it was or like you’d seen Eddie in a whole new light. As if he had transformed before your very eyes, shaking free of his chrysalis and spreading the beauty of his wings.

His toothy wide smile. The dimples that caught in his cheeks whenever he found your eyes and winked your way. The way his curls lengthened and swayed across his back when he turned to Gareth and put a foot on his drum to thrash his guitar.

He was breathtaking.

The passion he held for music and the way it flowed through him was truly bewitching. And if you hadn’t known better you would have sworn you were under a trance.

He reeked of talent, and you knew he would go far, leaving Hawkins and you behind in a cloud of dust. The thought of his dream coming true left traitorous tears in your eyes and you wiped at them hastily.

When his guitar started to crane out, “Rocky Mountain Way” your heart fell into your stomach.

You remember the day he showed up on your doorstep, pants shorter than they should have been and out of breath, begging you to come over.

Did you do it?

His dimples already gave him away as he drug you behind him running all the way to Wayne’s trailer.

“Hurry P, hurry! Go on, sit down!”

“Alright Eddie,” you said in a pout, sitting down with a huff on the shag living room rug next to Wayne’s work boots, “ jeez you about tore my arm off! What’s going on?”

“Shh! I need to focus!”

Once you were situated, and his guitar was tuned up, he started the opening notes to the song. He tried to mimic his voice to Joe Walsh’s as best as he could, and even then he sounded good. His small hands flew over the frets with ease. He played the song over and over again in the cramped living room of Wayne’s trailer. And you stared in amazement.

“You can be my manager when I’m famous, Pebbles.” He had said, tuning his strings a little bit more.

You were sitting on the floor by his feet now, criss cross applesauce, writing a paper for your sixth grade History report.

Craning your neck up to look at him, you scowl, “what does that even mean?”

“I dunno really,” he admitted, sweeping his shoulder length hair from his eyes, and giving you a grin, “but it’s important enough that you’ll be rich too, and we can get out of here.”

He thought about that for a bit, his dad had just left again, his mom had only called once in the last year, promising she’d come back for him but never did, the only people he could count on was you and his uncle, sometimes Billy. “Maybe Wayne can come too.”

It felt real then, like getting out of Hawkins would only take a single tank of gas and the money problems wouldn’t be an issue, and now you wish it was that easy.

Another tear slips down your fac, and this time you don’t wipe it away.

“That bad?” Jonathan says loudly behind your left, wading through the crowd of people, brushing his bangs from his sweaty forehead, he’s followed by Steve and Nancy, holding hands and sharing a blue cloud puff of cotton candy.

“The opposite actually,” you answer, eyes gleaming in a sad way, your fingers hesitant against your mouth to stop your lips from quivering.

The five of you stand with eyes glued to the small rickety stage, in awe of how minor league you were compared to the rockstar vibes that illuminated him.

The crowd cheers when the song ends. And Jonathan clicks his camera behind you, taking shots of Corroded Coffin on stage.

“He’s a natural,” Nancy says, thumb in her mouth to suck the sugary gloss of melted sugar off, and Steve nods standing behind her resting his chin in her hair.

The stage lights look spooky under Eddie’s chin and the second he winks at you—it happens again. The lights flicker bright red for a mere second, and then blitz back to normal.

A screech.

And not from Eddie’s guitar or the wonky microphone. It was a loud, horrific scream. Sending pin pricks down your spine as it shattered through the night. The crowd went silent, looking around but wherever the screech came from went unnoticed. Hiding amongst the dense foggy treeline, waiting.

Robin is the only one not paying any kind to what was going on, moving her hips to the low strum of the song still playing in her head

You look up at Eddie with a confused look upon your face, waiting for him to offer the same expression, or a shrug, a look of what the fuck? But his eyes were trained forward like lasers— straight through the trees in the distance. As if he had some sort of ability to see something no one else could. A look you’ve never seen before that clouded his eyes, over taking his mind before he shook his head free.

His eyes meet yours again and before the second screech ends he’s jumping from the stage and grabbing your hand, his eyes were frighteningly dark and his voice caught in his throat and rubbed his vocal cords like a scratchy violin, “we need to go, NOW!”

The crowd filtered out, people ran in every direction in an attempt to avoid whatever was making that horrific noise, but you couldn’t see anything but the blur of families and the residents of Hawkins, Indiana running past you.

It happened fast, quicker than you could comprehend. He was yelling for you to run, to follow him. The same hands that just played the prettiest of songs were now wrapped around your wrist and dragging you behind him. The same ache in your shoulder you felt that day almost ten years ago when he ran with you to show you his learned talent returned and you would have smiled if you weren’t absolutely terrified. You could barely register not that your own feet were moving willingly.

It was like you were in a movie, and the VCR was on rewind. What the hell happened?

Steve was running in front of you, hollering for Nancy to keep up. Her tear stained cheeks were dirty and her lips were blue from the cotton candy.

Eddie’s jaw was set in a grit so tight his teeth were creaking under the pressure. You turned once to look behind you, and you wished you hadn’t.

It was a beast, a monster shaped like a malnourished man. Long spindly arms and legs, translucent leathery skin, it’s mouth replicated a flower, and glittered with hundreds of razor sharp teeth.

Its head was currently held high as it bellered loudly into the night, the blood from Chrissy Cunningham’s torso running down the flaps of its mouth, its taloned foot crushing her skull beneath it.

Carnival goers were running in every which direction, and Eddie was screaming at Steve to get to his van. Blood was sprayed around the ground like a sprinkler system had gone off, arms and limbs were tossed in the air as if they were nothing.

But the most terrifying thing of all was seeing Mr. Creel on stage, arms wide open, laughing maniacally.

—

He fumbled with the walkie from his backpack, the arena caught on the canvas lining, and when it finally breaks free, loose papers, a broken pencil and a special little scribble of two stick figures came flying out with it.

Frantic, he hits the button and begins his desperate attempt to get help.

“Dustin! Code Red! We have a code red! Do you copy? Over!”

Son-of-a-bitch!

“Mike! Will! Code red! What is your location? Over!”

Lucas had grabbed Max and ran as fast as he could into the top level of the fun house the second after he watched the demogorgan filet Mr. Clarke like a kabob on a grill.

It was back. But how?

He watched with his own eyes when El had closed the gates last time, hell he helped destroy that thing with bottle rockets and black cats. How was it back?

His back was pressed to the back of a distorted mirror, hip to hip with Max.

Max finally speaks, her normal glossy eyes were now clouded over in a milky trance, the same one that sprung the air from Lucas’ lungs whenever he saw it. But he knew her second sight was a sick gift from that night.

“Lucas…” her voice breaks, trembling in the delivery, “there’s more coming. He’s coming.”

—

“What the hell was that?!” Steve yelled as soon as Eddie’s van was close, he threw open the sliding door and shoved Nancy into the back seat, looking behind him for the monster. You slammed the front door shut and rolled the crank for the window, your arm pumping fast as the glass slid slowly into the doorframe.

“Demogorgan.” Eddie said matter of fact like as he finagled the keys into the ignition turning his wrist to start the van.

“A what?!” The three of you said in unison, if this weren’t a life or death situation, you would have said jinx.

The engine sputtered and shook as Eddie purred into the steering wheel with a frustrated yell as he slammed his fist onto the dash.

“A dem—fuck, look I’ll tell you everything— but first we need to get the hell out here!”

One more slam into the hood and Eddie’s heavy boot on the gas pedal— the van let out an exhausted sigh as it came to life.

You looked at the dilapidated remnants of the carnival, an orangey red glow from the center of the stage slivered open and cast an ominous light behind Creel.

Enormous slime covered black vines slithered and slinked as they broke from the underground, wrapping around the legs of unlucky onlookers and dragging them into the crimson abyss, drug straight to hell.

The lights around the grandstand all blurred that same angry hue of red you swore you had seen last night out your window.

Fingers wrap around your hand and from the rings you know it’s Eddie’s, he squeezes your hand and gives you a sad look, like a kicked dog.

The carnival looked like a scene that could only be described in a scary movie, but no matter how many times you blinked your eyes, it wouldn’t go away, this was real.

“Yo! Wait!”

The voice was familiar, California cool with a slight Midwest accent coming through from years of living in Hawkins.

You looked at Eddie, his bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat. And his tongue was poking out in concentration.

From behind a car and hobbling on a broken leg was a long haired man, eyes wide and fear stricken as he waved his hands in the air.

Eddie cranked the lever into reverse, and squealed his tires when he threw the van into drive, ready to get you and everyone else away from this literal bell on earth.

“Whoa whoa wait! It’s Argyle!”

Nancy slid the van door open from the inside, screaming his name and trying to encourage him to run faster.

His clothes were ripped and haggard looking, his right arm was bleeding profusely, long claw marks that shredded his skin into limp ribbons, leaving the muscle and tissue exposed in a mixture of scarlet red and deep bronzed flesh.

He was only yards away when he sighed with relief, “Man am I glad to see you guys, I lost Jonath—”

Argyle's sentence falls short as a pair of black scaly feet hook into the meat of his shoulders and yank him upwards, into the dark sky.

It was a large leathery bird-like creature, great expanse of wings with jagged skin and a razor sharp beak, gaping wide to show rows and rows of three inch teeth.

Its black eyes swam in a sea of red, it stood on two muscled hind legs that had several blister-like sacs on them, oozing black liquid that reeked of decay. The body was boney, stretched tight with a scaly black leather skin riddled with bright red veins etched into it like tattoos.

You watched in terror as another bird creature joined the first, swooping to collect Argyle’s feet in its mouth. Fighting for dominance.

They had him at either end, swaying back in forth in jerky motions screeching loud and snapping their beaks in grit, struggling to stay airborne while fighting for their prey.

Flying in different directions, their talons sunk deeper into Argyle's body, the guttural scream from him could shatter the noise barrier, and you swallow dryly as bile creeps up your throat.

The four of you watch in horror as his torso disconnects in squelching threads of skin guts and bone. His body shreds in half with a wet snapping crunch, blood falling like rain onto the ground.

Nancy’s screams filled the van as Steve slammed the metal door shut, jamming a thumb into the lock. And you don’t realize your screaming until Eddie’s hand squeezes yours tighter, and the vans tires squeal into the night. Away from the carnage.

thanks for reading, let me know if you want to be on the tag list 🖤

♡tag list: @dashingdeb16 @emxxblog @mopeymopeymouse @pretendthisnameisclever @mommybaby-witch @eddies-acousticguitar @tlclick73 @figmentofquinn @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @whenshelanded @micheledawn1975 @3rd-conchord * @leelei1980 @mopeymopeymouse @browneyes8288 @emilyslutface @mmunson86 @josephquinnsfreckles @eddiesxangel @elegantkoalapaper * @str4ngergirlw0rld * @corrodedcoffincumslut @nailbatanddungeon @feyremunson @hunnybuns-world @littlebookworm86 @joannamuns9n @mandyjo8719 @munsons-mayhem28 * @katethetank @munson-blurbs @eiightysixbaby @likedovesinthewnd @succubusmunson

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie fan fiction

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rafeskai · 2 months ago

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Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Five

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: 2 more chapters to go!

Masterlist: Here

The courthouse doors slammed behind you as you stepped into the empty hallway, your chest heavy with grief. The weight of the decision still hung in the air, pressing down on you like an unbearable burden. Ward had won. He had won Willa.

Your heart was a storm of emotions: fury, betrayal, hopelessness. You had tried so hard. You had fought for Willa, for Sarah and John B., to give her the life they would’ve wanted. But it wasn’t enough. In the end, the system didn’t care. The judge didn’t care. No one cared.

You found yourself sinking against the cold marble wall, your body trembling with the overwhelming sense of failure. You had promised Sarah you would look after Willa, that you would protect her. And now, in a single blow, it felt like you’d lost her.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and before you knew it, a sob broke free. The grief, the exhaustion, the helplessness—all of it hit you like a tidal wave. You buried your face in your hands, trying to steady yourself, but it felt like everything was slipping through your fingers.

And then you heard him.

Rafe’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, and you didn’t even have to look up to know it was him. He didn’t need to say anything at first—he simply crouched beside you, his hand reaching out to gently pull yours away from your face. His eyes, red-rimmed and brimming with pain, met yours.

“I... I don’t know what to do, Rafe,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I promised Sarah and John B. that I would protect her, that I would keep her safe. And I failed them. I failed her.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his own pain etched across his face, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached over, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the storm of grief swirling around you both.

He didn’t say anything for a long while. The only sound between you was the occasional shaky breath, the quiet sobs that escaped without warning. But then, Rafe spoke in a voice that barely reached above a whisper.

“You didn’t fail her,” he said, his voice raw. “You fought like hell for her. We both did. We’ve still got a chance to fix this. We’re not done yet.”

You pulled away slightly, looking up at him, trying to see some trace of hope in his eyes, but all you saw was the same frustration, the same loss that mirrored your own.

“I don’t know how we can fight this anymore. Ward’s got everything on his side. He’s won... and I don’t know what to do, Rafe.” You shook your head, feeling the tears come again. “I just want her back. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Rafe’s hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle despite the storm brewing inside of him. His eyes softened as he gazed at you, and you saw something there—a kind of resolve you hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m not letting her go, [Y/N]. I’m not,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling. “I’m not giving up on her.”

You nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. You needed to hear that. You needed to believe it.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. “But how? How do we stop Ward?”

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his eyes drifting away as if he was piecing together a plan in his head. His brow furrowed, and you could almost see the wheels turning. Then, his gaze locked onto yours once more, filled with an intensity that made your heart race.

“We take it back to court,” Rafe said, his voice steadying with determination. “We find a way to show that Ward’s not fit to raise her. That we are the ones who should be raising her, not him.”

“Rafe,” you said slowly, your mind racing. “How do we do that? We can’t just... ask for a new judge or something.”

Rafe stood up, pacing back and forth as he thought. You watched him, waiting for him to finish putting the pieces together. He was quiet for a moment, then stopped in front of you, a glint of determination flashing in his eyes.

“We need evidence,” he said, his voice hardening with resolve. “We need proof of what he’s done. All the times he’s hurt us, hurt Sarah, hurt me. All of it. If we can show the court that he’s dangerous, that he’s unfit to care for Willa, we have a shot at getting her back.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Rafe’s words settled in. You knew what this meant. You knew the kind of things Ward had done. The abuse. The manipulation. But it had always been buried under layers of lies and secrecy. It was the one thing that had kept Ward in power for so long.

“You really think we can do that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe’s gaze softened, but the fire in his eyes didn’t flicker. “I know we can. We’ve got to fight for her. We’ve got to fight for Sarah and John B. We owe it to them.”

You stood up, wiping your eyes, feeling a spark of something in your chest—a glimmer of hope, the first you’d felt in weeks.

“Okay,” you said, your voice steadier now. “Let’s do it. We’re not giving up. We’ll fight him.”

Rafe smiled slightly, though it was tinged with sadness. He reached out, pulling you into a tight hug, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was only the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. The grief was still there, weighing heavily on both of you, but now, there was a plan. A way forward.

“We’ll get her back, [Y/N]. I promise.”

And for the first time since the hearing, you believed him.

Together, you’d fight for Willa. You’d fight for Sarah and John B. And this time, you wouldn’t lose.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It was late into the night when you and Rafe began mapping out your plan. The house was eerily quiet, the silence only broken by the occasional murmur of Willa's soft breaths from her room. Rafe sat across from you at the kitchen table, the dim light above casting shadows across his face as he tapped his fingers on the surface, his thoughts clearly miles away.

You, too, were deep in thought, mentally piecing together everything you knew about Ward, everything you had endured growing up in the Cameron household. The years of his emotional and physical abuse. The fights. The silence that followed each blow.

You felt sick just thinking about it, but you couldn’t stop. You had to. This was the only way forward. If you were going to keep Willa safe, you had to make Ward’s past a part of the case, even if it meant digging into old wounds.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you muttered, staring at the open folder on the table in front of you. It was filled with legal documents and notes from your lawyer, a roadmap for how to fight back. But it felt impossible—too big a task, too much to uncover.

Rafe leaned forward, his face tense, but his eyes were determined. “We have to, [Y/N]. We can’t let him get away with it anymore. For Willa. For Sarah.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. The weight of Sarah’s death had been unbearable for both of you. But now it was more than just grief. It was about keeping Willa safe, keeping her away from the monster that had shaped so much of their lives.

“We need proof,” Rafe continued, glancing at the stack of papers. “We need to find something. Anything.”

You nodded, your mind already racing. You knew that Ward’s past was buried in the same place as all his lies and manipulations. His anger had always been a weapon—aimed at Sarah, at Rafe, and even at you when you had been younger. There had to be something—some record, some shred of truth that you could use to show the world just who Ward really was.

“Do you have anything?” you asked, looking at Rafe.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. “I know a few things,” he admitted quietly. “But they’re not enough. Not on their own.”

You sat back in your chair, trying to calm the nervous fluttering in your chest. “What do you mean?”

Rafe leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face. “I remember... there were moments. When I was a kid. I overheard things. Conversations. There were times when Sarah would—she’d try to protect me, try to shield me from Ward’s anger. But there were... documents. Letters. Things that could prove how he manipulated everything.”

You felt a chill spread over you, a sense of urgency taking over. “Where are they? Can we find them?”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and he looked down at his hands. “They’re in the attic. A box of stuff that Sarah and I hid. I don’t know exactly what’s in it, but I remember Sarah saying she didn’t want Ward ever getting his hands on them.”

Your heart raced as a plan started to form in your mind. "We need to go through it, Rafe. Everything we can find. We need to dig through all of it."

He nodded, his jaw tight with determination. “I’ll go through it. I’ll find it.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The following morning, Rafe and you set out for the attic. It felt surreal as you made your way up the stairs to the small, cluttered space that held so many memories—memories of a past neither you nor Rafe had wanted to confront, but knew you had no choice but to face now.

Dust filled the air as Rafe opened the attic door, the wooden steps creaking under your weight as you followed him up. The space was cramped, boxes piled high, old furniture tucked away, things discarded and forgotten. You could smell the mustiness of years gone by, but there was no time to linger. No time to let the memories flood you.

Rafe began to dig through the boxes, pulling out old papers, photos, and forgotten trinkets that had once meant something to Sarah and him. You watched him closely, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. He was doing this for her—doing this for Willa.

After a few moments, Rafe paused, his fingers brushing against something wedged behind a dusty old coat. He pulled out a small, weathered cardboard box, the tape on the sides barely holding it together.

“This is it,” Rafe murmured. He opened it cautiously, as if he expected something to jump out at him. You peered over his shoulder, trying to calm the pounding in your chest. Inside, you saw a tangle of old photographs and folders—records from the past that, hopefully, would be the key to winning Willa’s custody.

Rafe pulled out a folder first, his fingers trembling as he flipped it open. Inside, there were handwritten letters—letters that Rafe had clearly never meant to read, written in Sarah’s handwriting, detailing arguments, moments of fear, and Sarah’s attempts to escape their father’s control.

“I knew it,” Rafe muttered, his eyes scanning the pages. “Sarah... she tried so hard to protect us from him.”

You felt a lump in your throat as you read over his shoulder. The letters were raw, emotional, detailing Ward’s abusive behavior—his temper, his verbal cruelty, his violence. There were accounts of physical injuries Sarah had tried to hide from the world, and she’d written about the times Ward had hurt both of them, though she never named it outright. She’d tried to find ways to escape him, even at a young age.

“This is what we needed,” you said softly, a feeling of relief flooding through you. “This is it, Rafe. This is proof. We can use this.”

Rafe stared down at the letters, his eyes glossy. He didn’t speak for a moment, and the weight of everything he had lived through—everything you were now uncovering—seemed to press down on him.

“I never wanted her to know,” Rafe whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I never wanted Willa to go through what we went through. I thought I was protecting her by keeping her away from all this.” He swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. “But we can’t keep running from it. If we want to win this, we need the truth.”

You nodded, reaching out and placing a hand on his. “You didn’t fail, Rafe. You’re doing everything you can for her. We’ll make sure she’s safe. We’ll make sure Ward doesn’t win.”

Rafe exhaled deeply, looking at the papers in his hands. “We’ll do whatever it takes. We’re not losing her.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The attic felt smaller as the hours passed, the musty air thick with the weight of the secrets it held. You sat beside Rafe on the dusty floor, the pile of evidence between you growing larger. Letters. Photographs. Police reports. Even old school records. It was all beginning to paint a picture of a man no one ever truly understood—the man who had shaped Sarah, Rafe, and their entire childhood.

You flipped through a few more papers, the words on the pages starting to blur as your emotions overwhelmed you. There were times Sarah had begged to be seen, to be heard, and each word you read was like another stab to your heart.

“God…” you whispered, your hand trembling as you gripped the edge of a photo. It was one of Sarah, just a child, smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The darkness that had been lurking in the background of their lives, the abuse they had endured, was so clear now. It wasn’t something you’d seen before—perhaps because you hadn’t wanted to see it. But now, as the layers were peeled back, the reality hit you like a flood.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Rafe’s voice cut through the silence, soft and gentle. “Hey, you okay?”

You blinked and wiped at your eyes, trying to keep it together. But the tears didn’t stop. “How could he do this to her?” Your voice cracked as you looked down at the photograph. “How could he hurt them like this? How could he… do this to you?”

Rafe was silent for a long moment, and you felt him shift beside you. You could feel the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles, the quiet grief that hung in the air like a thick fog.

You turned to look at him, catching him staring at you, his eyes shadowed with pain. The walls he had built around himself were always so thick—so hard to penetrate. But now, in this moment, with all the pieces of the past laid bare, the mask he wore seemed to crack just enough to let you see the real him.

“I’m sorry you had to see all this,” he said quietly, his voice heavy. “You didn’t deserve to know the ugliness of it.”

Your chest tightened. “No, I needed to know. I need to understand.”

Rafe took a deep breath, rubbing his hand across his face. His shoulders slumped, and for the first time since you’d met him, you saw a man who wasn’t just the spoiled, angry son of a cruel father. You saw a man who had been broken by his past, a man who had been fighting every day to prove he wasn’t his father. But in his search for redemption, he’d never realized that the hardest thing to do was forgive himself.

“I know I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of,” Rafe muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t... I didn’t want to be like him. I never wanted to be like him. I was just... trying to survive. Trying to protect Sarah, protect myself.”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching for him. You had always seen the worst in him, the ways he lashed out, the cruelty that sometimes bled through. But now, as you sat there with him, you understood. You understood that his anger, his rebellion, was just a defense mechanism. A mask for the hurt he carried, the fear that had been instilled in him from a young age.

“Rafe…” Your voice trembled as you reached out, placing a hand over his. “You’ve done so much for her. For Willa. You’re not like him. Not in any way. You’re more than what he said you were. More than anyone ever saw.”

The words were barely out of your mouth when you saw something flicker in his eyes. Vulnerability. Pain. A need for validation. For the first time, you realized just how much he needed to hear that. Needed someone to see him for who he truly was.

Rafe leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his breath shallow and uneven. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything hanging between you. His hand, warm and slightly trembling, cupped the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin there. You could feel the electricity between you, the way his body tensed, the way you both seemed to exist in this moment where everything else faded away.

And then, as if something snapped, you moved without thinking. Your lips found his in a soft, tentative kiss—a kiss that was born from shared grief, from the fragile hope that had flickered between the two of you ever since you had started this journey together. It was a kiss full of longing, of understanding, of something neither of you had been ready to admit until now.

Rafe kissed you back, slowly, as though he was testing the waters. His hand slid to your jaw, holding you gently as his lips pressed against yours with a tenderness that surprised you both. There was nothing frantic about it, no rush. Just the simple, raw need to connect, to feel something good after all the loss.

When you finally pulled away, your breaths came in shaky bursts. Rafe’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. You didn’t know what to say. Words didn’t seem to matter in that moment.

But then you both spoke at once, as if trying to make sense of the overwhelming emotions swirling between you.

“I… I didn’t mean to—”

“Wait, that was… I shouldn’t have—”

You both fell silent, the awkwardness creeping in. But something had shifted. The tension between you had transformed into something else—something deep, something unspoken. You realized, maybe for the first time, that the lines you had drawn between each other were no longer so clear. The walls were crumbling, and in their place was a fragile, but undeniable connection.

“I just…” you started, your heart racing. “I just needed to tell you that you’re not your father, Rafe. You never were. And I... I see you. I see all of you.”

He exhaled sharply, his thumb gently caressing your cheek, his gaze intense. “And I see you too. I don’t know what this means, but I—”

Before he could finish, you pressed your forehead against his, closing your eyes. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure everything out. For Willa. For us.”

Rafe nodded, his hands still resting on your face. You both knew that the road ahead was going to be hard—there was no easy way forward. But for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

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