#the relief of fixing. so many things. all at once. its so much more happiness than im used to feeling?

[kingtankgirl]

i'm still riding that fucking high from that doctors appointment. its been years since my hrt provider has been somebody who cares its amazing. my initial provider when i was a minor was this like. ancient trans woman and she took great care of me and i rly do miss t4t healthcare and i thought i would never get the same treatment from cis people (and honestly i have been put thru the wringer by them trying to get hrt after i stopped seeing her) but today seeing the birthing room there and stuff i was like. what a dream it would be to come here forever. to someday give birth here. to rediscover half a decade later that truly impassioned healthcare is still an option for me has been mindblowing. and i start weekly therapy on monday!!! i'm getting taken care of finally!!! what the FUCK!!!

[danidrabbles]

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

[swansworth]

The Handsome Stranger

Rhysand x Priestess!Reader

Summary: You had fallen for the High Lord, it was inevitable. However, he was clearly in love with another, and now he had come to ask you the one question you had dreaded to hear. 

Warnings: brief mention of abuse, mild angst with a happy ending, a big misunderstanding, believed-to-be unrequited feelings, friends-to-lovers

Word Count: 3079

Author Notes: This was inspired by one of my favorite television series, The Vicar of Dibley. The show is much more comedic than this story is, but it still helped me formulate this. The story title is borrowed from the episode that inspired this. Some of the dialogue towards the end is as well, and some of it has been re-worded to fit ACOTAR more seamlessly. Special thanks to @azsazz​ for encouraging me to write this. 

Not many ventured to the temple, too afraid of what peace they would disturb. It was a benefit in your mind; it meant that you could read and take care of your daily duties without anyone bothering you. Usually your days were spent in a comfortable quiet, though it appeared today would not be such a day. 

“Hello?” A voice like velvet asked, causing you to sigh. You had just sat down to start the next chapter in the book you’d been reading and had really hoped to avoid dealing with anyone. You closed your book and moved to the sanctuary, doing your best to smile and give off an air of warmth and kindness. The smile on your face faltered when you noticed a beautiful fae standing before the altar, his blue-black hair tousled and his eyes closed in what appeared to be prayer. 

Part of you wondered whether you should leave him to his privacy but then he asked, “Are you one of the priestesses here?” He’d noticed you. You opened your mouth to respond then abruptly shut it when his eyes opened and orbs that were almost violet in color met yours. “Well?” 

His tone implied that he was annoyed and you wondered whether it was really worth your time to get involved with him. Unfortunately, it was your duty as a priestess to aid any who came to the temple asking for assistance. “Yes I am,” you answered at last, “Was there something I could help you with?” 

“We’ll see.” Oh, you did not like the arrogance that rolled off of this male. The two of you stared at one another in an unspoken challenge to see who would speak next. “Shall I get to the point?”

“If you’d like me to assist you, I think that would be wise.” A look of amusement flickered across his handsome face and you did your best to keep your own expression neutral as he continued to stare at you. 

“You’re very direct.” His statement left you unsure; was it meant to be an insult or a compliment? Regardless, you still held his gaze, waiting for him to state his reason for being at the temple in the first place. The silence stretched on, but you refused to be the first to break it. 

Stubborn too, I see. I could use that.  

The stranger’s voice crawled its way through your mind and your eyes widened. How had he done that? All at once you felt a stab of fear. He was a daemati; he could tear your mind apart with ease if you weren’t careful. 

Clever girl.  

It was almost taunting you, the voice, but you held firm, kept your gaze fixed on the handsome stranger. There was only one being in the Night Court who this could possibly be, and though you knew decorum instructed you to at least bow your head, you did no such thing. “Lord Rhysand,” you said, “What did you need assistance with?” 

“So it’s lord now is it?” He sounded almost amused and your shoulders sagged in relief as his expression softened. “I have a friend in need of sanctuary. They were badly hurt by their former lover and have nowhere to go. I would offer them a room with me, but they were adamant that they did not want my assistance.” 

There were rooms in the temple for requests such as these; cozy, private chambers that offered a sense of safety and peace while the people residing in them healed. The smallest room was unoccupied and had a fresh change of linens on the bed. “We have a room they could stay in for a time, if you feel they would be open to that.” 

Rhysand’s answering smiling was blinding and left you feeling almost breathless. He truly was incredibly handsome. No wonder all the other priestesses swooned whenever his name was mentioned. “I’ll bring them here at once. Thank you, priestess.” 

You gave your name and watched as that smile grew impossibly brighter. He repeated it back to you and your heart pounded in your chest at the way your name fell from his lips. It was almost a purr, soft and sensual. ‘Mother preserve me.’ It was a thought that you had often, a silent mental prayer in an effort to keep yourself calm. Rhysand’s smile turned into an amused grin as he turned to take his leave and you knew that he had heard it. Blasted daemati. 

═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══

You had believed that once Rhysand’s friend had settled, the High Lord would go back to his daily duties, whatever those were. Oh, how mistaken you were.

Rhys’s presence was a constant, nearly daily, thing.

At first, it had been to ensure that his friend truly was comfortable and safe. You couldn’t help but admire that unwavering loyalty. There were many stories and rumors about Rhysand, but the gentle smile he wore when he spoke to his comrade made you wonder how much truth lay within them.

It turned, quicker than you could have anticipated, into social visits. He came less and less for his friend and more and more for you. In the course of a few months, the two of you had formed a budding friendship and you could admit that the smile that tugged at your lips whenever he entered the temple was genuine and warm, full of the growing affection you held for him.

You hoped that the affectionate look you saw in his eyes was just as sincere.

Part of you also hoped that what you interpreted as flirtation truly was. You couldn’t speak for Rhysand, but you knew that your feelings for him had shifted to romantic rather than platonic. It was foolish, you knew, to hope that the High Lord of the Night Court would fall for a priestess such as yourself. And yet your heart raced wildly each time he stepped into the sanctuary, looked at you with those intense violet eyes, and asked with a grin, “Miss me, darling?”

“Always,” you replied easily.

As his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close so he could converse with you about everything and anything, you sighed in content. In those moments, everything was perfect and right with the world.

That perfection ended when you saw Rhysand walking arm-in-arm with a beautiful, blonde, high fae.

You didn’t leave the temple often, but you had learned that it was Rhys’s birthday in a few weeks and you were out looking for materials to make him something. As a High Lord, you suspected that there wasn’t much you could buy him that he would need or want, and truthfully, you didn’t have much money to buy gifts with. So, you had settled on making him a token; something small he could keep with him for luck and protection. That was when you saw them.

The blonde with him was as beautiful as the goddess that you served. Grace rolled off of her in waves and you felt your knees tremble at the sight of her. She had eyes that reminded you of honey, a deep rich amber that was warm, but still intense. Everything about her was perfection; she was exactly the sort of fae someone of Rhys’s standing would be expected to be with. Your heart sank. You had always known it was foolish to hope and dream, but secluded in your temple, it was easy to imagine. Facing reality, seeing how you paled in comparison, hurt more than you would have ever thought possible.

“You’re a moron, Rhys. It’s a good thing I like you so much,” the blonde teased.

“Thanks Mor, I love you too.” Rhys laughed as he spoke and you watched as the blonde playfully jabbed him in the side with her elbow. You slipped away then, not able to see or hear anymore.

He was a High Lord. You were a priestess. It had been nothing more than a dream, and the dawn had finally come.

═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══

“Hello?” An all too familiar voice called out from the sanctuary. You cussed under your breath at the sound of it. Seeing Rhysand again was inevitable but you had hoped that you’d have more time to process and heal before having to engage with him. Though you had tried to fight it, you had fallen helplessly in love with him. Each smile, each gentle touch and warm utterance of your name had bewitched you. Seeing Rhysand meant facing your heartbreak head-on, and you weren’t sure you were ready for that. 

You heard him call your name and swallowed. There was no way you would be able to avoid him forever and perhaps dealing with the issue now would be wiser. Yes, putting it off wouldn’t solve anything. You took a deep breath, lifted your head and headed out into the sanctuary. 

“Lord Rhysand, how are you?” How you had managed to form words when he was standing there looking as handsome as he had the day you met, you had no idea. 

“So it’s lord now, is it?” You didn’t meet his gaze even though you could feel the weight of his on your face, trying to make out your expression. There was a faint poking at your mind, but you kept your walls in place. If he saw the swirling emotions warring within you he would certainly reject you entirely. Rejection would be worse than ignorance. 

“I suppose I may as well come straight out with it?” He formed it as a question, encouraging you to answer him. You turned your head to look at him and gave him a nod, a silent urgence to continue. His brow creased in what almost looked like worry. “I’ve thought about it quite a lot, talked about it a lot. And I came here to ask you a rather important question.” 

“Well, go on then,” you said. 

“Perhaps, we could find somewhere a bit more secluded? I hadn’t intended on asking you in the middle of the sanctuary.” 

“I don’t see why here isn’t as good a place as any.” You could have sworn that you saw his eye twitch as he stared at you. His hands clenched and unclenched by his sides and you could tell that he was trying to stay calm. He let out a breath and refocused his gaze on your face. 

“Will you marry me?” Damn. You had suspected that he and the mysterious blonde — Morrigan you learned her name was — were close, intimate even, but you hadn’t realized how close. It was your duty, as a priestess, to assist in mating and marriage ceremonies, you had officiated nearly a hundred. This, however, was one ceremony you were uncertain of. 

You stared up at Rhysand, looked deep into his violet eyes and saw the almost pleading expression hidden in their depths. He looked hopeful and eager and you knew that no matter how much it would hurt you to do as he asked, you would. You would because you loved him and his happiness was ultimately what you wished for him, more than anything. With a sigh you replied, “Well, yes of course. I’d be delighted to.” 

The smile that broke out across Rhysand’s face was so radiant that you felt as if you were staring directly at the sun. ‘If only I could make him so happy.’ The thought flickered through your mind and you did your best to squash it down. “That’s wonderful news!” He took a step toward you as if to hug you and you stepped back. No, you couldn’t. You would melt against him as you always did and it would be harder to maintain the professionalism the situation required. 

“Have you thought of any dates?” You asked as casually as you could, though a hint of annoyance found its way into your tone. 

“Don’t you think we should discuss that?” 

“Very well. I would suggest a time near Starfall. That’s always a romantic time of year.” If you were to ever marry, that would be the time of year you’d want your ceremony to fall on. It was cooler, the nights longer, but the stars shone clearer and on some nights looked as if they were close enough to reach. “Though, I would have to check the temple diary to be sure we can hold the ceremony at that time.” 

You moved to the adjoining room, where a few small tables and bookshelves remained for the priestesses to use. The temple diary was an easy enough book to find. Once you had retrieved it, you flicked through the pages to the calendar. Sure enough there was an opening two days before Starfall. You relayed the information to Rhysand who nodded and said, “That’s perfect.”

“Excellent! I’ll jot it down then. Listen, while you’re here, we should probably start getting some of the other forms done. Save some time.” You wrote the date down before standing to find a large pile of documents on the corner of one of the tables. The temple really needed a better organization system, but that was a problem for another day. The first part of the form needed Rhysand’s name, which you wrote . The next…

“All right, what is the name of the lucky lady in question?” 

At that, Rhysand looked visibly confused. “Rhysand, you shouldn’t marry someone if you don’t know their name. I feel that goes without saying.” 

Rhysand’s voice sounded mildly worried as he replied with your name. You paused in your writing and looked up at him. “Pardon?”

“It’s you. I’m asking you to marry me.” 

The silence was deafening. You stared, eyes wide in disbelief. “Are you out of your senses?”

Rhysand’s visible confusion deepened. “I feel Amren would say I am. She thinks it’s too soon; though I find in affairs of the heart, she’s not always the best being to turn to.”

“I might agree with her! What about that other female you’ve been spending so much time with? Morrigan, the gorgeous blonde one! What about her?” 

Frustration rose within you. Was this some kind of joke to him? He charmed his way into your life and then started spending all his time with Morrigan, and now he was asking for your hand in marriage? You opened your mouth to add your own two-cents regarding his judgment, but were rendered speechless by Rhysand’s reply. “You mean my cousin?”

All at once you felt all the confusion and anger of the last few weeks coming bubbling up to the surface and you shouted, “What?!”

“She’s one of my closest friends; I consult her about nearly everything.”  He still looked confused, but you found you didn’t really care. In that moment, you needed clarity. 

“What?” 

“We’ve been walking Valeris together trying to decide if it was too rash or too soon or, perhaps, too stupid. But, I finally decided I must follow my heart. And my heart is saying that you are the being I wish to spend eternity with, the being that I am destined to be with until death comes and claims me.” 

There was a look of burning passion, strong and intense adoration, in his eyes and your heart began to beat wildly in your chest at the sight of it. Oh. He loved you. Gods, you felt so foolish, but how could you have known. His words from before, his proposal, flashed in your mind again and when you opened your mouth to speak, to say that you felt the same, all that came out was a garbled noise. 

Both you and Rhysand looked surprised by the sound and you tried, once again in vain, to say what was on your mind. The noise was worse the second time. "Will you excuse me?" It was asked with some effort, but you managed. You didn't wait for him to answer and instead hurried off to the secluded meditation room around the corner. Once there you took a series of steadying breaths, trying desperately to calm your racing heart and wrap your head around the truth Rhysand had just shared with you. 

It all seemed almost too good to be true. Rhysand, the High Lord, wanted to marry you? You had hoped he loved you to that extent, and would gladly say yes if he meant it. The whole situation felt like a fantasy, like a scene from those books you used to read as a child where the handsome prince would save the princess and they'd live happily ever after. Could such a thing happen in real life? You inhaled and exhaled twice more and then moved back to the sanctuary where Rhysand waited, a nervous look on his handsome face. 

"Let me be sure I've got this absolutely right," you said as you approached, "You are asking me to marry you."

“Yes.”

That ungodly sound worked its way out of your mouth once more and Rhys’s lips quirked into an amused smile. His arms, so strong and warm, wrapped around your middle and pulled you to him. One of his hands slid up your spine to the back of your head before entwining in your hair. 

“I have loved you from the very moment I laid eyes on you. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we are meant to be together.” His breath was warm against your face as he tilted his head down and leaned forward. “Marry me, darling?”

You didn’t hesitate, your answer required no consideration. You leaned up, closing the little distance between the two of you, and your lips dragged against his as you replied, “Yes.” 

There was a heat to the kiss. It was as if the dams you’d both built to preserve your emotions had crumbled and the flood of your love and adoration for one another had rushed forward. There was so much to think about and plan for. It wouldn’t be easy figuring out your place within his court and what his expectations would be; and you’d have to address your own for him. All of that would come, all of that could wait. In that moment, all that mattered was the feeling of Rhysand’s warm body pressed against you as he held you close, sipped kisses from your lips, and vowed to love you, and only you, until the end of time. 

[like-rain-or-confetti]

It won't end. (The Riddler x Reader)

The Riddler knew you weren't happy. He knew. He had no evidence for it beyond the occasional spats but you had always reassured him. So he had no reason to doubt you. So why did he? Edward always examined every detail. He turned every problem and challenge inside out to figure out the answer. Yet he didn't dare dig too far in this case. He didn't want to ruin anything.

Who would take a murder weapon mindlessly and toss it over the bridge where a dead body was found? Edward seriously considered getting your brain checked. Clearly, you weren't getting enough blood flow. Clearly, there had to be something wrong with you to be so damn stupid as to think no one would think to check water multiple times!

Yet he tried to stay calm. He was smart enough to fix this. He knew he could. He could protect you from this. You must have panicked. You seemed terrified- so on edge. Covering up a murder wasn't exactly a walk in the park and he had to remember that. You were just a civilian in all of this. A mantra he had to tell himself repeatedly to stop himself going nuclear on you.

Your eyes were wide and teary as you talked him through it. He talked himself through his rage when, moment by moment, you recounted error after error, seemingly unaware of them. It took everything in his power to keep himself, the situation and his relationship intact with you all at once. The two of you spoke for four hours as he worked on a plan to get you and himself out of this. He'd never trust you with this again- at least not alone. Finally, he forced himself to give you a hug and a kiss. As much as his rage made him want to shake you by the shoulders for being the most stupid human he'd ever known. However, he made sure the two of you were okay and he still had a relationship. It took a moment for you to stammer out a confirmation before bursting into some more tears that required more consoling. Then you took your leave.

The door shut behind you, and Edward returned to his office. Edward let out a sigh of relief after so long of tension and worry. The doubt, the fear. It all came down to paranoia, and as much as he could curse it, he hadn't ever been so relieved in its wake. After all, the alternative would have been that it wasn't paranoia at all. That a problem lived in his home, in his very relationship, growing roots and seeping into the walls before constricting and crushing everything under the pressure. No puzzle could go unsolved. None. He was already tormented by the mystery of the Batman's true identity. He couldn't bear another one. He breathed out a soft chuckle to himself in the relief of it all. "It won't end." He whispered to himself. He couldn't lose another.

"It won't end." You had whispered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, gripping the sink tightly. Swallowing back your tears. You thought it'd have been enough. That if you told him none of this was on purpose, then he'd cast you out. That he'd class you too stupid to be with him if you pretended it was all an honest mistake and that you never expected any of this to happen.

Who would take a murder weapon mindlessly and toss it over the bridge where a dead body was found? You had misjudged how little he thought of you and it made you want to scream. Not just that the man who was supposed to love you most seemed to think you a blithering idiot at best but that you were so sure it would have been enough for him to set you free. Yet he didn't. He forgave you. It seemed after all this time, no matter how many silly- seemingly innocent- things you did, he would not and could not let you go.

[hollowwrites]

HC part 2! HC part 2!

(Only if you want to!)

HC part 2! HC part 2!

Loving super tall Ominis. I'll always love a good height difference 🥵

Ominis Headcanons Pt. 2

So when I said I thought about a little more, I lied I went a tad mad

I’ll refer to MC as Evelyn throughout this cause she’s my ship with Omi. This is basically my notes page. Things may conflict. Who cares? If anything grabs you please ask about it. You guys inspire me for way too much of my stuff 💚

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Family (Angsty…)

Some waffle about Ominis can’t be alive past 50 because of Tom Riddles family tree? No. He separates from his family after he’s 18. He uses his Aunts notes to prove that she has passed away and because of this he learns she left everything she owned to Ominis. He uses her money (I like to think it’s the majority of the Gaunt fortune because she’s not a blood purist therefore is sensible with her money not spending it on trinkets and Slytherin heirlooms) to legally separate from his family so they scorch him from the records.

I think the developers gave Ominis blonde hair to win Malfoy points but I also think it symbolises his separation from his family. Tom Riddle and Art of the Gaunt Family all have dark hair so our boi Omi is physically different compared to them not just mentally. It also might help him later to disassociate from his family because he doesn’t look like them.

I genuinely can’t remember if this was mentioned in game or not (I stop playing after Beasts Class and pretend that nothing bad happens to any of our bois) but I imagine he’s suffered Crucio quite a few times. If his family are cruel enough to do it once, they’d do it multiple times.

I mention this in my Blindsided fic but I feel like Crucio would leave a scar behind. Avada Kedavra does so why not Crucio huh? Is it because I wanted Eve to tend to his wounds and try to remove the scarring?…maybe. Do I care if it makes any sense at all? No!

Obviously because of this I feel like Ominis is covered in scars. Always hidden so no one can see how horrible a family they are…even though everyone already knows.

Patronus

His Patronus is a difficult one. I was Googling animals that have some of Ominis traits so I’ve narrowed it down to three:

Spider - I read an article ages ago debating whether or not spiders or insects in general feel pain or not. They either don’t or have a high tolerance for pain. So I feel like with how often Ominis gets tortured he’d have grown a tolerance for it like a Spider.

Vampire Bat - …I like Vampire Ominis what can I say? No obviously they use echolocation like his wand and they sleep in the day…need I say more?

A Blind Basilisk - THE UNINTENDED FORESHADOWING. Plus a basilisk is a dangerous snake, blind or not blind, like Ominis. People would maybe underestimate a blind basilisk thinking it would be easier to take down with its main weapon taken from it but I would still not want mess with one. JUST LIKE OMI

Either way I think once he falls in love with Eve his Patronus would change to Dove (I headcanon that Eves Mom used to call her a dove and her wand is a bird skull)

Speaking of Patronus’ he wouldn’t be able to cast one until he met Sebastian.

His first memory he could use to conjure a Patronus would be when Sebastian asks him to stay with him over the holidays. The mixture of guilt, relief, happiness and sadness he feels is powerful enough to cast one.

Second would be looking after Eve after she got Crucio’d in the Scriptorium. Despite the horrible origin of the day he looks back at it fondly. It’s where him and Eve truly started to bond and probably where his feelings for her originated.

General HCs

He snaps his wand a lot. It’s constantly in his hand and Sebastian is a trying person to be around so I imagine he just grips it too hard and snap. Learns to fix it himself after one too many visits to Ollivanders.

Maybe he completely snaps it one day after he separates from his family and has to get a completely new wand. Evelyn points out that it’s a lighter wood than before. I know the wood has nothing to do with anything like that but I like the though that he’s free of his dark past and his wand becomes lighter because of it

His boggart is just an amalgamation or screams and torture he’s pretty used to it. I go in detail here

He definitely grows up to be the next Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher just to rub it in his families face. Plus I think he’s close with Hecat she would put him forward for the position. Maybe he quits before Dumbledores era to travel with Eve finding ancient magic spots.

Thinking about the mirror of Erised is tricky with the boi cause blind BUT I think his deepest desire is just peace so maybe when he ‘looks’ into the mirror he can hear the wind blowing through grass and can smell roses, the distant sound of Eve and Sebastian laughing. I think he gets to live that anyway…he deserves it.

Relationshipy stuff (NSFW 🔞)

I don’t think he wants kids… I just can’t see him with them. I know people like Dadimis but…no. Maybe I’m projecting but kids take so much patience which he clearly does not have.

Contrary to everyone else’s opinion but I think he like public signs of affection he’s just a touchy person. He’s always had something in his hands whether it was a stick when he was younger or his wand he’s ALWAYS touching SOMETHING. It grounds him. So he’s touchy when he knows the person doesn’t mind.

I think he’d shamelessly hold Sebastian’s hand everywhere. I don’t think Seb would care either. If it’s comforting then whatever

(NSFW 🔞) So I’m expanding on the choking thing from last time 👀 I don’t think he’d do it in a dominating way, I think it’s more of a feeling thing? I imagine the first time it happened was an accident. He just slid his hand up her chest and went a bit too far up. He felt the vibrations of her moaning against his hand, yeah he can hear it but feeling it is better. After that it’s almost a certainty that his hand will find its way around her neck. Maybe it becomes a dom thing but not originally.

Masterlist

[wuxiaphoenix]

On Editing: One *Neat Trick

Sorry, couldn’t resist, we’ve all seen so many of those clickbait links... ahem. But this is actually a useful trick if you’re using any kind of writing software for your first draft.

Got a problem spot in your draft? Mark it with a *, and move on.

Words not coming to you for how the room looks? *More desc here.

Not sure about the dialogue in a scene? *Check phrasing.

Just not happy with a paragraph? *Gloss.

And there’s all sorts of other things you can do, like *battle goes here, *look up exact term, *add to glossary, and so on. Anything that you think is going to need more work but you can’t quite pull off right now, mark it with a * so you can get back to it later.

So you got to the end of the draft, and it’s later. Now what? Mwah-ha-hah. This is where the Find function shows its power!

Find *

Now you can jump through your draft from trouble spot to trouble spot, without having to drag through the pages in between. A lot of the time, just looking at some of the * that need edits will let you think of something on the spot and get in some easy fixes. Fix it, take out the *, move on.

Now you have a reduced - though likely still sizeable! - set of trouble spots.

My strategy here is to reduce the stress level of fixing my story, as my brain tends to scream and run away when faced with the Whole Unfixed Draft. So.

Find again. Open a new document. Copy the problem spot and enough surrounding text to make it clear what’s going on. Put some kind of divider mark in the new doc so you know where that section ends. Repeat.

Now you have a document of just the *problem spots. Much shorter than your draft. I tend to go off and print these, because I like having something I can work on offline. Especially if one of the problem spots needs research of the “need to have three books open at once” variety.

And then. As you solve each problem and edit it in the main draft. You can check off what’s done.

This makes the visible size of your edit problems shrink. Which leads to your brain sighing in relief. It’s not a mountain after all; it’s just a hill, okay maybe a couple of hills, and with steady shovel work you will fix it.

Hit the easiest fix. Look through the list again, hit the next easiest. Repeat.

Am I saying to leave the hardest fixes for last? Yes, yes I am. Remember, writing is a marathon, not a sprint. Getting the easy stuff done reduces how much editing you have left to do, and that gives you more willpower to tackle the pile remaining.

Truly, * can be the star of your edits!

What edit tricks have you used to make life easier?

[carnalapples]

Happy DADWC! Can I get "An Inquisition banner, mended many times over"?

Happy Friday! Little bit of a filler episode with some Inquisition members for @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1400

There are Inquisition banners everywhere in the Hinterlands. One sits in the center of the Redcliffe Square, and Linnea watches it flutter in the breeze, the cloth snapping tightly each time the wind picks up. The stitching has come loose near the edge, a thin ribbon of fabric jerked around violently by the wind, but no one comes to fix it. Linnea feels a strange kinship with this banner, pulled this way and that each day. The Inquisition is not going to help them. Especially not with Ashna Trevelyan at its head.

Free allies, indeed. They’re going to be under their watch with no freedom at all, she’s sure of it. 

Trevelyan is sitting in the shade of a tarp, pulled between two rotting floorboards, as she works at the stitches, her lips pressed together tight. Lady Trevelyan, that’s always what they called her when she was acting up. Linnea refused; it went against the whole point of the Circles, although it doesn’t really matter now. And she looks like a lady now, hard at work at her needlepoint. 

Or not. Trevelyan frowns at the fabric and forces the thread through like she’s stitching up a patient, no real art to it. There’s a tension in her limbs that feels uncomfortably familiar. She’s about to leave when the woman looks up, and she fights the urge to groan. 

“Hey,” Trevelyan offers, fidgeting with the needle between her fingers. Linnea nods back neutrally. She tries her best, anyway. 

“So, you’re going back soon?”

She adds another stitch to the stark black line appearing across the cloth, a visible scar. “We’ll go back with you all. There’s time.”

“We can pack it up on our own,” she says lightly.

“I know. But Cassandra insisted. And it

“That cozy with her, huh?”

Trevelyan sets the needle down, glancing up at her fully for the first time. “She’s kind.”

“If you say so. Comfy little Chantry job, I guess you get used to it.” Now that she has the chance to size the older girl up, it’s like she’s got no control over it. If only things could be easy for once.

Trevelyan blinks. “Yeah. It’s great. Did you need something, or…”

Didn’t even want to come over here, she thinks, but she smiles thinly. “Just catching up. Herald,” she says slowly, and when she leaves, she’s sure both of them are breathing sighs of relief. 

Three days later, they’re all set to leave—but Linnea catches the banner out in the square, dark line of stitches down the edge, but unfinished, one small flap still loose. She huffs. Really. Not her problem, they’ve got an early start in the morning.

But in the morning, the banner is mended, and Trevelyan’s lightly fingering the edge with a furrowed brow.

///

Cullen sits in the middle of his cot, frowning down at the cloth as he pushes the needle in and pulls it out. His hands shake most at the end of the day, and he pricks his finger on the next stitch. A drop of blood wells up against his pale skin. He lets it bead up for a second, watching it bloom. He slips his finger into his mouth then, thinking of the Inquisitor. He doesn’t know why he makes these connections, but he wishes they would stop. Or not. It is much more pleasant to think of Lady Trevelyan than other things. 

She’d like Griffon Wing; he’s not really sure why, but he’s sure she’d find something enjoyable about the place. Cullen himself has been struggling to see past the sand that winds up in every crevice of the world and the insects that have gotten very creative about sneaking into the keep. 

But in the morning, the sunrise is like nothing he’s seen before. Like he’s waking up to a whole new world every morning.

“Knock, knock,” Rylen calls out, his hand hovering over the open door. Cullen snorts. 

“Yeah?”

“You want me to get one of the recruits to work on that?”

Cullen blinks down at the banner. Is there really any point left in working away at it until all his fingers go numb?

“No,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

“Yes, sir.” He narrows his eyes at Rylen, who grins shamelessly. “What?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. Not used to the respect, are you?”

“Not from you,” he drawls. Rylen scoffs. 

“Shove off mate, I respect you plenty. Don’t go fishing for compliments, now.” He comes closer to sit on the stool by the cot, which Cullen quickly clears of stray needles. “I, uh. Wanted to check in about it.” He gestures to the door, and Cullen hesitates, before shaking his head. It’s not so much a good day as an average one. There’s not much to hide.

“I’m okay. Today’s a good day.” It’s a stretch, and Rylen’s unimpressed look tells him he feels it too, but he doesn’t press.

“Alright, then.” He leans back, watching as Cullen threads the needle that’s slipped. It’s harder with him watching, but he doesn’t look too closely at his shaking hands or offer to help. “I was wondering,” he asks suddenly, and Cullen nearly drops the needle with a sigh. “Do you still think it’s possible? For anyone to quit?’

That stills him. He looks at Rylen, somewhat avoiding his gaze, eyes tracing the flaming sword with a gash through it, lined with red thread.

“I do,” he says firmly, surprising the both of them. He clears his throat. “Do you think you…”

“Not yet,” he says. “Too many Venatori around here, and—I don’t think I’m ready. Yet.” He scratches at his jaw, stubble overgrown. “But someday. Maybe.”

Someday has gotten Cullen through more than he knows.

///

“Seeker, what do you have there?” The satisfied lilt to Varric’s voice tells Cassandra that she’s not going to live this down for at least a week. Not for the first time, she wonders, why did it have to be Varric?

“The banner was torn.” It lies in her lap, along with a spool of green thread that is wholly unsuited and really only serves as a reminder of the Breach. But it was all Ashna had, and Cassandra cannot pretend to care enough to make the girl search out something else. 

“Sure, but it adds character, doesn’t it?” Again, to be caught in one of these practices that is a remnant of her former life is bad enough. For it to be Varric who catches her is intolerable. “Sometimes I forget you’re a princess.”

“There is no version of events in which I am a princess, Varric.”

“That’s cause you’re not thinking creatively, Seeker. You could be a princess if you spun it the right way.”

“No thank you. Princesses lead horrible lives,” she says flatly. They are forced to marry, and they have to deal with politicians, and often, they die, violently and pathetically, this last point of which haunts her more than it should. Varric shrugs.

“Suit yourself.” Cassandra snags the thread on some edge, and it snaps. She growls under her breath. “Though you look like you could use some help with that, at least.”

She blinks. “You sew?”

“Hawke couldn’t keep a pair of trousers intact for the life of her,” he says mournfully. “Perfectly good clothes, gone in a week.”

Cassandra smooths the edge of the banner, trying not to let her curiosity show. “And you were the one to fix these things.”

“I had people for that.” He sighs. “But not enough people to keep up with that woman. You know, she once nearly split her shirt open and flashed the whole of Hightown? Now that was a story!” He shoves his hands back in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, the picture of innocence. “But I’m sure you don’t have the time for it.” 

Infuriating man. Infuriating thread. Why does the Inquisition need banners at all? They will hear of their deeds in Varric’s stories, to be certain. 

“Until I finish this, I have nothing but time. I would… like to hear this story.”

“One one condition.” He holds up one finger in the air, taunting. “You agree that the statute of limitations has run out. It did all happen five years ago, of course.”

Cassandra looks down at the fabric, where the thread has gotten hopelessly tangled. It’s a lost cause.

But she does want to hear about Hawke.

[2nd2ndalto]

When I Get Home to You

Whoa, chapter eight! We're in the home stretch now, kiddos. Rating will go up for chapter nine, fyi.

Chapter 8

Chapter 7

Chapter 6

Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Nico’s older self makes them all sandwiches for lunch, though younger-Nico notices that neither of the men eat much. Will picks at his food, not taking part in the conversation nearly as much as he normally does. Younger-Nico, on the other hand, is hungrier than he can remember being in… a long time. It helps, he notices vaguely, that his stomach isn’t quite as twisted into its usual knots.

Finally the meal is finished - the two dogs are more than happy to clean up the leftovers - and the four of them settle again in the living room, ready to talk strategy. Nico finds there’s a relief in this forward momentum; he’s finally feeling useful, like he has some semblance of control over this situation.

Hazel has just begun to plot out the time and place coordinates for their journey when Will sits forward.

“Hazel. I’m sorry to interrupt, but… I think it’s just going to be easier on my mental health if I don’t sit here and listen to all the details.”

“Oh, Will. Of course,” Hazel nods.

“I’m just…” he swallows, pauses. “Nico.” he turns to his husband’s younger self, and though it hasn’t even been two full days, Nico already knows this look in Will’s eyes. Sincere. Honest. A bit raw. It’s hard to look away from.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t trust Hazel,” Will says gently. “I absolutely do. I’m just… I’m feeling a bit fragile right now and I think it’ll be better for everyone if I just… go for a walk.”

At this, Sticks’ head pops up from where she’s been snoozing on the couch, and Will chuckles.

Will rises, looking a little unsteady, and Nico’s older self copies the motion as if they’re attached at the hip.

“It’s okay, love,” Will says quietly to his husband. “I’m good. I just need to… remove myself for a bit.”

“I’ll come with you,” Nico says.

Will shakes his head. “No, you stay. I know you want to be here for this.”

Nico blinks, glancing towards his younger self and Hazel, looking momentarily conflicted. Then he turns back to his husband. “No. Hazel can debrief me later. Or next week. Whenever,” he says decisively. “They don’t need me here.”

Will opens his mouth to speak.

“Will.” Nico stops him with a hand on his arm, his gaze intense. “Do you want to be alone?”

Will pauses. “No,” he murmurs.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Once again, younger-Nico feels as though he’s intruding. Maybe Hazel does too, the way her gaze drops to her hands.

“You won’t leave before we get back, right?” Older-Nico asks as they head towards the door, Sticks bumping circles around their legs.

“Definitely not,” Hazel confirms.

“And… Nico,” Nico’s older self begins, and the boy thinks it might be the first time he’s called him by his name. “You’re okay staying here with Hazel?” And he fixes his younger self with the same searching look he’d given his husband moments ago. Somehow that expression is even more familiar to younger-Nico, and with a jolt he realizes he’s felt it on his own face.

“Yeah. Yes,” he says.

Nico can’t ever remember so many people checking in with him. Asking if he’s okay, checking for his consent. Apologizing to him for things out of their control. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

There’s a brief silence that follows the click of the front door latching shut, and then Mrs. O’Leary throws herself back down on the living room floor with a shuddering thud. She makes a rumbly, whiny sound, clearly miffed at not having been invited on the walk. Nico smiles, and crosses the room to sit next to her huge, slobbery head, scratching between her ears.

“Is Will… okay?” He asks Hazel after a moment.

“In the grand scheme of things? Yes. Right at this moment? Maybe not. But that’s what family and friends are for, kiddo,” she says gently. “And therapy, and… well. Lots of things. But yeah, he’ll be fine.”

“Are you okay?” Hazel asks him after a moment.

Nico blinks, staring at Mrs. O’Leary’s furry head, considering. And he realizes… he kind of is. Not good. Not excited to wake up again tomorrow, but okay. More okay than he was two days ago, anyway. So that’s something.

____

An hour later, standing in the backyard, Nico feels fairly confident that he, Hazel and Mrs. O’Leary are ready to make the jump. His mind is buzzing with all the new knowledge that Hazel’s shared. He’d almost forgotten the high he gets from discovering new ways to use his powers.

They’ve tried a few very short practice jumps outside - there’s not much more open space in the yard than there is inside the house, but at least there’s less risk of structural damage if Mrs. O’Leary goes off-course. She’s managed to raze a few hedges, and Hazel is currently attempting to teach Nico magical landscape repair, both of them laughing at his initial clumsy attempts.

Nico is hit by a momentary low, wishing he could spend a lot more time with Hazel, and then he realizes - he can. Soon. Starting… well, almost as soon as he can get back to his own time, according to his older self.

Hazel rights Nico’s hedge-reconstruction attempt and steps back to inspect it, her nose scrunching skeptically.

“It looks good,” Nico assures her. “They’ll never notice.”

Hazel cringes. “I’m pretty sure they won’t. It’s Persephone I’m worried about.”

Nico smiles at the look on her face. “I’m…” He wants to say it, wants to let her know. He might not have another chance. But he feels so terribly out of himself. “I’m glad I find you soon,” he finally manages, his gaze on his feet.

“Oh sweetie, me too,” Hazel steps forward, raising her arms to hug him, then stops, balling her hands into fists and pulling them back to her chest. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “No hugging, right?”

“Maybe… um. It’s okay,” Nico says softly, taking a tentative step towards her. He’s immediately wrapped in Hazel’s embrace and okay, maybe this isn’t so bad.

Hazel gently rocks them back and forth, squeezing tight. “Maybe you already know this and maybe you don’t, but I love you a lot,” she whispers. Hazel releases him halfway, hands firm and steadying on his shoulders. “I know you can’t take that with you after today, but,” she shrugs, “I hope you know it again soon.”

Nico nods, not trusting his voice enough to speak. ___

They hear Will and Nico returning before they see them, both Hazel and younger-Nico turning to the sound of their mingled laughter at the front gate. The men are hand-in-hand, both their postures noticeably more relaxed than when they left.

“Oh good, he’s got Will laughing,” Hazel murmurs. She glances at the boy next to her in the backyard. “I guess you don’t really know Will yet, in your time. Is it really strange? For you to see them together?”

Nico nods. “Yeah, kind of. Although… I guess a lot less strange today than it was yesterday. I think… I think they’re lucky to have each other,” he says softly, realizing it at the same moment the words leave his lips.

Hazel smiles at him. “Very.”

___

The last 48 hours have felt weeks-long at times, but suddenly, it seems, they’re ready to go.

The plan is for Nico to share most of the travel effort with Mrs. O’Leary on the voyage there, with Hazel navigating. Then, Hazel hopes she’ll be able to manage the return trip with Mrs. O’Leary without needing too much time to recover first. At some point soon after their arrival in Connecticut, they’ll deal with the issue of memory modification. Nico hasn’t asked many questions about that. It feels easier not to. But he trusts that Hazel’s plan is a good one.

The group of them linger around the kitchen table, finalizing plans. Hazel’s perched on a chair, but none of the rest of them seem able to sit, Will propped up at the corner of the counter, his gaze flicking between Hazel and his husband, older-Nico pacing and glancing out the window.

Younger-Nico can’t decide how he feels. Twitchy. Anxious. Looking forward to being on the move again. Worried about what comes next. Heavy-hearted knowing very well the self he’s returning to, but… does it even matter? When he won’t remember any of this? It might as well be a dream. In the end, he decides that the best he can do is take things a moment at a time, focus on the task at hand.

And in this moment, the adults are trying to decide on the most likely shadow possibilities. It’s nearing three o’clock, but it seems more sensible not to wait until it’s dark outside. Nico knows that his older self can feel it, and he can too - not a nearness to death, exactly, but like an elastic stretching a little further, a little thinner. Eventually, something’s going to snap.

Nico shakes himself out of his own thoughts to absorb the end of the conversation around him.

“No, not the bathroom, we can’t fit Mrs. O’Leary in there.”

“The basement then?”

But the basement is little more than a glorified crawlspace, and Will’s worried that the hellhound will take out the ceiling, which honestly isn’t implausible.

Eventually they settle on the garage. It’s not large, but they’ll all fit, and Mrs. O’Leary will be able to get inside without needing to shadow-travel there. The two men head out to move the car and tape up the garage windows, trying to ensure the darkest shadow possible.

They’re back even sooner than Nico expected, both of them exuding as much tension as he can feel himself, older-Nico chewing on his thumbnail, Will anxiously twisting his wedding ring.

“You’ll let Frank know when we leave? And tell him as soon as you can sense that the journey worked?” Hazel is asking her brother.

“Yeah, Hazel, of course.”

“I’ll head straight back to New Rome on the return trip, and I’ll call you from there. But don’t start worrying if you don’t hear from me for a few hours, okay? I’m not sure how long I’ll need to recover for the journey back. And I’ll need to stick around long enough to make sure that Nico’s re-situated.”

Older-Nico nods, looking paler than usual. Will does too, hovering behind his husband. Neither of them quite seems to know what to do with themselves. Younger-Nico can relate.

Hazel, in fact, is the only one not looking nervous, which is honestly heartening. “It’s going to be fine,” she tells the men again. Will gives her a faint smile. Nico looks as if he can’t loosen his jaw enough to smile, but he nods again.

The adults all seem somewhat paralyzed, and younger-Nico finally decides to take the initiative before one or all of them spontaneously combust.

“So then… should we…” he begins. The adults all agree immediately, jerking into action, heading for the back door, Sticks at their heels. Mrs. O’Leary’s lying on her side in the middle of the backyard and Sticks huffs when she catches sight of her.

Everyone’s silent as they trail around the yard to the door at the side of the garage. The late afternoon sun slants through the spruce trees in the front yard, flecking the surface of the driveway in light and shadow.

And then everyone is standing in front of the garage door as it rises. Hazel ushers Mrs. O’Leary inside and younger-Nico wavers, his gaze flicking to the garage and then to the two men next to him, both looking more solemn than he’s seen them.

“So um…” he whispers. “Thanks. For everything.” He gazes at Will, then his own older self. Feeling tears prick at his eyes, he blinks, looking away.

“Hey,” his older self says softly, “it’s going to be okay, all right? You can do this.” And Nico doesn’t think he just means the time travel. The man tentatively reaches out to touch Nico’s shoulder. “I’m really glad we got to… talk.” He clears his throat, sniffs.

Nico just nods.

Will is sniffling now too. “Is it too weird to say it was really good to meet you?” he asks, his voice rough.

Nico manages a watery half-smile, shakes his head. “It was really good to meet you too,” he says softly. He shyly raises his eyes to meet Will’s, and as he registers the warmth, the love in the man’s gaze, it brings a sob up from Nico’s chest. He realizes it’s no different than the way Will’s been looking at him all along.

“Well damn it,” his older self murmurs, wiping at his eyes, and younger-Nico laughs through his tears.

“So, um,” Will says, blinking hard, “safe travels, okay? We’ll… we’ll be thinking of you.”

Then Will holds out his hand, the same way he did two nights ago when they met - at least in this time. Nico hesitates, then tentatively takes a step closer, half-lifting his arms.

Will looks surprised, cautiously stepping forward. “Is it okay - can I…” and the second Nico nods, he’s folded into Will’s arms, his head cradled against Will’s chest. Will feels comforting, solid, calming, and it doesn’t help the tears, but it helps his heart a bit.

“Is it - can I… I’m gonna have to join you.” his older self croaks after a moment, and then the three of them are holding each other and gods, this is awful but it also feels really good, and maybe it’s not so bad to be fragile if you’ve got someone to catch you. All of them are crying and somehow Nico’s going to have to collect himself enough in the next few minutes to execute some pretty complicated shadow-travel.

At that moment there’s a disgruntled canine grumble, and Sticks’ front paws hit younger-Nico’s shoulder. He likely would have been knocked to the ground were he not already being supported by two grown men, but instead suddenly there’s a very wet tongue in his ear. The three break apart laughing as Nico tries to hug Sticks goodbye too, Will tearfully trying to explain that she doesn’t like to be left out of physical affection.

“Okay, on that note…” his older self laughs, scrubbing at his eyes.

“I guess I should go,” Nico says, giving Sticks one last head scratch.

The men nod. “We’ll… see you soon. Sort of,” Will says.

“Okay.”

“Um. Okay.”

And then Nico steps into the garage, and Will presses the button to lower the door.

[eldritchaccident]

Timing: Mid/Early May Location: The Docks Feat: @rn-zane & @eldritchaccident Warnings: None! Summary: Zane meets up with Teddy to talk Baku

WANTED: help with identifying this little guy. Found downtown, mostly friendly but starting to seem hungry now and hasn’t accepted anything edible. All assistance greatly appreciated. [Attached is a photo of a yellow baku, chewing on the metal foot of a chair]

The ad had been a long shot but sometimes, even those worked. Or hopefully worked since there was still a chance that this was just some ruse, a dumb prank that would take up most of Zane’s day off. Either way, a chance was a chance and after spending a couple of days with the animal, he wasn’t comfortable with just letting it off into the wild on its own. It didn’t seem capable of… well, anything. It had mostly just lounged around once Zane had brought it home, sniffing at various things and looking for spots to fall asleep in. Not exactly a top-of-the-food-chain predator, it seemed. 

Every kind of human food had been snorted at and after an extensive google search, the closest comparison he’d found to his new friend had been a tapir. This particular animal didn’t want berries or leaves but instead, had started chewing at anything metal around the house. So hopefully this Teddy wasn’t messing with him because Zane was desperate for any advice. 

He was thankful for the dark as the two of them headed for the docks, the proposed meeting place, since Zane wasn’t sure about drawing too much attention to the strange animal on the streets. At least not until he knew for sure what he’d accidentally stumbled upon and how best to take care of it. Just for safety, he’d repurposed an old hoodie of his for some extra cover and the hood of it now covered most of the little guy’s head. He hadn’t been happy about it at first but seemed to have given up on the fight fairly quickly. Besides, he’d needed something to fix a leash to since there hadn’t exactly been dog collars just lying around the house. 

The docks were fairly empty at this time of day, dusk settling nicely over the sea. Boats creaked softly and Zane found himself petting the animal on the bench next to him distractedly. Hoping this whole thing wouldn’t be a huge waste of time. 

—

To say Teddy Jones had a love for animals would be cutting it far too short. Especially when those animals happened to be more in the supernatural variety. The weirder the better. When they saw the ad, there was little that could contain their excitement at the opportunity to meet a little baku in person. They’d read plenty about the things in books but never chanced upon one. Funny considering how often the demon was plagued by nightmares. A baku would have a damn feast with them. 

The good thing was that hunters usually weren’t out after things like baku. They were pretty nice and generally a helpful thing to have around, unless you were a mare. The bad thing was if there were more people like Joy Cavendish around Wicked’s Rest, more people who liked to keep pleasant supernatural creatures locked up and confined where only they could watch over them… these ads everywhere were like calling sharks to a kill. Teddy took down as many as they could find, and made sure to text the number a few times after their initial call. Didn’t want this Zane guy to think they’d ghost him or whatever. 

So at the appointed time, and with as many resources as one backpack could carry, Teddy made their way to the docks. Not a very long journey, all things considered. Before long those honey brown eyes found their target. A man, one that Teds could have sworn they saw around town at some point, or maybe just online. And a little lumpy shape right next to him. Still pretty small compared to the pictures in the books, so maybe the baku had some growing to do. No wonder it was hungry. 

“Hey!” Teddy called out, not too loud. They didn’t want to startle either the creature or the guy. “Zane, right?” 

 —

It was a relief when someone finally appeared and called out, even more so when Zane saw that it was just one guy who looked fairly non-threatening. Friendly, even. “Hi! Yeah, that’s me,” he greeted, standing up quickly while holding onto the makeshift leash, offering a hand to shake. “Appreciate you doing this, google was no help and I wasn’t sure if it was safe to just let him wander off on his own but maybe it was stupid to take him home in the first place…” Zane trailed off, clearing his throat before he accidentally spent five minutes recounting the whole day he’d found the animal in excruciating detail to a complete stranger. 

“Anyway,” he started again, fumbling with the string tied to the back of the hoodie in order to get the clothing off, revealing the sleepy looking animal. It gazed up at Teddy with mild disinterest, not unusual considering it hadn’t looked interested in anything since it had tried to chase down Ariadne. “This is him. Whatever he is,” Zane chuckled awkwardly, lifting the animal into his arms. It settled there, still watching Teddy as it was held up for closer inspection. 

—

With an over-eagerness that wasn’t even attempted to be concealed, Teddy bobbled from foot to foot as the little guy was hoisted and held like the perfect cherubic angel that he was. The demon’s fingers steepled under their chin as they gasped. Delighted. Overjoyed. It was everything they’d hoped for. And far cuter than any of the depictions in those old scribe books. 

“Ohhhh look at you!!” Despite themself and their excitement, Ted managed to stay (at least audibly) calm for the creature. Who was content enough in this man’s arms that Teddy didn’t feel a need to hatch some sort of rescue plan. This wasn't a ‘guy in an alley selling puppies to make a few bucks’ kinda thing. This was the Universal Pet Deliverance System™  working in action. The strange animal in the hoodie had chosen to stick around just as much as the man holding it had chosen to care for it. 

“If I’m not mistaken, which I’m not by the way. I very much know my shit, he’s a baku.” Hopefully, if this was Zane’s introduction to the world of the supernatural and all it had to offer, it was going to be a… gentler one. The whole ‘there are things that go bump in the night’ bullshit spiel only has its charm once or twice when you are one of the ‘bumpy’ things. “And, more than that, he likes you. A lot.” That felt as important to say as anything else. At least to Teddy. Teddy liked to know where they stood with people. More of them, they thought, should just say outright how they felt. If they could just do that, it would make life so much easier. 

—-

The excitement pouring off Teddy was infectious and Zane immediately knew he’d made the right call in coming here. He could definitely appreciate animals, the cuteness of them and in the case of this guy, the vulnerability but it had always been more of an afterthought. Seeing how the other man was staring at the animal, however, with fondness and care just screamed ‘animal lover’. And knowledgeable too, it seemed. Zane had never, ever heard of ‘bakus’ and the internet hadn’t either. Made him wonder just where all that knowledge came from. Teddy didn’t give off the vibes of someone who used animals for their own gain so maybe it was a hobby. Didn’t seem like a human hobby since Zane had at the very least deduced that this animal was most likely one of Wicked Rest’s oddities. “Right, baku. That was, uh… definitely on my list of ideas,” he joked, smiling at how much the baku was enjoying the petting. 

At the earnest statement that followed, Zane’s smile grew even bigger, almost bashful. It was good to have confirmation that he hadn’t been accidentally torturing the poor animal with his presence these past few days. Aside from the feeding issue, he’d apparently done a decent enough job. “Ah, that’s good. Really good.” Giving the baku a few pets as well, he put it down on the bench, letting it trot a few steps there, head reaching towards Teddy. “Guess we would have been fine if I’d had any idea how to feed him. But since he’s clearly not a run of the mill animal, I’m not surprised regular food didn’t work.” Man, he hoped that whatever bakus were exactly, they didn’t feed on like… the blood of the innocent or bones or anything as awful. Zane was willing to try and help the little guy out but not to the point of like… gravedigging. 

—

Teddy eased into a light chuckle alongside Zane’s joke. Eyes still fixated on the tufts of yellow fur poking out from beneath the cotton hood. Their shoulders seemed to bobble with the expression more than any actual sound came out. At least until they flicked up their gaze, let loose a hundred watt smile, and tossed out their own retort. “Ahh, clever, handsome, and an animal lover. No wonder this lil guy found you, you’re like a dream come true!” Cheesy? Sure. But the demon was in an exceptionally good mood. And hey, it wasn’t every day you responded to what was essentially an extra cryptic not-quite-craigslist ad and met up with a CW level hottie. Should they have felt bad for shooting a shot? Eh. You never know until you try. 

“Which actually brings me to the thing you’re looking for. Now it’s gonna sound…” A long pause turned into a clicking of their tongue. Which didn’t seem to help much in their search for phrasing. “Not so realistic?” A pause. “Fake as hell?” Another. “It’s gonna sound stupid, just go with me here. Baku are very rare creatures. At least compared to most stuff you’d find at petsmart. Their food is too. Though, it’s a bit more… esoteric than just gettin’ the right kibble.” Teddy offered a sympathetic smile, knowing this stuff could be hard to digest. “They eat nightmares.” 

— 

The ease that Teddy’s infectious good mood had provided had lulled Zane into a sense of security. In general, talking to strangers outside the hospital was always a battle but this guy was easy to talk to and the conversation topic had been pretty much decided beforehand. It would have been a bold faced lie to claim that the bright smile that accompanied the compliments didn’t make the vampire’s stomach flutter and not purely with panic. “Ah…” was the eloquent response his brain came up with, his voice unsteady as if the humble smile hadn’t outed him enough. “Don’t think I measure up to you, though. When it comes to animal love, I mean. Not that the other things don’t… apply…” Yeah, he should have stuck to one syllable responses. 

Getting back to the previous conversation felt like much safer territory, even though all of Teddy’s pausing and thinking made the whole thing a bit ominous. Zane found himself once again wishing that he wasn’t about to be turned into a grave robber for this slow but adorable creature. “I’ve lived here for a few years,” he provided as encouragement for Teddy to go on. Granted, it had only been during these last few months that Zane had really started to accept that ‘weird Wicked’s Rest shit’ wasn’t just something that could be explained as a random oddity. That the stories of humanoid animal attacks were most likely real. Bracing himself for the information he’d come here for, Zane relaxed considerably as Teddy got to the point. 

“Nightmares,” he parroted back, confusion tinting his words but they lacked all disbelief. As much as Zane didn’t quite understand how something that seemed abstract could be a source of nutrition, he really had no reason to doubt that it was possible. “Guess that explains it, then.” No wonder the poor thing was hungry - no one in the house it currently resided in even slept, much less dreamed. The realization that Teddy would, obviously, assume that Zane had the occasional nightmare like every living person brought a new problem. After a moment’s thought, he decided to go for vague. “So… what if there are currently no… dreams for him to feed on?” Glancing down at the baku, Zane lips furrowed with worry, one hand distractedly stroking the soft fur. 

—-

“Oh hah, few do. I had a lot of time to learn about them and stuff as a kid. Found it all a bit too fascinating.” Teddy beamed, a bit proud of their acquired knowledge. Of the litany of books they had poured through, of the corrections they had made inside them. With the way the senior Jones collected tomes, cursed items, scrolls of ancient times, and all that stuff, there was always something for Teddy to mess with growing up. Always some new bit of knowledge they could seek out and put to one chaotic use or another. “Also hey, don’t cut yourself short.” When people deserved compliments, Teddy liked to supply them. Didn’t have to mean much of anything, they just enjoyed it. 

“Oh yeah? I’m going on like… two ish?? Now?” Though it might be verging closer to three now that the summer was here. Ted’s memory was foggy at best, their more creative ventures often filling in the gaps their memory left. Which was only sometimes a good thing. But they were pretty sure the Joneses arrived when it was warm. And it was rarely actually warm in Maine. So. Summer. Had to be, right? 

“Yuuup. It’s a weird one. Bit on the esoteric side, but hey, very worth it.” Teds was about to launch into a question on whether or not the stranger had been sleeping better, but a much more interesting idea floated in on their second statement. “Hmm. If you aren’t much of a dreamer–” They decidedly did not poke into the why category. Not their story to steal. “I’d say try and find someone around who could use some sleep therapy. If you’ve been here a few years you gotta know by now that nightmares are in no short supply. Maybe take him for walks at night and see which houses he gravitates towards. Or hey, as long as he’s cool with boats and otters I could watch him every once in a while. I’m a graveyard for nightmares, I’d be a regular buffet.” 

—

Zane decided that he definitely liked the young man. There was an air of cheeriness around him and despite the oddness of sunglasses after dark, the rose colored pair were a statement. It was usually hard not to crumble under other people’s confidence but Teddy seemed so relaxed and it definitely rubbed off. Before he could get too distracted by what was definitely yet another crush in the making, Zane focused back in on the conversation. “Oh, so not a local? Could have fooled me with how chill you are about…” A wave of his hand in the general direction of the baku, “all of this.”

Tension built as Teddy seemed to ponder on the vague statement about dreams, excuses and lies flipping over one another as Zane tried to land on one that wouldn’t sound like bullshit. And then they dropped it. Heaving a breath that probably wasn’t as discreet as he’d wanted, Zane nodded along at the helpful tips. The baku had completely clocked out of the conversation by this point, napping peacefully on the bench, lulled to sleep by the soft petting. It peered up with one eye, annoyed, when the strokes stopped. “Wait, really? You’d do that?” 

If the baku ate nightmares, that had to mean that the bad dreams would go away. This sounded almost too good to be true. His new pet would have plenty to eat, Teddy would get a good night’s sleep and Zane didn’t hate the idea of having a reason to meet up with this kind and friendly stranger again. “Can’t say I’ve tested him out on a boat but I’m sure he’ll do fine.” Smiling wide at this turn of events, Zane dug into his pocket for his phone. “You could take him for tonight if you want? I can pick him up in the morning before my shift. Just, uh… put in your number in case there’s any trouble?”

A pause. “Guess I should also get thinking on a name since it seems like I’m keeping him…”

—-

“Try to be chill about most things.” Teddy shrugged. “Makes life easier for everyone, y’know?” There was already so much pent up aggression and bitterness in the world. Against all odds, the demon wanted to be a little source of light. Levity. The idea amused them as much as they also just wanted to help people. A helpful demon. Bit of an oxymoronic statement, given the history of the words. But hey, the Joneses were all about subverting expectations, weren’t they? 

Teddy leaned in close to the baku one last time, giving the sleeping creature a little scritch before straightening up to look Zane in the eye. “Yeah, number, socials might be easier, if you got ‘em. If I’m around I’d love to lend a hand. It really is great to see one of these lil guys thriving.” Their chest was so warm and filled with excitement that little else mattered, but that didn’t mean Teddy couldn’t stop to actually enjoy the company of the man they’d just met. 

Kind enough to take care of a strange creature, perhaps naive enough to post about it on a public forum. In all the ways they could tell, this guy seemed like a pretty good one. Definitely a good match for the baku. They didn’t pick people lightly. The demon scribbled a few things on a loose piece of paper and handed it over before turning with a smile and a wave. “The name will come in time, don’t gotta settle on the first thing you think of. Can’t have that little guy being called Bananaman or something like that.”   

[saturnscribe]

But First, Dessert

Harvey x Reader; established relationship. 18+ minors DNI

A/N: This is an ao3 mirror. I won’t be linking it, I’d like to keep the two accounts separate. I don’t have any warnings, I had just meant to write a fluffy drabble where SDV Harvey... has dessert before dinner.

The doctors’ usual steady fingers trembled slightly as they played over the fabric of your underwear. He’d seemed so confident up until now, surprisingly so. The way he pushed you into the room with a searing kiss, how he tore at your blouse, nearly popping a button off it. Harvey’s mouth was hot as it trailed down your chest, leaving the occasional mark you wish he’d make darker. His hands were hungry as they slid into your bra, down your sides. He was quick to pull your pants off, thrown into some corner of the room. But now, with you clad in your panties, he seemed unsure.

“What’s wrong,” you push yourself off the bed, weight resting on your elbows. Your question seems to snap him out of his thoughts, and Harvey looks up with a heated stare.

“Nothing,” he licks his lips and hooks his thumbs into the cotton material of your underwear. The shake in his hands slowly ebb. You shift your weight to help him work the last bit of fabric off your hips and down your legs. As it reaches past your knees’ he tears it off and throws it behind his shoulder, lost to the rest of the room. Not losing momentum, Harvey hooks his hands behind your knees, pulls them apart and pushes them up, up, up to where it’s parallel with your head. There’s little to no strain, you’ve always taken pride in your flexibility. But this was new.

Without thinking, you clasp your knees together. You’ve never been so exposed, and it comes as a shock. For once, you feel heat bloom in your face and work its way down your chest.

“H-Harvey!” A hand darts to cover your sex. You’re not sure what’s gotten into him. You trust him, but you’re confused and exposed. Confusion and anxiety swim between your ribs, but you make no move to break his hold. While Harvey’s grip is firm, you know he’d let you escape if you wanted. There seems to be a moment where he expects you to push him away, but after a beat the doctor smiles at you and moves to press a kiss into your thigh.

Your hips buck and thighs press tightly together. The spot is sensitive, just under your knee. Some unknown feeling swirls in your chest. It’s a mix of too many things and you can’t put a word to it until Harvey presses his lips onto your skin again. It’s lower this time, and your breath hitches in your throat. You look down at him, and you nearly jump as he meets your gaze. 0 You fist the blankets beneath you as you suck in another breath between your teeth.

The doctor frees a hand, and you keep your leg in held place. He moves to take his glasses off, but stops to take you in. There’s a sheen of sweat over your exposed skin. Your hand still covers yourself, but the way you hold yourself open, just as he left you, does something to him. There’s a hard look in his eyes you’ve never seen before and you feel yourself twitch. It’s definitely something you’ll have to explore at a later date. This whole thing was something new to explore. Harvey has come at you with an energy like this before, lustful in a way you wouldn’t have expected. But this was different; there seemed to be something new sparking between you.

“Thank you,” he hums, returning to you without his glasses. His hand returns to the soft patch below your knee. Harvey thumb rubs a small circle into your knee in a show of appreciation, followed by a nip into the underside of your thigh, taking note of the way you twitch beneath him. He presses a gentle kiss to the same spot, and begins to work his way down with another, and another. Harvey revels in the way you shake and gasp in his hold and eagerly skips few inches down your open thighs to press a final kiss to your knuckles. It wasn’t hard to guess where he was working towards, but the gravity of it still knocks the breath out of your lungs. He doesn’t ask permission with his words, but the slow and gentle kisses he presses to your knuckles is question enough. Your fingers twitch with a moments’ hesitation before falling away.

He sighs hard in relief, eyes dropping from yours to the wet heat between your legs. Harvey takes a moment, almost admiring. The intensity of his stare eats at you. You were never comfortable enough to really explore yourself past your fingers and the occasional toy, and you wished he’d move a bit faster. It was uncomfortable having him watch you so closely, but before you could show your discomfort, Harvey leans in. His tongue is thick and wet, the heat of his mouth searing. He licks you from your entrance to your clit, a groan falling between you as he passes the exposed nub. Harvey moves closer, throwing your legs over his shoulders in a fluid motion. His free hand holds your hips tight, feeling and trying to restrain the buck of your hips at the action. You pant hard, squirming in his grip. He repeats the action slow and purposeful, trying to read your reactions.

It’s hard to think as he laps at you, taking note of every hitched breath and moan. Harvey always watched you carefully and worked hard to make you happy, but in this moment, it was paying off in ways you could have never imagined. The way he pressed you into the bed was maddening, you wanted to move into him, to get more friction, to guide his mouth to where you needed him the most. But he took his time with you, perhaps reveled in the fact he was solely in charge of your desire. His tongue works in circles and slow drags, enjoying the way your legs tense around him.

Your moan echoes through the cabin when he sucks at your exposed clit. Over the last few minutes, all you received were teasing passes, along or against the nub, or the faintest pressure against your opening. All teases, until now, where he feasts like a starved man. Your hands fly into his hair, finally giving into your desire and tugging him closer. A growl forces itself between your sex and up the expanse of you, a desperate moan meeting the sound in return. Harveys' tongue works you in broken rhythm, but his eagerness makes up for any inexperience. You throb, and clench around nothing, before giving his hair an experimental tug. Another sound pours from him, and he presses your hips further into the bed.

Your head knocks back with a loud whine, head pressing further into the mattress as he moves from your sensitive clit to press his tongue against your entrance. He pries you open slowly, moving in a rhythm meant to tear you apart. You had expected him to move as quickly as he had done before, but Harvey takes his time with the push and pull of his tongue and lips, working you open wet and sloppy.

Your fingers curl tightly into his hair as you begin to break. It was a wonder how you managed to last this long, never having someone’s mouth on you before. He was a bit clumsy, but he more than made up for it. Harvey was eager and paid close attention to you for so long, and it felt so good, but this was something else entirely. He fucks you on his tongue, spurred on by the way you squirm against him. Your fingers tug on auburn strands as pleasure twists in your gut. You need more and you don’t know how to ask for it. You’re not even sure if you can ask for it. His actions pull you apart, and your thoughts are hazy. He’s doing so much for you and you’re not sure you should ask. You didn’t want him to think what he was doing wasn’t enough, and there was no way you could really express yourself in this state.

He moans into you again, slowly pulling out of your heat. His tongue finds itself on your clit again, body convulsing with sensitivity.

“Please,” you whine, the sound thick and desperate. You fix yourself on the word and repeat it again and again, begging without real direction.

Harvey moves a hand from your hip and glides it down across your thigh. Your stomach flips as he pets the inside of your thigh. You’re suddenly aware of how damp the space is between your upper thighs is, and you move to cover your face out of embarrassment. Your boyfriend allows the action with a dark chuckle and moves his hand slowly between your legs.

“You’re so wet,” he purrs, fingers teasing your folds. “All this for me? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You make the most beautiful sounds. I can tell you’re loving it.” He nips the inside of your thigh, and you cry out again. You’re hips shake, but you press yourself closer to his face now that you have the room to do so.

“Patient, love.” Deft fingers dig into your hips and a shaky breath leaves you. There’s a lot to explore outside of tonight, you decide.

Kisses are pressed into the soft skin of your thigh, and he works up to the place you need him most. Harvey’s fingers begin to part your lips. He works slowly, taking time in building the moment up.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers between your legs, fingers finally sliding in. There’s a slight burn in the stretch of his two fingers, but you’re more than ready for them. Your moan breaks off as the heat of his mouth returns to you. He’s true to his word, as he gives you exactly what you were asking for. The push of his fingers is almost enough to get you off, but you do your best to keep together. The doctor had quite a way with you, and you knew there would be a reward for waiting.

He doesn’t make you wait long. Harvey’s mouth continues, spurred on by the way you cry and thrash about, all because of his mouth and fingers. The hand at your waist no longer holds you down but wraps around the fingers of your free hand. The other lays in his hair, pushing his head to wherever you need him most. He lets you guide him as he moves his fingers, looking for that sweet spot against your inner wall. He knows he’s found it when you sob, clenching tightly around his fingers.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” You cry as his fingers work purposefully against the spot deep inside you. Your resolve crumbles quickly, and you rock in tandem with his ministrations. This is what you’ve needed. He knew how to find that spot with ease. It might come from his profession, or previous partners but that didn’t matter. The only thing that did was his precision, eagerness, and ability to absolutely drive you wild when he found that spot.

Sounds pour from you unrestrained. Each thrust of his finger, every curl of his tongue, brings you closer to the edge. Your body strings tight, legs tensing at Harvey’s shoulders, your hand gripping tightly at his hair. Your voice pitches higher, hips pressing firmer into him. He notices the signs and doubles in his efforts. Fingers moving rough into you, mimicking the pace he’d set if he was fucking you properly.

It doesn’t take long after that for your orgasm to rush over you. It hits harder than you expect, your body arching sharply off the bed with a broken cry. You’re faintly aware of Harvey holding you tight with both hands, pressing your hips flushed against him as he works you through your orgasm. His tongue continues, hungry to milk you of your release. A second wave washes over you, a sob escaping your parted lips. You tremble against him, the only thing keeping you upright is his hold. Half your body is slumped into the damp mattress, your grip still tight in his hair. It takes a moment, but with your free hand you manage to pat his forearm in a silent request for no more.

Harvey pulls off you with a gasp, the sound lost in your breathless pants. You continue to tremble, sensitive in all the best ways and still halfway on some other plane. He takes notice and can’t hold back a smile, knowing he was able to bring you to this point. The man slides up your body, presses a wet kiss to your cheek and pulls you into a gentle embrace. He then pushes the hair out of your face and peppers kisses to the newly exposed skin, wanting to shower you in affection.

“Are you doing alright?” He asks softly, hands roaming your body. Harvey always made sure to stay by you until you calmed, post orgasm. He’d clean you if the opportunity arose. Made sure you were hydrated and loved. It was another thing about him that made you feel so lucky, this night aside. You nod in assurance, words still escaping you.

He pets and kisses you as you slowly come down. In the beginning, you had assured him all the attention wasn’t necessary, but you’ve grown to appreciate it. It was a welcome routine. When Harvey was sure you were with him, he offers you a slow kiss, and leaves the shared space of your bed. He wasn’t gone long and returns with a glass of water. He offers to help you sit upright, but you turn it down. You lift yourself upright with wobbling arms, your strength having left with the force of your orgasm. Harvey stands in front you as you drink your water, and when you sit it down, he’s on you again.

During your kiss, you feel a heavy weight against your thigh, and you know there’s business left unfinished. But when your fingers brush against the side of his length, Harvey chuckles and pulls his hips away.

“Not now, love. I wanted to take care of you. Don’t mind it, it has a mind of its own.”

You whine into the kiss, finding it unfair. Taking care of him wasn’t a chore, and Harvey knew it. He knew how much you loved to drop to your knees and service him. Loved the weight of him on your tongue, the feel of him pushing into the tight channel of your throat. The thought of it alone was getting you excited.

“Are you sure?” You ask, fingers brushing along the outside of his thigh.

“Yes.” His laugh is hearty, and it fills you. You love him so much, every little thing about him. His giving nature, how unselfish and loyal he was. You loved each shared cup of coffee, intimate look, and hold. It might be early, but you had plans to visit a certain merchant the next rainy season.

“Now that we’ve had dessert, let me get started on dinner for you.” Harvey kisses you deeply, taking your breath away.

[haik-choo]

what the haikyuu boys teach you in relationships

tsukishima teaches you that love is sometimes slow. love is sometimes hesitant, scared to burn too bright and fizz out too fast. tsukishima is cautious: his hands take time to hold yours, his lips hover over yours with shaky breath, and ‘i love you’ is only said in his most vulnerable moments. but his love is strong, unbreakable, and he’s willing to give you his all. it just takes time, and as far as he’s concerned, you both have all the time in the world.

kageyama teaches you the simplicity of love. he doesn’t have to pick you up and spin you around when good news come. he doesn’t have to text you every second of the day. the sigh of relief he makes when he sees you proves his love for you. the way he puts all his weight onto you when he hugs you proves his love for you. love isn’t complicated with him, it’s quiet, it’s simple. ask him if he loves you, and he responds with one word: “always.”

oikawa teaches you that you can have more than one love in your life. he was living proof that you can love many things at once; but most of all he loves you and his career. but even with two lovers taking up time in his life, he never neglected you. he made time for you, cared for you, kissed you, loved you more than anyone ever before. to him, loving someone didn’t mean giving up on your dreams. if anything, you became a vital part of his dream; he couldn’t see a medal or a future without you by his side (and if he's being honest, he loves you a little more than volleyball).

akaashi teaches you how intimate privacy is. he doesn’t have to be over the top to prove his affection for you; no one has ever seen him kiss you, no one has seen his loving smiles when he wakes up, you laying beside him. no one knows akaashi in private, only you know the taste of his lips and messy bed-head he harbors. only you have ever seen akaashi with love swimming in his eyes. knowing that you will be the only person to ever see him in such an intimate light doesn't take away any value; it simply serves to make your love that much more special. 

atsumu teaches you the necessity of passion. love is something you should crave from your lover -- your lover should be someone that makes you feel like you can breathe, like if you didn’t have them you’d drown. love should be all-consuming, no exceptions. atsumu needs you like a flower needs sunlight, he craves you like his hands crave the textured feel of a volleyball. you are not a want to atsumu -- you’re a need. without you, there is no oxygen to fuel his fire.

yamaguchi teaches you what complete and unconditional trust feels like, and that you should never settle for less. there’s an unspoken understanding between you two that you both put your absolute all into the relationship and that trust will never be betrayed. no lying, no secrets, no sneaking behind each other’s back, no doubt -- honest love is all you get from him, and honest love is exactly what you give back.

kuroo teaches you that it’s the little things that bring value. it’s him remembering your favorite drink and bringing it to you during your work break, it’s always eating dinner together no matter how busy you two are, its the feeling of his arm wrapped around your shoulder as you brew your morning coffee. they're small, especially in the grand scheme of your bountiful love, but they add up, slowly but surely, and their sum is greater than infinity. 

bokuto teaches you shamelessness. he’s never been ashamed of how strongly he feels for you, nor will he ever be. there’s nothing embarrassing about loving the adrenaline rush your smile gives him, there’s no reason to be shy at the red that floods his cheeks when you kiss him. there’s no reason to hide his happiness when you visit him spontaneously at practice. he’s not ashamed of his emotions -- he’s proud of them. he has pride in how much he loves you. and bokuto is in love with everything that you were, are, and ever will be.

kita teaches you that loves needs constant care. you don’t plant a seed and forget to water it, or simply not tend to it at all. love is work, it’s compromise, it’s never giving up, and it’s falling all over again when it blooms. kita doesn’t mind tending to your love; he waters it by giving you affection, he pulls out the weeds by fixing problems instead of fighting -- he loves you so deeply that it’s second nature to care for you. in the end, the work is always worth it, because seeing your love bloom right before his eyes, he realizes, is all he’s ever needed. 

terushima teaches you that love should be fun and full of joy. there’s no reason that loving someone should be completely serious and perfect; imperfections make love real, they make love unique. his impulsive way of loving you is uniquely him; he loves you deeply, and diving into that pool of bottomless love he has for you from the highest diving board with no lifeguard near sparks more joy in him than should be humanly possible. he falls in love with how fun it is to love -- with how fun it is to be in love with you. 

-

[sunshine-in-a-bottle]

Fic with sad Dream feeling like he doesn't deserve love because he hasn't earned it and has done nothing to deserve something good let alone people who make him feel good- And he's crying and avoiding people so they can be happy..... But then they find him and give him love anyways?

-🦝

Failure was a familiar weight on Dream's shoulders. Every problem poorly solved, all his promises broken. It wasn't a sting, but deep bleed on his soul and his conscience, no matter how small it may seem.

He was having more bad days than good these past few months, another result of his many failures, and while he could pinpoint individual tasks as symptoms, he knew that he was the only constant factor between it all. He was the problem, he needed to fix it. Well, take himself out of the equation, then. George's anger with him? Fixed if he wasn't there to make George angry. Sapnap avoiding their community home because of him? He wouldn't have to avoid it anymore because Dream would be gone. This would be all smoothed over once Dream removed himself from the equation for a few days, maybe a week or two. Then they would be happy again, and while he still would have failed them, this would fix it, at least a little. Repair the fractures he had caused with his inability to just do it right the first time.

(It was one of his bad days, and he knew it because his head hurt. It made him question himself, wondering if he was the right person to help at all. If he could be anything but a failure. And failures didn't deserve friends.)

The sun was out. He was sure it was night a moment ago. Sometimes he blinked and the world moved with it. But it was fine, because Dream was being useful right now. He was doing something right. He was a good distance from their home now, collecting resources someone might need in the future. Everything from flowers to enchantments to gapples. He'd made a little dirt hovel within a small hill, collecting. Working.

(Being idle meant losing time, but no matter how he tried to bury himself in busywork, sometimes the days would blur rapidly. )

He put a rose bush outside the hovel. He didn't want to put anything more permanent than a bed, but it had been singular, alone, without a bee in sight, and he uprooted it with ease. He ignored the way the thorns pricked into his hands until the palms bled, and he didn't even register the sting of tears. He was planting it somewhere safe. The rosebush would be better protected where he could see it and water it.

He didn't hear anyone calling his name until he was being pull back by the shoulder.

"Dream, stop, what the fuck, you're hurting your hands."

Sapnap glared down at him. Dream took a second to take him in, feeling an overwhelming sort of relief at seeing his best friend, even if the gaze was hostile.

The hostility disappeared and took on a worried edge. "Dream? Are you okay? You're- shit. I'll be right back, I'm gonna grab George."

Sapnap scooted back, searching for a response, but that familiar pain drowning out everything of substance in his head. It felt like screaming voicelessly.

It felt like failure.

Sapnap ran off, leaving Dream to scramble uselessly in his mind for some sort of purchase. He needed Sapnap. Sapnap was avoiding him home. Sapnap was running away from him again. He hadn't gone far enough away from the community house, maybe. Hadn't fixed this.

The solution was to go farther. It was the only thing he could think to do, with his mind filled to its tipping point.

He wasn't quite sure how many steps he made, because he blinked and time passed again, but the hovel was nowhere in sight, so he must have at least left the clearing. The yelling in his ear, however, was more relevant.

"Are you listening to me?! You idiot-" Oh, that was George. George was still angry with him. He hadn't fixed that either. He didn't know how anymore. Everything was too much for his body to handle when there wasn't enough space in his head to think straight.

Dream blinked. The shouting had stopped. There was a hand in his hair.

"-I don't think he's eaten in a long time, his saturation is-"

"- was crying when I found him, dude-"

They were talking, weren't they? Sapnap and George, his friends. The people he loved more than anything in the world. He was in Sapnap's lap, he realized, on a bed that wasn't in his hovel. Dream had no clue where he was, but that wasn't relevant to the more important things. Like Georges hand in his hair, or the rumble of Sapnap's chest. George switched from the top of his scalp to behind his ear, and Dream hummed in delight.

The talking stopped.

"Dream, can you hear me?"

He could. He missed the sound of their voices. He missed them so much. He pressed his face into Sapnap's stomach.

"....Cool. I'm gonna get you some food, and you're gonna need to eat it for me, okay buddy?"

Sapnap began to shift, and no, that wasn't what Dream wanted at all. If Sapnap left, he'd be gone again for weeks at a time, and Dream would be all alone. Dream gripped Sapnap's shirt as tight as he could, even as exhaustion made his fingers hard to work with. A soft noise spilled from his throat.

"Shit," Sapnap swore shakily. "Dream, I missed you too, but you need to eat something, or else you're gonna despawn, and I don't want to have to go all the way back to get you again. Please?"

"It's fine, I got it." George said, standing up swiftly. He let his fingers trail once more through Dream's hair gently before pulling away to leave the room. Dream didn't like that much either, but George didn't come back when he made the noise again. Instead, Sapnap moved them both so they were both laying down, Dream on top of Sapnap.

"I'm usually the one laying on top." Sapnap commented. "Not used to it, but its nice. Kind of get why you always want to cuddle."

He grimaced at his own words, then pulled Dream up until Dream was breathing into his collarbone.

"We haven't done this in a while. 'm sorry." He mumbled. Dream felt an anxious lump rise in his throat. Sapnap was apologizing, was he sad? Did he need help? What did Dream need to do for him-

"Here, eat this." Georges voice spoke above him, and Dream was turned and raised enough to shove a sandwich in his mouth. He chewed slowly, distracted by the dark circles under George's eyes. His friends were upset, he needed to help them.

"Stop thinking so much, idiot." George said, and pressed his thumb directly between Dream's brows. The pressure relieved some of the pain, and a featherlight index finger brushed his nose. "I know that face. Lay back down or I won't join you both."

Sapnap protested, but Dream dropped, both at the order and at the sleepiness the brief soothing gave him. Sapnap cradled the back of his neck automatically and fiddled with the hairs there. George snorted, and crawled over both of them to lay on the other side.

Dream felt the anxiety flicker at his idleness, but George was hooking his legs around Dream's, and Sapnap pressed him mouth against his forehead.

"Love you." Dream mumbled. That was important. He knew that to be important. They hadn't said it in so long, and Dream was waiting. Waiting waiting waiting for the day he would be saying it to an empty field. Like he had when Sapnap stopped coming home. When George got too angry at him to talk to him.

"Love you too, Dream." Sapnap whispered. George pressed his face into Dream's back, but he mouthed the words into his shirt. Dream relaxed, and fell into sleep. The wait was over, now.

[blu-joons]

Staff Jealousies ~ Kim Namjoon

Alongside the rest of the staff, you applauded the boys as they walked off the stage as their dress rehearsal for that evening’s show came to an end. Everything was organised and ready to go, with the boys happy with all of the small details for the show too.

As soon as Namjoon’s eyes landed on you, he walked across to you with a smile, wrapping his arm around your waist coupled with a kiss against the top of your head.

“Are you excited?” You quizzed, taking a good look at the empty arena in front of you, “I can’t wait to see this place sold out tonight.”

Namjoon’s head slowly nodded back at you as he looked along the empty rows of seats, knowing that one of them would hopefully be filled by you tonight once you finished your shift. The boys would be passed into the capable hands of other staff members who had rested that morning.

“I need to pass on the instructions for the set,” Namjoon mused, as right on the cue the staff for the evening show walked into the arena to take a look at what was going on.

“Don’t leave me on my own for too long Joon.”

You sighed softly as he walked away from you, greeted almost immediately by one of the newer members of staff who was keen to hear what she needed to do. As ever, her eyes watched Namjoon intently, with her hand resting against his arm every time he said something funny, making sure that she shook her hair every few minutes too.

“Don’t tell me it’s not just me that sees it,” a voice suddenly announced from your side, “she’s weird.”

You chuckled back at Jungkook as he threw his arms around your shoulders, watching the peculiar antics of the staff member too. It was obvious to most that her intentions were never to work as such for the group, but Namjoon always told you that you were talking nonsense.

“I find it funny that she thinks she has a chance with him,” Jungkook added, scoffing under his breath as she let go of an exaggerated laugh. “If one of has an accident because she wasn’t listening to Namjoon’s instructions, then they’ll be trouble.”

“I’m sure she’d more than happy to save the day,” you bitterly responded, watching her closely, “especially if it was Joon, she’d be all over him, probably give him the kiss of life too.”

An empathetic laugh came from Jungkook as he glanced down at you, hating to see the fear that was in your eyes. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Namjoon but seeing how oblivious he was to her many advances certainly meant you had a few questions in the back of your mind.

“I think I’m just going to go and pack up my bag to head out for dinner,” you told Jungkook, stepping out from his hold, “I can’t be bothered to stand here and watch this anymore.”

Jungkook let you go as he continued to watch on, waiting until they were finished to greet Namjoon, whose eyes instantly went in search of you. When he couldn’t see you, he turned to Namjoon with his eyebrows furrowed together.

“Where did she go?” He sighed, folding his arms across his chest, “she was the one that told me not to leave her on her own and she’s just gone and done the same to me,” he vented, trying not to get too frustrated.

Jungkook’s eyes rolled at just how clueless his leader really was. “I’d walk off if I was her too Namjoon, no one should be subject to watching their boyfriend be flirted with by someone who’s supposed to be in a position of responsibility.”

“You mean S/N, but she’s harmless?”

“Are you really that stupid? Nobody laughs like that or touches their hair that much.”

“Oh,” Namjoon stuttered, “I should probably go and fix this.”

Jungkook’s mouth opened to reply, but Namjoon was already on his way backstage in search of you. He looked in every crew room, with no one around, racing around the arena, a sigh of relief came from him when he saw the back of your figure approaching the exit door.

“Y/N!” He yelled, picking up his pace so that he could catch up to you, reaching out to hold onto your shoulder, spinning you around. Your eyes were blank as you looked up at him, shrugging your shoulders away from his hold.

His head nodded, understanding that you were frustrated, dropping his hands to your side, trying not to allow himself to react.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he immediately confessed, turning around to block the exit door in front of you. “I’m sorry that you had to watch that, or just watch her every day, and I’m sorry that I didn’t figure out what was going on, I really did just think that she was being friendly, like all the staff are.”

Your head shook slowly, turning your eyes away from Namjoon and to the ground. Your anger was justified, Namjoon was kicking himself for missing all of the obvious signs and leaving you to stand with several doubts in your mind.

“Just tell me what I can do to make this right?” He requested.

“I would say sack her, but I’m not quite sure you’ve got the power to do that.”

“I would do it,” he instantly replied, “for you, and for the sake of our relationship then I would find a way to make sure that the company got rid of her.”

You continued to shake your head, although Namjoon had all the right things to say, it would never be that easy. Whilst you and all of the others were dedicated to your jobs, the only thing that she was dedicated to seemed to be your boyfriend.

It was well known amongst the company that the two of you had decided to date, but you both always made sure to remain professional. If anything, people could be forgiven for thinking that S/N and him were more of a couple than the two of you were.

“I promise from now on I’ll be more aware,” he assured you, “and make sure that she knows her position. And most of all I’ll make sure that she knows that I’m with you, and that there’s absolutely no chance of anything between the two of us.”

“And what if that doesn’t stop her from trying?”

“She can try all she wants, it’s never happening.”

Namjoon took a step forward, carefully resting his hand against your arm. “At any point have you maybe liked her and the way that she behaves Namjoon?”

“Of course, not,” he instantly replied, refusing to let you doubt for even a second. “All she is, is another member of staff, everyone here is just a member of staff to me, except for you. You’re the one that I want to date, and love, the one that I want to have by my side everyday when I’m travelling around at work.”

“How am I supposed to trust her now? What if she tries something on with you tonight during the show, she’ll know that I’m not working with you guys tonight too.”

His head shook as he moved his hand down to rest against your waist, closing the distance between you both. A soft kiss found its way to your lips, reassuring you that you had nothing to worry about when it came to her advances.

“Whilst I can’t get her to stop the way that she behaves, what I can do is promise you that you have nothing to worry about. Let her continue to humiliate herself, because that’s all she’s doing, it’ll never work for her.”

“What if she never stops?”

“Then we’ll always have something to laugh at when we’re at work,” he chuckled.

Your eyes rolled as a hint of a smile found its way onto your face whilst Namjoon squeezed gently around your frame.

“Please don’t worry about her, my eyes are very much only looking at one staff member, who she could never compare to.”

“Oh, and who’s that then?”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

---

Masterlist

[mc-lukanette]

Have you considered writing a "Truth" fix-it with Marinette admitting her secret to Luka? Maybe he could be a confidant like Marianne was for Fu.

Truth was having a terrible, awful, rotten, very bad day. If he could use his powers on the universe, he would've asked what he did to deserve this kind of treatment.

It started with his girlfriend keeping a secret from him concerning her ditching their dates, then escalated to Jagged Stone - who'd been his idol for years - turning out to be the father who abandoned him, and now he was fighting Ladybug and Chat Noir in Marinette's room after he’d been told by multiple people that Marinette’s supposed “secret” was that she was in love with Adrien, as if he hadn’t already known that and they just wanted to mock him.

His civilian self had never been never someone to presume, but now it's all he could do. Marinette must've ditched him because she didn't really love him, Jagged probably never even felt bad about abandoning him, and despite Adrien never even trying to win Marinette's heart, he was just better than Luka in every way, because the rich model with all the connections Marinette could ever want would always outmatch the "guitar boy" who worked a part-time job, lived on a houseboat, and had parents who either kept secrets from him or flat-out didn't want him.

Had it not been for his akumatization working to drive him towards a goal without interference, he would've cried. He wanted nothing more than to wake up and think the whole thing was just a bad nightmare, with dating Marinette just being brief highlights of it that kept getting shot down with a reminder that he wasn't good enough.

He wanted it all to be over.

Chat Noir was still trying to banter with him, but Truth wasn't having it. While going after Ladybug first wasn't ideal, as she was the smarter out of the two, it was easier to get rid of Chat Noir and deal with the heroes one at a time.

Thus, when Ladybug had run across the room to use her Lucky Charm, Truth acted. He managed to grab Chat Noir and throw him into the chest that Ladybug had been hiding in before, then locked it tight to prevent Chat from escaping. That done, he went after Ladybug, who was stunned but nevertheless prepared to fight. Chat Noir being out of the picture didn't impact her ability to fight, but Truth had Pharo on his side to knock Ladybug around when it was too hard to get a spotlight on her.

Finally, he managed to tackle her, her lying on her back and him pinning her arms down. The chest nearby rattled in protest, but Pharo shined its spotlight on it, preventing it from moving anymore.

Truth watched as Ladybug looked around for a method of escape, but she came up empty. Her eyes widened in the realization that... this was it. This was the end.

"Now," Truth said, clamping down harder on her arms as he leaned down, "tell me the truth!"

Ladybug tried to shut her lips tight, but he could see her struggling, her body shaking as she tried to free her arms to stop herself. It was only a matter of time.

Then, her mouth opened, and out came the words, "I love you, Luka!"

He froze, his fingers twitching in his confusion while he could only stare down at her in shock.

"And I'm so sorry! I'm sorry for everything! I wanted to tell you - I always wanted you to know - but I couldn't, and you deserve so much better than a hero who can't give you the time you deserve!"

A cold realization washed over him in form of a shudder. Those words could've been interpreted in so many ways, but he was the only one who registered their real meaning: that Marinette was Ladybug, her "ditching" had been her needing to fight akuma, her keeping secrets had been out of a desire to protect him, and he—

...He had only caused her more problems by getting akumatized, being no better than all those that had interrupted their dates. She loved him, and he gave into Shadow Moth to go against her.

Ladybug continued rambling, oblivious to his internal crisis, "You're incredible, and I just love you so much. I knew you were special from the day we met, when you called me—"

Truth clamped his hand over her mouth, preventing her from spilling any more secrets. He could feel Shadow Moth's influence in his mind, demanding that he remove his hand, but Truth ignored it, just as he'd been ignoring so many of his commands. The energy from akumatization that once made him feel powerful now made him feel disgusted with himself, guilt swirling in his gut and making him regret everything.

He reached up with his other hand, grabbing at his necklace and tearing it off. Ladybug's brows rose at the crunching of his akumatized object, and the last things he saw were the akuma flying free and Ladybug's expression turning to something...

thoughtful.

—————

Marinette de-transformed in a nearby alleyway and headed down towards the Seine, having not yet processed all of her feelings from that day. She had a little time left, given that Luka had quietly asked to walk back home himself, but she’d gotten no closer to clearing her mind since leaving her house. She was still a jumbled mess of "what if"s and "but maybe"s, and ultimately knew that it was going to be a matter of essentially winging it and just saying everything that she had on her mind.

As she approached the Liberty to wait for Luka, she paused as she noticed another figure already standing there. After all, Jagged Stone wasn't exactly someone you could not notice.

Before she could debate on whether to approach him, Jagged seemed to sense her and glanced over to make eye contact. She stiffened, only able to wave awkwardly and pretend like she didn't know why he'd be there.

"Hey, frockstar," Jagged greeted tiredly, his smile not quite reaching its usual lengths. "What are you doing here?"

"Um..." She walked over, standing next to him and staring in the direction where Luka was going to come from. "I need to talk to my boyfriend."

"Ah." It took a few seconds for the words to actually register with him, at which point Jagged turned to her, mouth agape as he grabbed her shoulders. "My son's your boyfriend?!"

She didn't quite have the energy to feign total surprise at the “son” comment, but she didn't have to. Jagged immediately pulled back without really looking at her, regaining his composure just as quickly as he'd lost it.

"You... wouldn't happen to be able to put in a good word for me, hm?" He grinned sheepishly, jabbing at Marinette with a hopeful elbow. "Haven't exactly figured out what I'm gonna say yet."

She was torn between being upset with him on Luka’s behalf and feigning sympathy because it was not only none of her business, but she was in a similar boat and felt like she had no right to judge.

She went with the latter, smiling weakly and jabbing him back. "That makes two of us." Then, she frowned as her nerves came back. "And... anyway, I don't know if he'll want to keep being my boyfriend after tonight."

For once, Jagged didn't pry or ask questions, the atmosphere probably felt even by him. They just stood there, waiting.

After a few minutes, Luka finally walked into view, staring at the ground and seeming defeated. Marinette felt ill at the sight, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her capris to find a sense of stability.

Should she approach him? Let Jagged go first? Or, maybe that would seem evasive, so—

She felt a pat on her shoulder, looking up at see Jagged urging her forward with his eyes. She wasn't sure if she should be grateful or consider him to be the evasive one, but Luka's akumatization was also mostly because of her and thus it only made sense for her to go first.

She ran the distance to get to him, Luka glancing up at the sound of her footsteps and stopping as she got to him. The usual light in his eyes wasn't there, and she had to force herself to even say a simple, "Um... hi."

"Hey." He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his head. "I'm really sorry, Marinette."

"Huh?"

"I got akumatized, and I was in your room when I woke up." His brows furrowed with uncharacteristic anxiety. "I didn't have to hear the song to know what the notes were. I must've gone after you."

Marinette blinked, having not even thought about him feeling guilty over the whole thing. She shook her head, reassuring, "No no! I mean—you told me to run! You didn't go after me, not really!"

She wasn't technically lying; he never sought her out to her knowledge, and even as Ladybug, she'd always had to chase him.

Luka sighed in relief, though his expression didn't change much. "I'm glad."

He met her gaze again. She yearned for the way he used to look at her like he wanted to get lost in her forever, but his eyes soon darted elsewhere as he noticed Jagged Stone standing not too far away.

Marinette tried not to get discouraged, stepping back into his vision and waving her hands to try and divert his attention. "Ah—don't worry about that! Look—" She paused, needing a moment to breathe, then lowered her hands and shifted to seriousness. "Can we talk? And walk? It's... really important."

She couldn't imagine the conclusions he must've been coming to in his head, partly because he didn't voice any of them. His eyes merely searched hers, seeking nothing in particular.

"Sure, Marinette," he agreed.

She managed a smile, happy that she made it this far at least. She reached out to take his hand, but stopped herself at the last second and simply walked past him, Luka taking one look back at Jagged before following after her.

The walk was tense and quiet, the only sounds coming from the evening ambiance and their footsteps. The uncertainty of it all gave her anxiety, but she'd been sure of that uncertainty since she first decided to talk to him about this.

Because, whatever the future of their relationship was, it would be in his hands.

—————

As they arrived at her intended destination, Marinette heard Luka briefly stop behind her, perhaps processing where she just took them. It was the Canal Saint-Martin, also known as the place where they'd first agreed to date, and now it was potentially the place where they'd break up as well. Marinette vaguely pondered if that would be for the best, like the memories would just cancel each other out and Luka could forget about it altogether if he wanted to.

Nevertheless, she walked over, glancing at the bridge for reference and sitting in roughly the same place she’d been all that time ago. She then tossed Luka a hopeful look, and he walked over to sit next to her.

Steeling herself up, Marinette took a breath, inhaling until she couldn't take in any more oxygen and then exhaling for just as long. At least a little more emotionally prepared than she was before, she finally spoke up.

"I...I'm sorry, Luka. I'm sorry that I got you akumatized—" She saw that he was about to interject and cut him off. "—and I know you don't blame me, but it doesn't matter—I mean—it does matter, but I'm still sorry anyway, okay? You had a right to be hurt and maybe if I'd explained myself better, then things would’ve been different."

He still seemed to want to argue, but was holding himself back so she could continue, which she appreciated.

"It's not that I didn't trust you. If anything, I—I trust you more than anyone else. You've never betrayed me and I know you'd never tell anyone if I told you my secret. You understand me even when I'm being the disaster that everyone laughs at - everyone but you - and..."

She sighed, pulling out her phone and navigating to her text conversation with him. Mentally wincing, she tapped on the photo of her Adrien wall that Ziggy had sent, then presented it to him. He leaned in to make sure of what it was, then looked back at her, clearly not understanding where she was going but knowing it wasn't her being spiteful or rubbing it in.

She said as much, "You don't assume anything, like when you got sent this dumb picture. I know it was obvious that it was an accident, but you didn’t have to go with it and you did. I wouldn't have blamed you if you got mad, but you didn't. Whenever I'm stammering and being an idiot because I'm scared or nervous, you don't judge me for it or think that whatever comes out is what I actually mean. That's so important to me, Luka, you have no idea."

She settled the phone between them and kept the picture on-screen. Her gaze flickered down to it, silently encouraging him to look at it too, then glanced back up at him.

"How much do you know about fashion?"

He tilted his head, thrown off by the sudden question, but answered anyway, "Only what my sister's ever talked about."

"Do you know why fashion trends die so quickly?" When he shook his head, she explained, "Part of it is the over-exposure. When people hear about what's in at the time, suddenly everyone starts wearing whatever it is, so everywhere you look, you see it, and then people get tired of it."

There was a flicker of understanding in his eyes, Luka looking back-and-forth between her and the phone like he was piecing a puzzle together.

She confirmed it for him, "That's why I have so many. I don't feel that way about him anymore - I don't think I ever did - but I just don't know how to act around him. I hate how the whole idolizing thing took over my life and I already tried everything else, so I figured this might work." She groaned. "And of course it blew up on me and you got sent that without any context. Of course."

He gave a look of concern at the exasperation in her tone, but she tried to ignore it, not wanting his sympathy.

"My point is..." She gestured vaguely at the phone. "I stammer about him, but it's not because I'm in love with him, it's because I've never really been his friend and I don't know how to do it. I'm not dedicated to him and I'm getting better at not doing the stuff I used to."

His eyes flickered again and she wondered if he was thinking about that day on the Liberty where she was late to Kitty Section playing, where she ignored Adrien entirely. Just for emphasis, she tapped her phone and deleted the picture, adding on, "I'm only dedicated to you, Luka. I—"

She shifted in place, hitting the wall behind her feet a few times with her heels to ease off the anxiousness. It was so much easier when she’d been Ladybug, though granted that she was under the influence of Truth's spell at the time. She and Luka were dating, yet she was sure he'd ask her to end it, making putting herself out there all the scarier.

"I..." She met his gaze. "I love you." He gaped at the confession and she continued on, "I love you like I haven't loved anyone else before; definitely not Adrien. It's the kind of love that actually makes me happy, and comfortable, and my life is better with you in it."

She bit her bottom lip, hands curling into fists at the tight feeling in her chest. She turned, placing one hand on the ground as she began to push herself up, her other hand landing on Luka's shoulder to wordlessly insist that he didn't have to stand with her, so his gaze merely followed her as she moved.

"But that's the thing." She took a few steps away, back turned to him as she stared up at the sky. Her stomach twisted itself in knots at the words in her throat, but she nonetheless admitted, "I don't think it's mutual."

Luka's voice took on a sharp, offended tone. "Marinette—"

She spun to face him, cutting him off, "—and I know that you're going to say something sweet and heartfelt about how everyone has a place in your life and then something about how bad notes can still make good songs, but... Luka, you don't understand."

She turned away from him again, this time pacing as she counted off events. "Bullies and liars target me, and sometimes that means going after people I care about. I'm clumsy and a stuttering mess and you wouldn't believe the mistakes I made that I couldn't have even seen coming. It seems like I draw bad luck wherever I go; I mean, your mother is one of the most chaotic people I can think of, so you'd think she'd get akumatized a bunch, but it was only the day I showed up that she did. Even the other boys who only loved me for a little bit either got akumatized over it or became an anxious mess until they found out who they actually liked, and that last one would've at least been really useful to think about if I'd just made the connection back then, but I didn't!" She paused, then met his eyes with a pained expression. "And then there's you."

"What do you mean?"

She stopped in place, not knowing whether to be touched or not by the fact that he either hadn't noticed or was pretending not to. Throwing her arms out, she explained, "Things go bad whenever we hang out! I already mentioned your mom, but then there was the ice rink; even without me getting distracted when all you were trying to do was make me feel better, there was an akuma and you probably got frozen solid by him. When we were hanging out on the Liberty, Adrien just happened to show up on that day with Kagami to turn me into a mess, and then Desperada came to make everything worse."

Marinette couldn't remember when she'd started thinking about such things or feeling guilty for everything that ever happened. There was just a point where it felt like she was always apologizing for something, no matter how small it was, and stuff being her fault became par for the course by then.

"Then, both times you got akumatized, it was because of me—and I know you don't blame me, but I'm always involved! You were ready to leave the TV station, but because I tried to put up a fight, Bob Roth threatened me and that was your last straw. Today was the same thing; you were already upset about what happened with your dad and then it was me who sent you over the edge!" She shut her eyes tight, the memories painful to relive. "You're always putting up with me, Luka. You put up with me crying all over you and even dropped your guitar for it, and then you had to protect me from Miracle Queen's mind control! I'm supposed to protect you!"

He recoiled at the volume of her voice, then furrowed his brows, his eyes darting back and forth as he seemed to process something particular about what she said.

"I'm supposed to make you happy, and I can't. Out of all the people in Paris who should be able to keep you from getting akumatized, it should be me, and all I've done is hurt you. You're the calmest person I've ever known and then I came along and gave you feelings you didn't ask for. Sometimes—" She shook, choking briefly on the words. "Sometimes I wonder if it would've been better for you if you never met me."

Luka's gaze sharpened. He didn't reply, but turned fully to her, pushing himself up as if to approach.

However, she stepped back, his look then flashing to hurt. She took a breath, expression determined as she said with her whole chest, "I'm Ladybug, Luka."

He froze, his body going stiff and his eyes blinking rapidly at either the reveal itself or the way she’d so firmly said it.

"I'm Ladybug," she repeated quietly, this time with an ache in her voice, "and I'm telling you not because I trust you—I mean, I do trust you—but I also believe in you; that you wouldn't sell me out to Shadow Moth even with all the mind control in the world. You've always had my back and supported me even when I didn't deserve it, and I want you to know. It's dangerous and I don't know what'll happen and I'm scared but I want you to know it." She put a hand to her chest. "I'm the one who has to save Paris whenever something happens, and that's why I always had to ditch you. I'm the one who messed up and lost you your identity as Viperion. I'm the new guardian of the miraculouses, and the kwami don't even listen to me; they invaded my privacy and it was one of them that took and sent you that picture."

She realized that her vision was staring to blur and looked skywards, trying to fight back tears.

"I-I'm not a normal girl. I can't be a normal girlfriend, or give you everything you'd want out of a normal relationship. It's my fault that you got akumatized because I just—I wanted you. I wanted to be in a relationship and go on dates with you, but Ladybug isn't supposed to want things. She's supposed to be selfless and only worry about everyone else, but... you made me happy, and I wanted more of that. You were the first person I really felt like I could be myself around without being scolded or lied to and I thought it would be okay..."

She noticed him moving and quickly turned her back to him, at least able to let the tears fall now without him seeing them.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I always think I can handle things but then it goes wrong and I end up hurting people. If I'd just gone home the day of the music festival instead of complaining about Adrien not being around, then none of this would've happened." She sighed in frustration, wiping her eyes clean of tears, and she was so focused on forcing her words out that she didn't hear the footsteps coming from behind her. "I-it's okay if you want to break up, Luka. It wasn't fair that I kept you in the dark, and I understand if you're mad, or you want to date other people, o-or if you don't love me anymore—"

Her voice cut off with a gasp as a pair of arms wrapped around her midsection, pulling her against a familiar, warm chest that had an unfamiliarly pounding heartbeat. She tried to look up at him, but his hair was shadowing out his eyes and left only his trembling lips visible. In fact, his whole body was shaking, as if it were winter and no amount of layers could keep him warm.

"L-luka?" she called, confused.

"Stop," he begged quietly, the hug tightening briefly to give her a squeeze. "Please."

"But..." She trailed off, acknowledging the request. She'd never heard his voice just break like that.

"You've already sung your part of our duet, Marinette. Now it's my turn." He paused, taking an unsteady breath before continuing, "I'm glad you told me your secret. I know you're worried about me being in danger, but it makes me happy that you can rely on me now. Music boxes aren't meant to stay shut, and you deserve someone who you can open up to, even if I hate that you have to mute yourself in the first place to keep everyone safe."

She opened her mouth, wanting to say that it was okay and it was just her job, but kept quiet to respect his earlier request.

"My life isn't worse because I met you," he murmured, an unspoken plea in his tone that told her to never think that way again. "I felt things with you that I never have before. My song started out as a flatline, then we met and you made it move. Music isn't exciting if it doesn't change but you did that for me. What you might see as bad notes is my passion for you, and I won't apologize for it or make you apologize for messing up just like every person does. I'd never wanted someone before you, and even if you never wanted to date me, I'm grateful that I got to know you; to fall for you."

Marinette blinked in an attempt to stop oncoming tears, Luka pulling her closer for comfort when she whimpered.

"All that mattered to me is when we were together, just the two of us. That's when your melody plays the clearest and when I get to see you. Those two weeks when we were preparing our music video were some of the best two weeks of my life because I got to see you in your element. I've accepted every break in the tempo because I've heard you, I've heard the Marinette you've wanted to be, and I want to be there for every beat of it." Then, he exhaled, adding with a somber tone, "I can't imagine how much pressure you must be under, or how awful things are and how impossible it must be to sing when you can't even take a breath without something going wrong. I just... I want to help you be happy. I don't care what you, your kwami, or anyone else says; you're allowed to be happy, Marinette, and I'd drop a thousand of my guitars if it meant that you get to play happy notes one more time."

She let out a sob, blushing pink as her hands unconsciously raised to rest on the ones around her waist, Luka sighing in content and nestling further against her.

"So I don't want to break up with you, Marinette. Not at all. I just want to find ways to make it easier on you - on both of us - and if that means finding ways of planning our dates around akuma attacks, or not planning at all and going wherever the rhythm leads, then that's what we'll do."

She tried to keep quiet, but couldn't help voicing, "W-what if... what if it doesn't work? What if I have to bail on you every now and then? People will think—"

"I was never worried about that," he retorted immediately. "I'm a Couffaine. My clothes are ripped, I carry my guitar in the basket on my bike, and I live on a boat. I stopped caring about what people thought a long time ago."

He was unbelievable. Marinette didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. He just held her there, his heart still beating against her back but now serving as something to calm her.

"The only opinions that matter in our duet are yours and mine," he said. His hold loosened, though hesitating like it was physically painful to release her. He let her go nonetheless and held his hands out in front of her, palms facing the sky. "So what about you, Marinette?"

She stared at his hands, then slowly raised her own to hover over them. She breathed up, then slid her fingers across his palms until their calloused fingertips met, neither making any move to pull away.

"I...I want to make it work," she whispered, leaning back against him. "I want to be with you, Luka. I'm at my best when I'm with you. I just..."

She stopped, knowing that he would have an argument for anything she said. If she apologized for the failed dates that she can never fix, he'd argue that it'd be worse to leave things off a sour note, and that not every good song starts out good. If she tried to suggest other people for him to date or imply that it'd be easier with someone else, he'd say that his guitar plays only for her and he wouldn't change that even if he could.

"...I'm sorry," she said, smiling her first genuine smile of the night. "I won't doubt myself anymore."

Even though she couldn't see his face, she knew he was smiling too. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah. Do—do you?"

"Yeah," he replied, voice thick with emotion.

Wanting to see his face, she slowly dropped their hands and turned to face him, silently hoping that she didn't look awful from her earlier tears. However, to her surprise, she noticed that Luka's eyes were watery despite his smile, just like her. Realizing something, she raised a hand to her shoulder, where his face had been hovering over ever since he'd hugged her from behind.

It was wet.

"Oh, Luka..."

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him against her. He returned the gesture, squeezing her lovingly and giving her back a few rubs that she responded to with a happy hum. They held the position, the warmth of the hug completely negating the slight chill of the night air.

Even when they pulled away, it wasn't far nor for long. Marinette wasn't sure which of them initiated it, but one moment they were staring at each other and the next they were kissing. It had been long overdue and she idly thought that it was better than she would've imagined their kiss at the cinema to be.

She breathed in his scent, her fingers blindly reaching up to slide into his hair. She almost felt like crying again, though this time in relief that everything had actually worked out for once and they were kissing without interruption. Even though Luka was more subtle in showing his emotions, she could tell that he felt the same from the way his hand on her back shook, practically vibrating with happiness.

The kiss eventually broke with a soft click, though she kept her hands on him for the sake of stability. They were both breathing a little hard from the emotional toll of the conversation yet not necessarily in a bad way.

And the love in his eyes - the life that she missed so much - was back. She honestly thought she wouldn’t have seen it again and she was tempted to just keep kissing him in relief, part of her aware that he definitely wouldn’t have minded it.

It took her a few tries to get the words out, hesitant to break up their wordless exchanges of love. She knew what revelation was waiting for Luka back at his houseboat - maybe he'd already guessed it - and she wanted to be there for him, so she asked carefully, "Do you... want me to come back to the Liberty with you?"

Eyes half-lidded, he gave her a soft smile and gently squeezed her hand. "Yeah. Do you want to sleep over?"

She nodded. "Mm, I'd like that."

Holding hands, they began making their way back to the Liberty, the ambiance of the night finally coming through to soothe them. Marinette glanced down at their joined hands, then at the wide smile on Luka's face, the latter clearly caused by the former.

She looked ahead at where they were walking, pretending that she hadn't just been admiring him. "We could always go out for breakfast together. That might work out."

"That sounds amazing." Luka feigned a look of thoughtfulness. "Maybe Shadow Moth doesn't like mornings?"

Marinette squeaked mid-giggle. "You'd think that'd be the case from the name, huh?"

He chuckled, covering his mouth with his free hand, and the conversation remained light from there. Any bad feelings from the day had evaporated, leaving only smiles and hope for the future in its place.

Everything was going to be okay. For once, Marinette could truly believe that.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Play Time

Pairing | Elizabeth Olsen x reader

Summary | ‘Play time’, as it is described, is not for your own wandering hands. It is for you to succumb and be under your partner’s control, however, when she is not present, you take matters into your own hands, - literally.

Warnings | smut, spanking, masturbation, swearing, slight degradation, oral sex (fem receiving ofc), mummy kink

Requested ☑️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

There was a tension driving your actions, albeit though they were forbidden. It was obvious that Lizzie would be disappointed into your will to give into your own greed, however she wasn’t here, and you had enough time to bust an orgasm out. She wouldn’t have to know.

That was a mistake on your part, and you’d have known that if you had thought with your brain rather than your hungry cunt. Lizzie always reminded you that that was your insatiable flaw, and that was why she was the dominant counterpart rather than you.

If she were left in your own devices, then your own orgasm would remain to be your own priority, and she wouldn’t get much love. And that was certainly something that she could not have.

And so, you were laid in the nude upon your shared bed, your head reeling back at the stimulating sensations that your nimble fingers blessed upon your clit. It admittedly felt good; there was no aspect of teasing, or the sound of taunting above.

It was just... perfect. The only downside was, that the hands belonged to you, and were not those of Lizzie. But she would never touch you so gently, nor dream or giving you what you wanted straight away. There was a thrill that came with doing something that she would be strongly opposed to.

She craved the influence of the power that she had over your body, and how she had the ability to make it bend and break to her every whim. It wasn’t unusual for her to use the description of a ‘brat’ in regards to you, and it clearly was a suitable resolution in thinking of you, all things considered.

You were, knowingly, going against her strict demands, but worst of all, it was rule number one that you had broken. Do not touch yourself. That heightened a spark throughout your entirety, knowing that you were doing something bad, and deserving of being called a brat, or something worse.

But nevertheless, in all your disobedience, you continued revealing yourself in the addiction of control, pumping your slim fingers in and out of your entrance, with the assistant of your thumb providing a string of perfectly adjusted chords to reverberate through your body.

Too preoccupied basking in the glory of the climax that you were striving towards, you had not feigned to notice the silhouette leaning disappointedly against the ajar door frame, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Yes.” Heavy breaths lay abandon to your chest, the movements of your fingers faltering in their rhythm as they twitched under the flow of the pumping blood running through your ecstatic veins. With one last thrust of your paired fingers, a mewl fled from your mouth, confirming the end of your orgasm. “Holy fuck.”

“Indeed.” Lizzie squinted, stepping forward, her sudden appearance promoting wide eyes upon your face, and causing you to whip your hands away from yourself, digging their tips into the covered mattress. “And it appears that you’ve been a very bad girl, breaking mummy’s rules whilst she was away. How... bratty!”

At her specific, and degrading terminology, a whimper surpassed the insides of your mouth, as your body cradled into itself, embarrassed by the exposure that you were broadcasting to her, albeit by accident. It was clear, that you had been caught in the cross hairs of being red handed, and so, the same colour reflected in a hue upon your body, pressing through your skin in regard to the shy heat.

“Liz-“ she fixed you with a stern look, the borderline dominance flickering through her emerald hues. “Mummy.” Biting your lip, you slowly, filled with cautiousness, crawled upon the bed, and towards the woman that often instructed you in what to do. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

A tut sampled from her pink mouth, enforcing you to bow your head in slight shame. It was inevitable that she was to find out about your individually orchestrated solution to get off, but it made it that much worse, for it was not a second hand discovery.

Instead, she had watched with grave eyes how you fell apart under the collapse of your own touch. Each fluid motion that you had entrusted yourself with delivering was viewed through her stealthy and hawk like eyes. And that meant, there was no solution in trying to deny her deaf accusations, for she had served witness to your lonesome relief.

“No, it won’t.” She agreed, lightly shoving you out of her way, causing you to jolt back by the act, so that she could perch herself into a sitting position on the end of the mattress that was weighted down with many intimate occasions. “You know what to do.”

Lacking any reluctance, you followed her contextual demand, laying in your middle across her apparently inviting lap, your front composed in a floppy manner on one side, and your body half mirroring it on the other.

She trailed her cursive hands down your spine, evoking the appearance of goose bumps to poke out of your barren skin. It was far too well known what awaited you in the concept of her actions, and it had you inwardly wincing.

“See, that’s you being good. Good girls do what they’re told.” It was her successful attempt of taunting you; her outwardly confirming that you were no such thing. “How many?” From experience, you knew that it was a rhetorical consideration, Lizzie was speaking more to herself by it than she was you.

“Please don’t...” the corner of your eyes wept lightly at the thought of what was to come. The thought provoked a sincere yet arousing fear within your chamber of pleasure and fertility. No matter though how much your tried to pardon yourself for your languid mistake, it would never be enough - you knew that, from a collision of experience and logic.

Your attempts though served as vigil fuel to her scarlet fire, and whether she noticed or not, it was uncertain. But despite her possible obliviousness to it, she struck your ass with a relatively hard hand, pulling a mused squeak to tumble helplessly from your heaving mouth, that was attempting to keep the moan within its confines.

“Thank you mummy.” It rolled from your tongue deliriously, like a rehearsed line. Her hand smoothed over the place of which she had spanked, soothing the slight sting, before collaborating her hand unto your skin once more, n the same abused patch of skin. “Fuck!

In a timeless instant, she swatted you once more, causing a salty drop to cascade from your urgent eye. “Remember, only brats use language like that towards their mummies.” It was something that you had a good memory of, but the sworn word had made an appearance to your own dismay.

It had been a thoughtless spew of inconvenience, one that had dug yourself into a spiralling of trouble, and resulted in thus more pain permitted onto the section of your reddened and hand printed behind. “I think we may have to continue this, unless, you have any other ideas, baby?”

Your tongue darted out to swipe across your bottom lip, before you even considered answering. Y doing so, you could taste the salt that had dripped down from the bridge o your nose, and descending down you body in an orderly fashion to reach your slick centre.

It was a frustrating concept though, regarding your eager to please pussy. There was no attention drawn to anything on that end of you; instead, all LIzzie wanted was to hear you speak, and pathetically jumble around with words to spill the perfect answer. All you had to do, was think of how a good girl would respond.

“I’ll do anything.” Your voice was hoarse - desperate. And the vocal feature intrigued Lizzie, and so she rolled you onto the bed beside her, gently grasping the side of your face whilst playing with disarrayed hairs that curled across your cheek.

“Anything?” She repaeated for confirmation; safe to say, she was intrigued. After all, she wanted to experience the efforts that you would go to in order to make it up to her. And so, with tidal integrity, she pierced her green orbs into your own, awaiting another reply out of you.

“Yes.” A sleek smile gave way on your face, showing her that you were more than leased to do anything that she told you too. At the end of the day, it was the dynamic that you had invested yourself in, and also, the saying was true, in a diverse matter; ‘mummy knows best.’

“Okay then.” A broad structure defined her cheeks, paying tribute to her happy, and impressed demeanour. “Since it’s only fair, I want you to make me cum. It’s clear that you’re so good at it, considering that you got yourself to orgasm by nothing but your own fingers.”

She was intentionally getting under your skin about your misbehaviour, ripping of the band aid that you were certain that the openness and lack of squirming away that the spanking that she delivered entailed. But instead, it was another thing that you had been wrong about that to, and so you shuffled patiently upon your knees, watching as she intimately read you expression.

Lizzie pulled you closer by her adoring grasp on your cheek, slotting your mouth against the hilltop of hers. The pair of you moved in a rhythm, sawing your tongues around each other like flexible switch blades. Whenever she pulled away for a breather, you chased her with the promise of continuation, and vice versa.

But finally, the main event was approaching, such a ploy was revealed by Lizzie shrugging out of the dress that she had worn specifically for the interview downtown. The peeling of that layer left her in nothing more than her panties, revealing that she had forgone the support of a bra, which was formidable, since the outfit of her stylist’s choice had enabled enough, yet not too much revelation of a cleavage.

No resilience was met by either parties as she removed her flushed lips away, and laid dominantly back on the expensive mattress. And without waiting for you to run like a transitioning river beside her, she removed her panties herself, flinging them lazily away by her ankle. “Last time you ripped them.” Was her excuse, though, not that she had to ever explain herself to you of all.

It was a vivid memory, one that you fondly held onto. At the time, it had merely been an accident, but no longer did you regret what you did back then. In fact, reflecting on in it was quite hot in fact, and it had indeed been flashing images from that time that you had used to get yourself off earlier.

But your prior release, nor those that were promised in the future were your concern; not at the moment anyways. Your own priority was the woman spreading her legs so confidently in front of you, and the r rated sight had saliva collecting in the globe of your mouth.

“So pretty mummy.” The compliment had her cunt clench around nothing, you could see as the slit puffed its expanse out, attempting to seduce you inside. And it’s efforts were not in vain, for you crept forwards on your forearms, your high and beheld beloved capturing your every move within her clouded gaze.

“It would be far prettier if you were to give it a kiss. I think it’d like that, very much.” An innocent smirk wandered onto her compelling face, and you were eager to oblige her insinuating command. Your fingertips rubbed the insides of her thighs, your thumbs reaching to spread her glorious pink folds.

Leaning forwards, you in took a sensual breath, inhaling the intoxicating scent that rolled off from Lizzie’s cunt in controlling waves. It reeled you closer, and closer, until your lips were pressed against her bud in a sweet peck. “Your so wet.” Was your speculation, and you couldn’t help but gravitate your fingers onto her flower, and roll them in circles upon her individual expanse.

“Then clean it up baby. You know what to do.” Her hand reached down, bunching a fist full of hair within her grip, lowering your head down once again, causing you to continue focusing on her clit, whilst your fingers played lovingly around in her slick.

With the use of your tongue, you began from the bottom of her cunt, to her sensitive clit, working in attentive upwards strokes, collecting her sweet nectar onto your spoon appendage, and leaving none to waste. Then, you prodded at her entrance with the tip of it, sinking it in the private cavern, and reaching as far as your body part would allow you to.

Lizzie had her mouth pouted, as she breathed and mewled steadily. It served as encouragement, making you rock your tongue in and out of her successfully, your thumb finding a home on her clit, and rubbing with a passive goal. “Yes.” She moaned, her noise amplifying as she ground sensually down onto your face, rubbing her excess juices over it. “I’m close.”

That’s made you continue your administrations, the only thing of them that changed being your pace, which increased to a rapid tendency and urgency to get her to finish. “Gonna cum all over your pretty little brat face.” Her other hand also found homage in your hair, as she used it as leverage to rut her mound more directly upon your features.

A light scream evoked from her chest, as you felt her spill around your tongue, the liquid seeping out from her entrance, and softly drowning her thighs. After collecting as much as possible, and drinking it all up, you removed your face, feeling how your chin and such felt quite damp.

“I hope that teaches you to not touch yourself without permission.” Panted Lizzie, making no effort to get up from the bed, tucking herself under a blanket. She lifted up one of the sides, extending her arm upwards, and inviting you into her arms. And you were happy to settle down with her and get some rest after the thrilling and erotic night.

Being a brat wasn’t so bad. And at the end of it all, you always got to curl up with your girlfriend and find comfort in her gentle embrace, it was one of your favourite parts about having an intimate night.

[wri0thesley]

Hello Nat! It's me! The same anon who sent the Househusband Risotto asks a few weeks ago. Could I request a fic of Risotto with no.21(a Househusband au) and some pregnancy fluff? Congrats on 5k (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

brand new - risotto x reader

you have something to tell your husband. 

warnings: soft fluff, sfw. afab reader, no pronouns. pregnancy, talk of children, brief allusions to risotto’s past life. 

You’re surprised by just how easily Risotto falls into a domestic life.

You’d thought that his past would haunt him more; the fallen comrades, the Mafia business, the blood on his hands – but he’s surprisingly pragmatic about it, when you hesitantly bring it up.

“It happened,” he says. “I miss them. But I’ve been given a chance that they didn’t get, and I intend to take it.”

It’s more than your stoic, quiet husband usually says at once, and you feel it pierce your heart like an arrow. Your hand brushes over his broad shoulder in as much comfort as you can give him, and Risotto looks at you with the lightest smile on his lips that makes you feel like the luckiest person in the whole universe.

Risotto becomes the house-husband as if he’s been waiting to be able to do it for his whole life.

Oh, he makes some mistakes – some little things, like washing a pair of your red underwear in with some shirts that you wear for work. Planting the wrong kind of seedlings at the wrong time of year – trying to fix the plumbing himself instead of calling a plumber.

You two muddle along, but as a whole Risotto seems to be thriving, and that makes your heart leap in your chest like a prima ballerina.

Your heart thumps double when you come home after a long day of work and he already has dinner simmering on the stove, an apron wrapped around his broad frame – it’s emblazoned with the legend; “Hot Stuff Coming Through (and I don’t mean the food)”. You breathe in the scent of his cooking; something deep and rich.

You come up behind him and wrap your arms about him, resting your cheek on the centre of his back.

His muscle has gone a little soft now that he’s not working out so often or in as many life-or-death situations, but he’s still broad and amazing and perfect for holding onto.

“Smells great,” you say, sighing, kicking off your heels in kitchen to be put away later. Risotto’s eyes stray to them all higgledy-piggledy on the floor, and he frowns;

“Nonna’s recipe,” he says. “Aren’t you going to put those in the shoe rack?”

“I’ve only just gotten home,” you pout at him, but your pout quickly breaks into a smile as you see the exhaustedly fond expression on his face.

Now that he’s not an assassin – now that he doesn’t need to hide everything he’s feeling under the guise of being cool and cold and collected – Risotto’s face seems to move more. He finds it easier to express his emotions. It’s still little things; twitches and furrows, instead of his entire face transforming – but it’s more than before.

He’s comfortable. He’s happy.

You, and him, and the little world that you’ve build all around you two.

You bend over to pick up your heels, opening your mouth to say something over-dramatic about his newfound house pride – but you’re stopped by an ache that shoots down to the centre of your back, a noise of pain escaping you before Risotto can turn lightning quick and wrap a strong arm around you.

“Are you alright?” He’s asking, brow creasing slightly in concern. Panic flares in your stomach – you don’t want to tell him like this.

“Y-yeah,” you laugh it off, straightening up with your shoes in your hand, the other going to massage your back where you can reach. “Guess I was just sat in the wrong position at work for too long, huh?”

Risotto looks sceptical, but he can’t leave his boiling pots for too long. With a searching look at you, he returns to the stove, murmuring low;

“I’ll give you a massage later.”

You smile at his back as you walk towards the shoe rack in the hallway. You know that saying that will have made him blush; despite how long the two of you have been married now, he’s still nervous about things like that. His hands still shake a little when he goes to hold you. He still licks his lips before he kisses you, murmuring in a deep voice;

“Is it really alright?”

You always wind your arms around his neck and pull him in as your way of reassuring him that it’s perfectly fine. It’s hard, you think, for him to accept that he deserves all of this – but you’re eternally glad that the two of you get to share it together.

Little reminders of your shared home and life are scattered all about your home. A picture of you and Risotto at your wedding, framed and hung in the hallway; his suit is a little too tight, because he left it too long and it couldn’t be tailored properly to address the fact that he’s built like a superhero.

A bookshelf that has your romantic novels next to his own gothic horrors; a skull candle that burns red from its eyes as it melts perched on top. Also perched on top is a trinket dish that he made and painted for you at a pottery class he attended to try and get him out of the house whilst you were at work – you use it to dump your keys in.

It’s supposed to be a heart shape, but it’s more of a very uneven kidney.

The carpet you two had chosen together; you’d wanted something cheaper, but Risotto had insisted you could afford this one – he’d been right, and it’s soft beneath your stockinged feet.

You love him so much.

Your hand cups your stomach protectively now that you’re out of Risotto’s sight. You think of the tiny life inside of you; half Risotto, half you, already loved more than they’ll ever know even without Risotto knowing that it’s there. You can’t wait to tell him.

His hands are gentle on your shoulders, big and warm and softer than they once were. They’re still a little calloused from the garden work he enjoys doing, but he no longer handles weapons and you buy him sandalwood-scented hand cream instead.

They feel so good as they slide down your shoulder blades, brushing the notches of your spine, soothing circles pressed into your skin with his thumb. You sigh, relaxing into him. The feel of the palm flat against the small of your back – where the ache is the most pronounced – makes you relax even further into him, toes curling, a sigh escaping your mouth of relief.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He asks you, his voice measured. Your eyes flicker open from where they’ve closed in comfort.

“W-what’s wrong?” You ask him, nervously, and Risotto makes an ‘mm’ noise in the back of his throat. His hands do not stop the massage as he goes.

“You’ve been out of it for days,” he tells you.

(He’s right. You’ve been out of it since Monday, and it’s now Thursday; Monday is the day you’d woken up with your stomach heaving, remembered how long it had been since your last period, and bought a pregnancy test on your way to work. You’ve done three more since then, and all of them have showed the exact same result.)

“Have I?”

His hands move to your shoulders, gently twisting you around.

“You have,” he says, his red-and-dark eyes fixed firmly on you. “If there’s something wrong, I’d like to fix it.”

“It’s nothing you’ve done!” You say, all in a rush, but Risotto has successfully caught you nonetheless; his eyes narrow.

“So it is something?”

Heat rushes to your face. You forget, sometimes, because he cooks dinner and does the gardening and goes to his pottery class, that he was a battle-hardened mafia assassin who has done more interrogations than you will probably ever know (you never bring up his former employ unless he brings it up first). He’s an expert at gently needling the truth out of people.

“It’s not something that’s wrong,” you say, weakly, but his eyes are still pinning you in place.

“Tell me,” is all he says.

You think, in the back of your head, you’d had some kind of grand plans to reveal your secret – maybe involving balloons, and a cake, and a little party hat perched on top of Risotto’s silvery pale hair. You think you wanted to make a big deal out of it; one more reminder that the world he left behind is well and truly in his past now. But now you’re on the bed with him and he’s looking at you so tenderly in a soft grey shirt for sleeping and a pair of loose boxer shorts, all ruffled and sleepy and domestic . . . Now feels like a good time too.

“I’m pregnant,” you tell him.

You swear that you could hear a pin drop.

He blinks at you, as if he can’t properly process the statement.

“You’re—”

“We’re having a baby.”

“Oh my God.” His voice is very small. He reaches out, hesitantly, eyes wide – big hand hovering over your stomach. “Can I . . .?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless as his hand rests on it. It’s not curving, yet; the fancy test you’d bought today and done in the bathroom at work had said it thought you were well past three weeks, but that’s still early days. Your eyes stare down at Risotto’s scarred, huge fingers – so careful with you, despite what he’s had to do to survive.

“I can’t believe it,” he tells you, and your throat feels tight.

“Me neither,” you admit. “But . . . I’m happy.”

He meets your eyes. There are tears brimming in his – you have never seen Risotto Nero cry. You’ve seen him sad, of course (a sad downturn to his mouth when a dog dies in a movie, or when the rosebush he’d been carefully cultivating had failed to achieve a single bloom) – but there’s an actual tear rolling down his cheek, sparkling in the bedroom light.

“Me too,” he says, and it seems entirely natural. Entirely true. Your heart aches with how much you love him.

You two don’t say anything for a few minutes, content to just look at each other, the warm knowledge of what you’re sharing making the air seem hazy and unreal.

You think about the pitter patter of little feet. The spare room you can turn into a nursery. Going to pre-natal classes with Risotto, choosing baby clothes, seeing him out and about pushing a fancy perambulator (you’ve always wanted one of those tacky, over the top ones that look like a Victorian nanny’s contraption, and you know that Risotto will agree to it--).

You think about him in the delivery room, your nails making crescent moon cuts in his palm. You think about his encouraging tone; you think about the hand-grown flowers he’ll no doubt bring you.

You imagine him cradling a little bundle of joy; tiny in his huge arms. His lips leaving gentle kisses on tiny foreheads. Him reading to your baby, him tending to scrapes, him and you and your child and the life that neither of you ever thought you’d get to live together.

His face is shining, fully transformed. He sees you looking at him with droplets shimmering in your tear ducts and he wipes them away with one big, warm thumb.

“I know,” he says. “It’s not just for me. It’s for all of them, too.”

“Yes,” you say to him. Your voice breaks, pitches, as you manage to get out: “I’m so happy we get to spend the rest of our lives together.”

He looks at you, so tender you feel like you’ll come apart under his gaze.

This moment is going to shimmer in your memory forever, you think. You’re glad that this was how the reveal went. This is much more like the two of you than any fancy reveal or ribbon or cake (you might still get a cake, anyway – Risotto has a sweet tooth).

“I love you,” he says, like warmth that wraps about your heart. And then; “What about naming it Formaggio?”

There’s a beat. You stare at him.

Both of your mouths stretch into a smile, a soft huff of laughter escaping his lips that makes you feel like you’re listening to a symphony.

“Maybe we should workshop names a bit more,” you tell him.

He agrees.