#their souls just so happen to look like this

[mixingandmelting]

Heavy Blanket

Summary: You were cold and needed a blanket. He decides to be that blanket only to get too comfy and lay on top of you longer than needed

Simon "Ghost" Riley

You’re hot. Sweltering. Wheezing. Lungs close to collapsing. And no matter how many times you tell him, he won’t. Get. Off.

“Simon, please.” You gently nudge his shoulder, trying to get him to look at you. “I’m suffocating here.” 

He simply grunts, nuzzling his face into your chest as his arms tighten around your chest. You suppose it’s your fault, having told him that you were cold and not wanting to get off the couch to get a blanket. You just.. didn’t expect him to take it quite literally and provide you a heavy, weighted one (i.e., him). 

You sigh. Maybe you could push him off…? You glance down only to be reminded how massive he is, easily engulfing your being so that it looks like there’s simply a single person on the sofa. Hell, the only indication you’re even lying there is your head and arms poking out from underneath. No body, just ligaments. 

Yeah. It’s Not happening. As if sensing your disgruntlement, he lifts his head so his eyes would be looking into yours. For a moment the two of you stare, waging a wordless battle.

“…For a person called ghost, you’re so cheeky.”

He snorts, going back to comfortably resting his head on your chest.

“Only to you, love. Only to you.” 

Took the words right out of your mouth. 

Shaking your head in exasperation, you card your fingers through his hair. Welp. laundry is definitely not getting done today. 

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish

“Johnny?”

“No.”

“Johnny.”

“No.”

“John Mactavish.”

That gets him to lift his head up. You try not to snort at the offended look he gives you, his eyes asking if you had seriously just used his full name over something like this. Instead, you take this chance to finally get some precious O2 in your lungs and enjoy weight being lifted off of you. Literally. 

You had forgot and now remembered his biceps are the size of your head when he props onto his elbows, bright blue eyes staring directly into yours. 

“Luvie, I’m not John Mactavish to you. Am I?” 

“No. But,” you shuffle to get around but he doesn’t budge. Dammit. “You are a furnace. Heavy, hard, and exuding only heat.” 

Instantly you regret saying that, recognizing the glint in his eyes. 

“Heavy and hard, aye?”  

One hand to cover your burning face, you use the other to smack his chest. You and your stupid mouth. Him and his stupid, smug, smirk. Chuckling, he moves and gets comfortable before snuggling you again. At least he’s being mindful this time, making sure you aren’t feeling as if you’re being flattened into a pancake. As for you, you nuzzle your face into the junction where his neck and shoulder meet. It’s going to take a while for you to function, the embarrassment still fresh and searing your soul. 

Kim Hong Jin "Horangi"

You swear you’re dating a giant cat, not a tiger. The ones that enjoy pushing a glass off the table while you’re looking and begging with your eyes not to. Smiling as some crying lady points at them over a salad. 

You’ve been shoving and pushing him by the shoulders, and so far you’ve successfully freed half of your upper body (more like that’s the only leeway he’s willing to give but you choose to ignore that).

“Hong Jin.” You pant between each word, exhausted and having much of your strength sapped out of you. “You need to let go.”

“싫은데?“ (Don’t want to?) 

…This man and his nerves. 

“No, seriously.” You nudge him, hoping it would get your message across. “I can’t even feel my legs.”

“Just five more minutes.” His groan coming out muffled from him burying his face into your tummy. 

Five minutes ago he said that. Which was also what he said five minutes before that. Now you’re uncomfortable, feeling the half of you he’s holding onto sweat while the other feels chilly from the sudden loss of heat. Worst is how effortless it is for him to keep you still, lazily lying on top of you being enough to stop you from worming yourself out. Like sure, you do enjoy how well-built he is but not like this! 

Sucking a breath in, you go back trying to pry yourself off as he stays where he is, eyes closed and a grin plastered on his face. 

König 

A king-size mattress. That’s what he is. And certainly feels that way too with how he easily engulfs both you and the bed. 

“Konig.” You gently shake him, only for him to turn his head. 

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry though, at the moment, it would hurt if you do either. Every time you try calling him out or getting his attention, he’d turn his head where he’d lie on one cheek then flip to the other. He doesn’t even make a sound. No harrumphs, grunts, or a sigh. All of you wanted to do was go get ready since the two of you are supposed to meet with his friends. Now? Not happening. 

“We need to get ready. It’s already quarter past five.” 

He squeezes your waist in response, snuggling himself into you. Just like a petulant kid, thinking if he doesn’t say anything and pretends to not hear you, you would stop. You try to slip from being underneath him, not enjoying being the filling in the mattress sandwich. Unfortunately for you, fortunately for him, you give up in less than ten seconds realizing how much you’d have to go through to just get a hand out. 

You raise your hand to place it on his shoulder until he stops you by grabbing at the wrist. He drags and presses it against his cheek, making you feel stubbles under your fingertips. Biting your lip, you close your eyes and mentally count from ten. 

“You better text them we’re not going.” You grumble, cupping his face in your hands. 

“Already did.”

You shake your head. This man. 

[loveinhawkins]

Eddie could pretend that he only says it because fear and adrenaline—a lethal combination—have destroyed his brain to mouth filter. Which, sure, there’s something in that; all things considered, he’d say that’s a reasonable reaction to the whole cursed Hawkins experience.

But he knows it’s not just that. And he knows that if he really dug deep, he’d find exhilaration lurking underneath all the fear, and maybe that’s weird, but he can’t help it—can’t help thinking, as the RV speeds out of Forest Hills, God, if we’re all actually having fun now, imagine what we’d be like with a normal Spring Break.

He grabs a moment alone with Steve, sat in the field, and the conversation turns to confessions, stupid minor things like what they sing in the shower, but they’re on a tightrope nevertheless, one wrong move pitching them into morbid territory, and Eddie has a vested interest in avoiding that, if only so Steve doesn’t look so goddamn worried—

And so, studiously casual, Eddie admits that in the halcyon summer of ‘85, he started a club. At Steve’s confused look, he adds that he was the only member, because the club existed only in his head.

“Okay…” Steve says slowly. “What was the club?”

No matter what happens next, Eddie tells himself, at least it’s gotten Steve’s mind off recounting flambé supplies.

He takes a deep breath and says that the club of one was the Homosexuals Doomed by Steve Harrington’s Legs Society.

And Steve… laughs. Lies back in the grass, full-bodied, genuine, and Eddie’s heard cruel laughter, and he knows deep in his heart that this is not it.

He laughs too, relief soon giving way to joy. “You dick,” he says, beaming, “stop laughing! I just bared my soul, Harrington.”

Steve tries to speak several times, overcome with giggling. Eventually he gets out, “I hated that goddamn uniform,” which makes them both laugh harder, and then Steve’s sitting up, and he grabs onto Eddie’s wrist, and Eddie suddenly feels the heat of summer in the touch, and maybe finally dares to hope.

“But, Eddie,” Steve says—teasing and sincere all at once, Eddie can hear it—“you just made the shorts worthwhile.”

[majikkulu]

✮ ˖° ⸜ masterlist ꕤ ･

╭₊˚๑  ૮꒰˶˃  ᵕ  ˂˶꒱ა  ♡ in  this  pick-a-card  reading,  we’ll  explore  your  first  kiss  with  your  future  spouse. how  it  will  look,  feel,  and  unfold.

remember,  this  is  a  general  reading,  so  take  what  resonates  and  let  the  rest  go.

trust  your  intuition,  choose  the  picture  or  pile  that  calls  to  you,  and  let  the  magic  unfold!

✧˖°.₊  ♡  ✩˚  ༘

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PILE ONE ﹑ ﹒ the  moment  your  lips  finally  meet,  it  won’t  just  be  a  kiss.  it  will  be  a  realization.  a  wake-up  call.  this  kiss  won’t  happen  randomly;  it  will  come  after  a  moment  of  deep  reflection,  after  both  of  you  have  finally  acknowledged  what  has  been  simmering  beneath  the  surface.  it  will  be  confirmation  of  something  undeniable,  something  inevitable.  the  intensity  will  hit  like  a  tidal  wave.  fated,  electrifying,  almost  life-changing.  there  will  be  no  hesitation,  no  second-guessing.  the  chemistry  will  be  magnetic,  impossible  to  ignore.  this  kiss  might  happen  in  public,  bold  and  unafraid,  with  your  future  spouse  taking  charge,  unable  to  resist  any  longer.  maybe  it  follows  a  long  period  of  teasing,  flirting,  pushing,  pulling.  until  they  surrender  and  just  do  it.  it  will  be  passionate.  raw.  urgent.  an  explosion  of  pent-up  tension,  finally  released.  it  might  even  carry  a  competitive  energy,  as  if  both  of  you  are  trying  to  prove  something.  to  win,  to  dominate,  to  claim  each  other  in  the  moment.  maybe  it  happens  after  a  heated  argument,  starting  off  intense,  rough,  almost  aggressive,  before  softening  into  something  that  takes  your  breath  away.  it  won’t  be  a  neat,  practiced  kiss.  it  will  be  messy,  deep,  desperate,  like  your  mouths  were  made  for  each  other.  tongues  intertwining,  warmth  spreading,  a  kiss  that  lingers  and  leaves  you  dizzy.  and  when  you  finally  pull  away,  both  of  you  will  know:  nothing  will  ever  be  the  same  again.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PILE TWO ﹑ ﹒ your  first  kiss  will  be  quiet,  steady,  and  grounding,  like  sinking  into  a  warm  embrace  after  a  long  storm.  it  will  feel  like  home.  like  relief.  the  moment  will  be  wrapped  in  peace.  perhaps  after  a  long  day,  or  after  transitioning  from  chaos  into  stillness.  there  is  no  rush  here,  no  urgency,  just  two  souls  finding  solace  in  each  other.  it’s  the  kind  of  kiss  that  happens  in  a  dimly  lit  room,  by  a  crackling  fireplace,  wrapped  in  warmth,  with  the  world  fading  away.  a  moment  so  intimate,  so  personal,  it  feels  sacred.  this  kiss  is  healing.  both  of  you  will  need  it.  no  words  necessary.  no  hesitation.  just  a  slow,  natural  pull  toward  each  other,  like  gravity  itself  is  drawing  you  in.  it  will  be  gentle,  unhurried,  perfectly  synchronized,  the  kind  of  kiss  where  time  slows  down,  where  you  melt  into  each  other  effortlessly.  but  beneath  that  softness,  there’s  something  deeper.  an  emotional  release,  like  walls  crumbling,  like  old  wounds  finally  finding  closure.  one  of  you  might  be  carrying  past  hurt,  trying  to  protect  your  heart,  but  this  kiss…  this  kiss  will  break  through  it  all.  it  will  be  overwhelming  in  the  most  beautiful  way.  your  breath  will  catch,  your  skin  will  tingle,  maybe  even  goosebumps.  and  when  you  pull  away,  you’ll  both  be  shaking,  stunned,  forever  changed.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PILE THREE ﹑ ﹒ your  first  kiss  will  be  hesitant,  calculated.  like  a  chess  move,  like  a  silent  confession.  there  will  be  overthinking,  tension  thick  in  the  air.  maybe  you’ll  both  try  to  resist  it,  maintaining  composure,  pretending  this  moment  isn’t  inevitable.  but  then,  sharp  eye  contact.  a  knowing  glance.  and  suddenly,  everything  else  disappears.  the  kiss  won’t  be  rushed  or  chaotic;  it  will  be  intentional.  every  touch,  every  movement,  carefully  placed,  as  if  both  of  you  have  been  waiting  for  the  perfect  moment.  i  see  slow  smiles  against  lips,  a  sense  of  satisfaction,  as  if  you  both  knew  this  would  happen  all  along.  maybe  it  follows  a  victory,  a  celebration,  a  moment  of  triumph.  maybe  one  of  you  hesitates  at  first,  nervous,  avoiding  eye  contact.  but  the  second  your  lips  meet,  all  uncertainty  vanishes.  the  kiss  will  feel  like  stepping  into  a  movie  scene.  intense,  cinematic,  something  meant  to  be  remembered.  it  will  start  slow,  soft,  thoughtful…  and  then  suddenly,  as  emotions  take  over,  it  will  transform  into  something  bold,  fiery,  intoxicating.  you’ll  feel  it  in  your  bones,  in  your  soul.

﹒ ﹢ ♡. PILE FOUR ﹑ ﹒ your  first  kiss  will  be  an  undeniable  claim,  a  declaration.  no  hesitation,  no  second-guessing.  your  future  spouse.  or  someone  with  strong,  masculine  energy.  will  take  charge.  they’ll  kiss  you  like  they  know  they  want  you,  like  there’s  no  question  about  it.  this  kiss  is  controlled,  confident,  and  full  of  intensity.  it  will  be  the  kind  of  kiss  that  stops  time,  that  makes  your  heart  pound  in  your  chest.  there  will  be  deep  eye  contact  beforehand,  a  silent  conversation  passing  between  you  both,  heavy  with  meaning.  the  kiss  will  be  sudden,  hot,  and  maybe  even  reckless.  done  without  thinking,  just  feeling.  expect  hands  pulling,  bodies  pressing  closer,  unspoken  desire  finally  unleashed.  it  won’t  be  soft  and  uncertain;  it  will  be  full  of  energy,  passion,  and  raw  need.  and  yet,  underneath  all  the  heat,  there’s  something  deeper.  something  serious.  devotion.  commitment.  the  kiss  will  carry  weight,  as  if  it  holds  every  unspoken  promise  between  you.  it  might  even  happen  in  a  traditional  or  formal  setting,  where  it  shouldn’t  happen,  but  the  tension  is  too  much  to  ignore.  it  will  be  overwhelming.  sensual.  the  chemistry  undeniable.  maybe  you’ll  try  to  resist,  but  resistance  is  futile.  the  moment  will  consume  you,  leaving  you  breathless,  trembling,  and  completely  undone.

[green-butterfly-writes]

Little Thief (Part 4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Summary: Bruce arrives home in the middle of patrol with a cold, broken, scarred kid in his arms and no explanation as to where they came from. Alfred takes care of them.

Notes: this is from Alfred’s perspective, so you also get no context as to how little fox ended up here :)

Trigger Warning for implied/reinforced child and animal abuse. Also Alfred helps reader strip and shower, but that is explicitly consensual.

I'm Dyslexic, and don't have a beta, so spelling mistakes are likely to happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfred Pennyworth was convinced that Bruce had an adoption addiction. The man couldn’t seem to go more than a couple years before coming home with another child clinging to his cape. Alfred was certain that one of these days he’d get fed up with the ever-expanding list of people he had to care for, and yet every time he laid eyes upon another unfortunate soul brought in by his own sad little orphan boy, his heart melted with care. He loved every one of the young masters with all his heart and soul. He loved his family even if it did expand in the most inconvenient and sudden of ways.

Like now, standing in the cave, looking upon the imposing figure of the Batman, and the child cradled carefully in his arms. The kid had tangled, unkempt hair, soaked, muddy clothes, and bruises just barely visible from beneath the sleeve of their oversized shirt. They gripped onto the long black cape like their life depended on it, and stared Alfred down over their shoulder with blurry, unforced eyes.

“This is Alfred,” Batman’s low voice echoed into the silence of the cave, “I trust him with my life, and so do the others.” The look in the child's eyes softened slightly, and their grip on the cape relaxed. “He will help you.” 

“If you’re willing,” Alfred quickly corrected, not wanting to scare off the child. It was intended to be an offer, but unless you were familiar with how Bruce cared for those around him, it would probably sound like a command. 

After a moment of hesitant consideration, the shaking figure clutched in the Batman’s arms nodded in approval. 

“They are having difficulty walking, so I’ll carry them for now” Bruce informed, and so Alfred led the way up out of the cave, through the first floor and up to the second, into the wing that housed all of the bedrooms, and into a (thankfully just cleaned) guestroom. When that got to the ensuite bathroom Alfred motioned for Bruce to set the child on the rather long countertop.

“Alfred will take care of you from here, ok?” Bruce double checked, and the child answered with a more confident nod, as Alfred sped around the bathroom adjusting the water temperature and gathering supplies.

Once Bruce left the guest room, Alfred turned to his new responsibility. 

“Can you remove the clothes yourself, or would you like my assistance?” The child hesitantly nodded, before pulling off their cold muddy shirt. “You can just drop it on the floor, I’ll clean it later,” he proved at the lost expression they made immediately after. He helped balance the frail kid so they wouldn’t stand on their injured leg while taking off their pants and then helped them to the stool he had set up in the bathtub.

“I’ll wait outside the door, you can yell if you need anything,” he paused for a moment after the words left his mouth — realizing he hadn’t actually heard them speak a word, “or throw something at the door”

The kid obediently nodded again, and Alfred left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

He sat on the bed and tried to make a to-do list for tomorrow, or consider alterations to the dinner he served tonight, or think about the book Jason recommended to him, to contemplate anything—anything but the cuts and bruises that littered the skin of the malnourished child on the other side of that door. To focus on something other than how badly he wanted to wrap that poor, frail, scarred kid in a soft, warm blanket and hold them in his arms and never let go. 

A thunk sounded from the bathroom as something collided with the bathroom door. Alfred took that as his que to carefully announce his presence, and enter.

“What can I help you with?” He asked, picking up the hairbrush that had been launched at the door. 

“Can you please help with my back? I can’t get it,” came a quiet, tired voice. It was soft, and almost defeated sounding. Alfred made a mental note to make some soup, so they could eat something warm after they rest.

Alfred grabbed a fresh washcloth from the counter, wet it lightly, and pumped a healthy amount of liquid soap onto it before looking to his next task. 

He tried to make his sharp inhale as quiet as possible. He hadn’t noticed before, trying to rush out of the bathroom to give the newcomer some privacy, but their back was littered with scars. Some small, some large. Some seemed neat and medical, thin lines left by careful stitches. Others were thick and jagged, remnants of an injury that never got properly treated. ‘Never again’ echoed like a mantra through his mind ‘I’ll make sure that never happens again’

He lifted the soft washcloth to their back and softly scrubbed off the mud and grime that clung to it. He carefully rubbed up the back of their neck and down their shoulders, making sure to grab every speck of dirt they couldn’t. He tried not to pay too much attention to how dark the water ran. 

With the shower finished and the water off, he wrapped the now clean child in the softest towel he could find and carefully carried them back to the counter, horrified by how easy it was. He helped dry their hair as they toweled off their body, and then dressed them in what clothes he could grab on such short notice (a freshly washed hoodie from Jason and a pair of shorts from when Bruce was much younger and smaller). Then he banged the cut on the child’s face, put a brace on their ankle, and some cream on their dry hands. 

He helped the kid waddle out of the bathroom and into the bed, tucking them in securely, and returned to the bathroom to clean up. 

When he left not even ten minutes later, he found the child curled up on themselves like a ball, nose tucked into the neck of the hoodie, gripping onto the bed like letting go might kill them. He watched for a moment, continuing the seconds between each rise and fall of their chest, making sure everything was ok. They'd need food, and a more thorough medical exam later, but for now they needed sleep.

“I hope your dreams are kinder to you than life has been.” he whispered before exiting the room.

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Thank you all so much for reading! Let me know what you think 💚

Notes:

Sorry for disappearing for… *checks notes* a month 😅, I rewrote this chapter 5 times. hopefully the next chapter will be out sooner

[disparatemind]

Part 16

A while later, after having looked around the cafe to keep track of how everyone was doing, I looked back at Julie and noticed that we'd somehow managed to eat all but one cookie.

“Looks like we both need a refill,” I said with a smile, “and I need to do my rounds and check on the other patrons. It won't take me long, but you will be able to see me the whole time. While I'm up, would you like anything other than coffee, or maybe a scone or muffin?”

Julie looked at me with wide eyes for a moment, but her breathing was much easier than it had been. “Well…”

She seemed hesitant, like she didn't want to be a bother, and I smiled. “I promise it's no trouble; what would you like?”

The corners of her mouth lifted in the barest of smiles, and my heart leapt that I'd managed to bring it out of her. “I don't suppose you have any donuts?”

“I sure do, what kind would you like?”

“A bear claw please, or an apple fritter.”

“Coming right up, Julie.”

Many of the patrons gave me a long look in passing, and I knew for those who hadn't been here as long it was confusing to see me sit with someone for so long. The others—well, those who hadn't gone through Death’s Door yet—had seen me interact with many others and so it didn't come as a surprise to them. Still, I answered a few of the questioning looks and raised eyebrows with a comment of some souls struggling to accept what had happened more than others, and everyone understood.

Wade, who had risen from his seat just as I was heading over to check on the hostile patron from earlier, beamed at me. “Rose! My lovely cafe proprietress—”

“Yes I'll save you a cinnamon roll,” I cut him off with a smirk. “This time the best one goes to someone else who needs it more, though.”

He looked over at my newest patron and nodded. “Wouldn't have it any other way,” he replied, turning back to me with a gentler but more sincere smile. “And if buddy boy gives you any more trouble, holler for me.”

“Will do.”

“Prrrrrrow!”

We both looked down at the silvery feline winding around our ankles, and raised our eyebrows in unison. “Can I help you?” I asked. Miu looked from me to Wade and stretched up, pawing at him, and I snorted. “Apparently she wants uppies.”

“What?! She hates uppies! At least from me!”

“Then why do you have to have me untangle you from her when you bring her back?”

As I turned to walk back to the counter I heard Wade groaning like he was in pain, and I snorted again. The cinnamon rolls had risen beautifully and were ready to bake, and I heard many a deep sniff and sigh of appreciation the closer they came to being done. Once they had cooled and been frosted, I loaded up about half of them onto a tray and brought one to every single person who'd expressed interest.

And, as I'd promised Wade, the best one of the batch went to the grieving soul sitting right where I'd left her. I’d made sure to grab the requested donuts as well as a second cinnamon roll for myself, and armed with the food and coffee I made my way back over.

“I'm sorry for how long that took,” I apologized as I set everything down. “I thought you might like one of the cinnamon rolls I just made as well, but no worries if you just want the donuts.”

She looked at me in surprise as I sat down again. “You're… still going to sit with me?” she asked.

“Unless you'd prefer to be alone,” I said kindly. “I understand the need for space.”

“No, please, you've been so kind,” Julie said earnestly.

Something about this woman pulled at my heartstrings, and I couldn't help smiling. “I'm happy to sit with you. Are there any questions I can answer for you?”

“Are you dead as well?”

The bluntness of the question took me back a bit, and she immediately started to apologize. “I'm sorry, that was too personal, I—”

“No no, it's ok,” I said after a second. “Yes, I am no longer among the living.”

I forced my jaw to move when it tried to clench down, hoping she hadn't noticed.

“May I… May I ask what happened?” Julie asked hesitantly. “I realize that's a very personal question…”

There were very few other times I'd been this grateful for my hidden corners of the cafe. “It's alright,” I said with a jaw that felt like it was welded in place. “I… I was stubborn and didn't listen to someone I should have.” I swallowed hard, and forced myself to continue. “There were extenuating circumstances surrounding my death, but I couldn't go back to the living, so this is what I chose from the options I was given.”

Julie opened her mouth to reply, but the next words I heard were an angry shout across the cafe, and I spun and stood in one smooth motion to see what the hell was happening in my cafe.

You run a café on the edge of life and death. Souls who have been departed from their bodies temporarily, such as in comas or near-death experiences, can relax in your quaint cafe for as long as they need before they can either return to their bodies or begin their journey to the afterlife.

[hrrtshape]

welcome to the shifting seance club.

sit down… sit down. the spirits are restless. the stars are watching, no, really, they’re watching

AHEM. before we begin, a moment of academic posturing: the knowledge i am about to bestow upon you has been extracted from highly esteemed sources that i recommend for any astrologers, such as . . . ୨୧

" esoteric astrology " by alice a. bailey " the astrology of fate " by liz greene " saturn : a new look at an old devil " by liz greene " hellenistic astrology : the study of fate and fortune " by chris brennan

i have consulted the planets, shuffled the tarot deck, knocked three times on my bedroom wall for dramatic effect, and this is what i’ve learned: your zodiac sign is not just a fun little personality badge. it directly affects your shifting progress. yes (probably not, take this with any amount of salt you want). the stars have opinions, and unfortunately, some of them are a little direct.

 　　. . . now, let’s see what they say about you

◞ aries.

omen :  a door creaks open, but you keep kicking it instead of walking through. fate’s verdict :  you shift like a battering ram. you don’t manifest, you threaten reality into submission. and while your raw passion is admirable, your achilles' heel is your impatience. you expect instant results, and if they don’t arrive, you throw a cosmic tantrum. ꒰ prescription :  you need to trick yourself into believing you don’t care about shifting. the second you release your vice grip on the universe’s neck, you’ll wake up where you belong.

◞ taurus.

omen :  you stand at the threshold, hesitating, asking if this is “scientifically sound.” fate’s verdict :  you are so rooted in your cr that shifting feels like a betrayal. you crave comfort and certainty, and the unknown? ew. gross. messy. you convince yourself that if you can’t prove it, it must not be real. but !! shifting isn’t a scientific formula. it’s a love letter to possibility. ꒰ prescription :  romance the shift. bathe in it. treat it like a luxurious silk robe that’s already draped over your shoulders. you are already there.

◞ gemini.

omen :  the stars whisper secrets, but you’re too busy checking your notifications. fate’s verdict :  you woke up in your dr. except, oh, look!! a new shifting method!! and a podcast!! and a theory!! you scatter your energy across 300 ideas instead of committing to one. your brain is a quantum supercomputer; your attention span is a broken hourglass. ꒰ prescription :  pick one method and pretend it’s the only method in existence. burn the rest (metaphorically).

◞ cancer.

omen :   a single tear falls onto your dr script. it smudges the ink. fate’s verdict :  you shift best to your dr when you feel your dr in your soul. but your achilles' heel? your attachment to your cr. you romanticise your struggles, like a poet in the 1800s dying of heartbreak in a candlelit attic. ꒰ prescription :  detach. your dr is not a dream. it’s your next home.

◞ leo.

omen :  you envision your dr shift as an oscar-worthy transformation scene. fate’s verdict :  you don’t just want to shift. you want the most cinematic shift of all time. you crave grandeur, orchestral scores, confetti. but reality doesn’t need a standing ovation to be real. ꒰ prescription :  simplicity is your secret weapon. the most powerful magic happens in silence.

◞ virgo.

omen :  a stack of perfectly organised dr notes, rewritten for the third time. fate’s verdict :  you think if you can perfect shifting, it will work. you treat scripting like it’s a final dissertation. but guess what??? the universe doesn’t care about syntax. it just wants you to believe. ꒰ prescription :  trust yourself. shifting isn’t a rubik’s cube. it’s a freefall.

◞ libra.

omen :  the scales tip back and forth. you can’t decide which dr to enter. fate’s verdict :  indecision is your kryptonite. you treat shifting like a multiple-choice quiz instead of a choose-your-own-adventure novel. ꒰ prescription :  just pick. you can always pivot later.

◞ scorpio.

omen :  shadows shift in the candlelight. fate’s verdict :  you want power over shifting. you want to dominate reality. but shifting isn’t a chess game. it’s a trust fall. ꒰ prescription :  surrender. let go. let the shift take you instead of trying to own it.

◞ sagittarius.

omen :  your suitcase is always packed. fate’s verdict :  you see shifting as a trip, not a home.  ꒰ prescription :  commit. sink in. stop treating your dr like a fictional destination.

◞ capricorn.

omen :   a mountain looms in the distance. you start climbing. fate’s verdict :  you work too hard. you think shifting should be earned, like a salary. ꒰ prescription :  stop treating shifting like a job interview. you don’t have to prove yourself to the quantum field.

◞ aquarius.

omen :  a thousand ideas flicker in your mind at once. fate’s verdict :  you overcomplicate shifting with theories instead of doing it. ꒰ prescription :  stop analysing. start experiencing.

◞ pisces.

omen :  you already live in your dr. just not physically. fate’s verdict :  you dissociate instead of directing. ꒰ prescription :  channel your daydreams into intention. be the river, not the mist.

the stars have spoken . . . will you listen?

[kisseudoll]

MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT ──────𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒, the bad boy who hates your soul, loves the taste of your lips

◜ᯅ◝ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 in song mingi + suggestive 𝟎𝟎𝟎 && kissing skin2skin making out⟢ 𝖶𝖨𝖲𝖯𝖲&𝖪𝖨𝖲𝖲𝖤𝖲

𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗸 + 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 & 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗱 🍋‍🟩

mingi hates you. in fact, he’s made it known he hates you ever since you’ve crossed his path.

his glares in biology were sharp, mingi hated sitting beside you. you? you were used to every disgusted eye he’d give you. even at parties, when he saw you stroll in, he’d groan angrily under his breath “of course you’re here.”

tonight was different. the sky was clear, the streetlights were bright, it just hit 12:00am.

tonight you were pressed up against him on an old park bench, mingi’s kisses were strong, as if they’ve been pent up for a course of months, maybe even years.

it started with bickering, which then led you to shoving him back a bit. your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, mingi grabbed your wrist, pulling you in.

“you drive me fucking insane.” mingi mutters, his voice tight matching the strength of his grip on your waist.

“then stop looking at me.” you shot back, sass laced on your lips. you watched him for as long as he looked at you.

suddenly he kisses you, hard.

you weren’t expecting it, his kisses held passion, as if he’s been waiting for this very moment. it almost seems as if, mingi tried to hate you. now in this moment, he’s failed.

mingi’s hands are everywhere. one hand is gripping the back of your neck, the other is gripping your hips closer to him. mingi’s kisses felt starving, like he needed to make up for lost time. like, he’ll lose his mind if he’s not kissing you.

“fuck.” mingi groaned against your lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. his teeth grazed against your bottom lip. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this.”

your breathing sutters, but you refuse to allow him to take the upper hand. you tug him closer again, allowing his body to be pressed harder against yours. mingi exhales shakily, his hand on your waist gripping tighter.

“you sure about this?” you mutter, lips brushing against his. “because it kinda seems like you hate me.”

mingi lets out a short, breathless laugh. “i do.” his lips find your jaw, teeth dragging along your sensitive skin. “i fucking hate you.”

but his hands tell a different story, so does the way he leans in to kiss you.

“you’re lying.” you whisper.

“yeah, i am.” mingi pulls you in for another kiss, his hand moving to your throat.

from her 2 you ◜ᯅ◝ : double posting boo ik ik.. but i can’t drop a theme without dropping a fic. bad boy mingi just so happened to be on my mind in this very moment so short drabble :)

[linoxpudding]

Love That Remained- Bang Chan

summary: while your husband is on tour, something life shattering happens which leaves you both feeling shattered

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, married with kids

word count: 2116 words

warnings: miscarriage, hospital setting, accident

a/n: based on this request

Masterlist

-

The Kids: Eldest Daughter (Juliana - 7 years old) and Youngest Daughter (Aera - 4 years old)

~°~

You were exhausted. No, exhaustion wasn’t a strong enough word—you were completely drained, body and soul.

Between caring for Juliana, your seven-year-old, and Aera, your four-year-old, while being heavily pregnant, you could barely function. The constant need to be everything—mother, caretaker, wife—while Chan was away on tour was wearing you thin.

You missed him desperately. The weight of his absence was suffocating, even though you knew he was doing what he loved. Every night, the ache of missing him settled in your chest, only dulled slightly when you saw his face on FaceTime.

His mother noticed your fatigue immediately. She always did. You were visiting your in-laws' place for dinner when she brought it up.

“Sweetheart,” she said gently after dinner, “why don’t I take the kids for the night? You look like you need some rest.”

You hesitated, glancing at your daughters. Juliana was animatedly telling her grandfather a story, and Aera was already curling up against her auntie Hannah’s side, half-asleep.

A night alone. A full night of sleep. The thought was almost too tempting.

“…Are you sure?” you asked, voice filled with guilt.

His mother smiled warmly, touching your hand. “You need to take care of yourself too, honey. The baby needs you strong.”

Your resolve crumbled. You kissed your daughters goodnight, whispering reassurances that you’d be back in the morning. Then you set off for home. It was only a short drive. You didn’t even think about it—just another routine part of life.

Then, everything shattered.

Headlights. A sharp turn. Tires screeching. A deafening impact.

Pain exploded in your body. A scream made it past your lips before darkness swallowed you whole.

*********

On the other side of the world your husband, Chan, was grinning as he wiped sweat from his forehead, heart still racing from the concert. The stadium had been packed, the energy electric. Fans screamed his name, sang every word of every song, and for two and a half hours, he had been on top of the world.

But now, all he wanted was to see his girls. 

His adrenaline hadn’t settled, but there was only one thing on his mind—his nightly FaceTime with you and the kids. This was his favorite part of the night—seeing his daughters’ sleepy faces, hearing you whisper, I miss you before falling asleep with your phone still connected.

Pulling out his phone, he checked the time. Time zones were tricky. He knew you would fall asleep by the time he got back at his hotel, so immediately after the concert, he waited for your call.

But the call didn’t come. He frowned, glancing at the time. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you had put the girls to bed early.

Still, something gnawed at his chest.

He was about to text you when the dressing room door opened and Changbin and Felix entered.

Chan barely looked up. “One sec, just waiting for Y/N and the girls.”

Neither of them said anything.

The silence made Chan glance up.

Changbin looked pale. Felix’s lips were pressed together tightly, like he was holding back something.

Chan’s stomach dropped.

“What?”

Neither of them spoke. The room felt colder.

“Guys?” His voice wavered slightly. “What is it?”

Felix swallowed. Changbin shifted uncomfortably.

Chan laughed, though it was shaky. “What’s going on?”

Changbin and Felix looked at each other nervously. Changbin took a step closer, “Chan, sit down.”

Chan became worried, “Is something wrong with my parents? My siblings?” He didn’t even take your name or his daughters' names because his mind refuses to go there, there cannot be anything wrong with you or the kids, nope. He scoffed lightly. “Come on, why do you guys look like that?”

Nobody laughed. His heart dropped.

Changbin took a deep breath. “Chan, it’s Y/N.”

The world tilted. Chan sat frozen, breath caught in his throat.

“There was an accident.”

His stomach churned, nausea rising to his throat. “No.” His voice cracked.

Felix reached for him, but Chan jerked back.

“No.” Chan shook his head violently. “No, she—she was just with the kids. She was on her way home—”

Felix squeezed his shoulder. “Hyung—”

No, that wasn’t right. You had just texted him hours ago. You had dinner at his parents’ house. You were fine.

“Where are the kids?” Chan demanded, voice rising. “Were they—were they with her?”

“No. They’re with your parents.”

Chan exhaled sharply, his body sagging for a moment.

Then, his expression turned ice-cold, “Where is she now?”

A suffocating silence.

“Changbin.” His voice trembled.

Changbin looked down. “She’s in surgery.”

Chan’s hands curled into fists and his breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling unevenly, “Book me a flight. Now.”

Chan barely heard anything else. He was already moving.

*********

The flight felt endless. Chan sat in his seat, fists clenched, his foot bouncing violently against the floor. His mind refused to shut off.

You. The baby.

You. The baby.

His brain kept repeating the same words, the same images. You, lying in a hospital bed. You, unconscious. You, hurt. He should’ve been there. He should’ve been driving you home. He should’ve told you to wait until morning. He was supposed to protect you. He wasn’t supposed to be thousands of miles away while you were fighting for your life.

Tears burned at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Not here. Not yet.

He was praying silently. Please. Let them be okay. Please, God.

*********

The hospital was eerily quiet at this hour. Chan ran through the corridors, barely stopping to listen to the nurses directing him. His parents were standing near your room, eyes red and swollen.

His mother turned first. When she saw him, her face crumbled, and she reached for him, “Chris—”

“Where is she?” His voice barely worked, throat dry from the flight, from the panic that had been clawing at him for hours.

His father placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “She’s inside.” His voice cracked.

Chan didn’t wait. He pushed the door open. Then he saw you and the sight nearly broke him.

You were lying on the hospital bed, wires and tubes surrounding you, your face unnaturally pale against the stark white sheets. The rhythmic beep of the monitors was the only indication that you were still there.

His stomach twisted violently.

“Baby?” His voice cracked as he took a shaky step forward.

You didn’t move. The hospital room felt suffocating.

“No,” he whispered, rushing to your bedside. “No, baby, please don’t do this.”

His hands shook as he reached for yours, wrapping his fingers around your smaller, colder ones.

“Wake up,” he pleaded, his breath hitching. “Please, baby. Please. You’re my world, you hear me? I don’t know how to be me without you.”

His vision blurred, hot tears slipping down his cheeks.

“It’s us against the world, right?” His voice cracked as he cupped your face with one hand while his other was intertwined with yours. “Juliana and Aera need you… I need you.”

Silence. His shoulders trembled as he pressed his forehead against your hand, his body shaking with the force of his grief.

“Please. Please, wake up. Please, come back to me,” he sobbed.

Minutes turned into hours then he heard a soft sound. A quiet inhale.

“…Chan?”

His head snapped up so fast his neck ached. His breath caught in his throat as he watched your eyes flutter open, unfocused and heavy with exhaustion.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was hoarse, broken.

You blinked slowly, dazed, confused. Your lips parted, dry and cracked.

“The baby?” you whispered.

The world stopped. Chan felt his chest tighten painfully, his heart screaming at him, warning him. He already heard the bad news that shattered his world, hours ago from your doctor. The words slammed into Chan’s chest like a freight train.

Before he could answer, the door opened.

Your doctor entered, clipboard in hand.

Chan’s stomach plummeted.

The doctor’s expression was calm, but his eyes held sympathy. “Mrs. Bang, how are you feeling?”

You swallowed, glancing down at your hand still held tightly in Chan’s. “Weak,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But… my baby?”

The doctor sighed softly, stepping closer.

Chan’s grip on your hand tightened.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said gently. “Due to the severity of the accident, you suffered a placental abruption. The trauma was too much for the baby to survive.”

Your breath hitched. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

The doctor continued, his voice soft. “We did everything we could.”

Chan felt your entire body begin to tremble.

“No,” you whispered, your free hand pressing against your stomach as if you could somehow feel what had been lost.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor repeated, his voice laced with sorrow.

Your breath hitched. A choked, heartbroken sob ripped from your throat, and Chan broke. Tears blurred his vision as he pulled you into his arms, holding you as tightly as he could. You sobbed against his chest, your fingers clutching at his shirt, your body wracked with grief.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry—”

Chan cupped the back of your head, pressing his lips against your temple. His own tears fell freely, his body shaking as he held onto you.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice shattered. “Don’t do that. This isn’t your fault.”

You let out another sob, curling into him. “I should’ve been more careful—”

“No,” he said firmly, pulling back just enough to look into your tear-streaked face. His hands framed your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears that kept falling. “No, baby. This wasn’t your fault. Don’t carry this.”

Your lip trembled. “Chan—”

He shook his head, his own voice breaking. “We lost our baby. Together. You didn’t fail. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You pressed your forehead against his, sobs still wracking your body. His hands shook as he held you tighter, as if he could somehow shield you from this pain.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispered.

You pulled back, eyes red, swollen.

“Chan—” your voice cracked. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a choked sound. “It wasn’t yours either.”

You broke again, burying your face in his chest. He held you as you sobbed, as your grief tore through you both.

“We were supposed to meet them,” you whispered, voice raw. “We were supposed to hold them.”

Chan let out a choked sound, his hands tightening around you,“I know,” he whispered. “I know, baby.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. He pressed desperate kisses against your forehead, your hair, anywhere he could reach.

“I love you,” he whispered. “We’ll get through this.”

Your breath was shaky. “How?”

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I don’t know yet, but we would.”

Because he would never let go. Because you needed each other. Because even though the weight of grief was suffocating, crushing, unbearable—

You had to be brave. For Juliana. For Aera. For the family that still needed you. Chan held you even tighter, pressing his lips to your forehead, his tears mixing with yours.

“We have to be strong,” he whispered. “For them.”

Your breath hitched, your body trembling against him.

“They don’t know yet,” you whispered, voice raw.

Chan closed his eyes. The thought of his children, so innocent, so full of love and joy—waiting for you both. Not knowing the storm that had just shattered your world. His heart ached.

“We’ll tell them together,” he murmured. “When you’re ready.”

You let out a small, broken sob, gripping his shirt like a lifeline. “I don’t know how to do this, Chan.”

His hands ran up and down your back, soothing, steady, even when he felt anything but steady.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “One day at a time.”

You nodded against his chest, but he could still feel the way your body trembled, the way grief clung to every breath. He exhaled shakily, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “You’re not alone in this, baby. You’ll never be alone.”

Your arms tightened around him, your fingers digging into his back. “I love you,” you whispered, voice so fragile it nearly broke him all over again.

“I love you more,” he choked out.

For a while, you just held each other.

The hospital room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the occasional sniffle, the weight of everything you had lost.

But outside, beyond these walls—two little children were waiting.

And no matter how shattered you both felt, no matter how much the loss threatened to pull you under, you had to keep going. For them. For your family. For the love that still remained.

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

Taglist:

@kaiyaba

[servantofthefates]

Signs that the Old Gods Favor You

Apollo

People comment on how warm your hands and skin are. To the point where it surprises them, instead of being comforted by your touch.

Diana

You are more attractive after sunset. Your unruly hair settles down. Your skin glows. You even look taller for some unexplainable reason.

Mercury

Static electricity. You experience a lot of it when you brush up against people or touch metal. The stronger the zap, the more he likes you.

Venus

The beautiful women in your life have your back. Female bosses, mother figures, “it” girls. They defend, uphold or compliment you.

Mars

You cry and/or laugh a lot. More than usual. When watching a movie, when listening to a song. Your heart and your soul are just more awake.

Jupiter

Free food finds its way to you. All the time. The lavish kind. And way more than you need or could eat. So much, you simply must share it.

Saturn

Your tragedies turn into blessings in disguise. Bad things, big and small, that happen to you reveal themselves to be great things after all.

Uranus

You often get jolted awake as you fall asleep. As if you just passed a barrier to another realm. You dream lucidly almost every night.

Neptune

Your dreams come true. You see someone in a dream on Monday night, and they contact you the very next morning. You can see the future.

Pluto

Anyone who harms you gets hurt instantly or days later. The ones who were especially malicious even die. It’s as if Karma came alive and decided to be your friend.

[vmiina]

the chain

sam winchester & (fallen) angel!reader

summary you defy heaven’s laws by falling in love with the man you were supposed to watch over. after refusing to abandon him, you’re violently punished and stripped of your grace. left broken and bloodied, you fight to make your way back to sam.

warnings angst fluff descriptions of violence religious themes & imagery not-so implied torture (implied via injuries) emotional trauma

you can’t erase it. the memory of him lingers with you, his scent burning into your skin. it’s like he’s everywhere— the sharpness of his jawline, the warmth of his comforting touch, the hunger in his eyes when you were alone together. a forbidden flame, one that no angel should dare to approach. but you did. and now, there’s no turning back.

you were never supposed to feel all these things for sam. never supposed to be this close to him. heaven’s orders were clear—watch him, guide him, protect him—but never, never interfere. and yet, as soon as you laid eyes on sam winchester, the weight of your duty, your celestial task, crumbled away like it had never even been assigned to you.

it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. he wasn’t supposed to be a temptation. but there he was, broken, lost, struggling with his own fate. you watched him from the shadows, the broken light of the motel room catching his eyes just right, making them glow like the darkened sky before a storm. you were a witness to his pain, and that’s what made you step closer. you told yourself you were just following orders. but somewhere between the quiet whispers of the night and the frantic beat of your heart, you lost your way.

you denied heaven’s orders, because you fell in love with sam. you fell in love with the broken soul beneath the hunter’s tough facade. the way he laughed when he thought no one could hear him. the way he looked at you like you weren’t just an angel of the lord, but something more— someone real.

the first touch was accidental, a brush of your fingers when you reached for the same book. the spark between you could’ve set the world alight. and when you kissed him—when his lips met yours for the first time— the rules were nonexistent to you.

his hands were desperate on your back, pulling you closer, his chest heaving beneath you as if he couldn’t breathe without you. his lips were a prayer, a needy plea for something he couldn’t name. and for once, you weren’t an angel. you were just you, his, in that moment, as much as he was yours. and it was enough. when it ended, the guilt should’ve eaten you alive. it should’ve— shouldn’t it? but all you could feel was him, the warmth of his body, the way his lips tried to explore every single inch of your body, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

but the voices came. heaven’s cold, unforgiving whispers. they called to you, accusing you, dragging you back to your purpose. they spoke of consequences, of wraith, of your failure to uphold your duty. and you listened, for a while. you pulled away from him, the ache in your chest unbearable, but necessary. you started to watch him from a distance again, your eyes burning with regret, because you couldn’t bear to hurt him more. but sam, he wouldn’t let you go that easily. he confronted you, his voice shaking with something raw and desperate. “you left me. why?”

you didn’t have the words. you couldn’t explain. so you did the only thing you could, you kissed him, again. this time much harder than you ever had before, leaving no space between you and him, hoping that it could erase all the reasons you’re leaving him behind. and that was when you understood: there was no going back. heaven’s law meant nothing to you now. you were his, sam was yours. a chain, a bond that even heaven itself wouldn’t be able to break.

when they came for you, when the sky tore open and the weight of heaven’s fury descended, you didn’t fight, you didn’t have it in you to do so. the only thing stronger than heaven’s wrath, than the celestial force that created you, was the love you had for sam winchester.

so you stayed, even as they dragged you away. you stayed, and whispered. “i’ll come back for you.” because even if they took you away from him, even if they ripped you to shreds, you’d never stop loving him. you’d never stop fighting for him. even if it meant bending every rule, every command. you wanted him, he wanted you. and nothing—nothing—could change that not now, not never. not heaven, hell or even the world itself. you were bound to him by something far stronger than any celestial chain was ever to you.

the moment they take you the world vanishes.

light—blinding and searing—fills your vision, burning through your borrowed flesh, through every nerve that still hums with the memory of sam’s comforting touch. it pierces right through you, cold and merciless, dragging you from the motel room, from the warmth of his arms, from the way he whispered your name like a prayer. and then, heavy silence fell over.

not the comforting quiet of a late night rainfall, not the peace of stillness, but something hollow. a void where sound should exist, where time itself should breathe. you are nowhere, and yet still you know exactly where you are.

heaven.

you land on your knees. the ground beneath you is endless marble, stretching into nothingness. pillars rise like celestial monoliths, carved from something older than time, inscribed with words you couldn’t bear to look at. the weight of their meaning is too much. you know what they say even without looking at them. you know why you’re here without having to think twice. you bow your head, because that’s what you were always told to do. even in your rebellion, defiance, there’s still something inside you that trembles before the might of your father’s will.

“do you know what you’ve done?”

the voice is not one, but many. a chorus. a storm. it shakes the air surrounding you, and you can feel it inside your bones, inside the grace they have bound, crushing it, suffocating it. “yes.” your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t break.

another voice, singular this time, but no less overwhelming and accusing.

“you disobeyed.”

“you fell.”

the words linger in your head, and you flinch, because it isn’t true— not yet. they could cast you down if they wished, strip your wings, rip your grace from you until you were nothing but dust, blood and human frailty. and maybe, you’d deserve it. but all you can think of is sam, even with the judging voices filling the silent space. the way he looked at you when you whispered that you’d come back to him. the way his hands desperately held onto you like he could keep you from being torn away.

“i loved.” you say, and the silence after is deafening. heaven doesn’t love. heaven is love— divine, absolute, untouchable. but never personal.

there is movement around you. blurred figures, wings spread wide, too bright for mortals to look at. you don’t have to see them to know they’re angels. your brothers and sisters. the ones that will decide your fate.

“you chose him over heaven.” the accusation rings through the space.

you lift your head, finally meeting their gaze, though they have no faces, only light. “i did.” you nearly whimper out, there’s no point in denying the truth anymore. everybody knows, things like this spread around heaven like wildfire.

a beat of silence. then, a single voice, ancient and unreadable.

“then let him be your salvation.”

unbearable pain erupts through your body. your grace ignites, searing from the inside out. it’s not like falling. falling is a choice. this is something else. a sentence, a branding. they’re not casting you from heaven. they’re binding you to earth, chaining you to your own defiance.

your wings, once ethereal, twist in agony, the weight of them dragging you downward. the marble beneath you splinters, cracks spidering out in every direction. your breath leaves your lungs, and the moment before everything goes dark, the last thing you hear their degree.

“if he is what you desire, then let him bear the cost.”

then, you fall. and this time there’s no light to catch you.

when you wake, pain is the first thing you feel. it’s raw, like every inch of your being is made of shattered glass and bleeding flesh. your wings— they’re still there, but they’re completely broken, a twisted mess of your burning agony, you can’t even feel them anymore. you barely even remember them. all you know is that you’re falling, through the void, through the space between heaven’s prison and earth’s trembling ground.

you hit the ground hard. too hard. your hands scrape against the dirt as you force yourself to push up, gasping for air, every breath you take burns, like hellfire. it feels like the world is trying to crush you under the weight of everything you’ve done. every inch of your screams in agony, but you push it down. you have to get to sam.

you have to.

the world around you is blurry, spinning with the aftershocks of what you’ve just endured. you can barely make out the shapes of trees, the dim outline of the road in front, the faint glow of the distant lights. and then there’s the sound of a familiar voice, voice that cuts through the fog in your mind, the sound of him calling your name.

“where are you?”

the world tilts beneath you, the ground uneven beneath your shaky steps. every inch of your body is hurting, raw, bruised, torn apart, but none of it matters. not when his voice is out there, cutting through the haze, calling out to you. you push forward. the scenery a mess in the dark, shadows twisting in the edges of your vision. you can barely hold yourself up, your limbs weak, your grace flickering—broken, burning— but you don’t stop, you can’t.

the sound of gravel crunching under your feet is distant, like you’re not really there, not really walking. just drifting, pulled forward by something far stronger than pain, stronger than the weight of what heaven has done to you.

and then— there.

a figure, tall, broad shoulders tense, pacing by the side of the road. his phone in his hand, his head snapping up at the sound of your unsteady footsteps. his name is already on your lips, but it’s barely a whisper.

the second he sees you, his whole body locks up. his chest rises sharply, breath caught between a gasp and something raw, something desperate. his eyes are wide, dark and furious, they drag over you, taking in the state you’re left in. clothes torn apart to shreds, streaks of blood staining your entire body, knees threatening to buckle any moment now. “what the hell—“ his voice breaks, and suddenly he’s in front of you, grabbing your arms, touching you, as if making sure you’re real. his fingers press into your skin firmly, warm and alive, grounding you.

you can’t speak. you can’t do anything but look at him with teary eyes, full of pain. your vision is swimming, body wrecked. sam’s breath is uneven, his jaw tight, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes— relief that you’re here, back with him. pure anger at what’s been done to you. “who did this?” his voice shaky, rough and low. “who did this to you?” you swallow hard, your throat dry and aching. you didn’t have to say it, he knew.

his hold trembles on your arms, his grip tightening, not hard enough to hurt. but to hold, to keep you here. “those sons of bitches.” his voice is sharp, but it’s wrapped up in something else, fear. “they took you. they—“ his breath catches, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, more dangerous than you’ve ever heard. “and they did this?”

you nod, just barely, the small action hurting. you don’t tell him the worst of it, the burning pain of being ripped from him, the way your wings were twisted and torn as punishment, the way they made you feel small and unholy before they threw you away like you were nothing.

but sam knows. he always does, and it’s killing him.

his hands move, one of them cradling the side of your face, his thumb brushing just under a cut on your cheek. his touch is careful, but his whole body is simmering with barely-contained fury. “i swear to god…” he mutters, voice hoarse. “if they ever—ever—come near you again…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, because he doesn’t have to. you can feel the storm raging inside him. you lean into him, exhausted beyond words. “i had to come back.” you whisper, your voice barely holding together.

sam swallows down the heavy lump in his throat, his jaw clenched. he finally pulls you in fully, his arms wrapping around you with so much force that you can barely breathe, but you don’t care. you press into him, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace again, hoping that this time it would last. the solid realness of him calms you down, making you forget the burning pain all over your body. “you’re okay,” sam whispers, voice shaky, he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or you. “you’re okay, i got you.” his palm cradles the back of your head, his other arm holding you so tight, he’s scared you might disappear again.

you close your eyes, shaking frantically in his grip. because even though you’re standing, you’re right there, you’re still falling. and sam is the only person able to keep you from breaking apart completely.

sam doesn’t let go of you, not even for a second. his arm stays wrapped around your waist as he half-carries, half-guides you to the impala, his grip is bruising. but you can barely register the pain with the way your body is already so broken all over. you can feel the heat rolling off him, the tension in his every movement, the quiet rage under his worry.

the drive back is silent. the only sound is the soft hum of the engine, the distant crackle of dean’s classic rock cassette on low volume. you lean against the window, eyes fluttering shut, but everytime you start to drift off away from your thoughts, the memory of you falling jolts you awake. you shudder, and sam notices, of course he does, he notices everything when it comes to you. his hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles going white.

when he pulls up to the motel, he’s out of the car before you can even move. he yanks your door open, eyes scanning your face, and for a moment, he looks lost. then without a word, he ducks down and scoops you into his arms. “sam—“ your voice is hoarse, barely there, but he doesn’t let you finish. “no,” he mutters, holding you to his chest as he kicks the door shut behind him. his voice is strained, breath unsteady. “you can barely stand.” you don’t argue, there’s no point, because you know he’s right. you just let him hold you, that’s all you can do anyway.

inside the motel room, he sets you down on the edge of the bed. his movements are careful and measured, but you can see the way his hands shake, his breaths are too fast. he’s barely holding himself together, he’s so scared. of hurting you, of losing you again. he grabs the first-aid kit from his duffel bag, slamming it next to you on the bed more force than needed. he kneels in front of you, his long fingers gently coming to peel your bloodied clothes off.

his hands still.

you don’t need to look at yourself to know what he’s seeing, the multiple bruises blooming across your skin, the raw, bloody scrapes and bright-red burns. you hear the sharp breath he takes in, the way it shudders like he’s forcing himself to stay calm. but when he speaks, his voice is anything but. “they hurt you.” he scoffs, voice full of venom. it’s not a question, it’s a blunt statement. you swallow hard, your throat dry. “sam—“ his jaw tightens. “they hurt you.” he repeats, and this time there’s a harsh edge to his tone, full of danger. his hands clench into fists, his shoulders tense like he’s barely restraining himself.

you reach out, your fingers brushing over his knuckles. “i’m fine.” you say with a hoarse voice. sam’s head bows, his forehead nearly resting against your knee. he stays like that for a moment, breathing slow and heavy. when he finally lifts his gaze his eyes are dark with something feral. “they don’t get to do this to you,” he says, voice low. “anyone but you.” you don’t have the strength to argue, to tell him that heaven doesn’t care about fairness, that the cost of loving him was always going to end up like this, no matter what.

sam reaches for a damp cloth. his touch is surprisingly gentle, considering how furious he is. he starts to clean the blood from your skin and wounds. his fingers ghost over your bruises, brows furrowing deeper with every single one he uncovers. you can see it in his face— the helplessness, the guilt, the fury that he wasn’t there to stop this. but he couldn’t have done anything to stop this, you knew this would happen from the moment you realized you first saw him. you disobeyed, you sinned, and heaven shows no mercy to those who don’t listen.

the cloth presses against a particularly deep cut, making you flinch and let out a soft whimper in pain. he freezes, eyes snapping to yours as he immediately halts his actions. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice softer than it had been before. “did that hurt?” he asks, free hand coming to rub soft shapes on your thigh in hopes of calming you down and distracting you from the pain he knows he’ll have to cause. you swallow hard, forcing a small nod. “yeah.” you whisper, voice barely audible. “but it’s okay, just… keep going.”

sam doesn’t continue right away, instead his eyes search yours like he’s trying to gauge just how much pain you’re in, if he should even be doing this at all. his hand keeps tracing those absentminded, uncoordinated shapes on your skin, grounding you. finally after a moment of silence, he nods. “just tell me if it’s too much alright?” he says, not continuing until you give him a ‘yes’ as a response. he dips the fabric in warm water again, wrings it out, and presses it softly against another wound on your body. the sting shoots through you, and your body tenses before you can stop it.

“hey,” he murmurs, shifting closer, his warm breath brushing against your skin. “honey, breathe.” his voice is so gentle, it turns your insides into mush. you try to breathe, you really do. but the ache in your body, the weight of everything makes it impossible to focus on something as simple as your own breathing. sam must see it, must feel it in the way your hands clench at the sheets beneath you. his jaw tightens again. “they’re never touching you again,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “not while i’m breathing.”

something inside you clenches at the raw promise in your voice, you knew he was serious. he’s always been so protective of you, trying to keep you as far as he can from anything that could possibly wound you. so when he saw you in this state, weak, broken, he felt like he had failed his only purpose. it hurts him to know that you feel the exact same way.

he works in silence after that, soft and methodical, like touching you too hard might make you break. you watch him through tired eyes, the furrow in his brows, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands shake just barely when he brushes over a particularly bad wound. when he’s done, he leans back, exhaling shakily. “that’s the best i can do.” he says, reaching for the blanket on the bed. he drapes it over you, tucking it around your frame like he needs to protect you, scared that just you getting cold might make you shatter. without hesitation he sits on the bed beside you, close. one arm resting on the space between you, the other still on your thigh.

“you need to rest.” he says quietly, but there’s an unspoken need to talk to you in his tone. you don’t answer right away. instead, you shift closer, pressing against his warmth, feeling his now steady breath. sam sighs, soft and aching. his hand moves, sliding up to your back, pulling you in just enough to know that he won’t be leaving you.

for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet sounds of the city outside the room, the distant buzz of the overhead light, the muffled sounds of cars passing on the highway. his hand rests against your back, fingers gently drumming on the blanket over your body. you can still feel the stiffness still lingering within him, his muscles staying painfully tight even as he holds you. “talk to me,” he softly coaxes, voice rough with something you can’t quite put your finger on. “what did they do to you?” he’s desperate to know, desperate to get revenge on your siblings who did all this to you. you still, without meaning to, it makes sam’s grip on you tighten.

you swallow hard. you don’t want to talk about it. you don’t want to put it into words, making it more real than it already is. but the way sam is looking at you, like he needs to know, like his own pain is tangled up in yours, like maybe understanding it will make it easier to bear. “they—“ your voice catches, and you force yourself to keep talking. “they wanted to make me regret this, you.” you say, voice breaking as you look up at him. sam huffs out a breath, fingers grasping onto the blanket tightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. “they tore my grace from me.” the words come out sounding weaker than meant to, but they feel so loud in the silence.

“they made me less, made me nothing.”

your words tear sam apart, they tug at his heartstrings. just the thought that you think that of yourself makes him flinch. “you’re not nothing,” he says, voice firm and certain. “not to me.” and you know he means every single word, ever since he realized he’s fallen in love with you, you’ve been his everything. nothing, could make him think any less of you.

[peachyprophets-blog]

DROWNED LOVE

How the gods would mourn after the reader died

A/N: Heyy!! I will be working on an alternative version in the next few days, what if one of the gods (who knows heheh) helps the reader to get back to Ithaca (she probably only returns to her family after the events of the Ithaca Saga).

And no, we don't greet happiness with open arms :)

°•○☆○•°

Zeus:

જ⁀➴Would mourn you for thousands of years.

જ⁀➴ Created a cloud that has your shape.

જ⁀➴Despairs because the cloud is not exactly like you. If you are mentioned near him, he would look at the person threateningly.

જ⁀➴Blames others for your death.

જ⁀➴"My beloved, not a day will go by that I won't miss you!"

Poseidon:

જ⁀➴After your death, the seas trembled and for years they were plagued with violent storms

જ⁀➴Tries to carry on as best he can Often argues with Zeus about who is to blame

જ⁀➴Would build you a monument that he would put in his palace

જ⁀➴All mortal women he fell in love with always resembled you in appearance or character.

જ⁀➴"My beloved, may the waves sing you to sleep, no matter where you are"

Hades:

જ⁀➴He mourned most of his brothers

જ⁀➴It tore him apart to see his brothers like this, but he knew it was best for you

જ⁀➴Yet he watched you every day from the underworld

જ⁀➴Even when you died, he immediately welcomed you into his home, but didn't say anything to the other gods.

જ⁀➴"Find peace in your end, rest now little one"

Apollo:

જ⁀➴THIS MAN IS SUFFERING

જ⁀➴He has lost the protégé he loved so much

જ⁀➴It seemed as if the sun wasn't shining as brightly anymore

જ⁀➴He dedicated songs, poems and works of art to you

જ⁀➴What had happened was something he never wanted to happen, he had lost the person he loved again

જ⁀➴He transformed something that had once belonged to you into a beautiful flower that could bloom even in the worst of circumstances.

જ⁀➴"The sun protects you everywhere, my sunshine, bloom where no one else can bloom"

Hera:

જ⁀➴Look you might think she would not be sad, BUT SIKE!!!

જ⁀➴Hera felt very sorry for you, you were just an innocent soul who couldn't do anything about the fate that had befallen you

જ⁀➴Hera grew fond of you and saw you like a daughter

જ⁀➴Hera took out her anger on her husband, how could he take her beloved girl!?

જ⁀➴Hera sees you everywhere, whether under the tree in the Garden of the Gods or in the Great Hall.

જ⁀➴"At least you don't have to put up with my husband anymore, my little girl"

Hermes:

જ⁀➴This boy will hide his sadness behind his usual smile

જ⁀➴He will crack jokes and play pranks on people as usual

જ⁀➴I would say he lives in a world where you are still alive

જ⁀➴He will look at others and think that you are standing right next to him

જ⁀➴He will not accept that you are gone, and the other gods will have to watch the messenger of the gods living in this illusion

જ⁀➴"What do you say Dawling? Oh I love the idea!"

-Peachyprophet

[worstgenerationloser]

just a random thought but like sanji x reader on their wedding night🤭 I'll leave the creative writing to u

,, My Person. ''

Pairing... Sanji x GN! Reader

Summary... after a day full of festivities with your now husband Sanji, you two share your bed for the first time as a married couple.

Contains... wedding vows, fluff and slight nsfw, soft romantic moments, sanji shenanigans, undressing eachother to shower, kissing, and sanji freaking out over you.

A/N: he's such a cutie, i loved writing this! Happy birthday to this handsome man 💞

Casting a cool blue hue over the two of you, the moon congratulates you with the widest smile… Is what Sanji says, anyways. He hasn't been talking much since you two got back, and he seems a bit stiff, you think it's just him trying to keep all his blood in his nose. Sanji always had rushed to your side in the most dire moments, and he knew for a fact he would marry you eventually. He just can't believe it's actually happened— you looked so gorgeous in your wedding attire, he loved the adoring looks the crew gave you when he first announced your engagement together, how they all congratulated him and the fact that his eyes were stuck on none other than you every step of the way.

A breath of fresh air, what with everything he has had to endure. Sanji knows his love for you takes over his entire body and soul, he says his love for you is his entire reason for being— maybe you are a blessing bestowed upon him from the grand creator of this world? He says silly things like that so often, but he makes sure you know it. In the softly colored bedroom of the lodging you have chosen, there's a wondrous balcony onlooking the sea— which seems to have presented the purest blue coloring for your perfect day; everything seemed so grand, not in the sense that it's making up for a lack of sincerity in your union, but for representation of the grandest union of two lively souls.

The beauty of the balcony, venue, and sea weren't nearly as beautiful as Sanji. A face painted of pure joy and adoration with each glance he shot your way, but you noticed his fraying nerves when he grabbed your hand to place the ring onto your finger. His hands were so shaky, and silent tears cascaded down his flushed cheeks while his pure smile beamed straight to cast away any lingering shadows. His vows were so clear, though he was struggling not to cry anymore, how dare he taint the memory of your wedding in such a way? Tears borne from love didn't count if it was from you, but he hated crying in front of you.

“My most cherished lover, I will accept you in your entirety. Things will never be left unsaid, for my heart will speak aloud to you forevermore, not once will I forget myself for as long as I am bound to you; which will be as long as my heart, mind, and body will be left on this lovely earth. Even then, I must promise that our souls will never travel apart, because on this day, we are informing the sea, the sky, the stars, and the entirety of the universe that together we are. Smitten as I am with you, I will never overlook your character. Not only are you my love; you are a part of my life in every possible way. My companion in all things romance, my crew, my heart… I solemnly swear, most of all, that I will be proudly at your side, no matter what turbulence occurs in our long lives shared together.”

Franky was trying his best not to cry, meanwhile Brook was shaking in his seat, holding back jokes for the tender moment. Such sincere smiles gathered from your friends and those who have aided you along the way, but Sanji and you kept your gazes locked onto each other. It was like you could see the beat of his heart, and he could see the vows ready to be spoken in yours.

Being pirates, you can't have your marriage recognized by the government, but who needs those bastards to know you're in love anyways? Franky is ready to loudly announce it to anyone who looks at you or Sanji’s way, why do pirates care about what the government thinks? If two can love, then they can keep their passion private, or they may be free to soar it across the skies as they please. Sanji would proudly announce it to his fiercest enemies faces, you’re sure.

Sanji is still nervous. His heart is racing like he's supposed to rehearse a play all by himself whilst playing every single role there is— but he's just sitting next to you in bed. His blue eyes flicker over your features to commit them to his memory once again as if he hasn't memorized every mark and every dip and curve on your body, he needs to do something to stop such intense longing for what is already in his grasp. His hands, shaky yet warmer than ever, reach out to touch you; but Sanji balls his hand into a fist, bringing his knuckles to his mouth to sink his teeth into. Though he's next to you in bed, he feels like he's thousands of years away.

You're both still dressed in your clothes from the reception, matching the beautiful colors which soared across the ceilings at your venue. You should have been changed a bit ago, but you can't brush off the fact that Sanji is acting odd, when you see him nervously bite around his knuckle, you smile softly and begin to speak.

“Sanji, calm down…” Your own hand reaches out, tracing the back of his palm and easing his teeth away from his knuckles. Though his hand is loose from the clench of his jaw, his soft pink lips remain parted, and he looks like a lost puppy for a second. Well, it isn't all that different from the way he is when you're separated for longer than an hour or two. But besides when you were getting ready, he was there every step of the way. “It's improper of me to abandon my love on this important day.” Was his newest excuse for standing outside the door when you went to the bathroom.

“Oh… I apologize for… My distant mind. I swear I only think thoughts of us.” You watch him catch his bottom lip between his teeth, his posture loosening only ever so slightly.

“That's okay. Think whatever you want to, Sanji. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon…” Murmuring, you begin to pick up a soft smile as you move a little closer to where he is sitting atop the bed, your weights recognized as one on the firm mattress. Hands finding their way to his collar, they start to unbutton his dress shirt, your actions aren't entirely sexual in nature, surely many couples do that, but you would prefer to put his nerves back into the right places before Sanji starts to malfunction.

“Would a warm shower help? Or would you prefer a bath?” You watch as your proposal; In real time, allows a spark to return to Sanji’s eyes, but then you think maybe you moved too quickly when his eyes widen and his lips quiver as he looks you up and down.

“B-Bath… With… With- With you?”

Ah, your first mistake on your wedding night. Well, it's entirely your fault but it's comforting seeing him go back to his usual self. And again, he catches himself and prevents another nosebleed.

“Gah! No! My apologies, my dear, I… I meant to ask if you would like to bathe together… As a married couple. It's a common thing with modern couples, you see—” After his loud gasp, he begins to stammer and then pause when his brain processes his own words. Does he think he sounds creepy? His perverted nature has seemed sweet in nature to you as of lately, so maybe he's realized himself for once.

“M…Ma—... Married...”

Stiffer than a stone statue, Sanji’s body freezes entirely. It took longer than you feel comfortable admitting to just to get Sanji back to earth, while his shirt still remained halfway undone. How can you get him naked with his… eccentric personality, then? Do you bribe him like a dog chasing after a bone? Distract him? Ah, you should just drag him along with you before he gets on all fours or something. It's endearing sometimes you swear, but you're not sure how much everyone else believes that.

“Apologies. I can't fathom that I am with you… Ah, no— I can't believe we are married. Oh, I feel like a fool.”

Cupping his face in his hands and wallowing in utter despair at his slippery speech, he fails to realize that you are dragging him along with you in the direction of the bathroom door. When he removes his hands, he's greeted by the feeling of his belt being undone, making him pause. Not again, Sanji… And with gritted teeth, he masks himself, but his eyes twitch and his nostrils flare repeatedly, it's not like he's never been nude around you, he feels like it's even more significant considering you are officially forever.

When his pants drop, he politely steps out of them, kicking them to the side as his hands reach out for you to return the favor. It's been done before, he can do it again, but his hands hesitated as he awaited a confirmation.

“Yes, you may undress me.” Your voice is clearer inside the bathroom.

Breathing a sigh of relief, his hands start to reach for the fabric of your clothing, sliding it down your shoulders, the pads of his fingers slipping down each inch of skin newly exposed. It didn't feel as lewd as it was, standing half naked together. There weren't any shy giggles, no heavy panting, no hands dancing across each other's skin for any reason other than to shed clothing. It could take a turn once you two reach the shower, maybe you two would end up in a tangle of passionate limbs, but Sanji would prefer to love you somewhere more comfortable.

He respects you. Though he's dense at times, though he can be perverse and pathetic, it's all out of the love he has for you. He's vulnerable with you more than he ever knew, he sheds his skin and presents his back to you, he's not afraid to be less of a man if he cries near you. He doesn't worry you with tears of any sort, but at times he feels so lucky that his life has taken such a positive turn and allowed him to find people who love and care for him the same way his mother did. Would she be proud her boy found his true love?

Opening his heart, he lets you feel him. He lets you hold his hands, he lets you in the kitchen though he hates being disturbed— before you were his love, you were always the one for him. Not once did he view you as pure romance, you were a person, and you were his person.

Pss... you... you should comment and reblog👀

[theosang3ls]

One step away

pairing: Theodore Nott x Muggleborn!Reader

summary: After your painful and unexpected break up with Theo, he comes in your dorm drunk making your life even messier than before.

warnings: angst, crying, mentions of break up, mentions of death, Theo is under the influence of alcohol.

author’s note: excuse any grammatical errors English isn’t my first language. Also it’s my first time posting something I’ve written so please thread lightly. Hope you’ll enjoy!

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧

You stood there as Theo, your ex, had drunkenly entered your dorm, leaving no room for you to argue. And you just, you stood there, unable to form a simple sentence, as simple as to tell him to leave. Because deep down you wanted him to be right here, to look at you the way he used to before he shattered your world completely with his hurtful words.

I don't love you anymore, it rang in your mind.

I don't love you anymore, that sentence repeated itself for a month now, leaving you paralyzed, unable to get going with your day, to even get out of bed. One thing you could not figure out was why did he barge in your room tonight? Why did he bang on your door repeatedly calling out for you?

Silence lingered in your room for what felt like an eternity, you stood idle, infront of your door, guarding it as if you wanted to make sure he wouldn't leave you, not like he left you in the astronomy tower only four weeks ago.

I don't love you anymore, the words invaded your mind, violated your every thought, your very being. Just before you could drown in your own thoughts Theo exclaimed loudly, "I missed you, cara" his intoxicated state was displayed clear as day, a sheepish smile tugging on his usual emotionless, expressionless face.

Cara that nickname ringed in your ears, your vision hazy, you couldn't move, you couldn't speak. You stood there, defeated. He used to call you that all the time, you loved it, loved how special it was, how he was the only one he could ever call you that, how that nickname made you think of him every single time you heard it.

Theo moved in your dorm with a painful familiarity, like you were still together, like he still loved you. "Come on darling" he slurred his words, the Italian accent rolling off his tongue with such ease, it was painful not to cave into his charming ways.  He opened his arms, waiting for you to accept his embrace and for the first time in what felt like forever, you moved, even though it was the slightest, you moved. You raised your eyebrow at him, confusion taking the best of you, why was he acting like nothing ever happened? Like he still loved you? You thought, tears threatening to fall off your eyes.

"What are you doing?" you managed to whisper, embarrassment, rage, fear, insecurity and confusion clawing at your chest all together as you watched him smile at you with ease. It was easy to love you, to call you baby names, to fool you with his sweet talk, because you would always come back. You both knew it, knew that every chance you got, you would run into his arms smiling. Not this time. This time he hurt you, shattered you, stole a piece of your soul that was irreplaceable, and you hated him for that.

“I just want to talk.” His voice was smooth, almost too casual, but the grin that stretched across his face made your stomach twist. That grin—wide, toothy, almost unfamiliar—was something you had rarely seen when you were together. And now, here it was, appearing as if he hadn’t left you in ruins.

A sharp, bitter chuckle escaped your lips, your breath shaky with restrained fury. “Talk?” You echoed, the word tasting like venom on your tongue. Anger burned through you, searing hotter than any lingering sorrow. “I begged you,” your voice wavered despite the iron grip you had on your emotions. “I begged you to talk to me when you left. I cried. I cried for a single explanation.” Your hands clenched into trembling fists at your sides, fingernails digging into your palms as you fought to keep yourself steady, to keep from shattering completely.

“And now you,” your breath hitched as you stepped even closer, mere inches from him now. The space between you crackled with unspoken words, unfinished pain. “Now you want to talk?” Your voice cracked, betraying you, breaking—just like he had broken you.

With a sudden, sharp motion, you threw your arms into the air, frustration spilling over. “You never wanted to talk!” The words hit the air like gunfire, loud, raw, uncontrollable. “So tell me, what changed?” A bitter smile curled on your lips, your voice laced with a mockery that barely masked the agony beneath.

Theo stood frozen, feet planted on the floor beside your bed. You could see it now—the alcohol-induced haze in his eyes clearing, the realization of your words cutting through whatever drunken courage had led him here.

A dry, humorless laugh bubbled up from your chest as you began pacing, hands trembling at your sides, emotions clawing against the walls you’d built to contain them. Your vision blurred, your unshed tears glistening like glass shards threatening to fall.

“I’ll tell you what happened.” The words were venomous, dripping with the anger you had swallowed for too long. “You’re lonely. You need a quick fuck, don’t you? Or maybe,” you turned to face him fully, your gaze burning into him, “you just haven’t found a good enough replacement for me yet.”

The air was knocked from Theo’s lungs. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. For a moment, the air stilled, silence lingered through the walls as your venomous words echoed in his mind.

It was like someone had slapped him across the face.

His expression, once so sure of itself, crumbled as he watched the tears you had fought so hard to hold back finally spill over, streaking your cheeks, soaking into your shirt. But you didn’t wipe them away. You stood there, tall, unwavering, as if they didn’t exist—because to you, they didn’t.

His heart shattered at your trembling voice, every tear that was falling broke him even more, he couldn't stand seeing you cry, let alone because of him. That was the sole reason he left you at the astronomy tower the night he broke up with you, he knew that if he stayed to see you break into a million pieces he would let his guard down, get you in his arm and tell you how everything was a lie. And it was, it was a lie, but if lying meant protecting you, the only light in his life, he was willing to lie for you, to you, a million times, to keep you safe from the darkness that had captured him whole.

I don't love you anymore, he remembers, and he wishes every night he couldn't, he wishes to have obliviated the both of you at that very moment, forget about each other's existence and what you had, but he was selfish, he couldn't forget the one thing in his life that kept him from collapsing, that kept him from losing his sanity completely. He always knew that his love was not enough for you, you were filled with love at the very brim of your being, you shone like a diamond and smiled at the hardest times. That smile kept him going. It was a reminder that life was worth living, because he could see the shine your eyes radiated every time you smiled. It was hope, that's what he told himself that shine was, hope that he was capable of changing, of loving, of being loved.

When his father learned about his relationship with you, a muggleborn, his words cut deep like a dagger, like they always do; "I’ll have to report this to the Dark Lord, you know what that means for the both of you, son. So do yourself a favour and end this madness with that mudblood” he threatened with an unemotional yet powerful statement as his eyes darkened. Hearing those words made Theo, for the first time since his childhood, collect tears at the corners of his eyes. As selfish as he might be, he couldn't bare living a life where your death was caused by your relationship. Theo knew his father wasn't kidding. He was an avid supporter of Voldemort, everything he said was like a gospel to him and if he said that death is the only thing that Muggleborns deserve, then that’s what he supported.

Heartbroken he had asked you to meet him at the astronomy tower. Never have you expected him to tell you that he doesn't love you anymore, to tell you he needs to break up with you.

Theo wanted to protect you from the darkness he had to live through, but what he did was push you into the abyss of your own darkness, one that no one, not even him, knew about. His words cut deep like a dagger, they left you paralyzed, wounded for life. Eating was pointless, attending classes lead to nowhere, talking to your friends felt like a chore, so you cut everyone, everything off. And slowly, you lost yourself into the darkest pit of your soul,  the place where your love for Theo was once placed, and now—that very piece—he carries it into his hands after violently taking it away from you.

“I’m sorry” his voice barely a whisper, you didn’t dare to look at him, didn’t want to, but if you, for one second turned to see his gaze you would be able to see the regret, the pain visible in his eyes.

Instead you let a mocking chuckle, “Oh now you’re sorry?” you started, amused at his apology, “you didn’t seem so sorry when you left me all alone in the astronomy tower! Crying all by myself!” you yelled, tears streaming down your face. “I really wanted to give this —us— a chance, I thought that it could work out” another humourless chuckle escaped your lips, “always an optimistic fool” you mumbled loud enough for Theo to hear you. “You never tried for us! You made me feel worthless at times, disgusting even, and you didn’t even notice Theo! You didn’t even notice!” it was the first time in a month he heard his name come out of your lips, but this time it wasn’t full of love and affection but full of rage and disgust, it was like for the first he could sense the damage he did to you and he hated himself more than ever for that.

“You always kept your distance” you took a shaky breath, collecting your emotions that spilled away from your soul every time you talked, “I could see it, I could see it in the way you would school your expression every time I made a joke, like smiling was fatal,” his heart broke at your words, every single one twisting the dagger deeper in his heart, “You avoided me at times like I was contagious, something you were embarrassed about. You never looked me in the eyes for more than a few seconds.” your lips quivered as you frantically moved your eyes around the room as if you were searching for the courage to face him somewhere in your belongings. Every single word that you mouthed was raw, painfully raw, the slight vibrato in your voice, the way you choked up a sob every time you finished a sentence, it made him want to pull you into his arms and kiss your tears away, but he didn’t, it wasn’t his place anymore and that’s what made him sick to his stomach, that you weren’t his anymore, that he is the reason you’re trembling in agony.

“You were always one step away from me, to understand you, to love you, the real you, you were always too far away from me to see you for who you really are. However much you tried to make it seem like this is the real you, I always knew there was something else, something raw and beautiful underneath this emotionless and reserved exterior. I knew it every time you let your guard down for one second too long and you let your teeth shine in the sunlight while smiling, every time you would hold my hand so gently yet so firmly like I was the most important thing in your life, every time you kissed me in a way I only read in books about.” you took a sharp breath, this was your chance to let everything out, you wanted to do nothing more than scream at his face and show him how you felt, a fragment of it at least.

“You made me believe” you caught Theo’s gaze in yours, you couldn’t seem to care about the tears that accumulated in his eyes, your eyes overflowed with rage-full tears. “You made me believe you loved me. But now I know, I know you never did, because tell me Theo, who stops loving someone like you did? One day you’re proclaiming how much you love me in between kisses and the next you don’t love me anymore? You never loved me.” the last sentence came out nearly as a whisper, a realisation you had made in the past but stating it out loud made you understand the weight of those words. He never loved you. That was the only truth. The hurt from your own words overpowered your anger. New tears brimmed your eyes followed by heavy sobs that echoed through the stoned walls and into Theo’s ears.

He stood idle as your sobs grew louder his ears rang, his thoughts hazy just like his vision, he felt like the ground beneath him had collapsed.

You never loved me, those words nearly made his knees buckle, his hands to come in contact with his head inside of which so many thoughts sprinted around, unable to shut them down, it felt hard to breathe.

And into the frustration and desperation his mouth moved before his mind could comprehend the words coming out of it, “I’ll always love you” a whisper, so quiet that if for that moment your sobs hadn’t grown silent you would have never heard it.

And that’s when you broke, completely broke, “no” you shook your head denying the words you just heard, enough of this madness.

“You can’t do this Theo. Leave.” and a small part of you wanted Theo to protest against your wishes, disregard what you asked him to do and explain what exactly I will always love you was suppose to mean, but he did what you asked him to, lowered his head and walked out of your dorm quickly.

You stood there, staring at the door long after it had closed behind him, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the silence of the room. A part of you wanted to chase after him, to call his name and demand the answers he left unspoken. But your feet stayed rooted in place, hands trembling as you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Theo had always been stubborn, always fought for the things he wanted. And yet, this time, he had listened. He had left.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything.

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧

A/N: I kind of broke my own heart writing this lol. If it wasn’t for @illbegottenfaith I would’ve never posted this, thank you so much girl for your support!💕

Hope you liked this!

Let me know your thoughts on it💌

¡Reblogs and likes are highly appreciated!

…Until next time lovelies💋

[logaenhowlett]

Hey... so, that hurt.

IN THE BEST FUCKING WAY.

When it comes to Old Man Logan, I love when writers touch on just how weary and exhausted he's become. Makes me wanna wrap him in a blanket and comfort him so bad.

I simply adore the recurring imagery with the porch light. Not sure if this was intended, but I thought the way they saw each other, for the first time, even past the blinding headlights of his car was great foreshadowing of their bond.

The dialogue. Wow, that was very well done! She's incredibly forward (good for her lol), and Logan was perfect, I could imagine him saying all that so vividly.

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.” 

Like, I'm sorry? That's flirty as fuck, I love it! And the fact that she knows he can't resist. Even that whiskey bit was cheeky as hell.

“I ain’t human.” Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand.  Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?” You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

That made me tear up. It was so heartfelt and honest, that poor man needs to hear all this from time to time (or all the time). And that entire breakup scene tore my soul to shreds. But it was totally justified for her to react that way and not put up with his behaviour. Also, Charles hitting Logan with a much-needed life lesson (and water) was great lmao

Oh, and the smut? Yeah, I re-read that twice cause that was quite simply exquisite.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too. 

The way my smile slowly disappeared after that line. Genuinely, I was like: Oh no, what the fuck is happening.

“You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.” Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

The ending was so beautiful! Tying in the plot from the movie, and introducing Laura? Oh. My. Heart!!! I just know they'll be perfect for each other.

Lub, this was definitely your best work. I'm so content right now, and I'll be dreaming of this gorgeous little world you've created. Thank you so much for cooking up this treat <3

Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader 

WC: 12.2k

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so

A/N: The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

He shouldn’t care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down. 

For three days, Logan’s entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin. 

He’s tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him. 

So, no. He shouldn’t care about the car. 

But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward. 

Pulling him to you. 

As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where he’s sitting. 

Logan knows you can’t see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasn’t quite healed. 

For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if you’re a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Logan’s throwing the car in park and opening the door. 

The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold. 

“Need a lift?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook you’ve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home. 

For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driver’s side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel. 

He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldn’t care about and yet…

Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. “Where you headed?”

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting. 

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.

“Logan,” he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it, Logan?” you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.

Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. There’s no pity in your tone, which he’s silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.

At the best of times, he doesn’t like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that he’s older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.

“It’s not kind to anyone,” he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you. 

You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. “Maybe,” you concede, voice soft, like you’re mulling over his words. “Except your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.”

He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veins—a spark of irritation mixed with that pull that’s been gnawing at him since he first saw you. 

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. “No. Just intuitive.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. “Intuit less. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

A soft, chiding “tsk” falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesn’t miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension. 

Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him. 

“You believe in fate?”

The question cuts through the silence, pulling Logan’s focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer. 

“No,” he finally says, voice flat. 

A soft hum escapes your throat. “Unsurprising. But don’t you think, Logan,” you begin, leaning back into his space, “that maybe fate is what brought us together?”

You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if you’re in on some cosmic secret he’s not privy to. It unnerves him. 

But it intrigues him, too. 

“I think a broken down car brought us together.”

“Or maybe life decided to be kind to you,” you challenge. “To bring me to you.”

Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him. 

“You should come in,” you say as you gather your belongings. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips. 

It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man. 

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.” 

Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.

Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to accept—follow you into sin. You’ve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through. 

The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life he’s carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesn’t need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be. 

The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.

A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach. 

Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing what’s underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter. 

“You seem like a whiskey man,” you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. “Did I get it right?”

Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to move—forward, backward, he’s not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks. 

He can smell you—bright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear. 

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,” you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind. 

A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance. 

“What’s happenin’ here?” Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough. 

You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot as you approach him. 

“That’s up to you,” you reply, handing him the glass. “You can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,” you pause to step closer, “you can walk back out that door and pretend like you weren’t curious about what’s waiting for you here.”

Logan’s fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. You’re challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, he’s done for. He won’t be able to stop. 

You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you. 

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle. 

Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.

“You sure this is what you want?” His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. “Stay with me,” you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. “Just this once.”

Logan’s restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding. 

You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. You’re a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole. 

You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. “Tell me where your room is, or I’m fuckin’ you right here on the table,” he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. 

His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. There’s an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him. 

Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before you’re reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We have all night.”

A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.

His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.

Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. “Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.” 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?”

Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation.  

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance he’s not use to. 

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance. 

Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but you’re undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.

Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. “You can stay, you know.”

“I’m not the stayin’ kind, sweetheart,” he mutters.

One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. “We’ll see,” you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. “I don’t think fate is done with us yet.”

Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t. Because despite his earlier claims that he didn’t believe in fate, he can’t deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesn’t necessarily dislike.

At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. “I’ll leave the light on for you,” you whisper into his skin.

It’s then he knows—he won’t be able to stay away. 

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later. 

He’s been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonight’s hotel, Logan knows instantly he’s in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town. 

Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, you’ve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin. 

Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like he’s done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger. 

And damned if he knows why. 

He doesn’t need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and he’s already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he can’t bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you. 

But as much as Logan keeps telling himself he’s closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks. 

By the time he finally turns down your street, it’s well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. You’re up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him. 

He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night? 

You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet you’re more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you. 

A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you. 

Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. “Come. Relax for a bit.”

He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable, like it always is around you. 

“You look tired,” you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.

Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Honey, I’m always tired,” he replies. “Comes with the territory.”

You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. “You’re in pain, too.”

Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like you’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to expose. And yet, you’ve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, his tone challenging.

You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. “Because it’s written all over you,” you say simply. “I see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow that’ll never come.”

Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. “Don’t even notice it anymore,” he lies, shifting in his seat. 

Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs. 

The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand. 

Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath. 

“You help take care of everyone else,” you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. “Who helps care for you?”

Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you weren’t a mutant but Logan still couldn’t shake the idea that you were something more. 

“What are you?” he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand. 

You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time. 

“I’m human,” you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. “Same as you.”

“I ain’t human.”

Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand. 

Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?”

You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like you’re unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killed—for the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocent—but you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers. 

Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer and—

“You can touch me,” you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. “I like when you touch me.”

Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesn’t miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer. 

That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. You’re bare underneath and Logan can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest. 

“You dress like this jus’ for me?” he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.

Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. “Yes,” you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. “Only for you.”

A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. “Damn right, only for me,” he growls. 

You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge. 

Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth. 

“And you, Logan,” you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, “you’re only for me.” 

That hook you’ve lodged in him sinks deeper and he’s too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one he’s willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul. 

Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night. 

He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfort—the need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins. 

Logan couldn’t hide from you and he didn’t know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he needed—a warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.

God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash. 

“What am I to you?”

Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually you’d ask. 

He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.

He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul. 

When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity that’s been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years. 

When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home. 

But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

And instead, he remains silent, praying you’ll let the conversation slide. But he knows better. 

You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words. 

“I love you.”

The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open. 

“Don’t,” Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, it’ll be his undoing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. “What about those words can’t you hear?”

His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if he’s trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You can’t love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and he’ll be damned if he drags you down that road. 

So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth. 

“This ain’t love, sweatheart,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “This is fuckin’.”

You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. “Fucking?” you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. “You think after all these months that this is just fucking?”

Logan doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He can’t say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, he’ll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right now—destroyed. 

Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s all this is,” you demand, your voice thick with emotion. “Tell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, it’s just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.” 

He remain silent. 

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. “You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isn’t with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you lie.”

His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. “You think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethin’ like this? Like you?” Logan’s voice cracks in a way that he loathes. “I can’t—”

The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally you’ve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.

Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesn’t hurt, not physically. It’s the fact that you did it, the fact that you’re standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.

“Get out of my house,” you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.

Your words shouldn’t sting as much as they do. They shouldn’t wreck him and make him feel like he’s been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that you’re finally seeing him for what he truly is—something undeserving of all the warmth and love you’ve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.

Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do. 

He turns. And he walks.

His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything. 

But he doesn’t.

Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.

Of all the wounds he’s ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.

Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast. 

A soft “tsk” falls from Charles’ lips and echos in the small space. “Will you ever learn, Logan?” Charles’ voice seems tired, weary. 

Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. “Stay outta my head,” he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table. 

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesn’t deserve. Pieces he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have within his grasp again. 

“She loves you,” Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request. 

Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. “I’m begging you, just—”

Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Logan’s face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw. 

“What the fuck was that for?” he growls. 

“Are you a cat?” Charles asks, lowering the bottle. “No? Then stop being such a pussy.”

Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of man’s words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening. 

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns. 

Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. “Someone should. God knows you won’t push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you. 

“What are you so afraid of?” Charles asks gently. “That she’ll see all your broken pieces?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charles raises his eyebrow. “No? Logan, she’s already seen them. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”

“That’s not the point!” Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesn’t take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesn’t need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst. 

Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. “It’s not about what she knows. It’s about who, about what, I am. I don’t deserve her.”

Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “She knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the weight of Charles’ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death. 

But you’ve never seen them that way. You’ve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used. 

“You have a choice to make, Logan,” Charles says, interrupting the silence. “Let her in…or keep running. Don’t make her choose for you.” 

For days, Logan’s mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.

The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way he’s never felt before.

His life reverts to autopilot—drink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Caliban’s care than his own.

Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.

He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.

Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, he’s on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.

It’s late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly he’s fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you don’t open the door like you’ve done so many times before. 

He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as it’s always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come inside—if you’ll even let him.

If you even should.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. “I’m not good at this,” he finally says, hoping you’re listening. “I’ve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.” Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. “I’ve lost too many people.”

He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing you’re there, that you’re at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. “The only way I know how to keep people safe is to push ‘em away. And I need to keep you safe.”

The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if they’re uncovering a truth he’s long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with something—hesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way. 

“I’m tired,” he continues, his voice softer. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightin’ when all I want—” Logan swallows hard. “All I want is you.”

The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening. 

Logan doesn’t deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s partner, their lover. He’s not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy. 

Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove he’s not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love. 

He’s bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Logan’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close you’ll let him get.

His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but he’d crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.

Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. “You’re an asshole,” you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.

Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you don’t push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. “I should tell you to fuck off,” you continue, your eyes focused on where you’re touching him. “But I can’t.”

His voice comes out in a whisper. “Why?”

Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. “You know why.”

And he does. In truth, he thinks he’s always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.

Words he’s still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.

You look at him like you know, because of course you do. You’ve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality. 

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady. “Not yet.”

Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He can’t fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. “You make it hard not to,” he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. “Love you, I mean.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. It’s close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face. 

You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. “You’re a man of action, Logan,” you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. “Wanna show me instead?”

This—this is a language he’s fluent in. 

Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. He’s mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure. 

Logan’s already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. You’re flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs.  

You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly. 

He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. “Lie back,” you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, “Let me take care of you.”

He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words can’t say. He’d spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if you’d let him. But there’s something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back. 

You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. “This is s’pose to be about you,” he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth. 

“Oh, it is,” you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. “Who else can get you hard and needy beneath them?”

A low growl escapes from his throat. “No one.”

A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass. 

You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You see,” you murmur, “this is for me.”

Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different. 

This isn’t merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. You’ve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart. 

You feel as if you’re a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, he’d kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you. 

He loves you. 

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him. 

“I—fuck, I,” he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. “I feel—”

Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. “I know, Logan,” you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his. 

He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself you’re real. Logan’s chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.

And yet it’s not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until he’s completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you. 

In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.

“Fuck, there it is,” he growls. “I love all those little sounds you make.”

His choice of word isn’t lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. “Logan,” you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. “More.”

“You want more?” he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.

“Ah, fuck, yes,” you moan, your head tipping back. 

Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that’s sure to leave a burn come the morning. There’s a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needs—your embrace, your warmth, your love.

“You’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where you’re joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. “So goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?”

Your cunt flutters around him and he knows you’re close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.

“That’s it,” Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. “Look at you, comin’ so pretty for me.” He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. 

It’s overwhelming—the sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, he’s never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.

Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.

“I love you,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. “God, I fucking love you.”

For a few moments, he doesn’t even realized what he’s said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. He’s so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but it’s more than your warm heat drawing him in—it’s everything. 

“Tell me,” he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.

You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. “I love you, Logan.”

And that’s all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.

Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.

Logan’s restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.

His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You don’t speak, not yet, but he can tell you’re alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers. 

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

“Sounds important,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon you’ve thrown around him, but Logan knows he can’t. It’s a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace. 

“You can go to him, Logan,” you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. “I know you’ll be back.”

“How,” he starts, licking his dry lips, “how do you always know?”

Logan’s asked versions of this question before. You’ve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.

But then you answer.

“I can feel you,” you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. “I just—” You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. “Stand up,” you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.

He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. “Now, close your eyes.”

Logan does as he’s told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. “I’m going to move and you tell me where I am.”

The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. You’re quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. “My right, but farther back in the room.”

You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. “Left.”

A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.

“How did you know?” you ask, looping your arms around his neck.

Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just you—the way you’ve molded yourself to him like a second skin. “I could feel you,” he answers. “I could—I just knew.”

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. “It’s like that,” you whisper. “This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until…there you are.”

His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesn’t bother hiding. 

You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too. 

The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him. 

It’s been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazy—a swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. He’s not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more. 

You believe in fate?

Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest. 

Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction. 

As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if you’ve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition. 

But as Logan drives down your street, he sees it—the single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon it’s always been, leading him safely to land. 

To you. 

Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Laura’s face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep. 

Logan’s been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought he’d add father to that list. While he can’t quite find it in him to call himself that just yet—even though Laura readily and easily calls him dad—he no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.

Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet. 

Here he is showing up at your door like he always has—late, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here. 

But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears. 

“Logan,” you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You don’t ask why he’s there. He suspects you already know. 

The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch. 

Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but you’re not close enough. And yet, he’s afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation you’ll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.

As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months he’s almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward. 

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Logan’s surprised by how much he missed this—the simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin. 

He doesn’t say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden he’s ever shouldered before and it’s almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, he’d fall apart. 

Logan doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him. 

“I couldn’t feel you, Logan,” you whisper into his neck. “Several days of just…nothing. I thought that—”

The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough with emotion. “I got dragged into some bad fuckin’ shit. I almost…we—”

You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. “It’s okay, Logan,” you whisper. “Tell me about it later. I’m just happy you’re home.”

Home. 

Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesn’t deserve this—your unwavering faith in him, the patience you’ve shown him, the light you’ve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything he’s never asked for but so desperately craved. 

“C’mon,” you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, “Let’s get you settled.”

It’s well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom. 

He doesn’t protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them. 

Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt you. 

He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didn’t know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if he’d ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him. 

You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence he’s not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him. 

“What happened to you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars. 

Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone. 

He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole. 

For you. 

You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything he’s lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips. 

Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark he’s kept alive for you. 

He wants to do more—to pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he can’t breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him. 

Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. “Just let me hold you?” 

Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you don’t miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort. 

Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. 

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper into his skin, soft and damp. 

Logan feels his heart clench at your words. He’s hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what you’ve always so freely given. 

His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. “You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

[moon-ttokki-x]

oh my god I’m stupid I requested 8, 9, and 39 for the SKZ prompt list but I forgot to ask for which member. Bangchan pretty please 🥺👉👈

hihi this took so long sorry >< . . . this is a lot more angsty than anticipated but i hope it works. i wrote it a little differently that i normally would, but here you go, love~~

stupidly perfect - (best friend!bang chan x reader)

pairing: bang chan x reader

summary: chan has never noticed how you feel for him, and one fateful evening, you let it all spill.

genre: angsty as hell, idol!au, reader lowkey enters their villain era, mentions of eating and drinking, overexcited maknaes, chan is kinda oblivious in this fic ngl, supportive felix, itzy mentions (yeji, ryujin, chaeryoung if that counts ig), this is super sad tbh

a/n: this took a while tbh . . . div by @ferretmilkshakezzz

⛓️ prompts: 8. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." / 9. "You can rest now." / 39. "I can't keep pretending I'm fine."

skz masterlist | skz prompt list

"Y/n, do you wanna come to that ramen restaurant with us later?" Jisung tugs at your arm, skipping alongside you. "We've been wanting to go for ages, and we all finally have schedules off tonight."

"Yeah, come with us," Jeongin adds. "It'll be fun."

The maknaes are tagging all around you as you walk down the hallway, trying your best to keep a hold on all the papers you're carrying. It's difficult when they're fluttering around you like overexcited birds.

You'd taken the job at JYPE around four months ago; it was decided after a very long period of doubting and worrying that it wouldn't work out after what happened at your last workplace. But your best friend, Chan, had been super supportive throughout the whole thing, even offering to help you move into your little apartment down the road from the company. He'd brought some of his friends to help with the heavy lifting, and from there, you'd pretty much been adopted into the group he'd formed and was the leader of.

Not like you had a choice in the first place.

But you didn't mind; you'd been worried partly because of the fact that you wouldn't have any friends when you'd moved to this part of Korea; Chan had managed to inadvertently solve that issue without trying. Now, the four excitable boys skipped and bickered around you as you set down the papers on your office desk. Wiping the minimal sweat from your forehead, you sighed and pried Seungmin away from the trinkets neatly lining your bookshelf.

"Who else is going?" You ask as Jisung whines about you coming to the restaurant for the umpteenth time.

Seungmin shrugs, interrupting his friend. "All of the members, you, and a couple of the girls from our dance crew."

You feel your heart sink just as your brain tells you to agree; it's been ages since you went out with the guys, and you honestly couldn't wait for a break. Work was always stressful around comeback season, but you'd all settled into the rhythm of it soon enough. Spending an evening out with eight of your best friends eating some soul food sounded like a good idea. A better idea than spending the evening on the couch in your apartment, eating ice cream in complete silence. Alone.

You bite your lip, anticipating. "Which of the dance crew girls?"

Jeongin shrugs from the sofa, swinging his legs over a disgusted Seungmin's lap as he lounges back. "The usuals; Yeji, Ryujin, Young-hee, and Chae. Why?"

"No reason," you say, turning back to the bookshelf to unnecessarily reorganise something, fiddling with the solid fabric spine of one of your books. "I'll let you know if I'm coming. Now, clear out."

Your last comment doesn't bother the maknaes at all; they know you don't like your office being messed up, so they call goodbyes, and Jisung sneakily pokes your side as he filters out the door. Felix, however, remains.

You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest and keep a neutral expression as you turn the dark-haired boy. He looks so different from his usual blonde-haired countenance; however, no less beautiful, and not for the first time do you hold yourself back from carding your fingers affectionately through his hair.

You exhale. "Do you need something, Lix?"

He sits down on your chair, swinging it backwards and leaning his forearms across the back. An air of resignation flows around him. "You're not coming tonight, are you?"

You bite your lip. "I'll see."

His voice is quiet. "You've said that since Chae started hanging around us. Is it because of her?"

You scoff, dropping a pen. "No. Why would you think that?"

Felix leans forward on the chair, nosy. "It is because of her, isn't it? Do you not like her? Is it because of Chan-hyung?"

You whip around to face him, exasperated. The explanation bubbles out of you like molten lava from a temperamental volcano. "Okay, fine! I just- I can't stand seeing her around him. They're so close, and they always seem so wrapped up in each other-"

You cut yourself off then, not wanting to say anything you might regret. Chae is nice enough; she's never done anything explicitly hurtful towards you, though you secretly have suspicions that she doesn't like you at all. But you stay quiet, trying to dissipate the rising frustration blooming in your chest.

Felix is quiet.

You know he knows; he's known for ages about your little crush on his leader. You were afraid to tell him, once upon a time; but all you got in response from the affectionate chicken boy was a hushed giggle and a gentle encouragement to tell Chan how you feel. He hasn't told anyone else about your feelings, and you know he would continue to keep his mouth shut. But you wish, even just a little, that someone else would notice and find a way to get Chae away from your best friend.

"No wonder she likes him too," you say quietly to yourself, sinking into your office chair.

And it isn't a wonder, really. Chan is sweet, and gentle, and kind, and so, so, supportive and admirable. There's not a single flaw about him, except perhaps his slight dislike towards himself and his irritation when it comes to those soft, dark curls that frame his perfect face so perfectly-

You shake yourself out of it. Felix is still looking at you quietly, his head tilted in thought.

"You do know," he says carefully, "that you're closer with Chan that Chae is?"

"But still," you groan. "He always seems so much happier around her, and he always only talks to her when you all go out-"

"How would you know?" Felix cries, throwing his hands up. "You're not even there half the time, and Chan only talks to her because you're not there for him to talk to. He has to settle for her because he's fed up of us, and he's not close with Yeji, Ryujin, or Young-hee."

You sigh and hop up onto the desk, swinging your legs over the side. "I just can't stand it, Lix. Seeing them together..."

His expression softens. "I know, Y/n, and I know how frustrated you get when they're all over each other, but you have to at least try. Come with us. If not for him, then for us. We miss you."

"I'm right here."

Felix sighs softly. "That's not what I meant."

You rub two fingers along the bridge of your nose, trying to think straight. You can't get the images out of your mind; Chan and Chae giggling to each other, her touching his arm, him reciprocating the affection... no one said it would hurt this bad when you watch your best friend fall for someone else.

No one said it would hurt this much when you realise that you're in love with said best friend either.

"I can't keep pretending I'm fine," you say, so softly you're not sure Felix hears it. But he does.

"Then don't pretend," he urges gently. "Get him to fall for you. You're halfway there already, I'm pretty sure. But it's not gonna happen if you're always at a distance from him."

He has a point, you think. But, being as stubborn as you are, there's still that nagging doubt in the back of your mind that Chan will never feel the same way that you do, whether you're with him or not-

"Y/n," Felix says, a little more firmly.

You know exactly what he's thinking; sighing, and then bending down to pick up the pen you dropped earlier, you slot it back into the holder on the desk.

"Fine," you say quietly, trying and failing to hide the tiny smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. "I'll come."

Felix lets out a whoop.

.

You pull your jacket a little closer around yourself as you head round the corner, the evening wind whipping your hair into a state of extreme disarray. Sighing and then spluttering as you pull strands of it out of your mouth and eyes, you duck around people and head to the restaurant, its warm, golden light drawing you in like a moth to a flame.

You're not late, so to speak; you spot the group sitting at a large corner booth with comfy seats, mingling and chattering, and you notice Felix immediately. His face lights up when he sees you, half with relief and half with something else you can't quite decipher. He makes to get up before you're almost tackled to the floor by Jisung and Jeongin, who are pretty much hollering at the top of their lungs.

Minho shushes them insistently as he tugs them off you, bowing before shoving both maknaes back into their seats.

"Y/n," Jeongin says happily. "We didn't think you'd come."

You chuckle awkwardly and settle into the spot next to Felix, trying not to look around for Chan like you always do. "Yeah, I needed a break. Besides, you two would have come for my throat if I turned the invitation down one more time."

"Damn right," Jisung interjects, all three of you dissolving into giggles.

You look around then; not everyone is here. Hyunjin and Yeji are still missing, both Hwangs late as per usual, and you know Changbin will come by a little later, having decided to work out before treating himself for the evening. You make a mental note to stick to your work ethic as well as he does, but it's interrupted by the familiar tone of someone speaking your name.

"You look nice, Y/n," Chan says from next to Felix, who is sitting in between both of you.

Chae is sitting next to Chan, you notice with some sadness and displeasure; her long, pinky-blonde hair is straight and neat, long acrylic nails coming up to brush strands of it off her perfect porcelain cheeks, flushed with the cold. At least, you hope it's the cold and not the effect of Chan's probably flirting before you arrived.

Despite the indignance rising in your stomach, you can't help but notice how Chan looks tonight; his hair is slightly damp from the chilly weather outside, the adorably messy strands of it curling against his temples and nape. His eyes are crescents as he gazes into yours, and you fight the urge to reach over and wipe the faint remainder of strawberry milk off the curve of his plush bottom lip.

You know exactly where he'd bought the little drink carton of it from; there's a vending machine just down the street, one that the boys always buy drinks from before eating out. It was their tradition, and one that you gladly partook in, that is before you became too shy to be around the boys.

Because of Chan and his stupid perfectness.

You suddenly come back down to earth and realise that Chan is still gazing at you; Chae is laughing obnoxiously loud in the background behind him, no doubt to recapture his attention, but all you can focus on is the fact that you're locking eyes with the most beautiful person on earth. And also the fact that you haven't replied to his little indirect compliment, so you just nod and turn back to the table to fiddle with the menu in front of you.

Felix exhales discreetly and you fight a grin, watching as he unpeels himself from the corner of the table. He'd been bending over it so you could lean back to talk to Chan, and he pokes you affectionately in the side as you thank him quietly, clearing your throat in an attempt to get rid of the flush painting your cheeks.

"Could've warned me about how pretty he looks," you mutter to Felix under your breath. He just chuckles and touches your knee as everyone begins to order.

The food arrives just as Hyunjin, Yeji, and Changbin make their dramatically late entrance; they clatter noisily into their seats, and you bump fists with Yeji just as everyone begins to dig in.

There's brief silence as everyone begins to fill their stomachs with soul food, and then the chatter eventually rises again as the members turn to each other to bicker and laugh. You almost snort a noodle out of your mouth as you watch Hyunjin take a hairclip out of his bag to clip his hair back, before realising it's not there. Seungmin, sitting next to him, runs his hand through the boy's kiwi-like hair before turning back to his ramen.

You almost start to enjoy yourself, but there's still that lingering tension that you feel rests in the air between you and Chan; if anyone else has noticed it, they're not saying anything. Felix, noticing your quietness, tries to fill the space between you with small talk and jokes, but it doesn't seem to help. Once or twice, he even brings Chan into the conversation in a bid to try and get you two to converse, but Chae interjects more and more frequently until you quietly tell Felix to stop.

You feel bad because of it; you know he's just trying to help, but it isn't working. And it's beginning to make you feel worse, the fact that it seems not even the dark-haired sunshine boy can get his leader to try and talk to you. And you realise, all of a sudden, that maybe it's not Chan that's the problem.

There are two possible reasons that Chan doesn't seem to want to talk to you; you thought maybe he would talk more with you tonight, considering it's been so long since you've been out with them, but you're crestfallen as you realise that not more than a few words have been exchanged between the two of you tonight.

And it strangely breaks your heart.

The other reason is that Chae might have been badmouthing you behind your back to Chan, or it could be because of the fact that Chan genuinely likes her. You're not sure, but that belief is confirmed as you look across to see Chan holding out his chopsticks to her, bringing a piece of tempura to her perfect, pink lips.

Watching in horror and completely forgetting about the cooling ramen in front of you, you watch as Chae accepts the tempura with a little giggle, batting her lashes at Chan as he reaches up to wipe a crumb off her lip. The sight is so equally disgusting and upsetting that you immediately stand up, moving out of the booth as tears blur your eyes.

"Where are you going?" Jisung calls after you, Felix looking up from his food.

"Bathroom," you call over your shoulder, your voice surprisingly strong considering the fact that tears and beginning to stream down your cheeks.

Not wanting to make a fuss or arouse suspicion from the group, you do actually head to the bathrooms, locking the cubicle door behind you and sinking down against the door. You couldn't care less if it's dirty right now, the only thought in your head the mental image of your best friend and Chae giggling and flirting all over each other, blissfully unaware of your misery.

It's not fair.

"Maybe it's me," you whisper to yourself, sniffling as you rip off a piece of toilet paper, scrubbing at your face. You feel so pathetic and unworthy; what kind of person hides out in the bathroom crying over a guy who probably doesn't even care about them?

Standing up and checking you have your phone and wallet, you sigh as you feel the weight of them in your pockets. Good. You can just leave without having to go back to the table. The last thing you want right now is to talk to anyone, or have to put up a fake cheerful front.

Heading to the back of the restaurant, the once-inviting golden lights now feeling like a spotlight, you emerge out into the street, the cold wind soothing the hot, sticky tear irritation on your cheeks. You head to the parking garage down the street and try to walk as quickly as you can past the opening of the ramen restaurant, lest any of the group notice you walking away.

And they don't, not least until you cross the street and head down the dimly light footpath.

Someone grabs your wrist suddenly and you cry out, whipping your head back so fast to see who it is you think you might have whiplash.

Chan is standing there, his hand solid and warm around your wrist, the wind ruffling his dark hair back from his bare face. You can see the glint of his silver earrings under the streetlights.

"Wait," he pants. "Where are you going?"

You can't fight the hot, wet tear rolling down your cheek and inwardly curse it for escaping. "Home."

"Why?" He asks, concern and worry painting his expression. "Are you not feeling well?"

You fight the urge to slap him; it wouldn't be fair, however much you want to do it. He just doesn't understand. He doesn't understand any of it. And you want nothing more to run into his arms and spill all your thoughts and feelings like you have so many times before, but you can't.

Not this time.

You can't tell Chan that you've loved him since who knows how long; that seeing him makes your heart feel lighter, the way a high schooler might feel seeing their crush in the sunny hallways. You can't tell him how many times you styled your hair to look a little like his, hoping the curls that make him look so handsome might make you a little more attractive too. You can't tell him how many times you ran late for schedules just because you took a detour to his studio to talk with him, even if it was just for a minute.

Even if all of it was a waste in the end. Because he likes someone else, and that someone else isn't you.

So you just shake your head as the tears come streaming down, and rip your wrist out of his grip before turning and walking away. The earth feels like it's shattering around you.

Or maybe that's just your heart.

But Chan doesn't give up; you hear his footsteps continue behind you, hurried and irregular, like he's trying to decide whether to let you go or make you stay.

"Y/n," he pants. "Wait, just- will you stop walking so fast? Please, wait, slow down- What's wrong?"

"Everything's wrong!" You cry out, turning to face him as you throw your hands up. A sob rips through your lungs, face contorting with the force of your tears. "Okay? Everything's wrong."

Chan is silent, one hand out in an unsteady attempt to calm you. "What are you talking about? You're worrying me."

You scoff and kick a stone across the footpath, harshly rubbing a hand across your cheekbone.

"Y/n, please," he pleads, his voice quieter. "Felix noticed you were gone for too long earlier, and I saw you walking out of the restaurant. Please, tell me what's wrong. You look so upset."

"Then stop looking."

He recoils, looking slightly hurt, before it's overtaken by a look of determination. You know that look; it either results in an all-nighter to finish a song track, an attempt to wrangle seven naughty kids, or a hard-to-have conversation. You know it's the last one.

"Please," he says, even quieter. "Tell me what's wrong. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

"It's you," you say, broken with utter resignation.

He takes a step forward. "What?"

"It's you," you repeat, looking away as another hysterical sob brings the wind inside your body. It's sharp and biting, and it brings back some of your courage. But only some.

You raise your eyes to look at him. Maybe this is the last conversation you'll have with Chan, before he decides he doesn't want to be around someone who's in a one-way love story with him. Even if that person is his best friend.

"You don't realise, do you?" You whisper brokenly. "You never realised I was in love with you, Chan. But that's just who you are. You may be kind and compassionate and intuitive, but you never realised why I do what I do, or why I act the way I act around you."

His face is contorted in utter disbelief; whether it's from shock or disgust, you don't want to know.

"I realised around the time you helped me move in," you continue. Might as well get all of it out now. "I looked at you differently after a while. I didn't see my best friend anymore. I saw someone else, someone stronger and more clever and more dedicated and more perfect and flawless. And it was strange, because I realised that you changed so much. Maybe I changed too, but it was different seeing you walking around at the company and going about your schedules, because I felt different about it all. I felt different about you. And I couldn't let it go, not least when we actually talked. I used to be late for most of my meetings and events because I would take detours to see you. Some days I would think about canceling my schedules just so I could be around you more.

"And I love the boys, I do, Chan. So much. But I have to admit, I wouldn't be around them half as much if you weren't there. I felt so drawn to you, not like the way I did when we were friends. I figured that if I didn't want to lose you, I would have to discipline myself. So I did.

"I threw myself into my work; I gave myself so much to do, partially to distract myself, partially to use work as an excuse whenever I was invited out, like tonight. Just because I knew you would be there, and I didn't want to end up spilling it all to you, because I knew it would ruin everything between us. Forever.

"And when Chae started hanging around us, I didn't mind at first; I sort of liked her. But I started hating her because of how close she would get to you, how much you two would secretly talk between yourselves, and it made me upset. So I ended up spending much more time by myself so that I would be able to forget she existed. So that I could forget that she ever entered the picture, and that it was just me and my secret that I kept from you. For so long, Chan. You have no idea how much I had to hold myself back from you.

"Did you assume that I never wanted to go out with you guys? That I never wanted to buy drinks from that vending machine the members always go to before eating out, or that I didn't want to spend time with you? Because I did, Chan. But I forced myself not to, because I couldn't bear to see you, and most of the time I didn't know if Chae was going to be there. I told myself I wasn't going to sit there and watch you be with her, not while I felt so invisible and unseen around you.

"Let me tell you something, Chan," you choke through sobs at him, pointing a finger at his chest as though it were a gun. "Every time Jisung or Jeongin or one of the boys invited me out, I did actually show up. Even if you never saw me. I would watch from a distance to see if Chae was with you; if she was, I would turn around and leave, and go home. If not, I would smile from around the corner as the maknaes begged you for money to buy drinks from that vending machine. And then I would turn around and go home anyway.

"I know every single one of their preferences; even if you didn't know I was there to observe them bickering and choosing, faces lit by streetlight. I would go around to the vending machines at the company and randomly buy their favourites for them, even if you didn't know how I knew. I would buy them for you too, and debate leaving a little note for you telling you how I felt alongside it, and I never did.

"Because, despite all of that, it was all a waste," you snap at him. You're not sure why you're angry; you suppose it's the result of feeling unheard for so long. "It was a waste, Chan. Because you never even noticed how I felt. So don't come chasing after me in the night like this like you care, because it was Felix who told you to come after me, Felix who noticed I had been gone for too long, not you of your own accord. And don't look worried or concerned either, because I've told you what's wrong, Chan, just as you asked. You can rest now."

You can barely see him through the blur of your tears.

"Y/n," he whispers, broken as you feel. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't care," you cry out at him, turning and storming in the other direction. And this time, he doesn't follow, still standing under the streetlight with his hand out, though you're not there to take it.

You sob bitterly as you almost flee around the corner, breaking out into a full-on run, like sprinting can fix the problem, fix your heart and your tears. It doesn't, however, and you feel worse as you bolt pass the crossing light, not caring about its colour. Later you will realise that running with blurry vision and a hysterical, heartbroken mindset was not the wisest idea.

You don't see the car speeding towards you until it's too late.

a/n: *laughs in writer*

[starcurtain]

More Phaidei Fics I Want to Read (Part 2)

1. The outsider POV one where the other members of the Kremnoan Detachment notice Phainon's... attention toward their prince much more than Mydei himself does. The absolute audacity of this so-called "Deliverer"! That's not just the Detachment's ruler, that's their pride and joy! If some upstart foreigner thinks he's going to be allowed to make eyes at their prince as if Mydeimos were a war prize to be won, Phainon's got another thing coming, prophecy be damned. If it means protecting Mydei's honor, the Kremnoan Detachment can be, and certainly will be, Amphoreus' most immovable wall. Unfortunately for them... Phainon is an unstoppable force. (Or: The one where Phainon gets cockblocked by an entire army, and no one thinks to ask Mydei his opinion on the matter until he finally has to settle the issue himself.)

2. The very silly comedy one where Mydei suffers a string of embarrassing accidental deaths in Okhema that wound his pride much more than they wound his body. In fact, the person most upset by the whole thing is (predictably) Phainon. Determined to put a stop to Mydei's streak of terrible luck, Phainon insists on forming the official "Mydeimos Protection Squad." Member Count: 1.33. (Trianne is helping.) In Nikador's damn name... It's going to be hard enough to recover his reputation after it gets out that Mydei actually managed to drown in one of the baths--does Phainon really need to act like this about it? And since when does being on a "Protection Squad" require Phainon to move in with him???

3. Beauty and Beast meets Mydei's Howl's Moving Castle AU: Okhema is a prospering magical city ruled by its beautiful and charming demigoddesses Aglaea and Tribios; however, their otherwise peaceful paradise has been haunted in recent years by a ghostly specter: a mysterious floating fortress that periodically darkens the skies, an unknown threat looming overhead. Rumors begin to spread of a terrifying "god of war" in the castle, one that devours beautiful maidens and lads without a hint of remorse. Curious and determined to solve the mystery of this castle in the air, Tribbie goes to investigate--and gets herself in terrible trouble when she discovers the rumors are seemingly true: the castle is ruled by a monstrous-looking beast calling himself the "soul of strife." Sealed away for trespassing, the only thing Tribbie can do is send out a desperate call for help through her other selves. Rallied to his leader's aid, Phainon, swordmaster of Okhema, steps up to help. There's no way he'll leave poor Tribbie to her fate--even if it means he has to exchange her freedom for his own. But there's more to this "beast" than meets the eye, and with both a powerful prophecy and the threat of a mad ancient god's legacy impending, it's up to Phainon to break a seemingly unbreakable curse--and secure his own happy ending.

4. The "in another life" one, but Phainon has all the memories--not just of the warm, golden days with Mydei in Okhema, but of everything that happened after, of the ultimate betrayal of trust, of the cold steel he plunged into Mydei's back... Their reunion in this new era was unintentional, unavoidable, and aching. The happy ending Phainon desperately desired all along is here, within his reach--and in danger of being ruined all over again. What horror will he bring to Mydei's life this time? Convinced that he doesn't deserve a second chance at happiness in their new life, Phainon does everything in his power to avoid Mydei. But even without all the memories of Amphoreus, Mydei has always been unstoppable when he sets his mind to something--and there's no way Mydei is going to let Phainon screw this up. (Not again.)

5. The canon divergent AU: Mydei's father King Eurypon avoids the trap of a self-fulfilling prophecy by refusing to throw his child into the sea, so Mydei is instead raised a beloved son of Kremnos by both his father and mother--but the kingdom's ultimate fate of destruction cannot be changed. Nikador still goes mad, and Eurypon and Gorgo's deadly duel still plays out when Gorgo rejects Eurypon's plan to use the mad god's power. But before a furious Mydei can avenge his mother, Nikador fully succumbs to the corruption of the dark tide and launches a brutal massacre against their own worshippers, claiming the lives of the king and half the castrum's populace. Forced to flee with the tattered survivors, grieving everything he knew and loved, Mydei is hurled into a role of leadership he is hardly prepared for and never truly wanted.

Only Kremnos's history has left them with no allies, and Okhema's Council turns away Mydei's every attempt at diplomacy. Desperate, with the weight of his entire people's safety on his shoulders, Mydei and the Kremnoan army lay siege to the holy city. If words alone cannot win them sanctuary, then it will be blood and blades that throw open the gates. But Okhema has a new champion, a swordmaster from afar who will stop at nothing to prove his worth to his new people, and it turns out this "Phainon of Aedes Elysiae" might be Mydei's only match--on the battefield and elsewhere.

(tl;dr: Enemies to lovers, meet-on-the-battlefield romance.)