#this is my offering of a little light into this world

[hunkygreenbean]

We have more in common with Trump voters than Trump voters do with Trump.

Read that again. And again. Read that as many times as you need to until you understand it.

I'm from Appalachia, and its filled with Trump supporters. But these folks are far from the rich bougie archetype you're imagining; there are mfs in my hometown living in trailers, getting their eggs from the plywood chicken coop out in the back, who have to drive 20 mins into town to wash and dry their clothes, who still willingly voted for Trump despite the fact that his policies will directly hurt the working poor.

So many Leftists exist within their own bubble of other urban Leftists. As I'm now entering college in an urban area, it's jarring to hear how Leftists talk about working, poor, and rural folks who just so happened to vote for Trump. Like yeah, there are definitely racist assclowns in my hometown who like Trump because of how he plans to deal with Latinos and Blacks, but I'd say a good 80% of those who voted for Trump did so because they were genuinely convinced that he would make life better for them on an economic level.

When you've lived through generations of poverty, and some flashy New York con man comes through and promises that if he gets rid of the Woke, you'll finally get money, is a very enticing offer to many of his voters. These are human beings that are in desperate straights who do not have the privilege of knowing how the economic workings of America and the world work because they are too fucking busy working 3 jobs to enrich their minds through education. This could have easily been any one of us just by sheer chance. There's nothing ontologically different about an urban leftist and a rural Trump supporter except Leftists (supposedly) have set aside their kneejerk reactions and put in a little more work to fully comprehend how the world around them works. Any one of us could have and still can be radicalized. Leftism is not a linear, progressive path where you just keep becoming more and more leftist. You can backslide, fall off, whatever. Same with Trumpism. These people can change, just as you were changed.

And so many fucking Leftists, both irl and on this website, wet their panties at the thought of the rural working poor losing vital resources just so they can point and laugh at the dumb hick MAGAts. I get that we're in a political shitstorm right now, but those are still human beings who deserve healthcare, food, clean water. These people need help, not your derision. I dont give a flying rat's ass if you think these people are nothing more than the shit on your toilet paper, but you still need to advocate for their human rights as well.

The whole reason Trumpism thrives is because its a cult. Cults operate by making their members feel cut off from the rest of the world, by positing that the mainstream hates them. When a Trump supporter leaves the cult of Trumpism, they need to see that we do not hate them so that way they can begin to heal from their time in the cult as well as begin to get involved in efforts to rescue more people from said cult. Even if you do hate them, can you at least force a smile, at least tolerate them? Even if they don't go for leftism, can you at least be happy that they've finally seen the light?

you can be hurt, you can be mad, and you certainly don't have to forgive former Trump supporters. But the thing with solidarity is that you stand up for all working folks, all the poor folks, all the backwoods hillbilles. You don't have to love all the people who happen to share the same race/class/disability/gender/sexuality/sex that you have, but you can't really pick and choose when all of our asses are on the line.

like idk as someone who has been deeply, disablingly affected by trump’s policies, i am never going to understand people who get so up in arms about the idea of a former trump voter realizing they fucked up and wanting to join progressive spaces instead. polarization in this country is what gave us trump. i am never going to agree that perpetuating that polarization is the right move.

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: Mentions of family death

A/N: I love Matt but I hate Matt but like ???

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P8: Don't

wc: 2400+

Part of me is begging for Matt to walk in through that door—tear me away from this horrid tension as Chris stares down at me with his arms crossed over his chest. But he doesn’t. The door stays deathly still, the entire room falling into an uncomfortable silence as I sit up straighter on the couch. 

“Why’re you in my house, hm?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow at me as he stalks closer. He lazily plops down on the opposite side of the couch, petting Trevor as the dog curls into a ball between us, “-and why’re you telling my dog you need to piss?” 

“Why are you eavesdropping?” I huff, shaking my head and keeping my eyes set infront of me while standing up and walking down to the bathroom.

How long was he standing there? 

What did he hear? 

I do my business quickly. I take a deep breath, sighing and looking at my reflection in the mirror. God, I look tired—drained, even. 

Walking back into the living room, I see Chris nearly completely sprawled out on the couch. His arm crossed beneath his head, his legs extended but slightly bent—leaving the smallest amount of room for me to sit back down. 

“Trev went to keep my dad company,” he says. I nod while sitting stiffly in the open space. Of course he had to sprawl out—make this entire situation even more uncomfortable. 

“-and, I wasn’t eavesdropping. It’s hard not to hear when you’re yapping so damn loud. In my house, with my dad. Fuckin’ weird if you ask me.” 

His tone is almost bitter—a certain sharpness to his words that felt a little different than his usual insults or remarks. 

“Shut up, Chris,” I breathe, rolling my eyes as I stare around the living room. The only light seeping in through the curtain is that damn streetlight—flickering and blinking on the verge of its life. 

What’s taking Matt so long? 

“Hey, don’t take your shitty date out on me, I didn’t do anything–”

“Really?” I cut off, staring at him with squinted eyes. 

Chris shrugs, his tongue prodding from the inside of his cheek. “Sorry. I guess I’m just upset that you’re in my house, talking to my dad. Don’t you have anyone else to talk to?” he snorts. 

As his eyes gaze into mine, I feel my face fall. “Not really.” 

The statement makes his glare soften to an unreadable expression. He clears his throat, adjusting and sitting up further. He almost looks… sorry?

“Do you know when Matt will be back?” I ask, tapping my foot on the floor as I look towards the front door. 

“I have his location, but my phone is in my room,” Chris announces, his eyes glazed over while he stares at his lap. 

My hands rub together as I hesitantly look over at him. “Can we… can we go look, maybe?” I offer.

Chris nods, his bottom lip stuck between his teeth as he nudges his head for me to follow. I get up, following his steps as we make the familiar path towards his room, my feet stumbling to a halt as I hover in the doorway. 

He rummages towards his nightstand, holding up his phone attached to a charger. His face creases as he looks over at me. “It’s dead. You can, uh—you can sit if you want to.” 

I hesitantly shift further into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed while looking towards my hands. I can feel the rummaging thoughts piling over top of one another, the sensation of panic settling in as the silence consumes the room. 

“Why do you look so nervous, damn,” he laughs, sitting down on his bed with his back resting against the headboard.

I shrug, sucking my lips between my teeth while briefly shaking my head. “Because,” I trail off, sighing as I feel him stare at me, waiting for a response, “-you’re just… I don’t know—you, ugh.” 

Chris shifts, his feet tapping on the floor as he sits on the edge of the bed next to me. “I’m just what?” he taunts. 

My mouth opens to respond, but my face tilts as I see a bright illumination from his phone screen—not the display when the device wakes up after being dead. 

“I thought your phone was dead?” I question. His eyes bulge. He shakes his head, leaning over and turning the device face down. What the fuck? “What am I in here, Chris? What—what games are you playing now?” 

Chris scratches the back of his neck. His eyes wander everywhere around the room, avoiding my gaze at all cost. 

“Whatever,” I huff, starting to stand up. 

My actions are halted by a warm hand landing over my thigh. I look down, seeing his fingers spread with a rough grip, softening as he sighs. “I—just—fuck,” he curses, removing his hand as if it had been burned. 

The thump of my pulse gets quieter. I analyze his face, watching as his jaw clicks tighter. Some part of me seems to soften. I reach out, hesitating as I hold my hand above his shoulder before laying it gently on him. 

“What’s going on? I’m not mad, I’m just…” I shake my head, looking into his eyes as I try to take a deep breath, “-confused.” 

Chris licks over his lips, his hand rubbing over his face as he slumps down and stares at his lap. “I… I wanted to, um—well, I—fuck, this is so hard,” he hisses. 

I watch as he tugs at the roots of his hair, hunching over and placing his elbows on his knees. I let my hand slide down, gently rubbing on his back. He’s been a real dick, but something about him makes everything seem so hazy, like I can never really tell what his true intentions are. 

He was hurt—brutally hurt. And I could understand that more than I wanted to. I knew how it felt to lose someone and have everything change. 

“I don’t know how to even explain—”

“Then don’t,” I interrupt. 

Chris stares at me over his shoulder. His lips press into a thin line, his eyes squinting as if he’s in pain. “Why are you not mad?” he asks. 

I shrug. My eyes drift to his window before tracing back to his face. “I can see you’re trying. Even though whatever is going on seems hard for you… you’re trying,” I answer. 

“Not hard enough,” he snorts, sitting up. 

My hand falls from his back. I hesitantly place it back into my lap, staring at my fingers as I nervously fiddle with them. “Maybe ‘cause you’re not giving yourself any credit.” 

The pointed statement seems to make the silence sink in once more, but this time, it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels calm—peaceful, even. Like he’s letting my words wash over him. 

He lets himself hunch over once more, his hands knotting through his hair aggressively. I wince hearing him hiss as his fingers get stuck in a tangle, my hands shooting up before I can stop myself. 

“What are you doing—���

Chris falls silent, uncomfortably tilting his head as I try to drift my fingers through the knot. “Just let me help.” 

The hair is stubborn. It probably wouldn’t be so knotted if he wasn’t yanking at it so harshly.

“Just…” I huff, “-just lay down. It’ll be easier.” 

He goes stiff, slowly relaxing as his head falls into my lap. I slowly start from the bottom of the knot, working my way towards his scalp. His hair is soft despite the tangle. 

“Chris?” I whisper, my hands clutching towards my chest as I wait for him to move.

But he doesn’t. The only movement is his shoulders sliding up and down with deep breaths. He’s asleep—his head cradled in my lap as I sit on the edge of the bed. 

My eyes start to droop, my hands guiding back into his hair as I brush through the soft strands. Every breath starts to get deeper. I feel myself leaning forward and to the side, crossing my free arm under my head as I rest on his shoulder. 

I like this side of him. I just wish I got to see it more. 

___

“-wake up, c’mon,” 

Peeping one eye open, I see Matt standing in front of me, his hand gently shaking my shoulder. I look down to see Chris in the same position. 

“I’ll take you home, sorry,” Matt whispers, nudging his head towards the door as he walks out. 

What time is it even? 

My body shifts slowly as I move him to lay on the bed. A frown crawls on my face as I watch Chris’s face furrow, his hands grasping onto the sheets as if he’s looking for something. 

I reach out, petting my hand over his cheek and watching him relax once more. His lips puff open with a subtle snore. Hazily, I stand up, analyzing his face as I creep backward. 

“Ready?” Matt asks, looking up from his phone with a shit-eating grin. 

I nod, squinting my eyes with a smile as I wiggle my brows. He blushes, tucking his phone back in his pocket before stalking further with quiet steps. 

As soon as we step out the door, he hands me his phone. I look down at the screen, my eyes going wide as a smile covers my face. It’s a picture—him and Mia, her lips pecking his cheek as he smiles towards the camera. She seems to be holding the phone, her nose crinkled upward and smushed against his cheek. 

That’s adorable. 

“Oh my god! See—you didn’t need me,” I laugh, slapping his phone back into his chest. 

Matt slips the device back into his pocket, walking by my side as we stroll down the path back to my house. “I know, but—thank you. I know you didn’t exactly wanna go,” he remarks. 

Do I tell him? I had already vented to Jimmy. There was no point in spoiling his night with my shitty experience. 

“Is this why you woke me up? Wanted to brag, hm?” I taunt, bumping into his shoulder playfully. 

The quiet neighborhood is deathly calm, but I can feel his excitement radiating off his energy. He’s so giddy—it’s relieving. 

At least it was worth that dumb fucking date.

“I did wanna tell you, I’m not gonna lie,” he mentions, laughing as we turn down the corner to my street, “-but, I also wanted to make sure you got home and your mom wouldn’t be mad or anything, I guess. Or that you wouldn’t have to spend the night with fuckin’ Chris again.”

The scoff in his tone pokes at something in my chest, a sharp sensation flooding over me as I mutter beneath my breath, “It’s not like it’s bad. He was actually being—”

“Don’t.” Matt says. 

My steps halt on the pavement. I look up to Matt, watching him stop and stare back at me with a sigh falling from his lips. 

“Look,” he starts, tugging on my sleeve as we continue walking again, “-I’m saying this as your friend. Chris… he’s not ready for this type of stuff. You—you’re only gonna end up hurt, okay? Just… don’t.” 

Oh. 

My tired eyes flutter with fast blinks. Maybe it was the exhaustion—maybe it was because the air felt too cold blowing into my eyes, but I could feel the heat rush upward, my vision becoming blurry as I blink away tears.

“I’m not… I—I don’t know what’s going on. He just seems so…”

“Lost? Lonely?” Matt fills in. 

I nod, pulling at my clothes as my nose starts to twitch from the cold wind. 

“Chris… he just—he hasn’t coped well, you know? Losing our mom was hard, but our brother–-Nick—that… he can’t look at me anymore. He can barely look at himself,” Matt sighs. 

The lump in my throat is uncomfortable. I swallow thickly, wincing as I feel it glide down into my chest and create a distracting pressure. “I’m confused. What do you—what do you mean?” I ask. 

I feel the energy shift before any words escape his mouth. Everything seems to get eerily quiet, the comforting silence gaining tension as curiosity rings through the air. 

“Nick, our brother. We, um—we’re triplets, or… were? I just… Chris was the most dependant, “ he huffs, laughing dryly, “He was the only one to never be away from one of us for 24 hours, the kid literally couldn’t go a day without saying goodnight to both of us and—”

Matt chokes up on his words. He sniffles, shaking his head furiously while looking down at his feet as we walk slower. “I thought he’d rely on me after everything. But, we’re triplets—identical. He—he couldn’t even look at me without—” 

I place my hand on his shoulder as his sentence falls flat. Matt takes a deep breath, sighing as he places his hand over mine, pulling it towards his chest while holding it tightly. 

“Listen to me,” my ears perk at his words, his eyes looking into mine with raw emotion, “-don’t. He’s not ready, he’s…”

“I get it,” I interrupt, watching as Matt nods, slowly dropping my hand. He stays put as I walk up the two cement stairs to the entrance of my house. 

I pull out my keys, inserting them slowly into the keyhole of my front door, gently pushing it open before giving him one last look over my shoulder. “Thanks,” I mouth, trying to be as silent as possible as I hear the dark home echo with the slightest whisper. 

“Thank you,” he whispers back, nodding affirmatively before turning on the heel of his shoe, walking away as I shut the door. 

It shouldn’t hurt. Chris was more mean to me than anything else. In fact, I’d never even had him truly apologize—not with his words. 

But I didn’t really crave an apology.

I just want to understand.

[koenigami]

Watching caleb doing work out just had me thinking he probably let you lay on his back while doing push up he probably the one offering it too just so he can show off his strength

But instead I think laying under him would be better. You can watch him grunting and sweating in his glory maybe stealing a kiss while you at it. Plus it can be a challenge for him. Can he focus on his work out with his cute baby laying under him

so so sowwy for answering this only now nonnie><

ha! he'd be the one to come up with it. "i've been lacking some motivation lately, but surely having my pretty girl lie underneath me will be lots of help" and he says it with that flirty smirk, and there’s that cute dimple on his cheek, and his big shiny eyes to which you could never say no.

the irony is: he's the one to propose it bc he wants to fluster and tease you, but in the end he’s the one who ends up being a complete mess. how could he not? when you look at him as if he had hung up the moon and stars in the sky for you. when your hands subconsciously reach out towards him. when you wrap your arms around his neck, when your hands slide down his upper arms, and travel lower along his abs, making them tense up after each feather light touch.

how is he supposed to keep his composure when each kiss that you grace him with for each proper push up that he does, ends up tasting sweeter and sweeter. and sweeter.

"caleb?"

"mmh- yeah?" he grunts with another push, lifting and lowering his body effortlessly in a constant tempo. there’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his temples, his hair a little damp and messy. yet he still looks impeccably handsome.

slowly, as if scared that you might startle him, you let the pads of your fingers glide over his compression shirt until your palm is flat against his chest. right above his heart.

"it’s beating really fast." you worry your lower lip between your teeth as you tilt your head slightly to the side, looking at him with big doe eyes. "maybe you should take a break?"

goosebumps rise along your skin when his dog tag grazes your naked collarbone after he's lowered his body enough for the tip of his nose to touch yours. with a sardonic smile, caleb closes his eyes as he kisses the corner of your mouth. his lips are warm against your skin. everything about him is. he's always felt like a warm blanket enveloping you, offering you comfort, as much as a refuge from the overwhelming outside world.

you nearly whine in protest when, instead of giving you a proper kiss, he pulls away enough to look at your face.

"that's not because of the workout, pips."

[00valentina-writes00]

I JUST REMEMBERED IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS (March first)

Can I get a hc or something about ambess on your birthday please?i LOVE YOUR AMBESSA

RAHHH ONE DAY LATE (but Ambessa AND Grayson)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY (late, but…I tried guys, and yes I’m braking hiatus to post this)

♡♥︎ Birthday with Ambessa and Grayson ♥︎♡

….i wrote drabbles for you!!!

♡ Ambessa ♡

It was your birthday, and you couldn’t have asked for a better celebration. Ambessa, in all her fiery elegance, had planned everything with precision—something she rarely let others see. It was one of the first things you learned about her: beneath the sharp exterior and the commanding presence, Ambessa had a soft side, a side she only revealed to a select few. You, being one of those few, got to experience it all today.

The day started early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, casting the world in soft shades of orange and pink. You’d been awoken by the sound of her voice, low and soothing, calling your name from the other side of the room. She stood in the doorway, a slight smirk playing on her lips as she held up a tray with your favorite breakfast on it: pancakes, fruit, and coffee.

“Happy birthday,” she said, her voice hushed but warm.

You smiled, sitting up in bed, your long curls tumbling over your shoulders as you stretched. Your fingers grazed the soft tray she placed in front of you.

“Ambessa… you didn’t have to do this,” you murmured, reaching for the coffee cup.

“I wanted to,” she replied, her eyes softening as she watched you take your first sip.

Ambessa never was one to do things without thinking them through. She always had a plan, whether it was strategizing in battle or crafting the perfect morning for you. As you ate, you could feel the weight of her gaze, always so intense, always so focused. But this time, it was different. This wasn’t the gaze of someone plotting or preparing for something—this was the gaze of someone who was simply enjoying your company, who wanted you to feel loved and cherished.

Once breakfast was finished, Ambessa stood, offering her hand. “There’s more. Come with me.”

Her grip was firm yet gentle, guiding you out of bed and toward the window. Outside, the city stretched before you, and the sunlight danced on the buildings. The air was crisp, a perfect spring morning. Ambessa’s plan was clear now: she had made sure this day would feel like a celebration from the start.

Your hair was still a little messy, curls not fully tamed yet, but Ambessa didn’t mind. She never minded how you looked. To her, you were beautiful no matter the state you were in. You chuckled softly as she adjusted a loose curl that had fallen over your eyes, her fingers brushing gently against your temple.

“You’re always so meticulous,” you teased.

“Someone has to keep you in line,” she smirked, her voice playful.

The day unfolded in the most charming way. Ambessa took you to a small, intimate café that overlooked the city, the two of you seated at a corner table with a clear view of the streets below. She didn’t need to do anything extravagant—no large crowds, no loud music—just the two of you, enjoying each other’s presence. You had noticed, after all this time, how Ambessa never cared for the flashy displays of wealth or power that others might expect from someone of her status. What mattered to her, in these moments, was the quiet comfort of being with you.

Later, after the café, she whisked you away to a small garden tucked away behind the café. It was quiet, peaceful. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the air smelled of blooming flowers. Ambessa had arranged for a small picnic in the garden, complete with candles that flickered softly in the dimming light. You sat together on a blanket, the world quiet around you. There was no rush, no pressure, just the calm of the evening settling in.

As you sat, Ambessa leaned back, her arm casually draped over your shoulders. She smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweet, a scent that was uniquely hers. You couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread through your chest as you settled into her side. It was simple—just the two of you, the stars beginning to dot the sky—but it felt like everything. You could hear the distant hum of the city, but here, in this moment, it felt far away. It was just you and Ambessa, and that was enough.

She took a deep breath, her fingers brushing against your hair. “You know,” she started, her voice low, “when I first met you, I never thought I’d find someone who made everything feel… softer. Everything was always about control, about power, about winning. But you… you make me want to just stop, breathe, and enjoy the simple things.”

You looked up at her, your heart swelling at her words. “Ambessa… you’re making me blush.”

“Good.” She smirked, her fingers gently tugging at a loose curl that fell over your shoulder. “You deserve to feel special today.”

You rested your head on her shoulder, your curls falling around you like a soft curtain. The warmth of her body next to yours was comforting, and you could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, beneath the fabric of her clothes. It felt like everything had slowed down, the world fading into the background as you simply existed together.

Later, she presented you with a small, carefully wrapped gift. The box was delicate, the wrapping paper pristine. “I thought this might suit you,” she said, her voice a little quieter now, more serious.

You carefully unwrapped the box, revealing a beautiful necklace—simple, with a small pendant in the shape of a crescent moon. You gasped.

“It’s beautiful… Ambessa, I love it,” you said, your eyes wide. “Thank you.”

Her eyes softened as she watched you. “I wanted something to remind you that no matter what happens, I’m always with you. You’re never alone, not with me.”

You smiled up at her, your eyes sparkling in the dimming light. “I don’t think I could ever be lonely when you’re around.”

She chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “Good. That’s how I like it.”

As the night drew on, the two of you stayed in the garden, talking and laughing, sharing stories, and simply enjoying the time you had together. It was everything you had wanted—no grand gestures, no overwhelming celebrations—just a quiet, intimate birthday spent with the woman who made you feel truly seen and cherished.

When the time came to leave, Ambessa stood and offered her hand to you once more. “Shall we go home?” she asked.

You nodded, taking her hand. As you walked back to her private quarters, you couldn’t help but feel content—like this moment, this day, had been perfect.

Ambessa, ever the fierce protector, had found a way to soften her edges just for you. And in return, you had found someone who would never let you go.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered as you reached the door.

You smiled, brushing a stray curl out of your face. “Thank you, Ambessa. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll make sure every one is just as good”.

♡ Grayson ♡

Grayson stood in the kitchen, a faint smile playing on her lips as she glanced at the clock. The evening was approaching, and she had spent the entire afternoon preparing for tonight—your birthday. She knew better than anyone that you didn’t need grand gestures or elaborate plans; what mattered was the thought behind it all, and she wanted to give you something truly special.

She had picked out your favorite cake—vanilla with strawberry frosting—and set it on the table, carefully decorated with candles that she’d lit only moments before. The living room was dimly lit, soft string lights twinkling above, casting a cozy glow throughout the room. A movie had already been queued up on the projector, one of those comfort films you both enjoyed watching on lazy nights.

You weren’t home yet, but Grayson had made sure everything was perfect. She wanted tonight to feel intimate—just the two of you, no distractions, no stress.

When the door finally opened, her heart skipped a beat. You stood there, a little tired from the day but smiling nonetheless. Your long hair was a bit messy, and your eyes lit up when they landed on her, the warmth in your gaze making her chest tighten with affection.

“Happy birthday, my love,” Grayson said softly, walking over to you. She wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. You smelled like your favorite perfume, and for a moment, Grayson just stood there, holding you. She felt the quiet comfort of being home with you, the weight of her armor and responsibilities falling away. This was her sanctuary—being with you.

You pulled back slightly, giving her a playful look. “What’s all this?” you asked, motioning toward the setup in the living room.

“It’s a surprise,” Grayson replied, her voice filled with affection. “I know you don’t like big celebrations, so I thought we could have a quiet night together.”

Her fingers gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, and you smiled softly, your heart fluttering at the way she always knew exactly what you needed.

You followed her into the living room, where the atmosphere was serene, just as you liked it. Grayson poured you both a glass of wine, handing you one as you settled on the couch, the flickering light from the projector casting shadows around the room. The film was one you both loved—one of those nostalgic, feel-good movies that always made you laugh.

For a moment, you both just watched in comfortable silence, sipping wine and laughing at the movie’s silly moments. Grayson kept glancing over at you, her eyes softening every time they landed on your face. You were her world, and the joy of seeing you so content on your birthday made her heart swell.

After a while, Grayson turned to you, her voice quieter now. “I have something for you.”

You looked at her, surprised. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Grayson.”

“I wanted to,” she said, smiling with that gentle warmth you adored. She stood and walked over to the small table she’d set up, picking up a small, elegantly wrapped gift. She handed it to you, her hands lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gift. Inside was a delicate necklace—a simple gold chain with a small, heart-shaped pendant. The heart was etched with intricate designs, a subtle nod to the mark of a protector that Grayson had earned over the years.

“Grayson, it’s beautiful,” you whispered, running your fingers over the pendant.

She sat beside you again, her gaze soft and earnest. “I thought it would be something you could wear always. Something to remind you that no matter where I am, I’m with you. Always.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them away. You leaned over and kissed her, gentle but full of love. “I love it,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

Grayson smiled, her hand reaching up to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You’re everything to me.”

After a moment, Grayson gestured toward the cake sitting on the table. “Now, how about we cut the cake?” she asked, her voice teasing, though there was a warmth in it.

You nodded eagerly. “I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

Grayson stood, and with a playful flourish, she cut the first slice and handed it to you. You both laughed as you dug into the cake, savoring the sweetness and the fact that you were able to enjoy such simple, beautiful moments together.

As the night went on, you watched the movie, ate the cake, drank the wine, and simply enjoyed the quiet rhythm of being with each other. There were no grand speeches, no huge surprises—just love, shared in the most perfect, effortless way.

Grayson eventually turned to you, her voice soft but sure. “Happy birthday, my heart. I’m so grateful for you.”

You smiled at her, feeling the weight of her words in the depth of her eyes. “And I’m grateful for you. Every day.”

With that, you snuggled into her side, and she wrapped her arm around you, holding you close. The rest of the world fell away, and all that mattered was this—this moment, this love.

As the movie ended and the night stretched on, Grayson kissed the top of your head, her hand brushing through your hair. She had given you everything she had—her time, her love, and her heart—and it was more than enough.

It was perfect.

[odileeclipse]

Helloo could you do a shadow milk cookie x reader and pure vanilla x reader (separate) with an emotionless reader like literally you cannot get any emotions from them at all even if you try to surprise them whatsoever, but could you do a moment where character does something so embarrassing and reader’s has a slight smile and a flicker of light in their always dull eyes and ofc character noticed and character asked them about it but reader would just revert back to a neutral expression and calmly just deny it happened

And do you think they’ll feel smth bcs they are the only one who saw reader show a bit of emotion to them lol

A/N They both fall, I think it's one of the most embarrassing experiences I've had.

SHADOW MILK 

Shadow Milk Cookie had tried, oh how he had tried. He had whispered deceptions spun from silver, conjured illusions that bent the very fabric of reality, set the stage for the most brilliant performances yet you never so much as blinked. No gasp, no frown, no smile. Like a porcelain doll, your gaze remained distant, untouched by his tricks, his taunts, his games. And it was infuriating. But tonight, in a cruel twist of fate, it was not some grand illusion nor an elaborate jest that cracked your mask, it was his own misstep. One moment, he stood poised, a master of the stage, twirling his staff in an elegant arc; the next, the hem of his own coat betrayed him. A miscalculated step, a sudden loss of balance his world tilted, the ground rushed up to meet him, and THUD. Silence. Then, like the faintest flicker of candlelight in an abyss, it appeared. A smile. Barely there, delicate as the final breath of a dying dream. A glimmer in your eternally dull eyes, brief but unmistakable. A moment so fleeting it could have been an illusion had he not seen it with his own two eyes.

Shadow Milk’s breath caught in his throat. His pride be damned, his aching dignity forgotten…he had seen you smile. His head snapped up, his cerulean and cyan eyes narrowing in sheer exhilaration. “Ohhh?” A slow, delighted grin curled upon his lips as he pulled himself up, dusting off his sleeves. His usual smugness sharpened into something ravenous. “Now what was that?” You tilted your head, expression utterly blank, betraying nothing. “I don’t know what you mean.” He stepped closer, a hunter toying with prey, his mismatched eyes devouring every detail of your face, searching for the crack he knew existed. “Don’t play coy with me.” His voice dripped with intrigue. “You smiled.” “I didn’t.” “Oh, but you did.” His hands twitched at his sides, itching to unravel this new puzzle, this delicious little secret. “I wonder… was it my suffering that amused you? Or simply the absurdity of it all?” You merely stared at him, empty as ever. He exhaled a low chuckle, dragging his tongue over his teeth. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” His voice dipped into something almost intimate, almost tender. “But now that I know you can smile… I’ll make sure I see it again.” His game had changed. No longer was he simply a performer trying to crack an unfeeling audience no, now he was a man obsessed, determined to drag that flicker of light from you again and again until it was no longer fleeting, until it belonged to him. Because for one brief, precious second, you had given him something no one else had. And he would have it again.

PURE VANILLA

Pure Vanilla Cookie had long accepted that you were unlike others. You did not react to warm laughter, nor startle at surprises. Your face remained ever unreadable, a placid sea unbroken by the winds of emotion. And he never minded. He never sought to change you, never wished to force light into your eyes when you did not offer it yourself. Instead, he simply remained beside you, unwavering, gentle, content in the quiet companionship you shared. But even the kindest souls are not immune to clumsiness. It happened so fast. One moment, he was walking alongside you, staff in hand, his robes flowing with their usual grace. The next, his foot caught the hem of his own garment, and…Oh no. His world tilted. His arms flailed. His heart lurched as he let out a startled, undignified yelp. THUMP. A soft groan left him as he lay sprawled upon the ground, his staff having rolled just out of reach. His glasses slid dangerously down his nose, barely clinging to his face. And then…A quiet breath. A whisper of something almost imperceptible. Pure Vanilla looked up and his heart stopped. For the first time, in all the days he had known you, there was the faintest curve of your lips. A delicate, ghostly thing, barely there, but there nonetheless. And in your ever-dull eyes… the tiniest flicker of light.

It lasted no longer than a heartbeat. But he saw it. His lips parted, his heart stumbling over itself in something warm, something profound. “Wait…” He pushed himself up, adjusting his glasses, eyes impossibly soft. “Did you just” You blinked. Your face was smooth once more, unreadable, empty. “I don’t know what you mean.” Pure Vanilla’s breath hitched, a quiet, knowing smile creeping onto his face. He knew. He knew. And though you would deny it, though you would bury it beneath a mask of neutrality, he did not need you to confirm it. Because for a single, fleeting second, he was the one who made you smile. And for him, that was more precious than anything in the world. A soft laugh escaped him, not teasing but full of warmth. “You don’t have to admit it,” he said gently. “But… I feel honored.” He didn’t push further. He didn’t need to.

[kathaelipwse]

Dancing in the Moonlight | H.Hyunjin

Genre: Best Friends to Lovers

Synopsis: A late-night walk through the quiet city turns into something more when Hyunjin, ever the romantic, asks you to dance under the streetlights. As music drifts from a nearby café, confessions slip through the cracks of a long-time friendship—changing everything in the soft glow of the moonlight.

Warnings: Fluff and more FLUFF!

Word Count: 2.3K

Authors Note: Hyunjin as the bsf to lover trope- ahh I dunno this has my heart lmao-

The city breathed differently at night. It exhaled the day's anxieties, replacing them with a hushed, almost reverent calm. The harsh lines of buildings softened, streetlights cast a warm, forgiving glow, and the air carried the faintest scent of jasmine from hidden gardens. You walked beside Hyunjin, the silence between you a comfortable, familiar language.

Your hands, tucked deep into the oversized sleeves of your favorite hoodie, occasionally brushed against his. It was a fleeting, almost accidental touch, but it sent a shiver down your spine each time. Hyunjin, his hair tousled by the evening breeze, seemed lost in his own thoughts, his hands buried in his pockets.

“I can’t believe we’ve been walking for hours,” you mused, tilting your head up to look at him. The streetlights painted his profile in a soft, golden light, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the gentle curve of his lips.

Hyunjin grinned, glancing down at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Regretting it?”

“No,” you answered too quickly, then bit your lip, a blush warming your cheeks. “I like nights like this.”

He hummed in agreement, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Me too.”

That was the thing about Hyunjin. Being with him was effortless. There were no awkward pauses, no forced laughter. Just the comforting silence of shared history, the unspoken understanding that came from years of friendship. Best friends, since childhood. That's what you were.

Or, at least, that’s what you had always told yourself.

You remembered the day you met. You were both awkward, lanky kids, new to the neighborhood, and he had offered you a half-eaten bag of chips, a gesture of unexpected kindness that had blossomed into an unbreakable bond. You had shared secrets whispered under starry skies, dreams sketched on crumpled notebooks, and the bittersweet ache of first heartbreaks.

But somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. The laughter felt a little lighter, the touches lingered a little longer, and the late-night talks turned into confessions whispered in the dark.

“Wait,” Hyunjin suddenly stopped walking, and you nearly stumbled, your thoughts interrupted.

“What?” you asked, blinking at him in confusion.

He held up a finger, listening intently. “Do you hear that?”

Frowning, you focused. The faint melody of a song drifted from a cafe a few meters away. It was a slow, romantic tune, a melancholic piano melody overlaid with a soft, breathy vocal. You gave him a questioning look. “Yeah…?”

A mischievous grin spread across his lips, transforming his features. “Dance with me.”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Dance with me,” he repeated, already reaching for your hand, his fingers warm and strong against yours.

“In the middle of the street?!” you exclaimed, glancing around the empty street.

“Why not?” He chuckled, his fingers lacing with yours, effortlessly pulling you closer. “No one’s here but us.”

Your heart stuttered, a fluttery, anxious thing trapped in your chest. But you let him guide you anyway. Because that’s what you always did—let yourself be swept away by Hyunjin’s spontaneity, his infectious energy, his unwavering confidence.

He placed one hand on your waist, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you, and suddenly, you were swaying, feet moving in sync to the distant music. The world around you blurred, the city lights fading into a hazy backdrop. There was only him—the warmth of his palm against your skin, the soft pull of his touch, the way his eyes shone under the streetlights, reflecting the moonlight.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, trying to sound exasperated, but your voice betrayed you, tinged with affection.

Hyunjin smirked, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “But you love me anyway.”

Your breath hitched. He said it so easily, so playfully, like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the exact thing that had been haunting your thoughts for months.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes to hide the way your pulse quickened. “Debatable.”

“Liar.” He twirled you suddenly, catching you off guard, and a laugh bubbled from your lips before you could stop it.

You hated how effortlessly he could do this—make your heart race, make you forget where the line between friendship and something more even existed. You weren’t sure when it started, this feeling. Maybe it had always been there, a seed planted in the fertile ground of your friendship, nurtured by shared laughter and whispered secrets. Or maybe it was a more recent bloom, a sudden realization that the boy you had known for so long had become a man who made your heart ache with longing.

You remembered a time in high school, during a particularly chaotic party, when you had found yourself alone with Hyunjin on the rooftop. The city lights had spread out beneath you like a glittering carpet, and the air had been thick with unspoken words. He had looked at you then, his eyes filled with a tenderness that had made your breath catch in your throat. But then, he had laughed, a nervous, self-deprecating laugh, and the moment had passed, leaving you with a lingering sense of what could have been.

And now, with his hand in yours, with the city quiet around you, with your heart screaming at you to say something, to do something—it became impossible to ignore.

Then, mid-spin, he whispered it, his voice barely audible above the music.

"I think I’m in love with you."

You froze, your feet rooted to the spot.

The words hung in the air, fragile and weightless, like a snowflake about to melt on your tongue. The music seemed to fade away, the city lights dimming, leaving you in a bubble of stunned silence.

Your feet stopped moving, but Hyunjin didn’t let go. His grip on your hand tightened, his expression unreadable, a mix of vulnerability and raw honesty. His eyes, usually filled with playful mischief, burned with something raw, something real.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your brain refused to process the moment, refused to believe it was real. Hyunjin was your best friend. He wasn’t supposed to say things like that. He wasn’t supposed to make your heart feel like it was about to burst.

“Y-you…” You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “You mean that?”

A soft chuckle left his lips, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I just didn’t know how to say it until now.”

Your chest ached, emotions crashing into you all at once. Part of you wanted to scream, You’re an idiot. I’ve been in love with you too. But another part of you—the scared part—wondered what would happen next. If things would change. If you’d lose him.

Hyunjin, always so perceptive, must’ve seen the hesitation in your eyes, because he exhaled softly and stepped closer, his free hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle, reassuring.

“I don’t need an answer right now,” he said gently. “I just… I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

Your breath wavered. “Hyunjin…”

“Just…” His forehead rested against yours, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell me if there’s even the slightest chance you feel the same.”

Your heart clenched, a painful, beautiful ache. “You idiot,” you whispered back, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Of course I do.”

He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes, his expression a mix of hope and disbelief. “Yeah?”

A breathless laugh escaped you. “Yeah.”

And then he was smiling—grinning, actually—like you had just given him the entire universe. Before you could overthink it, before your fear could take over, you lifted yourself onto your toes and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

Hyunjin blinked, startled. “Did you just—?”

“Yes,” you cut in, flustered, your cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the empty street, a joyful, unrestrained sound that made your heart soar. And without warning, he pulled you into the tightest hug, lifting you off the ground just slightly. You yelped, clinging onto him as he spun you around, the both of you laughing like kids.

When he finally set you down, his hands still rested on your waist, his forehead pressed against yours once more. His smile softened, his voice dropping to something impossibly tender. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

You bit your lip, feeling warmth spread through your entire body, a warmth that had nothing to do with the night air. “Then do it.”

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate. He tilted his head slightly, closing the small gap between you, and then—his lips brushed against yours, soft and hesitant at first, like he was savoring the moment, testing the waters. But when you melted into him, when your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his hoodie, he deepened the kiss, pouring every unspoken word, every hidden feeling into it.

The kiss was a revelation. It was a culmination of years of friendship, a release of pent-up emotions, a declaration of love whispered in the language of touch. It was tender, passionate, and utterly breathtaking. You felt a wave of dizziness wash over you, a sense of falling, not into an abyss, but into something safe, something real.

The city around you faded away, the distant music becoming a soft, romantic soundtrack to your shared moment. All that remained was the two of you, standing under the warm glow of the streetlights, the world holding its breath.

When he finally pulled away, his lips just barely ghosting over yours, he grinned, a wide, radiant smile that lit up his entire face. “You’re mine now.”

You chuckled, nudging his chest playfully. “I think I’ve always been yours.”

Hyunjin beamed, pulling you in again, holding you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a comforting, familiar sound that now held a new, deeper meaning.

As you stood there, wrapped in his arms, you realized something: you had spent so long wondering if loving your best friend was worth the risk, if it was worth jeopardizing the precious bond you shared.

Now, you knew.

It always was.

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled with the unspoken weight of newfound love. You felt a sense of peace, a quiet joy that settled deep within your bones.

"We should tell the others," Hyunjin murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

"The others?" you asked, pulling back slightly. "You mean our friends?"

He nodded, a playful glint in his eyes. "Yeah. They've been waiting for this for years, you know. They'll probably throw a party."

You laughed, picturing your friends' reactions. They had always teased you and Hyunjin, their playful jabs about your "obvious" feelings a constant source of amusement and embarrassment.

"They'll never let us live this down," you said, shaking your head.

"Who cares?" Hyunjin shrugged, his smile widening. "As long as we're happy."

He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and began walking again, this time with a newfound lightness in his step. You walked beside him, your heart overflowing with happiness, the city lights reflecting in your eyes like tiny stars.

You passed the cafe again, the music still drifting through the night air, a soft, romantic melody that now seemed to perfectly encapsulate your feelings. You paused, looking up at Hyunjin.

"That song," you said, pointing towards the cafe. "It's perfect."

He listened for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "It is. It's like it was written for us."

You smiled, a warm, genuine smile that reached your eyes. "Maybe it was."

He squeezed your hand, his touch sending a shiver of excitement down your spine. "Maybe it was."

You continued walking, hand in hand, the city lights guiding your way. You talked about everything and nothing, sharing stories and dreams, the comfortable silence between you now filled with a new, unspoken understanding.

As you approached your apartment building, Hyunjin stopped, turning to face you. The streetlights cast long shadows, creating a romantic, intimate atmosphere.

"I don't want this night to end," he said, his voice soft.

"Me neither," you admitted, your heart pounding in your chest.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch was warm, reassuring.

"Can I… can I kiss you again?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, soft and tender. The kiss was slow, deliberate, a silent promise of more to come.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"Goodnight," he whispered, his voice husky.

"Goodnight," you replied, your voice barely audible.

He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on yours, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the night.

You watched him go, your heart filled with a mixture of happiness and longing. You couldn't wait to see him again, to spend another night under the moonlight, dancing to the rhythm of your newfound love.

You entered your apartment, a smile still playing on your lips. You changed into your pajamas, your mind replaying the events of the night, each moment etched into your memory.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts swirling with dreams of the future. You imagined a future filled with laughter and love, a future where you and Hyunjin were inseparable, a future where your love story continued to unfold under the soft glow of the moonlight.

As you drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but smile. You had found love in the most unexpected place, in the arms of your best friend, under the dancing moonlight. And you knew, with a certainty that warmed your soul, that this was just the beginning.

[solxamber]

Hi i hope you're having a great day ! I'd like to request for the valentines event :3 Azul, Romantic, "My Sweetest Love" by The Cat's Whiskers (feat. Kazuma Mitchell) Thankyou so much for your hard work :D

PARADOX LIVE??? IN MY INBOX??? I'VE PRAYED FOR DAYS LIKE THESE

"My Sweetest Love" || Azul Ashengrotto

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: My Sweetest Love by Cat's Whiskers (ft. Kazuma Mitchell)

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 940

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: First Date, Friends to Lovers

Azul had imagined this night countless times. He had planned every detail, every possible outcome, rehearsed the words he would say and the way he would say them—because when it came to you, nothing could be left to chance.

You deserved only the best. And now, finally, you were his—at least for tonight.

He arrives at your door in a sleek, polished car, stepping out with a confidence that masks the rapid beat of his heart. The moment you step outside, dressed to the nines, with that unmistakable glint of amusement in your eyes, his breath catches.

He’s always thought you were resplendent. He’s known it for as long as he’s known you. But tonight, something feels different. More real. More his.

He opens the door for you, ever the gentleman, though the brush of your fingers as you settle inside nearly undoes his carefully constructed composure.

Azul has never liked feeling out of his depth. It is a sensation that reminds him of deep, crushing waters, of helplessness and uncertainty. But he has prepared for this. He has made sure everything is perfect.

A reservation at the finest restaurant, an exquisite menu, wine hand-selected for the occasion. A night designed for you.

Nothing less than perfection. Nothing less than the absolute best.

Because Azul knows you. He knows your tastes, your preferences, the subtle shifts in your expression when something truly pleases you. He wants to see that expression tonight, not because of some business deal, not because of some carefully crafted persuasion—no, this time, he wants it simply because he loves you.

And he does. He loves you more than he should, more than he ever intended to.

The realization settles in his chest like an anchor, but tonight, he allows himself to sink into it.

Just this once, he tells himself. Just tonight, he will not hold back.

He watches you across the candlelit table, the golden glow of the restaurant soft against your features. When you laugh, he can’t help but smile—real, unguarded, the kind that only comes when he’s with you.

His heart beats faster.

Everything about tonight feels unreal, like he’s trapped in a dream, one where you are his and there is no fear of waking up to a world where you are not.

He wonders if you can hear it. If you can see through him as easily as you always do.

By the time dinner is over, Azul has spent the entire evening ensuring your happiness, watching as you indulge in every luxury he can offer. But it is not enough. It will never be enough.

Because no matter how many resources he has, no matter how much power he wields, there is one thing he cannot control.

Your heart.

The night air is cool as you step outside, and without thinking, he shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders. The gesture is instinctive, natural—until your fingers brush against his as you adjust it, and suddenly, the breath leaves his lungs.

It takes everything in him not to pull you closer.

He suggests a quiet drive, something away from the crowds, the noise, the distractions. A night cruise, perhaps. The ocean, the stars, just the two of you.

You agree without hesitation.

Azul grips the steering wheel a little too tightly.

The drive is peaceful, the city lights flickering behind you as the road stretches ahead. When he glances at you, he sees the way your eyes soften, the way the reflection of the stars dance in your gaze.

And suddenly, he thinks—maybe this is enough.

Maybe, for tonight, he can allow himself this fantasy.

His fingers twitch against the wheel. Even after parking, he's clutching it like it's the only thing that's keeping him grounded. He wants to say it. Wants to tell you how much you mean to him, how every carefully laid plan, every luxurious choice tonight, was all for you.

But before he can gather the courage, you speak first.

“You really thought of everything, huh?” you muse, turning to him with that teasing lilt in your voice. “Should I be worried?”

Azul chuckles, but the sound is softer than usual. “Is it so unbelievable that I’d want to make you happy?”

You hum, considering. Then, with a smirk, you add, “Well, I do like seeing you like this. You should take me out more often.”

His heart stumbles over itself.

Azul hesitates for only a moment before he turns to you fully, his voice quieter now, more serious.

“Then let me.”

The words linger between you, unspoken questions hanging in the air. And then, slowly, he leans in—closer, closer—until he can see the way your lashes flutter, the way your breath catches just slightly.

And you don’t pull away.

You don’t move back, don’t laugh, don’t tease.

Instead, you close the distance.

And in that moment, just as your lips meet his, Azul swears—

Nothing will ever compare to you.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[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.”

[orphicmusings]

nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby

summary: the aftermath of what happened in skyhaven with pre-relationship sylus. hurt/comfort, exploring mc’s trauma.

A simultaneous sigh blooms from both of your lungs as the last wanderer crumbles into oblivion. The dust of its essence floated up to the polluted night sky of the N109 zone, painting artificial stars for the pair of victors below. Sylus lifts his gaze to you after he scrapes what’s left of the aftermath from his fingernails. He looks infuriatingly unaffected. You, however…

“You look like shit.” He remarks playfully, his eyes softening as he holds out his hand to help you up. You, like he anticipates, softly slap it away and get up on wobbly legs. “Fuck off.” You retort, still trying to catch your breath, and he simply smiles- striding next to you and subtly offering you his weight to lean on. You tried stubbornly standing on your own, but found yourself surrendering to his quiet help as you walked back to his bike.

“I’m not letting you ride back to Linkon like this.” He huffed, handing you his spare helmet, the one that is practically yours at this point. “Spend the night at the base.” Coming from him, it sounded more of a purring command than a gentle suggestion. “Get some beauty sleep.”

You had felt your muscles tense and your heart clenched as you were rapidly reminded of the last time you stayed over someone else’s place. The sound of doors locking, the pills, the confusion, the breathing man that you still mourned. Before you could refuse, though, a traitorous yawn escaped your throat. You knew he was right, that you were in no shape to travel home, and it’s not like he could exactly traipse into Linkon at the moment to accompany you. Besides, you’ve been fighting alongside him for a while now, and while he has little weaknesses, you’re willing to exploit them if need be. “Alright.” You breathe your surrender as you put the helmet on, bracing yourself for his driving skills.

Luke and Kieran greet you at the door like eager puppies. What happened, boss? Boss lady? Did ya kill something? How many? How bloody? Any guts?

Sylus held out a commanding hand and answered for you, thankfully. “Don’t ambush the poor girl, she’s beat up.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not beat up-”

“Come.” He holds his arm out for you, and you defeatedly take it, blindly following wherever he deigns to go.

“My head…” You groaned at the harsh overhead kitchen light being flicked on, rubbing your temples. “Does the big bad mob boss happen to have ibuprofen?”

“I’m not headache proof, believe it or not.” He exhaled a small chuckle. “Sit down.” He ushered you to the sofa across from the kitchen table. You obliged, but not because he told you to, of course. You were achey, dirty and exhausted. He held a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other, and you hesitated slightly as you let him give them to you. Turning the pills over in your fingers with a squint of your eyes, you looked for the label etched into the chalky red circles to identify that it was, in fact, ibuprofen.

Sylus noticed. Of course he noticed, he always does. “What?” He tilts his head, confused, but his tone still holds a hint of safe and familiar teasing. “You think I’m slipping you something?”

Swallowing back those nagging memories again along with the medicine, you force a chuckle. “Can never be sure with a lawless scoundrel like you, can I?”

He grinned, one of those rare smiles of his, toothy and reaching for his ruby eyes. “I may be a lawless scoundrel, sweetheart, but I’m not a monster.”

Not a monster, because a monster would do that.

Your best friend in the whole world would do that.

A deep breath left you, ready to be rid of this conversation topic. “Can I take a shower?”

His wide grin melted down to his signature smug smirk once again. “In which wing?”

Sylus’s living situation was fucking ridiculous. Four bathrooms with showers, three of them with tubs. For, what, three people? You shake your head in disbelief as he leads you to a guest room. Just as lavish as the rest of the place, the first thing that stares back at you is the neatly made king sized bed. A leather futon sits across it, right next to an enormous closet. Before you can gawk at any other evidence of luxury in the room, he shuts the door behind you. Your gaze instinctively flies to the knob, the phantom click still ringing in your ears. Your shoulders hunch, posture stilling as you find yourself waiting for it— but the door remains unlocked. If Sylus noticed, he gave you the grace of ignoring it and deciding he teased you enough for now. He opens the closet, unhooking a hanger from inside, draping a plush back bathrobe from it. “This should fit you.” You ran your hands along the fluffy material, unable to stop touching it. “And could I wash my clothes after-“

“I will.” He assures you with an interruption. “Leave them outside the door. I’ll find something laying around for you to change into so you don’t have to wait for them to dry.” You nodded, not expecting this level of consideration from him. It brings an irritating, fond heat to your cheeks. “Right. Thank you.”

“Just being a good host.” He smirks, opening the bathroom door. The bathroom was, of course, also fucking ridiculous. Dark marble walls, spotless black tile floors. A black Japanese bathtub next to the spacious shower stall. Woody, spicy potpourri wafted through the air from a bowl on the sink. He moves to shut the door, and you turn. “Um…” Swallow. “Is it okay to keep the door unlocked?” He frowned in confusion, and you quickly added, “It’s the steam. Too much in an enclosed space, I get a headache and I already have one, so I-“

“Okay.” He simply agrees, leaving you no room to over-explain and lie further. You’re almost taken aback with the ease he’s treating you with, but if you think about it, he’s always just accepted. He may question once or twice, but always nods his head without judgment.

You showered all of the blood and grime off your skin, but the reminder of Skyhaven clung under your fingernails no matter how much you scrubbed. It was something you had been pushing away from the forefront of your mind for weeks, almost a month now.

It’s not what you think it is, you remind yourself as you clench your fist, watching the hot water droplets roll off your knuckles. It’s Caleb. He was trying to protect me…

“No, we’re not doing this right now!” You mumbled aloud to yourself. Think, think, think of something else. You abruptly turned the valve to the wall, the water turning freezing cold. Your breathing seemed to slow down with the ice hitting your veins, and by the time you caught two chills, you stepped out and toweled off. The robe felt nice against your damp skin, the fuzz of it all absorbing the water droplets quickly. Opening the door, you see the clothes Sylus left for you in a neat pile: two items. A black satin button down with an “S” monogrammed into the breast pocket with golden embroidery, and grey basketball shorts. A dry snort found its way out of your nose. What a look.

You swam in them, of course, but in a cozy way. You folded the waistband of the shorts until they would aptly rest on your hips, and you didn’t mind the way the shirt’s sleeves hung past your fingers. The shirt smelled like him. Like his stupidly nice cologne, the familiar scent of spices and leather on the collar.

You let your exhausted body drive you to sleep.

The door is locked.

The eyes you used to seek comfort in refuse to soften.

You blindly take his sleeping pills.

The door is locked.

He pins you down on the sofa, next to a photo of the two of you in a frighteningly similar position, play-fighting and laughing.

He threatens to wrap a collar around your throat.

Your pleas fall on deaf ears.

The man in front of you is breathing, but he is long dead.

The door is locked.

Your heart drops you awake, out of breath and eyes watery.

You are not in your bed.

Where are you?

You push the covers off you before you could even remember, rushing to swing the door open. The force of the mahogany hitting the wall got the attention of your gracious host.

“Sweetie…” A deep voice rumbled up your spine. Sylus.

You’re with Sylus.

The pet name lacked all the familiar playful condescension, more of a brace, a concerned approach to a wild, wounded animal. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer at first, your clouded mind still assessing the situation. Your shoulders relax a fraction as you register your surroundings, Sylus’s base. You spent the night here after a hunt. You’re with Sylus, you want to be here, and the door was unlocked. Your grip on the doorknob loosens. Sylus slowly comes out from behind you and into your field of vision. “Sit.” He ushers you back into the room, sitting on the bed and patting the silk sheets. You slowly obey, perching on the bed with your knees hugged to your chest. A gentle expression paints his face, something you could’ve sworn you’ve never seen before. “I’m going to ask again.” He urges softly, slowly, the brisk command his tone usually carried melted away.

You can lie to anyone in your life. You could have said it was a bug in your blankets. A noise, he thought of an intruder. Even a nightmare about something else. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man in front of you who looks worried for the first time you’ve seen it. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man who seems to know your very soul despite only knowing you for a handful of months.

You don’t even try, clenching your fists so tight you’re sure your fingernails would draw blood out of the meat of your palm.

“I can’t tell you…” You murmured, holding back the flood. “Because if I do, it becomes real.”

He frowned, his head tilting to the side slightly. He pushed a soft smile out of the corner of his mouth. “I won’t tell reality if you won’t, sweetheart.”

You exhaled out of your nose shortly, an amused puff of air followed by a sniffle. “No, I’m…it’s serious.”

“I know.” He sat back on his elbows, blanketing the atmosphere with a sense of leisure and ease. That was something you had to admit he was good at. “I’ve noticed.”

You turn to him. “What?”

“You checked the pills I gave you.” He started. “I thought that was a one off, maybe you being extra careful, but then you announced you were gonna shower with the door unlocked-“

You scoffed shakily. “Okay, I didn’t announce-“

“The point is…” He interrupted. “You’ve been…off tonight.”

You don’t know how to answer. You know that at this point, if you open your mouth, the tears will start free falling.

“You don’t have to explain.” Fuck him for always reading your mind. “But you just need to tell me you’re alright. No guest feels unsafe under this roof.”

“It’s not you.” You assure shakily, resting your chin on your knees. “It’s…a long story.”

He nodded, accepting again. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Um…” You suck in a breath through your nose. Here we go. The tube of toothpaste is squeezed. Your voice is slow, measured as you continue. “Remember about three weeks ago I went to Skyhaven?”

You began to unload. From the top. He knew of the explosion, the one you wrongfully blamed him for. The reminder of that moment brings a flash of mortified heat to your cheeks, expecting him to bring it up. You pause for it, the tease, the coy ‘Yes, kitten, I’m so bad,’ but it doesn’t come. His eyes just pave a delicate path down your face, waiting for you to continue. You watch them widen slightly when you tell him your childhood best friend survived, and that you found him up there. Your words shake and choke in your throat when you get to the next part, tears pricking the back of your eyes. You squeeze them shut, and feel a feather-light weight on your hand; his covering yours. A soft affirmation, a silent I’ve got you. The action is so tender, it pushes even more tears to your waterline. You purse your trembling lips at the gentleness of it all, the opposite of the force you two exuded over one another when you first met. You shoot him point blank in the chest, and he holds your hand like it’s precious gold.

“Sweetie…” He looks at you as if the sight of your face twisted in tears makes him violently ache. “Don’t cry.”

Which of course, makes you cry more. He closes the distance between you within a second, pulling you into his side. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He whispers gently, rubbing his thumb over your bare shoulder, the collar of his shirt hanging off of you. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

It takes a few minutes to gather the words, because how exactly do you say, I think my best friend held me hostage in his home and slipped me pills but I think it’s not really him based on zero evidence?

His thumb stopped its soothing rhythm. “He what?”

You cringe and stammer. You feel caught, for some irrational reason. “I-I know what it sounds like, but-”

“No.” He shook his head, his tone still soft but firm. “No, you don’t have to protect him.” He has to bite back the snarl in his voice, fight to keep his words gentle. “Not after he does this…” He wipes a tear from your cheek, his fingers lingering on the skin for a moment. “Not after he does this to you.” His voice shakes alongside yours, for different reasons. “You don’t need to tell me anything more, but you don’t protect him, either.”

You look up at him, drawing in a deep breath. It makes you realize that’s exactly what you’ve been doing all this time, refusing to acknowledge it. While he was ruining you, you were protecting his memory. At the same time, though, what you know about the professor and Caleb’s abnormal behavior flipping like a switch makes you doubt it was fully him that did this to you. Even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you so deeply that you’re crying into the arms of the person you’d least expect. You watch his fists clench. “He didn’t…” A hesitation. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You vehemently shake your head and you could hear a small breath of relief. “It wasn’t like that.” You go to explain again, to defend him, but stop yourself. “It was so scary.” He breathes a deep sigh, tightening his arms around you.

“I know.” He whispers. “I know, sweet girl, but you were brave.”

You scoff tearfully. “No I wasn’t.”

“You’re here.” He pointed out, brushing his hand through your hair. “Not there. I know your prowess firsthand.”

A pathetic half-laugh exits your chest, followed by more sobs. He holds you even tighter as you cling to his grounding familiarity. He does that for as long as you need it, waiting patiently as he assures you you did the right thing, that you’re safe with him, that he could walk into Linkon and take you home right now, bounty be damned; whatever it is you need to hear.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers into your hair. Your head is atop his chest, laying down now. Your eyes are closed, and he can tell you’ve cried yourself to sleep. “Always have. Always will.”

When your breaths turn steady, he moves slightly to get his phone from his pocket. One hand on your back, the other on the keyboard, he types a message to Luke and Kieran.

Farspace Fleet Colonel. Lives in Skyhaven. Name’s caleb. Need any and all information there is to know ASAP.

Another message.

Boss Lady will not let you hurt him, as much as I am dreaming the different ways I could make him hurt right now. Do not go after him. Just watch.

Two pairs of thumbs up from the twins follow the message, not needing any further instruction or explanation. He locks his phone and leans his head against the pillow, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. It’s quiet now, the only sound surrounding him are your soft breaths and Mephisto’s caws into the night as he suddenly takes a trip up north.

[whosashan]

Console me

Part 2 of Sylus and Rafayel's section in "Who do you love?"

A/N: You asked, and here it is! Hope you enjoy! 💕

Rafayel

You didn’t know how much time had passed since you last spoke to Rafayel.

But the feeling of betrayal hadn’t faded. Not even a little.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try.

Your phone had been flooded with calls, texts, voice messages—some pleading, some poetic, others just plain ridiculous. Then came the flowers, bouquets upon bouquets piling up at your doorstep until your apartment smelled like an entire garden.

And then, of course, the billboard.

"Talk to me, cutie. I'm so sorry :("

It sat right outside your building, massive and utterly impossible to ignore.

You weren’t sure if you were amused or infuriated.

And yet, through all of that, he hadn’t shown up at your door. Not once. Rafayel, for all his dramatics, knew you. Knew that no amount of begging or extravagant gestures would work if you weren’t ready.

But he was waiting.

And maybe, deep down, you had been waiting too.

Then came the call from Thomas.

At first, you assumed Rafayel had bribed him into getting you to talk. Wouldn’t have been the first time. But there was something in Thomas’s voice—something that unsettled you.

"I don’t want to get involved in whatever mess this is, but I’m afraid it’s starting to affect my job."

That caught your attention.

"How?"

There was a pause. Then, a sigh.

"Just come here and see for yourself."

And then the call ended.

You scoffed. Classic.

And yet, despite your irritation, concern gnawed at you. Because no matter what had happened—no matter how much Rafayel had hurt you—you loved him. That much, at least, was certain.

Even if sometimes, you weren’t sure if his heart was truly yours.

—

The moment you stepped into the studio, you were hit with one immediate thought.

What the actual hell?

The place looked like it had been ransacked.

Not the usual artistic chaos Rafayel thrived in—no, this was different.

There was sand. Everywhere.

The paint on the walls had cracked, the curtains were ripped, and for some ungodly reason, seashells were scattered across the floor.

You weren’t even near a beach.

Your eyes finally landed on him.

Rafayel was seated in front of a massive, untouched canvas. His usual effortless grace was gone—his shoulders hunched slightly, his hands limp against his lap. The ever-present glint of mischief in his blue-pink eyes had dulled.

And yet, when you spoke, his name slipping past your lips softer than you intended—

"Rafayel."

—he didn’t look at you right away.

You weren’t sure if he was ignoring you or just too lost in his own world to register your presence.

So, you moved closer, crouching beside him.

Finally, his gaze shifted to yours.

It was subtle, but you saw it—the flicker of relief. The weight of exhaustion. The quiet kind of hurt that he rarely let anyone see.

But he stayed silent.

You sighed, reaching for his hand, fingers brushing against his knuckles.

"You're a big, big dummy, fishie."

His lips quirked—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

"Are you here to scold me, or finally confess that you can’t live without me?" His voice was light, teasing, but you heard the tension beneath it. The attempt to mask his uncertainty.

"How about we go to the beach?"

That made him pause.

His brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face—until realization hit.

The beach. Your place. Where everything had begun. Where words always came easier, where wounds found ways to heal.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were offering him this. Like he knew he didn’t deserve it.

And yet, he still took your hand.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers laced through yours before he pulled you forward—abruptly, effortlessly, entirely into his embrace.

His arms tightened around you, his grip firm, possessive, as though making sure you were real. That you were here.

Then, lips brushing against your temple, voice barely above a whisper—

"Don’t leave me alone again… please."

You inhaled sharply.

Rafayel was a lot of things—dramatic, infuriating.

But right now, he wasn’t playing.

You hesitated for only a second before resting your forehead against his shoulder.

"Don’t give me a reason to."

Sylus

It had been a week—a full week without contacting your lover.

Guilt gnawed at you, weaving itself between regret and hurt, settling heavy in your chest.

This was the longest you had ever been apart since the beginning of your relationship. It felt unnatural, wrong. Life without him was something you didn’t want to adjust to.

And yet, your pride held you back.

You paced your room, phone clutched in your hand, staring at the messages you had typed out but never sent.

"I miss you." "Can we talk?" "Why did you have to hurt me this badly?" "Are you still waiting for me?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Sylus had reached out, but only in the quiet, thoughtful way that was so distinctly him.

A small, carefully folded letter, delivered by Mephisto.

"Whatever you decide to do, I'll always be here for you. My heart is yours, darling. —Sylus"

Your grip on the letter tightened. It made your heart ache, made doubt creep in.

Had you overreacted?

Before you could dwell on it further, a sudden knock on the door shattered your thoughts.

You hesitated before moving toward it, unsure what you were hoping for.

And then, you opened it.

There he was—your lover, standing before you, looking slightly disheveled, not quite himself. In his hands, a bouquet of your favorite flowers, petals trembling slightly from his grip.

His confidence, usually unwavering, was laced with hesitation.

"I know I said I’d wait for you," he murmured, voice softer than usual. "I just... missed you. I needed to see you."

Your heart pounded.

For a moment, you only stared at him, absorbing the sight of the man you had longed for. And then—

You launched yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist.

He let out a startled breath, arms instinctively locking around you, steadying you against him.

Then, you grinned against his skin, voice muffled but certain.

"Let’s never fight again, okay?"

[sativariddle]

EVERYTHING YOU WANTED. ꒰ m.r ꒱

ㅤ────── ❝ if you don't, someone else will. ❞

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ navigation.

SUMMARY: engaged to the man of your dreams, life seems perfect: until a letter informs you of an old friend’s passing. you’re pulled back into a world you thought you’d left behind. old relationships and emotions resurface, reminding you that some pasts are impossible to lock away.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with. like, do you wanna get slutty or nottt?!

WARNINGS: mentions of death and grief, kissing, very angsty, read at your own risk or whatever.

YOU CRACK ONE EYE open from bed, groaning as a cupboard slams shut. there’s a heavy pause. then the unmistakable sound of something metal hitting the floor. “jesus christ,” you mumble into your pillow.

“i’m fine!” lewis calls from the kitchen, voice way too perky for this ungodly hour.

you drag yourself out of bed, hair a complete disaster, and shuffle towards the crime scene. when you round the corner, there he is — your husband, standing in front of the stove in plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in a way that’s far too attractive for someone who is currently holding a spatula like it’s a medieval sword.

“what,” you say, voice still raspy, “are you doing?”

lewis turns around dramatically, like he’s in a cooking show. “i’m making breakfast. for you. because i am simply the best husband in the world.” you glance at the counter, where there’s already a mess of cracked eggshells, flour, and what appears to be… half an avocado just idling there for absolutely no reason.

“you’re making…?”

“pancakes,” he announces proudly. then, like an afterthought: “with eggs. and… maybe toast.”

your eyes narrow. “do you even know how to make pancakes?”

he waves the spatula like a wand. “babe, it’s just flour and other stuff. i’ve got this.”

you watch him for a long moment as he carefully pours batter into the pan — except he pours way too much, and now there’s this sad blob that’s sizzling aggressively. the whole kitchen smells faintly like something burning.

“you want me to help?” you offer, trying not to smile.

lewis’s eyes flick up, full of betrayal. “absolutely not. this is my romantic gesture. sit down. look pretty. maybe stir some coffee if you must.”

you snort but obey, sitting at the kitchen table in his hoodie like a little gremlin, watching him absolutely manhandle breakfast. he’s got that determined little furrow between his brows, tongue poking out slightly as he flips the world’s ugliest pancake.

every five minutes, he glances back at you like a labrador waiting for approval.

“that’s… a pancake shaped object,” you comment.

“it’s rustic,” he deadpans.

you were halfway through a reply: tongue already poised to add something witty to the joke - when your eyes snagged on a flicker of movement outside the window.

an owl.

not just any owl — that owl.

its dark feathers rippled under the soft morning light, talons gripping the ledge like it had never left. your heart stumbled in your chest, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. for a moment, you convinced yourself you were seeing things — that the ghost of five years ago had clawed its way into your morning, taunting you for daring to forget.

you blinked. once. twice. the owl remained, unbothered and unnervingly familiar.

the last time you’d seen that creature was during your final year at hogwarts — when the group still existed, before you’d walked away from everything that tied you to them. before you buried yourself in a different life, one where ghosts didn’t follow.

“babe?”

lewis’s voice tugged at your ears, distant and warm as he plated pancakes, oblivious to the storm brewing behind your ribs.

you ignored him, feet carrying you to the window as if something was pulling you there. the owl cocked its head, sharp amber eyes pinning you in place. its beak was clamped tightly around a letter, the wax seal pressed firmly at the edge — that same familiar stamp, unbroken, untouched by time.

you reached out slowly, fingertips brushing against the parchment as if it might disappear at any moment.

“long time, no see,” you muttered under your breath, the words half sarcastic, half breathless. the owl let out a low, hollow hoot, almost as if it was answering.

the letter was heavier than you remembered - or maybe that was just the weight pressing down on your chest. nostalgia curled through your lungs, thick and unwelcome, making it harder to breathe.

you glanced down at the seal — dark wax, pressed with the same seal that once felt familiar to you.

your stomach twisted. the ache hit sharp, right beneath your ribs, the kind of ache you thought you’d buried years ago. but here it was; clawing its way back up, reminding you that time doesn’t heal all wounds. it just hides them beneath layers of distance and denial.

“what’s that?” lewis asked again, voice softer now, sensing the shift in the air. you didn’t answer. your nails dug into the edge of the parchment, stomach knotting tighter as the memories stirred — laughter under candlelit corridors, cigarette smoke curling through dark corners, whispered secrets at the edge of forbidden forests.

you’d spent five years pretending that version of yourself was long gone. but now… she was right there — just beneath your skin, waiting.

with one final breath, you broke the seal.

─────────────

TO YOU,

i would normally start this with something pleasant, but we both know neither of us has ever been the sentimental type - or at least, not outwardly. five years have passed and i won’t waste breath pretending we haven’t noticed your absence. maybe you thought leaving would save you from the ghosts of everything you were. or maybe you thought we wouldn’t care.

but enzo is dead.

they’re holding a funeral - his funeral - this friday at the old estate. i’ve already sent owls to theo, draco, blaise… and mattheo. none of us are exactly fond of each other these days, but that doesn’t matter now, does it? we were his family - messy, destructive, and half fucking mad - but still his family.

and you were one of us, whether you like it or not. it’s only fair that you come. you owe him that much. you owe us that much.

we’ll be there, standing in black, pretending not to look at each other across the room like strangers. but we both know the second you walk through those doors, the past will cling to you like smoke. you can try to ignore it - i expect you to, honestly.

i don’t know what you’re so afraid of.

maybe it’s him. maybe it’s all of us. maybe it’s the version of yourself you left behind.

come anyway.

PANSY.

P.S. don’t wear something ridiculous. you always had the worst taste.

─────────────

the parchment unfolded beneath your shaking fingers, the familiar handwriting crawling across the page like it had been plucked straight from a different lifetime. your eyes scanned the words - once, twice - but they blurred at the edges, as if your mind refused to fully process them. every word felt heavier than the last, dragging you down into a place you swore you’d never go back to.

lorenzo is dead.

your best friend.

all jokes and loud laughter, all crooked grins with teeth showing — gone. the words rattled in your head, looping over and over until they didn’t feel like words anymore: just static. just noise.

it didn’t feel real. none of this did. the feeling coursing through your chest, tightening around your lungs; it was unfamiliar, sharp and suffocating all at once. you kept waiting for the punchline, for someone to jump out from behind the curtain and tell you it was all one elaborate, sick joke.

because enzo couldn’t be gone.

he was the loudest of all of you - the heartbeat in every room, the glue that held together a group built on sharp edges and bad habits. the one who made the worst days bearable, just by flashing that stupid, toothy grin and saying something so wildly inappropriate it made you laugh even when you didn’t want to.

you squeezed your eyes shut, but all you could see was him — head thrown back in laughter, muttering some smart remark under his breath. always alive. always… there.

and now he wasn’t.

your chest ached like something inside you was folding in on itself, like if you let yourself feel it fully - if you let the grief crack through the surface - you’d never be able to piece yourself back together again. it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. you were supposed to have more time - even if you’d wasted the last five years pretending you didn’t need any of them.

the letter crumpled slightly in your grip, but you couldn’t let it go — couldn’t face the truth scrawled in pansy’s sharp handwriting.

it was real.

enzo is gone.

and you’d never even said goodbye.

the world tilted slightly, the edges of the kitchen softening into a haze. for a second, all you could hear was the soft hum of the stove behind you - the smell of burnt pancakes clinging stubbornly to the air - but none of it felt real.

it was as if the letter had split the morning clean in two. there was the life you had been living before - warm, quiet, full of safe little routines. and then there was this - the echo of a life you’d buried clawing its way back through every line scrawled on the page.

you hadn’t even realized you were gripping the letter too tightly until lewis’s voice broke through the fog.

“hey… love?”

his hand brushed lightly over your lower back, fingers barely there — like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. that small gesture made something snap deep inside your chest. you let out a sharp, uneven breath and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to hold it all in - but it was too much. the grief, the guilt, the years of distance you’d carved between yourself and the people who once were everything to you.

“lorenzo’s gone,” you whispered, voice breaking at the edges. saying it out loud made it real - far too fucking real.

lewis froze behind you. you didn’t have to explain who lorenzo berkshire was — not fully. you’d told him little pieces over the years, careful not to paint the full picture. he knew there had been a group — friends who felt more like found family. he knew there had been fights and secrets, nights spent tangled in something dark and electric. he knew there had been him.

what he didn’t know - what you’d never told him - was how much you’d left behind. how much of yourself you’d buried along with those memories “shit…” he breathed, his hand pressing a little firmer against your back.

you nodded, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths as your eyes stayed locked on the letter. the words blurred again — pansy’s sharp, familiar handwriting pressing into your skull. lorenzo. dead. the funeral. the names.

mattheo.

it felt like the whole world was shifting beneath your feet — pulling you back into a place you thought you’d outrun.

“hey,” lewis murmured, stepping closer until his chest was flush against your back. his arms slowly circled around your waist, grounding you before you spiraled any further. he rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, voice steady in your ear. “i’m right here… i’m not going anywhere.”

your throat clenched painfully.

“i can’t -“ the words splintered before they could fully form. you didn’t even know what you were trying to say. you couldn’t face them. you couldn’t face him. you couldn’t walk into that funeral and let all those memories unravel everything you’d built here - this quiet, safe little life.

lewis squeezed you tighter, his thumbs rubbing small, steady circles over your hips.

“you can.” his voice was quiet but certain, like he was trying to press the truth into your bones. “and if you can’t… i’ll be there. every step, alright?”

you wanted to argue — wanted to tell him he didn’t understand, that there were pieces of yourself buried in that world he’d never seen. but the words wouldn’t come. instead, you just leaned back into his chest, letting his warmth steady the shaking in your body. for a long moment, neither of you spoke — the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant rustle of the owl still perched on the windowsill.

you swallowed hard, eyes still locked on the letter in your hand.

you hated knowing.

you hated pansy for writing it.

you hated her even more for being right.

you owed enzo this. you owed all of them this - even if it ripped you apart. finally, with a deep, trembling breath, you whispered:

“... i’m going,” you sniffled. “to his funeral.” his funeral. the taste of those words on your lips felt wrong, bitter, something you never wanted to say. you had always imagined saying something else - his wedding day, his firstborn daughter. but now, all that remained were these haunting words, the ones you never wanted to speak.

lewis’s arms tightened around you, like he’d known all along you’d say that. “and i’ll be right there,” he murmured into your hair. “every step.”

you let lewis’s whisper against your ear, his breath warm and familiar. you melted into him, surrendering to the weight of time. the memories of five years ago slipped through the cracks of your mind, wrapping around you like something both tender and cruel. you let yourself drown in them, in the distant echoes of a life where you once felt so vividly alive.

one of your most cherished memories was the summer sleepovers your group of friends held every year. it was the summer before your final year at hogwarts - a time when your grades were thriving, and you and mattheo were the happiest you’d ever been. life, for once, felt effortlessly good: as if the world had finally aligned in your favor.

you were in berkshire manor — tucked into the heart of the living room where the air always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering orange light across half empty bottles and carelessly discarded shoes. someone’s old vinyl crackled from the record player in the corner — something slow and lazy, the kind of music enzo always insisted “set the mood” even though no one ever paid attention.

enzo was sprawled out on the rug, one arm folded behind his head, grinning like he’d just thought of something particularly brilliant. he was always at the center of it all; the sun everyone else orbited around.

“i’m telling you lot,” he announced to the ceiling, waving an empty glass in the air. “if i had half a mind - which i do, thank you very much, theo — i’d run away. disappear. start a pub on some island where they don’t give a shit about bloodlines or dark families or any of the bollocks our parents go on about.”

theo, half curled in one of the armchairs, snorted lazily. “you? run a pub? you can barely run a bath without setting something on fire.”

lorenzo shot up dramatically, clutching his chest. “that’s incredibly funny coming from the bloke who accidentally set snape’s robes alight twice.”

a laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to stifle the sound. theo muttered something half heartedly through the blunt hanging between his fingers, smoke curling lazily from his mouth.

the air was foggy — hazy clouds clinging to the room, casting everything in a slow, golden blur. from the corner, blaise smirked, legs kicked up on the coffee table, though the weight of sleep was dragging him under too much to join in properly.

pansy chuckled low and lazy, wrapped head to toe in a blanket like a cocoon, her dark hair spilling over malfoy’s shoulder. he sat beside her, low red eyes flickering toward theo, two fingers lifting in a silent gesture to pass the blunt, the ember glowing faintly through the heavy fog.

you were tucked under one of the thicker blankets with mattheo — hidden in the corner, backs pressed against the wall. his arm was lazily draped around your waist, fingers tracing soft, aimless patterns over the strip of skin between your jumper and your waistband.

he always did that. like he couldn’t touch you without leaving something behind, something invisible and constant.

“you’d hate island life,” you whispered, voice low so only he could hear.

mattheo’s breath was warm against your ear, lips curving into a smirk. “would not.”

“you’d get bored within a week. start brooding. pissing off the locals.”

he hummed low, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “maybe you’d keep me busy.”

you felt your cheeks flush, biting back a smile as you shoved your elbow lightly into his ribs. he only chuckled - that deep, low sound that always made your stomach flip and thighs clench.

he lifted the blanket over your heads as he leaned in closer, fingers curling around your waist like he was anchoring you to him. just like that; everything else blurred - enzo’s monologue, theo’s grumbling, the crackle of the fire - until it was just him. just the rhythm of his breath against your neck, the heat of his body pressed against yours.

he kissed you slow - lazy, like he had all the time in the world. his lips moved softly against yours, fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. you melted into him without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

it felt safe, like the rest of the world couldn’t reach either of you here. the complicated, messy thing between you only ever made sense in moments like this - wrapped in quiet, hazy stillness. his lips moved against yours in a slow, lazy rhythm, the kind of kiss that tasted like warmth and smoke, leaving you dizzy. his tongue traced against yours, unhurried, pulling soft sighs from the back of your throat.

fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp as his hands dragged down your waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your shirt. the faint crackle of music played low in the background, melting into the thick air around you.

“you two are disgusting, by the way,” lorenzo called out, not even bothering to open his eyes. you froze against mattheo’s mouth, heat prickling up your neck.

mattheo just smirked against your lips, completely unbothered. “don’t be jealous, berkshire.”

“jealous? please.” enzo cracked one eye open, grinning wider. “i’m just wondering if you lot even remember there are other people in this room — or if you’ve finally decided to crawl under that blanket and shag like rabbits.”

“christ, shut up,” theo muttered, flicking ash toward the fireplace without looking.

lorenzo grinned wider. “i think it’s sweet. young love and all that shit.”

“you don’t even know what love is, enzo,” you shot back, trying to smother the smile tugging at your mouth. “oh, i know exactly what love is.” he folded both arms dramatically behind his head again, voice drawling. “it’s when two people hate each other slightly less than they hate everyone else. and if they’re lucky, they occasionally get a snog out of it.”

blaise snorted from his spot in the corner, barely lifting his head. theo rolled his eyes, flicking ash into a tray with a bored huff. draco only shrugged - a silent, lazy agreement. and pansy… well, she looked completely asleep, wrapped in her blanket like she hadn’t heard a word.

mattheo’s fingers tightened just slightly on your waist, his breath brushing warm against your ear.

“sounds about right.”

you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze - dark brown eyes half lidded and lazy, like he could stay right there forever. your chest ached - but in the soft, tender way that made you want to bottle the moment and keep it somewhere safe.

you didn’t know then how short it all was - how these nights would burn out faster than any of you could hold onto them.

lorenzo was still grinning - alive and brilliant and whole. theo was still grumpy and half listening, and blaise was still half asleep. draco and pansy were both completely high and drunk, lost in their own hazy minds. mattheo was still pressed against you under the blankets, warm and steady, like he’d never be anything else.

and you were still just you.

untouched by years of distance and regret.

unburdened by everything you would eventually leave behind.

it hurt.

it hurt more than anything had in years.

you blinked hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm. the ghost of mattheo’s fingers still burned on your waist — enzo’s laughter faintly echoing at the edges of your mind. pansy’s sharp jokes, draco’s familiar scowls, theodore’s teasing banter, and blaise’s endless stories of his mother’s many husbands lingered like fragments of a dream you weren’t ready to let go of.

you hadn’t thought about them in so long.

you hadn’t let yourself.

but now they were crawling back through the cracks - warm, golden memories that tasted like smoke and stolen kisses, wrapped in the ache of everything you’d run from.

lorenzo was gone.

mattheo was still out there somewhere.

pansy had begged you to come.

draco was likely the man his father always wanted him to become.

theodore was probably drowning his grief at the bottom of a glass.

blaise had likely already told his mother everything.

and whether you were ready or not - they were all waiting for you to come back.

THE FUNERAL WAS bitterly cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones and made every breath feel heavier. misery hung in the air - thick, suffocating - a kind of grief you hadn’t realized could exist until now. lewis stood close beside you, his palm resting gently against the small of your back; silent reassurance. but the poundage in your chest pressed harder with each passing second, forcing the words from your throat.

“i just… need a little space to breathe.”

his hand lingered for a moment before falling away, his soft nod barely visible through the blur clouding your vision.

the funeral felt heavier than death itself - like the despair had wrapped around every single person present, suffocating in the damp air. the sky hung low, pressed tightly against the earth, thick clouds blotting out any warmth the sun might have offered. the sharp scent of rain lingered in the grass, clinging to your shoes with each step along the muddy path.

you stood at the edge of the crowd, fingers buried deep into the lining of your coat pockets, the fabric damp against your skin. the letter from pansy still burned somewhere in the depths of your bag — its familiar wax seal crumpled from the countless times you’d opened it and folded it back up again, trying to convince yourself not to come.

the years stretched between you and the rest of them — five long, years since you’d last seen any of their faces. time had chipped away at the sharp edges of those memories.

but now, standing here with the cold biting at your skin and the sound of muffled sobs filling the heavy air, it all came rushing back - every laugh, every cigarette shared beneath the moonlight, every promise whispered under blankets.

enzo should have been here.

you couldn’t even picture him like this - stiff and lifeless in a coffin buried beneath the earth. he had always been so alive, the kind of person who filled every room he walked into without even trying. the idea of him being reduced to something cold and still made your stomach turn painfully.

pansy spotted you first - her dark hair tucked into a neat bun, black lace gloves covering her trembling fingers. her arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you into her chest without a word, like she was trying to glue you back into the group by sheer force alone.

“you came,” she whispered, voice breaking on the words.

“i didn’t know if i should,” you admitted, throat thick. pansy’s grip only tightened. “you were always one of us.”

one of them.

family.

you didn’t realize how much you’d missed that feeling until it settled back into your chest - the aching, tangled mess of loyalty and resentment and love that had bound all of you together once.

theo stood off to the side, hidden in the shadows, leaning against a weathered tombstone. a cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers, wisps of smoke curling through the cold air. the same scowl carved into his face, blue eyes flicking toward you every few seconds - like he was waiting, though for what, you couldn’t quite tell.

beside him, draco stood stiff and silent, his grey eyes fixed on the fresh patch of earth where lorenzo had been buried. his gaze was distant, unfocused - as if if he stared hard enough, he could convince himself none of this was real.

blaise nodded to you from a distance — small, unreadable smirk playing at his lips like he knew exactly how much this was hurting you and was silently daring you to show it.

none of them had really changed.

except… they had.

the significance of time clung to all of them in subtle ways - a little more grey in theo’s hair, heavier shadows beneath pansy’s eyes, the way blaise’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. draco didn’t flaunter his wealth.

you could feel it too — like you’d walked back into some forgotten version of yourself, stitched together from old regrets and lingering heartache.

but it wasn’t until you saw him - until your eyes finally found him - that the ground seemed to tilt beneath your feet entirely. your stomach gave that all too familiar flip; the same one that always stirred whenever your eyes landed on him.

mattheo stood beneath the gnarled branches of an old oak tree, hidden in the shadows. his joint was pinched loosely between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the cold air. he looked… older - face carved a little sharper, too many sleepless nights carved into the dark circles beneath his eyes. his hair was longer, the curls brushing against the collar of his black coat — the same coat he’d always worn during winters at hogwarts, patched at the elbows from years of wear.

he hadn’t noticed you yet - or maybe he had and was simply giving you the space to breathe before he shattered whatever fragile resolve you’d built up on the way here.

you almost didn’t go to him.

almost.

you had known it then, just as painfully as you knew it now — the undeniable pull buried deep within you, interlaced into your very being. your body recognized him before your mind could catch up, heart stuttering in its old, familiar rhythm. it was instinctive, this ache — the way your fingertips twitched, yearning to close the distance. no matter how much time had passed, some part of you was still reaching for him, as if it had never truly learned how to stop.

your feet carried you across the damp grass before you could stop them, until you were standing close enough to catch the faint scent of smoke and something distinctly mattheo - that mix of cheap cologne and joints that never quite faded from your memory.

the moment his eyes met yours, everything seemed to freeze. he paused, mouth parting slightly, the faintest breath escaping him. one hand tucked into his pocket, the other still holding the joint, forgotten for a second as the weight of the years between you crashed into him. he hadn’t seen you in over five years - not since that last day at hogwarts, when he’d shattered everything by telling you he wasn’t good enough, that you deserved better, and you’d run away, heartbroken.

now, in the steady fall of rain, your soft skin glistened with droplets, blending with the tears that welled up in your eyes. it was as though time rewound for him, bringing him back to that exact moment when he let you go. and in his gaze, you saw the same regret, the same heartache - as if, in that instant, he felt the pain he caused you all over again.

he flicked the joint away at the last second, crushing it beneath his boot with the same lazy carelessness that had always driven you mad.

“i wasn’t sure you’d come.”

his voice was rougher than you remembered - lower, like it had been scraped against too many bad habits and sleepless nights.

you swallowed hard, hugging your arms tighter around yourself.

“neither was i.”

his eyes flicked down - catching the glint of the ring on your finger almost immediately. you catched the way his jaw clenched, how quickly he masked whatever flicker of pain flashed through his eyes.

“engaged, huh?”

you huffed out a quiet, breathless laugh, the sound catching painfully in your chest.

“yeah…”

mattheo’s mouth quirked into something that barely passed as a smile. “bet he’s a real fucking gentleman.”

“he is.” you defend.

a small silence stretched between you - the kind of silence that made your throat ache. mattheo’s eyes stayed fixed on the distance, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat.

“i’m glad,” he said quietly. “you deserve that.”

the words cracked something open inside of you - something you’d buried so deep you hadn’t even realized it was still there. you stared at him, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.

the memory remained somewhere deep - one of those soft, half forgotten moments you never realized would matter until years later. the night air had been warm, you and mattheo had snuck out to the edge of the black lake, away from the others, the moonlight casting long shadows against the rippling water.

you were lying on your backs in the grass, shoulder to shoulder. the world felt heavy with quiet — the kind of quiet that only existed when everything was about to change. his curls were messy, sticking to his forehead from the leftover heat of the day, and his brown eyes flicked toward you every few moments, like he was waiting for you to break the silence.

“i just want something… simple,” you’d murmured eventually, your voice barely louder than the rustling leaves. “a small place somewhere. warm, with those big windows that let the light in. books everywhere. and… someone who makes it feel like home.”

mattheo had chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough. “simple, huh? doesn’t really fit you.”

you’d nudged him with your elbow, half smiling. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he smirked, flicking rocks into the grass. “you’re not made for small, quiet things.” but then his voice softened, more serious. “but i get it. i’d want that too… with you.” the way he’d said it had made your heart ache - like it was the easiest thing in the world to promise, even if you both knew deep down life would never be that kind to either of you.

you remembered the way his fingers had brushed against yours in the dark - so unbelievably light you almost thought you’d imagined it. the way he’d looked at you like he wanted to believe in that future, even if neither of you had the courage to say it out loud.

you smiled so wide, your teeth glinting in the soft light, and the sight of it made his own smile break free - warm and unguarded, like a hidden treasure finally found. the air between you seemed to hum with electricity as you slowly lifted yourself off the grass, your body leaning toward him, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. your hair cascaded over your left shoulder, falling in soft curls that framed your face.

as you tilted your head, your mouth found his, and the world around you blurred. the kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like both of you were savoring this moment, letting it stretch out, but it quickly deepened, a soft sigh escaping you as your body leaned closer.

his hands found their way to the grass beside him, and with a quiet grunt, mattheo shifted, his elbows propping him up, trying to land himself as he melted into the kiss. his lips moved against yours with an affection that made your heart race.

you pulled away, breathless, the soft sound of your lips disconnecting. before you could even catch your breath, mattheo leaned back in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, then another, and a third, each one light and playful. you couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound bubbling up as you playfully pushed his head away, a smile tugging at your lips.

no matter how many times you and mattheo touched, it always made your heart race and left you breathless, like you were falling for him all over again. it was as if you were a kid again, giddy with excitement, every little touch making your tummy flutter with little butterflies.

you’d fallen asleep against his shoulder that night, wrapped in the illusion that maybe, somehow, the universe would give you both something soft — something good.

thought, years later, you’d find yourself in that exact place you talked about - warm sunlight spilling through wide windows, books lining every corner, with lewis’s arms wrapped around you like home. the future you’d whispered about under the stars had found its way to you - just with someone else.

“you don’t have to say that.”

his eyes flicked toward you then — burning in that way they always had when he was trying to hide everything he couldn’t quite bring himself to say out loud.

“yeah… i do.”

you didn’t realize how badly you’d needed to hear those words - how they’d been sitting heavy in your chest for years, waiting to be spoken. “i’m sorry,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “for what happened back then… for how i ended things.”

your breath caught painfully in your throat. he dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“i got so caught up in everything - in what people said about us. how i wasn’t good enough for you. how you’d be better off without me.” his jaw clenched hard, eyes flicking away again.

“i let them get to me.”

you swallowed hard, heart hammering painfully beneath your ribs. “you were always enough for me.”

for a second, neither of you moved - the world narrowing down to the space between your bodies, to the ache humming beneath your skin. then mattheo’s mouth curved into the faintest, broken smile.

“in another universe, maybe.”

a lump rose in your throat. in some other universe, you hoped lorenzo was still alive, standing there as the best man. you could picture him now, grinning as he delivered one of his classic speeches - recounting all those times he had to play “couples therapy” between you and mattheo. he’d laugh, talking about how he could never pick a side because he loved you both equally, each of you like family to him.

“maybe.”

his eyes dropped to your ring again. “he’s good to you, yeah?” he murmured, voice thick.

you nodded, throat too tight to speak.

mattheo’s smile barely held.

“good.”

he shifted back slightly, clearing his throat.

“but if he ever fucks up - i’m only a letter away.” despite everything - the heartbreak, the years stretched between you - the corner of your mouth twitched. “unless the husband would get angry.” he added. mattheo’s laugh broke out of him - soft and breathless and completely unguarded.

“you always did love getting me into trouble.” you swallowed against the lump rising in your throat, forcing out a shaky smile.

“you always made it too easy.” his smile faded slowly - something softer flickering in his dark eyes.

“goodbye, mattheo.”

his voice caught on the reply.

“goodbye, sweetheart.” you turned before he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks - before your heart could break all over again for the boy who had always been almost yours.

by the time you reached lewis, mattheo was already lighting another cigarette beneath the branches — smoke curling lazily into the cold, grey sky.

just a letter away.

[eclipixels]

Homesick

Rafayel x Reader

Content: For some reason, you can't help but feel connected to Rafayel's paintings of Lemuria

A/N: I wonder if anyone can figure out which quote from my favorite book series I referenced.

[1,026 words]

      "You seem oddly fascinated by all my paintings of the deep blue," Rafayel remarked, his voice carrying from the kitchen as he prepared two cups of coffee. The early sunlight streamed in through the windows of his studio-turned-home, casting a warm glow over everything. The view of the vast ocean beyond the windows made the space feel even more intimate, like the world outside was folded into the room.

      You stood before his collection of ocean paintings, your gaze lingering on the turbulent seascapes. Rafayel had just finished explaining a place called Lemuria, though your mind felt strangely detached from the details.

      "Yeah, it just… looks so familiar," you mumbled, tracing the dark brushstrokes of one of the stormier pieces. Rafayel’s ears perked up at your words.

      "Really? Tell me more."

      You hesitated, the strange pull in your chest growing stronger. "I don’t know. It's like I feel homesick when I look at it. Not that it's my home, but like it’s a place that’s always been a part of me, even though I’ve never been there. Something about it feels like it's taken a part of me, but I don’t know what that part is." You exhaled slowly, your fingers lingering over the canvas. "It’s like this place isn’t mine, but it holds something of mine forever. And for some reason, I feel so angry about it."

      Rafayel’s voice softened as he took in your words. "That’s interesting."

      “Really? How come.” You ask.

      “Because I was thinking of Lemuria when I painted those,” He confessed.

      "Do you miss it?" you inquired, though the moment the words left your mouth, you immediately realized how obvious the answer would be. Of course, he missed it. It was a silly question, but you couldn’t help it.

      He paused for a moment, lost in thought. He had shared a few fragments of it before, describing the place he once called home and his identity as a Lemurian.

      He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on something beyond the kitchen, a small, wistful smile forming on his lips. You watched him carefully, wondering what was going through his mind in that quiet moment.

      He approached you with two cups in hand, offering one to you before both of you settled near the large glass window. You gazed out at the sparkling sea, the peaceful view stretching endlessly before you. He leaned back, his palms resting on the floor behind him, eyes fixed on you. His gaze was soft and intense as he took you in, just as you were taking in the painting just a few minutes ago. It stung a little whenever he looked at you. A part of him was in you, lodged in a place so deeply familiar to him, a piece of his heart quietly nestled within you. And you didn’t even know it.

      "It's funny," you began, your voice soft, as if revealing a secret you'd been holding onto for a long time. But something in you felt different now, like this was the right moment to finally say it. You felt safe enough, as though he wouldn't laugh at you or call you crazy.

      "Hm?" Rafayel responded, his attention fully on you.

      You took a deep breath, gathering the words that had been lodged in your chest for so long. "It's like… I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like your face has been carved into my heart, and I don’t remember when or why, but the scar is there, and I can’t make it go away. It won’t heal. I can’t get it to fade." You let out a small, nervous laugh, almost expecting him to think you were being ridiculous too. But instead, you were met with a heavy silence.

      When you turned your head at him, the air in the room shifted. Something had fallen to the ground, and the sound was sharp, unexpected. Delicate white beads scattered across the floor, catching the light. That’s when you saw it. The unmistakable glistening in the corner of his eyes—pearls, slowly calcifying as hot tears began to spill over.

      "What's wrong?" you asked, the question barely above a whisper. Your heart twisted in your chest, unsure how to process the raw emotion that seemed to suddenly flood him.

      His eyes were fixed on you now, he didn’t speak immediately, as though weighing the weight of your confession. The steady hum of the sea outside seemed to fade into the background as everything in the room focused on the space between you.

      He didn’t look away. His eyes softened, and you noticed the way his jaw tightened, a sign of restraint—or maybe he was simply processing the vulnerability that had just unfolded in front of him.

      “I've always felt homesick for the longest time.” Rafayel's voice cracked as he spoke, each word heavy with an unspoken weight. He reached his palm out towards your face, gently caressing it before his fingers fell to your chin. “Since you, I haven’t felt that."

      His eyes lingered, not in pity or concern, but with an almost unbearable intensity, as if he was struggling to find the right words. There was an undercurrent to his silence.

      It was almost as if he was afraid that if he spoke, if he let too much slip, it would all crumble—like a fragile house of cards teetering on the edge of collapse. The way he clenched his jaw, the way his fingers twitched nervously at his sides, it all suggested a tension far deeper than the moment you shared. Something inside him was holding back.

      His gaze softened for just a moment, as if he was considering something. But then, with a quiet sigh, he looked away, his eyes dropping to the scattered pearls at his feet. The shift was subtle, but it was there, like a door closing before you could step through it.

      the edge of something deep like a kelp bed. Grief and heartbreak colored his face, but so did love and hope. It was bittersweet. You wondered if he knew something you didn’t. A truth he was keeping locked away behind those sunset eyes, too painful or too dangerous to reveal.

[aeliuss]

🔷 say she wanna fuck me later; girl im into it

(teaser)

featuring: aussie singer christopher bahng x afab reader

genre: smut with plot

warnings: toxic relationship. semi-public sex. illegal drug use, alcohol use. extremely concerning behavior from ALL characters. i am in no way condoning or romanticizing any of these actions, it's just a work of fiction. DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. if you, or any of your loved ones suffer with addiction please click here. minors do not interact.

notes: part one of my new series. chase atlantic songs X Skz. this one is inspired by the song into it. i highly suggest listening to it as you read. also, i have no idea how drugs work guys, so im just making shit up, don't judge me. as usual, feedback is always appreciated! or you can hit me up and we can squeal together lmao

The first time, it was a mistake.

That’s what he told you, breathless and wrecked, his forehead pressed against yours in the dim light of a hotel room neither of you belonged in. But mistakes don’t happen twice. They don’t happen over and over, city after city, his voice hoarse from preforming, his hands shaking from whatever he took before he found his way back to you.

Mistakes don’t leave bruises in the shape of his fingers on your hips. They don’t make you crave the taste of smoke and liquor on his lips, don’t have you counting the hours until he stumbles back into your orbit, drenched in sweat and sin.

But here you are, again.

The hotel is different this time—different city, different skyline, same story. The sheets smell like someone else’s perfume, and his shirt is wrinkled like it’s been pulled off and put back on in a hurry. You don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer. He just stands there, framed by the glow of the streetlights bleeding through the window, looking at you like you’re something inevitable.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhales slow. “You shouldn't pick up when I call.”

“Don't call then.”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but there’s no humor in it. He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, the other spilling the contents of a his little plastic bag on the nightstand by the bed. You watch from across the room, in that little black dress you know he likes.

He presses his fingers against his own tongue, wetting it, before pressing it against the white powder, hard enough for it to stick, then sucks on his finger.

You watch as his lips part, as his pupils darken, as his shoulders drop just a little like the weight of the world isn’t so heavy when he does this. He tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut, and you recognize the look that crosses his face—devotion. The kind of surrender that people spend their whole lives chasing.

He only ever looks like that for two things.

Drugs.

And you.

[taelophone]

SUN MOON childhood enemy! Luigi x reader

Trigger Warnings ; bad ass kids . not entirely proofread cuz I just want this OUT of my drafts . awkward teens . google translate Italian. little Luigi speaks Italian .

taglist // masterlist

During the summer, life in Maryland was a time to enjoy the slow summer sun and the gentle kisses of the salty seaside breeze. Summer— and all her many flora and insecta children alike— brought forth comforting reminders that life gets better when you can tune out the distractions.

The sun was hot; his white and blinding rays of solar energy cast down on the little people below as they took his eternal radiance for granted. What would life be like without his overbearing and constant presence… Would it be dark? What would happen to our earth should he decide his love and life are no longer warranted in our solar system?

“Hey.”

A little voice was heard just a bit away from you while your hands caressed the green blades of grass between your fingers. Unfamiliar, but not quite authoritative…like a little boy who hadn’t yet experienced a stern talking to about tone and how to control it.

You tore your gaze away from the bright blue sky, your eyes adjusting to the bright atmosphere as you stared at the tanned boy with unruly cocoa-brown curls. He stood alone, unaccompanied by an adult or a group of young lackeys like in the Disney Channel movies.

“Hi…” you said, tilting your head at him and giving him a half-assed wave.

“What’s your name?” He asked, approaching you with a lack of caution that could only stem from precious youth.

You stared at him, scanning him with slight caution as he stood over you before telling you his name. His brows furrowed, a slight glint of disappointment in his eyes before his lips moved before he could think.

“That’s a weird name. I’m Luigi!” He said, sitting next to you on his knees.

Your brows pinched together, a brief look of shock and anger flashing at the stranger before you adopted an expression of confusion.

“Like the Mario character? That Luigi?” You asked, biting back a little giggle as he frowned at you.

“No! I’m Ee-tall-ean!” He disputed, his face scrunching up in disapproval as he shot you a glare from out the side of his eye. “Plus, my mommy says Luigi is the better brother.”

“No, he’s not…” you stated, rolling your eyes at his stupid comment.

“Yes, he is! My mommy said so!” He grumbled, pulling up patches of grass from the soil in a closed fist.

“It’s Mario. He’s the main character, plus he has a cooler mustache,” you sighed, fixing the skirt that pooled just above your knees as you took your eyes off Luigi.

“Yeah, but Luigi’s taller,” He argued, crossing his arms over his chest like he had made the best point in the world.

“Mario has all of his games…there’s not a game called Luigi,” you snickered, picking at the little ends of sticks and twigs.

He paused, evaluating your statement in his head with a rather impolite scowl. He didn’t yet know you, but your combative and dismissive nature seemed to set off bouts of anger in his stomach that left it feeling light and fluttery.

“Well, there’s Luigi’s mansion. That’s a great game!” He offered, picking up a little white dandelion and blowing its little white seeds into your face.

“Hey!” You half-shouted, rustling your hands over your head to try and clear any of the fuzzballs from your hair. “You’re mean, I’m telling!”

“Fine!” He pouted, watching as you charged off to your mother, who sat on the far end of the park.

You told her all about the mean boy Luigi, taking note of the pale woman with curly black hair who sat next to her. She sighed and fixed the funky bangles on her wrist before patting your shoulder with a kind smile.

“That sounds like my son. I’ll talk to him, sweetie. He should know better than to be mean to a sweet girl like you!” She chuckled, setting off across the grassy park to her son, who sat just a couple of feet away blowing the dandelions away.

You couldn’t hear a lot of what they were saying— or maybe looking back, you just couldn’t understand, but you heard the pretty woman’s stern voice talking to her son as his high-pitched one argued back.

“Ma mamma, non voglio chiederti scusa!”

It sounded like English but muffled with a slight twang in their words. Either way, you clung to your mom's knee while shuffling around the stray leaves on the ground before Luigi and his mom came marching back up towards you, his mother holding his little collar like he would run away at any given opportunity.

“I’m sorry…” he pouted, his brows pinched together in resentment as he stared at you with nothing but malice.

“aggiusta il tuo viso!” The woman murmured, raising one of her thick and dark brows at her son.

His face instantly softened, his expression morphing into one of slightly exaggerated remorse as he repeated himself with a little less confidence.

“I’m sorry for being mean to you…it wasn’t nice,” he murmured, looking down at the ground before his mom released her hold on him. 

“Now hug it out,” she urged, scooting him over in your direction.

He pouted, a rather bratty sound emitting from the depths of his soul before he briefly threw his arm around your shoulder in an awkward side-hug. It wasn’t genuine by any means, but you leaned into it until he released you just as quickly.

“Don’t do it again,” she murmured, sitting back down on the bench by your mother and watching as Luigi toddled off.

That was the day you first met Luigi— the summer of two thousand and three. And since then, you had been relatively inseparable, but that wasn’t necessarily by choice or good relationship.

Your mothers had developed quite a sturdy relationship; when one of them decided to throw a little get-together, or Kathy’s husband decided to throw something on the grill, you would go visit Luigi and his two older sisters in their happy little home that always smelled like cinnamon and warm candles.

You made quick friends with his sisters, who you learned to be MariaSanta and Lucia, playing with them instead of their stupid brother. They were kind and didn’t seem to hold a deep vendetta against you for something that you didn’t do, so they proved to be better company than Luigi.

Your parents always laughed and joked about you being in love, swearing on everything that is holy that you’d grow up and have to be ripped from each other's bodies for you to do daily tasks like breathing. At seven, this was a repulsive idea.

I mean, he’s gross! He’s mean, he’s holding some stupid grudge against you because he was in a bad mood, and he’s overall just not good at playing Barbies, so you couldn’t see yourself ever entertaining the idea of him being cute.

“No, he’s kind of mean…I don’t know what I did, but he just doesn’t like me,” you sighed, sitting on Lucia’s bed while playing around with her new white Nintendo DS.

“He’s going through something…he’s not mean to me. He’s never been mean before, actually…” she said, pausing from braiding her life-sized doll's hair to pinch her brows together in silent thought. “I don’t know…he’s being weird.”

“Honestly, he’s just had beef with you for a while…he doesn’t shut up about you, and it’s annoying,” she sighed, her teenage angst setting in following her thirteenth birthday as she flicked her side bangs out of her face. 

“Maria’s been talking to him about it, he’s just having a little attitude problem. Don’t feel bad, you didn’t do anything,” she reassured, chalking the hair of her blonde Barbie with the pink Hot Huez hair chalk before tossing it somewhere around her room.

She was so effortlessly cool— in a sort of angsty, moody, deep teen kind of way. It seemed as if all the Mangiones knew how to do was be intimidating and smart, as you were sure there was not one member of the family who didn’t radiate a composed and confident aura.

Seconds later, her older sister MariaSanta came slinking into the room, typing away on her white Motorola flip with her hair clipped back.

“Ehi, Ci, mamma dice che il Lu’ vuole andare al parco. Puoi portarlo?”

You watched as they conversed around you, Maria only briefly glancing up from her phone as Lucia became more avid on refusing whatever her sister was asking of her. You watched the two bicker back and forth in Italian, slowly slipping out of Lucia’s room when they began to raise their hands and increase in volume.

It’s probably better just to let them deal with that.

You roamed the halls of the Mangione household, stopping by in the kitchen to say hi to your mom and Ms. Kathy, who was in the process of making some sweet treat that you and the rest of the children could scarf down later. She slid you a bowl of some cut-up fruit- apples, pears, mangos, kiwi, and oranges as she chatted with your mother over a glass of deep red.

You sat at the table as you watched the many Mangiones come and go through the front and back door, each one offering you their tone and pitch of a polite greeting. Each bite of citrus was punctuated by a pot clattering, a rich laugh, a thump from upstairs, and very rarely, the sound of one of the three siblings upstairs losing their minds at whatever it was they were doing at the moment.

Soon enough, Luigi came skipping down the stairs in pursuit of something to quell his festering hunger before dinner. He shot you a glare, sticking his tongue out at you before approaching his mom with a contrastingly gentle smile.

“Mamma, posso avere qualcosa da mangiare?”

“English, baby, we have guests,” she urged, standing over the stove with a large spatula stirring up a pot full of sautéed onions and garlic.

“Can I have something to eat, please?” He murmured, his little accent biting at the ends of his words as he leaned over the counter.

“I just cut up some fruit, you’ll have to share with your friend,” she chuckled, pointing to the table you sat at with a light shrug. “And be nice. Your sisters keep telling me about your little attitude problem, and if you don’t fix it, I will.”

He groaned, stomped his little foot on the porcelain tiled floor before dragging his feet every step of the way to the fruit bowl. He sat as far away from you as he could while still reaching the fruit bowl, in other words, directly in front of you.

“Hi,” he stated, his tone ice cold as he snatched the bowl of fruit from your hands.

“Hey!” You huffed, slamming your hands down on the table with a deep frown. “I want some, too!”

“Luigi!” Kathy scolded, turning around to shoot her son a stern glare.

“Sorry…” he pouted, sliding the bowl back over to you before snatching a big handful of fruit.

You huffed, walking away from the table over to the living room and seeking refuge amongst the pile of cars and pretend kitchens that hadn’t received any love since the late nineties. The best thing you could do was avoid him, just like you had done since he hugged you in that little green park.

You would bicker and battle all day, fighting over not wanting to share fruit, who had more toys, how many fries you had to share when going to McDonald’s, and many insignificant things that seemed to be the world to a couple of seven-year-olds. It was only when you grew older, when your closet grew less pastel and sparkly, that you finally noticed a shift in Luigi’s behavior.

He was no longer combative and annoyed with your presence; in fact, he was quieter,  his attitude became one of respect, and he had begun to treat you like somewhat of a family friend. When he wasn’t downstairs playing on his Xbox or talking his dear mother’s ear off about some sort of STEM program, he was holed up in his room doing whatever it was boys do.

There were no more snarls, petty sighs, or sharp eyes when you entered the same room as him. With time, you earned a quiet greeting from Luigi, usually in the form of a quiet “hey” or a brief nod.

Instead, a quiet hymn of respect slowly began to blend between the two of you, prompting you to spend just a little bit more time together than you normally would. During family trips, you’d find yourself a little more lost in his company while wordlessly wandering the wooded forests and noisy metal machinery at theme parks. 

You never spoke much; there wasn’t much to talk about. Part of it was because neither of you knew what to say after being at each other's throats for oh so many years, but another part of you longed to acknowledge the heavy blanket of unspoken tension that had rendered your nascent relationship partially mute.

When you did speak to each other, you began to notice changes in yourselves that served as an example of the childish mannerisms that you packed away with maturation; everything about him was different. It was scary– like navigating a sailboat in the pitch-black night over murky waters.

His voice had slowly begun to slip down its slippery slope of puberty, and both of your faces had begun to shed their baby features. Luigi had grown into his big, bright babydoll eyes and his awkwardly lanky build, and you finally found an even balance in your voice that had become less brittle and tremulous.

As much as it pained you to admit, basking in the presence of post-reform Luigi sent blooms of pink and red flashing through your face. You even found yourself visiting the Mangione estate more often, always mindful of the fine line between a casual visit and deliberately finding ways to snag a glimpse of him for even two seconds.

For now, your bait of choice was a metallic pink iPod Lucia had lent you earlier this summer. Life seemed so simple as you hop, skipped, and pranced your way over to Auntie Kathy’s house for what surely was the millionth time in your life.

You trekked up the many wooden stairs, leaving your invisible mark on the glossy dark oak handrail as you set off in pursuit of Lucia to return her iPod. You skipped through the empty halls, your deep black Converse thunking dully against the floor as you turned the house upside down to find the pretty woman, checking her old bedroom, closet, bathroom, and the attic before sighing to yourself.

It had been a couple of years since she moved out, but she would still lounge around in her room every now and again, and you didn’t want to ask Luigi where she was because that would just be awkward. But if you didn’t return her things, Luci would get all pissy, and then she’d breathe down everyone’s back until she found what was rightfully hers.

You learned in that moment that life wasn’t that simple, and sometimes you have to do things that would make you feel smaller than any height difference ever could. Sure, you partially came to see Luigi, but you didn’t expect you’d have to go out of your way to interact with him…a small interaction in the hallway would have sufficed.

You sucked in a deep breath through your nostrils, letting the cold air dehydrate your nose before you plucked the metallic pink iPod from your back pocket and headed toward Luigi’s room. You suddenly felt a little self-conscious as you neared the entryway, smoothing over the wrinkles in your black and blue sweater and obsessing over the way your hair laid before knocking twice on his door.

“Come in.”

His voice was raspy and muffled, like the claws of an all-black bloodhound scratching at the metal bars of his cage. It trickled down your ears like cold water, pressing against your eardrum like a boulder of vibrant emerald.

You pushed open the door cautiously, taking in the slate blue walls, Mario Kart posters, the random KISS poster, and his relatively organized black desk as he sat on the floor playing his Xbox. He didn’t bother to look who was at the door, like a part of him just knew who was there.

”Did you need something?” He asked, lying down with his elbows planted on the hardwood floors, his rather large charmander plush wedged between his chest and the floorboards to keep his chest from coming into contact with the ground.

“Have you seen Lucia? I have to give her her iPod back before she goes back to school. She said she was leaving next week, but like, I can’t find her…” you sighed, running the pad of your thumb across the smooth, glossy backside of the iPod to quell your jumpy nerves.

“Nah, she went out earlier today with Maria and mom…Do you want to leave it here? I can give it to her when she gets back,” he mumbled, the semi-loud sounds of endless bullet rounds emptying from his television screen dying out as he turned his head to look over his shoulder.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine…” you murmured, setting the pink music player on his nightstand before pausing to look at the television. “Is that the new Grand Theft Auto?”

“Hmm?” He hummed, his brows furrowing slightly as he turned his attention back to the screen. “Oh, yeah. My mom would never let me play this, I got it from my friend Bryan…”

“Cool…can I try?” You asked, stepping further into his room while remaining mindful of the stray socks that occasionally littered the floor.

He nodded, wordlessly passing you the controller, then scooting over a little to allow you some space in front of the television. You joined him on the floor, settling yourself on your knees before driving around in a beat-up-looking blue car with bullet holes.

“So wait, what do you do…?” You asked, steering around and hitting every bystander and stationary pole in the process.

“Well, there’s story mode…you can play if you want, but I didn’t get very far. The game pretty much just glamorizes violence and burglary. Don’t play this, it’ll make you all violent and angsty,” he murmured, watching as you ran around on the beach, punching random people.

“But you’re playing it?” You challenged, raising a brow at him defiantly.

“Yeah, but that’s different…at least I acknowledge that it’s bad for me. You might say it’s just a game or I’m being too serious,” he chuckled, shaking his head while you ran from the cops by swimming in the water.

“How are you gonna say something’s bad for you then continue to play it?” You asked, handing him the controller as the screen flashed its deep red “WASTED” sign.

“Because I have no self-control.” he smiled, taking the controller from you cautiously so his fingers wouldn’t dare touch yours.

You watched as he wiggled through the virtual valleys, steering through traffic with just his thumbs like he’d been playing the game for years despite its fresh release. A blanket of silence fell over the two of you as you quietly observed the game, feeling a little bit more comfortable in his presence compared to when you first entered his room.

Gone was the snarky, petty, and grubby little child who would jeer at you for just walking past him in a social setting. The days of fighting over who got more love and attention from their parents were long over, and all the solvent had fizzled out to reveal a cloudy and light pink solute of slight affection.

The screams and shouts of pixelated players filled the room, but the sounds were deemed insignificant in your mind as you focused on the way your heartbeat thumped in your ears. Now that you had actually spent time with him, something about his quiet and respectful nature was very flustering.

Puppy love is a rather heart-breaking term. The cruelty of denying someone’s emotions, writing them off as youth, and chalking them up as temporary is a discourteous denial that’s been written in the book of parenting for many, many generations.

When Luigi was just a little six-year-old on the field, he was able to identify the meaning of beauty at a very early age. How could he not when it sat just a few feet away from him, staring at the sun?

Quiet like midnight, enchanting like the stars, and deep like the never-ending void of space. He became enthralled with your lunar aura and mysterious face, so much so that he knew no other way to express cuteness aggression besides actual aggression.

Without the sun, the moon can’t rise above and bathe the world in her white and blinding rays of energy. Without the moon, the world would be lost in an infinite void of timeless chaos.

The sun and moon need each other to function, but they’re never as close to each other as they want to be. The sun will forever miss his gaudy goddess of sleep, so he’ll stay up as late as his eyes will allow until she rises from the earth to lull him back to sleep.

“Hey, Luigi?” you asked, not taking your eyes off of the cyber-green television glow as he booted up Minecraft instead of Grand Theft— probably because he felt guilty for showing you such a terrible game in the first place.

“Yeah?” he mumbled, shuffling through his Minecraft worlds until he found the perfect one.

“Why were you so mad at me when we were kids?”

“Uhhhh...” He sighed, a single brow raising slightly as he squinted his eyes to visualize his answer.

“I don’t know, actually…you never did anything. I’m sorry, I think I just wasn’t used to talking to any girls besides my sisters,” he chuckled, a slightly self-deprecating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. 

You nodded, shifting around on the floor to sit flat on the ground with your knees to your chest. 

“I think I used to talk to my sisters about you, actually…” he hummed, powering off his Xbox before sliding his controller somewhere under his bed. 

“Really? I would tell my mom how much I hated you,” you chuckled.

“Yeah, I’m sure…I don’t really know what my problem was,” he sighed, cracking nearly all of the knuckles and bones in his body before turning to face you again. “You can stay and help me make paper bouquets, if you want…actually, I’m gonna be honest, I just need help. I don’t know a thing about paper flowers.”

“Paper flowers? Why, you got a date you wanna humor?” you surmised, getting up off your knees to join him beside his desk.

“No!” he blurted, a little too eagerly for his liking. “Sorry, no. I don’t have a date…I just really wanna tell someone I'm sorry the right way.”

“Ohhh, so you’re just really not good with women,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes with a light smile as the jaws of jealousy nipped at the front of your brain.

“I’ve only interacted with like…four,” he admitted, taking out a fat stack of construction paper in your favorite color. “But I lowkey effed up the first time…and I still didn’t really apologize, so.”

You sat down with him at his desk, spending the rest of the day learning and perfecting eight good-sized paper flowers with a spritz of what should have been floral perfume, but when your only materials are the scents in a teenage boy's room, sometimes flowers smell like Axe Body spray.

You finished up the last petal, folding the corners of the paper to reveal an adorable lily flower with a pale yellow stamen. By the time everything was done, Luigi’s hands were riddled with paper cuts, and your fingers were all cramped up.

“Thanks,” He smiled, accepting the final flower from you and tying together the surprisingly presentable bouquet with a little piece of satin he got from god knows where, rolling them up in some old newspaper, and scribbled down a little note in his chicken scratch handwriting.

“These are for you, by the way…” he mumbled, handing you the bouquet with a cupidly tint in his cheeks while his eyes remained glued to the ceiling. “I’m sorry I was so mean…I thought about it a lot and realized it’s incredibly disrespectful that I was rude to you because you held me to a normal standard.”

If words could materialize and travel through the world, yours were long lost somewhere in the rogue waves of love and shock. After all those many years of gagging and whining when your parents joked about you falling for Luigi someday, suddenly your gag reflex was out of commission.

“Oh…Thank you! Thank you so much, this is really sweet-” you practically babbled, leaning over in your chair to give him a real hug, not a forced and awkward side one that you came to expect after every stern talking-to, but a comforting and warm one in which your arms wrapped around his shoulders before leaving a bold kiss on the side of his cheek.

And when you pulled away, the blush that spread across his face let you know that things would be different this time. No more hiding behind the excuse of coming to see Lucia who had long since run off to college, no more awkward pauses in conversations, no more running from the truth you had tried so tragically hard to discredit.

You loved Luigi.

General taglist ; @lorelaisg1lmore @flaca335 @7luvrs @fancyyanci @f4b111 @born444u

[supernotnatural2005]

Blinding Lights

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: The annual trip to vegas, the city of all things sin and matrimony 👀

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings/tags: Swearing, drinking, implied spicy times, friends to lovers, FLUFF.

Prompt: Accidental Marriage

AN: Yup, we're going there again 😅 the good ol' "friends to lovers". But hey sue me, it's an enjoyable trope 😜. This is another submission for my @jacklesversebingo card.

Main Masterlist

Bingo Masterlist

"Aha! Vegas, baby!"

"Hell yeah!"

Sam shook his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he watched the two of you practically vibrate with excitement as you stepped out of the car. It was the same every year—like clockwork. The second you and Dean set foot in Sin City; it was as if nothing else in the world existed.

Your eyes sparkled under the neon glow of the Vegas strip, reflecting the flashing lights of massive billboards advertising everything from world-class shows to all-you-can-eat buffets. The scent of warm asphalt mixed with the smoky, slightly stale air of the casinos. It was loud, chaotic, alive—and judging by the way you and Dean grinned at each other like kids on Christmas morning, it was exactly what you had been waiting for.

It had started years ago; a tradition Dean had set in stone after one particularly gruelling hunt. What was meant to be a one-time trip to blow off steam had somehow turned into an annual pilgrimage. A few days of indulgence, no monsters, no case files—just booze, gambling, and in Dean’s case, the occasional fling.

Sam wasn’t as wild about the whole scene as his brother, but he could appreciate the break. Maybe play a few hands of poker, enjoy the high-roller perks that occasionally came with hustling a few unsuspecting tourists. But what always caught him off guard was you.

If anything, you were just as bad as Dean—if not worse.

At first, it had been surprising. You’d always been a hell of a hunter, sharp as a knife, level-headed when it counted. But Vegas flipped a switch in you, and suddenly, you were throwing back shots like a seasoned pro, calling Dean’s bluff at the poker table, and somehow managing to charm casino staff into handing out free drinks like they were candy. The influence between the two of you was dangerous—borderline reckless—but damn if it wasn’t entertaining to watch.

Sam had seen you two fuel each other’s competitive streak before, but here? It was a whole new level. Whether it was betting on who could win the most at blackjack, seeing who could sweet-talk their way into VIP sections, or even just a ridiculous contest over who could score the best hotel suite upgrade—neither of you knew the meaning of ‘taking it easy.’

"Alright," Sam sighed, adjusting the strap of his duffel as he trailed behind you both. "Just… try not to get arrested this time, okay?"

Dean smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "No promises, Sammy."

You shot Sam a wink. "Yeah, where’s the fun in that?"

Sam exhaled through his nose, already resigning himself to whatever chaos was about to unfold.

Vegas, man.

As soon as you stepped into your upgraded suite, you stretched your arms overhead, sighing in pure satisfaction. The room was gorgeous—high ceilings, sleek modern furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Vegas Strip, glowing like a sea of neon under the night sky. The plush king-sized bed looked like something out of a five-star fantasy, and the sheer space alone made it feel like pure luxury compared to the standard motel rooms you were used to.

Dean, meanwhile, was still grumbling as he dropped his duffel onto the couch.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, looking around the room in awe and then shooting you a narrowed look. He was just pissy because you won the little competitive game of — ‘who could get the free upgrade’. 

“Hey, I won this fair and square" you shrugged with a smug smile before plopping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

Dean scoffed, crossing his arms shooting Sam a look who just held up his hands like he wanted no part in it. “Fair my ass.”

You grinned, sitting up and tilting your head in mock innocence. “What? It’s not my fault the guy couldn’t stop staring at my tits."

"Yeah, because pulling down your top and leaning over the counter totally wasn’t planned." Dean shot back, rolling his eyes. You had to bite your lip from bursting out in laughter. Petty Dean was something else.

"Meanwhile, I actually had to use skill to negotiate. But nooo, all you had to do was flash some cleavage, bat your lashes, and boom—you’re living like royalty while Sammy and I are stuck in a standard-ass room.”

“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game,” you teased, then arched a brow. “Besides, you do realise you just confirmed the corruption and irony of the male hierarchy, right?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. Blinked. Looked at Sam, who was failing miserably at hiding his laughter.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled in defeat, muttering to himself, “still bullshit,” as he continued to nose around the room, clearly still sulking.

Once the boys left to go check out their ‘standard’ room, Dean lingered in the doorway, casting one last longing glance at the spacious background before you smirked and slowly closed the door in his face.

With the place officially all to yourself, you decided to finish exploring, and that’s when you saw it.

Oh, sweet heaven on earth.

The bathtub.

Not just any bathtub—a deep, oversized whirlpool tub, complete with jets and a selection of fancy bath salts sitting neatly on the edge. Your eyes widened in absolute delight as you all but floated toward it, running a hand along the cool marble.

It felt like it had been a lifetime since you’d had the chance to soak in a bath. Even when you had the option, motel tubs were…Questionable at best. You weren’t about to risk whatever horrors lurked in those drains, so showers had become your norm—mildly warm, rushed, and never truly satisfying.

But this?

This was your chance.

No hunts, no monsters, no worrying about saving lives. No last-minute research, no stitches to sew, no near-death experiences.

Just you, a massive tub, and all the time in the world to finally pamper yourself.

Hell. Yes.

After soaking in the tub until your fingers pruned and the tension in your muscles melted away, you finally dragged yourself out, wrapping up in a plush robe as you wandered over to your suitcase.

For once, you had the chance to ditch the usual hunter’s uniform—no jeans, no flannel, no scuffed-up boots. Just something that made you feel good. Normal.

Your fingers skimmed over the fabric as you pulled it out—a little black dress, classic and timeless, but with just the right touch of allure. The delicate lace trim along the hem and neckline added a hint of elegance, while the way the fabric hugged your curves made you feel undeniably confident. It was the kind of dress that demanded attention without even trying.

You stepped into it, letting the silky material glide over your skin, adjusting the thin straps before smoothing your hands down your sides. It was a far cry from the rugged, practical outfits you usually wore on the road, and damn, it felt nice.

Next, you slid on a pair of black heels—just high enough to give you that extra sway in your hips but still comfortable enough for a night out.

Turning to the mirror, you took a moment to focus on your makeup—something bolder than your usual go-to. A sultry smoky eye, dark lashes framing your gaze, paired with a soft nude lip. Just enough to make a statement without being overdone.

Your hair followed suit—soft waves cascading over your shoulders, effortless but polished, framing your face just right.

With one final glance in the mirror, you smirked. Yeah. You looked good. And you were damn well going to enjoy tonight.

And judging by the way both Dean and Sam reacted when you stepped into the hotel bar, you’d made the right choice.

Dean was nursing a whiskey while Sam sipped a beer, both dressed shaper than usual—Sam in a crisp, white button-up with the sleeves rolled up, Dean in a black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, exposing just enough skin to make you roll your eyes at his predictable charm.

At first, they were talking, relaxed, until they both caught sight of you approaching. Sam's brows lifted slightly in pleasant surprise, but Dean?

Dean leaned back in his chair, giving a slow, appreciative once-over, his lips curling into that signature smirk of his.

“Well, damn,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “Didn’t know we were gettin’ all fancy tonight.”

You smirked, stepping up to their table. “Figured it’d be nice to dress up for once.”

Sam nodded, offering you a genuine smile. “You look great.”

Dean, however, had a different kind of gleam in his eye. He leaned in, his smirk deepening, an eyebrow arching suggestively.

“In your dreams, baby,” you cooed, patting his cheek mockingly.

Sam snickered as Dean huffed out a humourless chuckle, leaning back in his chair. But the thing was… he didn’t have to dream.

You and Dean had been down that road before. More than once.

Late nights after hunts, when the adrenaline was still pumping and neither of you felt like wasting time picking up strangers, you’d found comfort in each other. It was an unspoken deal—blowing off steam, nothing more. No feelings, no complications. Because at the end of the day, hunters didn’t get happy endings.

You weren’t naïve. You knew better than to hope for something more. And so did Dean.

Still, as you slid into the seat across from him, you caught the way his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind those green eyes before he knocked back another sip of whiskey.

Clearing your throat, you reached for the bottle on the table, pouring yourself a drink. “Alright, boys,” you said, lifting your glass. “Here’s to a great night.”

Dean clinked his glass against yours, that smirk never faltering.

“To a damn good night,” he echoed.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he joined in. “As long as neither of you end up in a cell, I’ll count it as a win.”

You and Dean exchanged a grin, mischief dancing in your eyes. Yeah, tonight was going to be interesting.

The pounding in your skull was the first thing you registered. The second was the taste of regret on your tongue, bitter and stale like the whiskey you clearly had too much of. A low groan slipped from your lips as you forced your eyes open, squinting against the intrusive morning light.

The room was a disaster. Pillows scattered across the floor, empty bottles knocked over on the nightstand, and—oh, fantastic—your bra was hanging off the damn wall light fixture like some sort of drunken trophy. Your dress, meanwhile, lay crumpled in a heap by the bathroom door, and not far from it, Dean’s shirt.

Shit.

A slow, sinking realisation settled in, and with a heavy sigh, you finally turned your head.

Dean was right there, sprawled out on his back. His chest rose and fell in deep, steady breaths, his mouth slightly open, a soft snore escaping as he slept like he had no damn cares in the world.

You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned.

You had promised yourself you’d stop indulging in the oldest Winchester. The last time, things had started feeling… complicated. Unwanted feelings creeping in, making you second-guess the whole thing.

Guess drunk you had a serious inability to deny him.

With another groan, you forced yourself to sit up—immediately regretting it as your head swam and your stomach lurched. Ugh. You needed something greasy and coffee stat. And some damn privacy so you could at least wash last nights shame off you. 

So you grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked it into Dean’s face.

"Get up, Winchester."

He let out a grunt, his brow furrowing as he shifted slightly but not quite waking.

You grabbed another one.

WHUMP.

Dean groaned, lazily swiping at his face before cracking one eye open. His brow furrowed as he blinked at you, bleary and clearly just as hungover as you. "What the hell…?" His voice was rough with sleep, and he grimaced, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Then, realisation dawned as he shifted under the sheets and noticed he wasn’t wearing a damn thing.

A slow, cocky smirk spread across his lips.

"Knew you couldn’t resist me, sweetheart," he drawled, voice still hoarse but undeniably smug.

You scoffed, reaching for the closest thing you could throw at him—an empty bottle this time. Dean yelped, flinching as you took aim, but lowered it back down, satisfied with your threat instead. 

You slid out of bed with a grumbled “ass” and immediately regret the movement as your hangover protested.

"Damn, sweetheart. If that’s how you treat ‘em the morning after, no wonder you’re still single.” Dean chuckled, running a hand through his messy hair as he stretched.

You flipped him off over your shoulder as you headed toward the bathroom. “Bite me, Dean.”

His smirk widened as his gaze drifted over your retreating form—lingering on the deep, reddish-purple bruise in the perfect shape of his mouth on your bare ass.

Leaning back against the pillows, he let out a low, satisfied hum.

“Pretty sure I already did.”

The scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon did little to soothe the pounding in your skull as you and Dean trudged into the diner like two barely functioning zombies. You were practically clinging to your massive sunglasses, shielding your eyes from the fluorescent lights that felt like tiny daggers stabbing into your brain.

Meanwhile, there was Sam—already seated in a booth, nursing a coffee, not a hangover in sight. The fucker had even been on a run.

He looked up as you both slumped into the seats across from him, his dimples appearing as he let out a low chuckle. “Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.”

Dean groaned, dropping his head against the table. “Why are you so loud?”

Sam just shook his head, amused, as the waitress approached with her notepad.

You wasted no time reeling off your order. “Bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, hash browns—extra crispy. And coffee. Black. In the biggest cup you’ve got.”

When the waitress turned to Dean, he simply muttered, “Yeah, I’ll have what she’s having.”

You smirked, nudging him under the table. When Harry Met Sally references weren’t lost on you, and Dean’s slow realisation of it only made it funnier.

Sam just shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee before setting it down and giving you both a once-over. “You two look like shit.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” you grumbled, shoving your sunglasses up into your hair. “We don’t even remember what happened last night.”

Sam’s brows lifted, something flickering in his gaze—something knowing. He hummed, lips twitching in amusement, but before you could question it, the waitress returned with your plates, effectively derailing the conversation.

For a few minutes, all that mattered was shovelling greasy food into your mouths, trying to absorb the alcohol still wreaking havoc in your systems.

And then—

“Oh my God, there you are!”

A stranger—a man probably in his early thirties—grinned down at you, looking entirely too chipper for you.

Dean blinked up at him. “Uh… do we know you?”

The guy laughed. “Dude last night was insane. Seriously, that wedding? One for the books. You two are hilarious.”

Your chewing slowed. You glanced at Dean, then back at the guy. “...What wedding?”

The man’s smile faltered, confusion knitting his brows. “Uh… yours?”

Your stomach dropped.

Dean coughed on his coffee. “Sorry, what now?”

“Oh, man, you guys really don’t remember, do you?” The guy pulled out his phone, tapping away before turning the screen to face you.

And there it was.

A video—clear as day—of you in the middle of a crowded club, a veil perched crookedly on your head, clearly wasted as you stood on a table, arms thrown wide, screaming at the top of your lungs:

"I’M MARRIED, BITCHES!!!"

The video cut to Dean—also wasted—grinning like an idiot before grabbing you and dipping you back dramatically, kissing you deep like something straight out of a goddamn romance movie. The entire club cheered.

The next clip? The two of you wreaking absolute havoc, leading a conga line, starting a round of body shots, and hyping up the entire place like the unhinged duo you apparently had become.

The video ended, and you and Dean sat in stunned silence, staring at the phone in abject horror.

Fuck.

Back at the hotel, you paced the room like a caged animal, running your hands through your hair, trying to make sense of the absolute shitstorm your life had apparently become. Sam sat in one of the chairs, sipping a bottle of water like this wasn’t the worst day of your existence, while Dean was still in shock, slumped on the bed, staring blankly at the wall.

“Like, how did this even happen?” you fumed, throwing your hands up. “How is this even legal?!”

“Well, when two people—”

You shot Sam a look of death before he could finish his snarky remark, and for once, he had the sense to shut up.

Then, as the realisation hit you like a truck, you turned on him, narrowing your eyes. “Wait a damn minute. Where the hell were you?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “…I was the witness.”

Silence.

You and Dean slowly turned your heads toward him in unfiltered shock and disbelief.

“You what?!” you screeched.

Dean shot up from the bed, throwing his hands in the air. “How could you let this happen?!”

Sam held up his hands, clearly not appreciating the hostility being thrown at him. “Look, I tried to stop you both, okay? But then you," he pointed at Dean, "went on this whole rant about how in love with Y/N you are, something about how she was the girl you’d always wanted to marry.”

Your breath caught, and Dean’s head snapped toward Sam, eyes widening in horror. “Dude, what the hell?!”

Sam ignored him, continuing with a shrug. “And then you threatened to break my iPod if I got in the way.”

You weren’t listening anymore, though. You were still stuck on that part. The part where Dean apparently called you the girl he’d always wanted to marry.

Dean was panicking. His ears turned pink, his mouth opening and closing as he scrambled for damage control.  “No—it was nothing, is nothing.” He shook his head, flailing his arms. 

“I was drunk! Blackout drunk, apparently! No one listens to drunk me—that’s just crazy!” He let out a forced laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, but he wasn’t looking at you. Because the truth was, if he ever did allow himself to dream of a normal, white-picket-fence kind of life, you were the face that had filled the once faceless woman in that dream. Always had been.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice even, like your heart wasn’t racing out of control. “Right. Obviously.”

An awkward silence settled over the room before you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “What are we gonna do?”

“We could get a lawyer?” Dean gestured to Sam, who frowned.

“I didn’t even finish law school,” Sam huffed humourlessly, and Dean sighed like that was ever going to be an option, “but I might know some old contacts…”

You narrowed your eyes at the two of them. “And then what, huh? What lawyer in their right mind is gonna help a supposed deceased serial killer and a fraudulent criminal?”

Sam winced. “Okay, fair point.”

You took a deep breath, then grabbed your jacket.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dean asked, his voice laced with worry.

You ran a frustrated hand through your hair. “I’m going to every damn chapel in town to figure out how the hell we get out of this mess.”

Before either of them could stop you, you stormed out, slamming the door behind you.

The room was left in tense silence.

Dean deflated, rubbing a hand down his face before turning to glare at Sam. “Man, why did you have to go and say that?”

Sam frowned. “Because it’s the truth?”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, she didn’t need to know that.” He let out a heavy breath, running both hands through his hair. “You probably just freaked her the fuck out. Y/N doesn’t do love, and neither do I. That’s why it works.”

Sam gave him a look—one of pity. “Dean… you shouldn’t have to go through life alone.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “I’m not alone. I have you. I have Bobby.” His voice softened, almost bitter. “I had her.”

The weight of that realisation hit him like a truck.

Sam sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, voice hollow. “And it’s a stupid fairytale.” His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. “People like us? We don’t get the husband and wife, the kids, the house. It all ends the same for us.”

A quiet beat stretched between them.

Sam wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he deserved more, but looking at his brother—shoulders hunched, hands curled into fists, bracing himself for heartbreak—Sam wasn’t sure Dean would ever believe it.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the horizon, the sky a swirl of deep blues and purples as you sat on the stone wall outside the Bellagio, watching the fountain show dance in the glow of the Las Vegas lights, your thoughts swirling as fast as the water before you. 

The cool breeze did little to calm the fire of frustration in your chest. You’d been to every chapel in town, and every single one confirmed what you already knew—it was a legal marriage. The papers were real. The priest had done his job. You were bound to Dean in a way you never expected.

The thing was, deep down, you didn’t even know what you were running from anymore. Though one thing run true.

Hunters didn’t get married. They didn’t have families. They didn’t get to live out some idyllic, picture-perfect life because—well, they weren’t supposed to. They fought, they survived, and most of the time, that meant watching those they loved die. 

So, the ones who did have families… the ones who thought they could have that normal, happy ending? You couldn’t think of a single one who didn’t lose it all in the end. Their families were gone. Their homes destroyed. There were no happy endings for people like you.

Still, in the quiet moments—when the rush of a hunt faded away, when the liquor finally took the edge off, when you could almost imagine what it would be like to just let yourself breathe—you had thought about it. Maybe Dean was the guy in your Vision. Maybe he was the one waiting for you at the altar. But that was just a pipe dream. A fantasy you couldn’t allow yourself to get lost in.

As you sat there, your fingers gripping the rough edge of the stone, the sound of footsteps broke through your thoughts. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Sam. You’d known he’d come looking for you.

Without a word, Sam settled down next to you, his legs dangling off the side of the wall as he gazed out at the fountain too. He didn’t push for you to talk, but you could feel the concern radiating from him.

“Why’s being married to Dean such a bad thing?” Sam asked bluntly, getting straight to the point. Although his tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge of seriousness there, too.

You couldn’t help the slight twitch of your lips, and shook your head. “It’s not bad, Sam,” you muttered, voice low. “It’s... complicated.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Complicated, huh? You two practically are a married couple already.”

You let out a small laugh at that, more out of disbelief than amusement. Yeah, you and Dean did have that vibe, didn’t you? Always arguing, always looking out for each other, always circling each other in that maddening dance of will-they-won’t-they. Everyone could see it but you two.

You could feel Sam’s knowing smile before he even spoke again. “You know you love him, right?” he asked softly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You let out a long breath, staring out at the water again. “I don’t know how to do love, Sam,” you admitted, the words coming out heavier than you intended. “Everyone I’ve ever loved is gone. All that I’ve known is loss. There’s no happy ending for people like me. There’s no happily-ever-after for us.”

Sam’s gaze softened, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for saying it. It wasn’t his fault, after all. But it was the truth, in your opinion.

Sam was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “I get it. Believe me, I do.” He shifted, his eyes downcast as he relived something only he truly understood. 

“Loving Jessica,” he began and your gaze snapped over to him, surprised he was bringing her up, “having her love me back... that was one of the best feelings in the world. And then... I was lying to her. I was lying about who I was, about what I was involved in. And look how that ended.”

Your heart squeezed at the way Sam spoke about her—how much she meant to him. You knew her story. You knew what that loss did to him. You’d seen it all too many times: love, then bloodshed. It always ended the same way.

“But” Sam continued, his voice steadying, “you and Dean, you both know the risks. You already know what comes with this life. The danger. The blood. The loss. But you’re still here. Still fighting. Still breathing.” He turned to look at you, his gaze more direct now. “So why not just take the chance? Why not go for it?”

You turned your head to meet his eyes, studying his expression. He was sincere. And for a second, you almost wanted to believe him. Maybe it was worth taking the chance. Maybe you didn’t have to keep running. After all, life was short, right?

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head as you watched the water dance in the glow of the neon lights. “You make it sound so easy.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe it is.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “You really believe that?”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the fountain. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But I do know that letting fear make the choice for you? That’s not living.”

Your fingers gripped the rough edge of the stone wall beneath you. Fear. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? Not just the absurdity of being legally bound to Dean Winchester, but the weight of what it could mean. The possibility of something real. And the possibility of losing it.

“You sound like a damn fortune cookie.”

Sam laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Yeah, well, if I start talking about how life is a journey, feel free to punch me.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head before letting out a reserved sigh, like you still couldn’t quite let go of the fear and Sam turned to you more determined.

“Look, from where I’m sitting, you two have been doing this dance for years. You rile each other up like no one i’ve ever met,” You chuckle at that because it’s the truth, “you look out for each other more than anyone else, and Dean—” Sam let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Man, you should see him when you’re not around. He’s miserable.”

Your heart clenched, and you hated that it did. Hated that it mattered.

Sam leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You love him and he loves you.” It wasn’t a question, he was stating a fact.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sam scoffed, and it irked you, because you stubborn, in denial brain just wanted him to get it.

You tore your gaze from the fountain, looking him dead in the eye. “Look, I don’t get to keep the people I love, Sam. Us hunters… we are just cursed with that burden.” Your voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of everything you’d already lost.

Sam’s expression softened, was no less determined as he look at you; his teasing gone. “That’s crap,” he said. “You’re not cursed, Y/N. And neither is Dean, or any of us for that matter. You’re not alone. Not unless you choose to be.”

You exhaled shakily, pressing your fingers against your temple. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it is.” Sam turned to you fully, sincerity in every word. “Dean loves you. You love him. The world is already a goddamn mess—why not hold on to something good?”

The way he said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, made your chest ache.

You sat in silence for a long moment, watching the water rise and fall in a choreographed dance. The truth was, you’d thought about it before. Let yourself imagine it in the quiet moments, in the spaces between hunts, between drinks at some rundown bar, between stolen moments of passion in the sheets, where it always felt more than just a need to blow off some steam.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe you’d been running from something that was already yours.

“He’s not the best at this whole ‘feelings’ thing, but trust me, he’s all in. He’s just... scared, I think. Scared you’ll walk away.”

You looked away, eyes stinging for reasons you didn’t fully understand. You loved him, too. You always had.

“Why can things never be simple?” you asked softly, more to the universe than to Sam.

“Because what is life without a little challenge,” Sam teases and you shoot him a look. “Dean’s worth it. And so are you.”

For a second, everything felt still. The fountain’s music was just background noise to the buzzing in your head, the pounding in your chest. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe you didn’t have to be afraid of something good.

You took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s time I stopped running.”

Sam clapped you on the back with a grin. “I think you’re starting to get it.”

“Hey.”

You watched Dean’s head snap up from where he was leaning over the bar, his focus pulling from the slow drag of his finger tracing the rim of his glass. His eyes, tired and unreadable, softened the moment they met yours.

"Hey." He returned, voice just as soft, just as uncertain. He sat up straighter as you approached, slipping onto the stool beside him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, thick with all the words left unsaid, tension crackling between you like a live wire.

Dean broke first. “You want a drink?”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "God, no." You grimaced. "I don’t even know how you're drinking that." You gestured toward his whiskey, still untouched except for the way he’d been absentmindedly spinning it in his grasp.

Dean smirked, lifting the glass slightly. "Never heard of hair of the dog?"

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head. And for just a moment, it felt normal again. Easy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the weight of everything you’d been avoiding pressed back down.

You exhaled, staring at the gleaming oak surface of the bar. "I’m sorry I walked out earlier." Your voice was quieter now, careful. "I wasn’t mad at you."

"I know," Dean murmured. "I get it. I do."

But you shook your head, fingers tightening slightly against the wood. "I don’t think you do."

Dean frowned, his head tilting in that way he always did when he was trying to figure you out. You turned toward him, finally facing him, and the vulnerability in your eyes made his breath catch.

"Dean…" You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "I don’t get to keep the people I love."

Dean’s brows knit together, his grip tightening around his glass. "Y/N—"

"I don’t." You let out a shaky laugh, but there was no real humour in it. "Every time I let myself believe in something, it gets ripped away. And I thought… if I could undo this, if we could erase it like it never happened, then maybe I wouldn’t have to face what it really means.”

Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his jaw locking. "And what does it really mean?"

You met his gaze then, your walls crumbling, your heart in your throat. "That I'm scared. That this—" You motioned between the two of you, voice almost breaking. "—this is everything I ever wanted. And if I lose it? If I lose you?"

Dean’s face softened, something breaking open in his eyes. "Sweetheart…"

"I’m tired of running, Dean." The words came out on an exhale, years of hesitation slipping away. "I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t want this. That I don’t want you."

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable, but you could see it—the way his whole body reacted to your words, the way he leaned in just the slightest bit, like he was being pulled toward you.

And then, his hand found yours, fingers threading together like they belonged there.

"You got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that" he admitted, voice rough, edged with something that made your heart pound.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and before you could say anything else, before you could second-guess, Dean closed the distance.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if he was savouring it—savouring you. His lips were warm, whiskey-smooth, his touch gentle but grounding. He kissed you like you were something precious, something his.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless, your forehead resting against his, a slow smile tugged at your lips.

"Okay," you murmured, your heart still racing. "But if we're gonna do this, really do this…I want a ring on this finger." You wiggled your left hand for emphasis.

Dean let out a startled laugh, his head tilting back slightly before he grinned at you, his eyes twinkling.

“And not something subtle,” you added, your tone teasing with a raised brow as you leaned in closer.

“Oh yeah?” Dean leaned in too, his grin never faltering as he played along.

"I want something big and flashy, like I’m some damn Kardashian or whatever." You tried to hold back your laughter, but his amused expression only made it harder.

Before you could speak again, Dean captured your lips once more, silencing your laughter. You melted into him, the warmth of his kiss overwhelming.

"Anything for you, Mrs. Winchester." His voice was a soft murmur against your lips, the words feeling more natural than either of you expected.

You laughed, shaking your head, but the ache in your chest was the best kind of pain. Because, for the first time in a long while, you weren't running.

AN: I don't know about you guys, but I'd love to see that video 👀😂, I hope you all enjoyed this one. Let me know what you think 💕

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[paucubarsisimp]

sick days

pairing: poly!max verstappen x kelly piquet x reader

summary: in which you’re sick but your boyfriend and girlfriend are there to take care of you

warnings: none

the soft pitter-patter of rain against the windows was the only sound that filled the quiet apartment. the air inside was warm and cozy, but you, curled up on the couch under a pile of blankets, still felt like you were shivering with the chills from the fever that had you bedridden for the past day. you could barely keep your eyes open as your head throbbed with every slight movement. your throat felt raw, and your body ached like you’d run a marathon, but all you wanted was to sleep it off.

kelly was a picture of calm and care as she moved around the living room. she had set up a little “sick station” beside you—a tray of hot tea, tissues, cough drops, and a few movies queued up on the tv just in case you felt up to watching. her presence was grounding, and it made you feel safe, like nothing else in the world mattered other than you getting better.

max, on the other hand, was never far from you. usually so full of energy, it was almost disorienting to see him so soft, so tender. he sat beside you on the couch, his hand gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead. he didn’t even seem to mind that you had been in bed all day, only caring about how he could make you feel comfortable.

“how are you feeling?” he asked quietly, his voice low and soothing. his thumb lightly traced circles on the back of your hand, offering comfort without a single word needing to be said.

“better now,” you murmured, though you weren’t entirely sure you were telling the truth. honestly, you just wanted to sleep through the sickness, but there was a warmth in their presence, a kind of quiet care that made everything feel a little easier.

kelly came over with a bowl of soup and sat down beside you, the steam rising in soft curls from the bowl. “here, sweetheart. it’ll help you feel better,” she said, her voice so gentle it almost made your heart ache. you took a spoonful, savoring the warmth and saltiness as it soothed your sore throat. “you just rest,” she added, brushing her hand through your hair. “we’re here for you.”

it was then that penelope, kelly’s little girl, toddled in with a stuffed bear clutched to her chest. she was wearing her favorite pajamas—pink with little unicorns—and her curls were a bit wild, probably from a nap. she immediately climbed up onto the couch and snuggled up beside you, her tiny arms wrapping around your waist in a warm hug.

“mama says i’m supposed to help take care of you,” she said seriously, looking up at you with her big brown eyes. “i’ll give you my bear if you need him.” the stuffed animal in her hands was comically large, almost as big as she was, but you couldn’t help but smile at the gesture.

max chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with fondness. “she’s a good nurse, isn’t she?”

“best one i’ve ever had,” you replied with a grin, reaching out to ruffle penelope’s hair.

kelly laughed, too, settling in beside you and watching as you two interacted. “she’s been asking every five minutes if you’re feeling any better,” she said, her tone light and affectionate. “i think she’s been more concerned than we’ve been.”

you could feel the warmth of her hand on your arm as she leaned over, adjusting the blankets around you and ensuring you were comfortable. “just rest,” she repeated softly, her voice full of affection. “we’ve got you.”

max reached over, brushing a few strands of hair off your face, his touch lingering. “you know, it’s okay to let us take care of you,” he said quietly. “you don’t have to do anything but get better.”

you leaned into him, grateful for the care they were giving you. “i don’t know what i’d do without you two.”

penelope, hearing your words, leaned up with a serious expression. “we’ll always take care of you,” she said, sounding every bit like her mama. “because you’re family.”

the weight of her words settled over you, and you smiled, your heart swelling with warmth. kelly and max exchanged a look, both of them smiling softly as they watched you and their daughter. everything felt so right in that moment, like nothing in the world could tear you apart. with them by your side, there was no sickness, no pain, no fear. just love.

you drifted in and out of sleep as they all tended to you, their voices soft and constant, a steady reminder that you were cherished. max made sure you stayed hydrated, bringing you water and more tea when you needed it. kelly kept adjusting the blankets, making sure you were warm enough. and penelope? well, she never stopped cuddling up next to you, her small hands bringing you things she thought might help—a toy, a new stuffed animal, even just a kiss on your cheek whenever she saw you look tired.

you could feel your energy slowly returning, not because of medicine or anything that might help physically, but because of them—because of the love they gave you, the care that wrapped around you like a comforting cocoon.

when you finally stirred again, it was because of the light pressure of a kiss to your forehead. max was leaning over you, his face full of tenderness. “feeling a little better?” he asked, his voice still gentle.

you smiled up at him, your heart full. “yeah, a little. i think i’m gonna make it through.”

kelly, sitting by your side, gave you a soft smile, brushing her thumb across your hand. “we’ll make sure of it.”

penelope snuggled into your side, yawning. “when you’re all better, we can play. you’re my best friend.”

you chuckled softly, feeling lighter than you had in days. “i look forward to it, my love.”

in that moment, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be—wrapped in love, surrounded by care, and with a little family who would always take care of you, no matter what.