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slashire · 10 days ago

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late nights

Summary: after a note from a very known, very popular girl in school ended up in Spencer's locker, you agree to keep a close distance in the parking lot just in case something goes wrong, and it turns into a late night hangout which he thinks he messed up.

Highschool senior!Spencer Reid x fem!reader

notes/warnings: highschool AU like senior year for both

words:1845

It was late September in Vegas, the kind of afternoon where the sun hit the pavement just enough to make it shimmer, but not enough to make you sweat. The air held the first hint of fall, cooler in the shade, a little crisper in the lungs. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, school books scattered around in a circle, but neither of you were remotely focused on homework. Spencer was lying on his stomach beside you, long legs stretched out and his hair slightly disheveled from where he’d kept brushing it back. He was halfway through a passionate explanation of Schrödinger’s cat and how it related to quantum superposition, his words tumbling over one another with excitement.

“I mean, think about it,” he said, his voice light and full of energy. “You don’t actually know if the cat is dead or alive until you observe it. So, it’s both, in a way. That’s the beauty of theoretical physics. The possibilities are layered, uncertain until we collapse them into one.”

You were smiling at him, not because you understood every word (he was three textbooks ahead of you in AP Physics), but because he was radiant when he talked about things he loved. There was something magical about how alive he became when he was in his element.

You nudged his shoulder gently. “You’re the only person I know who could make theoretical death traps for cats sound poetic.”

He gave a soft, amused breath through his nose, his eyes flicking toward you. “It’s not a real cat, you know. It’s just a metaphor-”

“I know, Spencer. I was joking.”

A comfortable silence settled for a beat before he looked away from the spiral notebook in front of him and said casually, “Oh, by the way… I got a note today.”

You raised a brow, curious. “What kind of note?”

“From a girl,” he said, eyes still not on you. “It was in my locker when I went to get my calculus book. It said ‘meet me by the parking lot after school’ and it was signed. By Katie Shilling.”

You blinked, processing. Katie Shilling. Blonde, cheerleader, loud laugh in the hallways—she was popular in that low-effort, effortless kind of way. Pretty, always surrounded by people, not the type you'd ever imagined would pass notes to Spencer Reid. You tried to keep your face neutral.

“She signed it?” you asked.

“Yeah. In purple ink. Her handwriting has that… bubbly roundness to it. I compared it to a worksheet she turned in last week in chem.”

Of course he did. You tried not to smile. “And… what do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. Statistically, high school pranks increase in frequency after senior year starts. Especially targeting those perceived as…” he paused, hesitating.

“Different?” you offered.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were glassy, distant, like he was bracing himself. Your heart sank a little. You knew how often Spencer was underestimated or mocked, how people could be cruel simply because he didn’t blend in. He was smarter, quieter, and kinder. And that made him a target.

You reached out and lightly touched his arm. “Do you want me to come with you after school?”

He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “Could you… stay hidden? Just in case it’s nothing. Or something.”

“Of course,” you said, instantly. “We’ll treat it like a stakeout.”

A small, grateful smile ghosted across his face.

The next day dragged by, every ticking clock hand slow and full of tension. You caught Spencer glancing at his locker between classes, his brows furrowed. You knew he was turning it over in his mind, trying to calculate the odds of something real versus something malicious. When the final bell rang, you followed him outside, ducking behind the old oak near the edge of the parking lot. Spencer stood where the note said, backpack slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap, eyes scanning every person that passed.

You crouched lower behind the tree. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

And then, they showed up.

Three guys. Not jocks, not that obvious, but loud enough. Familiar troublemakers from third period. They moved in like shadows, too casual, too slow, and then it shifted. One of them shoved Spencer’s backpack from his shoulder. Another smacked the books from his hands. Names started, quiet at first, then louder, sharper. “Freak.” “Robot.” “Too smart to function.”

You didn’t wait.

Before the third guy could land another jab, you pushed off from behind the tree and stormed toward them.

“Hey!” you barked, stepping directly between Spencer and the guys. “Back off.”

They blinked, surprised. One of them smirked. “What, is he your boyfriend now?”

“Would it matter if he was?” you snapped. “You three idiots have nothing better to do than ambush someone after school? Real tough.”

They muttered, one scoffing, another looking vaguely embarrassed. The third rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever. This is boring anyway.”

And then, they turned and left, just like that. Like it wasn’t worth the energy.

You turned to Spencer, who was crouching, picking up his books without a word. His hands were trembling. You knelt beside him, silently helping gather everything back into a messy pile. His notebook was crumpled, the corner bent inwards. You gently folded it back.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “You’re coming to my house.”

He looked at you, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

“My parents aren’t home tonight. I can make popcorn and we’ll watch something stupid and loud. You’re not being alone after that.”

He gave the faintest nod.

The drive to your house was quiet. He sat beside you in the passenger seat, legs curled up just slightly, his hands still twitchy. You put on the radio, you both liked instrumental stuff, soft piano over ambient soundscapes, and let it fill the silence. When you pulled into your driveway, he followed you inside like a shadow.

The rest of the evening felt like a soft blur of trying to forget.

You both changed into more comfortable clothes. He wore one of your oversized hoodies because his shirt was torn at the sleeve, and it looked ridiculously big on him, but he didn’t complain. You made popcorn, added M&M’s to it like you always did, and threw a blanket over the both of you on your bed while some old sci-fi movie played in the background.

You kept the lights dim, fairy lights around your window the only glow in the room. You made a few dumb jokes, he laughed once or twice, and slowly, that tightness in his shoulders eased.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time the world felt like it had stilled. The movie had long since ended, the credits a distant memory, and only the soft hum of your fairy lights buzzed faintly in the background. Your room smelled faintly of popcorn and vanilla, and the blanket wrapped around both of you had slipped lower, pooled at your waists.

He had barely moved in the last half hour, lying on his side with his head propped on one arm, facing you. His other hand was idly tracing invisible patterns into the comforter, a small nervous tick you’d seen before. He hadn’t said much since earlier, just little sentences, half-thoughts, but now, in the low light, his eyes looked darker, deeper, heavy with something else entirely.

You weren’t sure who was studying who more.

“I used to think if I just… kept my head down, no one would notice me,” he said softly, his voice carrying in the quiet. “If I didn’t correct people or answer questions too quickly or… quote weird facts. I thought maybe they’d stop.”

You kept your gaze on him, gentle. “But you didn’t stop.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how to not be me.”

There was something so raw in the way he said it, so completely unguarded, that your chest ached. You reached over and placed your hand over his, fingers brushing his knuckles, and that seemed to quiet something inside him. He looked down at where your hands met, his thumb brushing the back of yours, almost absentmindedly.

Then, with the faintest inhale, he lifted his gaze again.

You watched something shift in his expression, eyes lingering on your face, flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back again. There was a hesitance to it, a tension coiled in his posture. He was thinking too hard. Calculating it. You could almost see it happening behind his eyes.

“Spence,” you murmured.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, before you could ask why, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Barely there. It was the kind of kiss you almost imagined you dreamed, gentle pressure, a warm breath, the ghost of his lips touching yours like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. He lingered only for a moment before pulling back, eyes wide, full of guilt before you’d even said a word.

“I’m…God, I’m sorry,” he blurted, pulling back further, already shaking his head. “That was, stupid, I don’t know why I did that, I didn’t mean to make it weird-”

“Spencer-”

“I don’t want to ruin anything, I just…It’s late and I’m tired and you were being nice to me and I think maybe my brain misinterpreted-”

“Spence.”

“-and I promise I wasn’t trying to take advantage or anything-”

You reached out, grabbed the front of your hoodie that he was still wearing, and tugged him forward before he could spiral any further.

And then you kissed him.

This time, deliberately. No hesitation, no accident, no uncertainty.

His lips were soft again, but this time his breath caught against yours, his hand gripping the blanket for balance. You could feel him exhale slowly through his nose, feel the way the tension bled out of his shoulders as you pressed in gently.

When you finally pulled back, your hand still lightly resting against his chest, he looked dazed, blinking like he wasn’t entirely sure what plane of reality he was on.

You smiled a little.

“Wasn’t weird,” you said softly.

He blinked once. “It… wasn’t?”

You shook your head. “Not even close.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and he looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, like somehow, you’d just redefined the edges of his world.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said, voice low. “Not when it’s real.”

And just like that, he smiled, shy, relieved, like a weight had quietly lifted off his chest. He didn’t say anything else.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #fanfic #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds fanfiction #fluff

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wroteclassicaly · 7 months ago

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Eddie Munson loves the way that you pick at the chipping polish on your nails until it’s dangling from the cuticle. Enjoys how you only shave the bottom half of your legs but let the top grow out. Oh god, and when you chew and bite your straw to an unusable puncture, leaving lipgloss all over. The times at lunch where you’ll find him to ask, “Can I play with your hair?” You aren’t in Hellfire Club, but the group has taken to adopting you as a seat mate.

Well… you had simply settled down there before Eddie’s group approached. He’d leaned in to inform you that this was a private table. To which, you shrugged and asked who usually sat where, following suit with finding your own space - which just happened to be right beside the dungeon master himself. You’d put on your headphones, took out your spiral, and began writing, everyone free to converse as you let yourself get lost amongst new company.

Soon… things changed. It went from, “What’s she doing here?” To “What are you listening to today?”

Eddie often lets his thoughts scatter from campaigns conversations, the band’s music — all because he ends up watching you get lost to yours. Ink pen tapping, eyes fluttered closed. Every single bit of cafeteria commotion ceases to exist, footsteps echoing, Eddie’s heart thrumming in his ears (fucking tinnitus).

Vibrating your way into everyone’s affections, Eddie remains awe struck & jaw slacked that you can’t see how easy it is to connect with you, to feel like everything is okay when you’re around, how there’s not one single person on planet earth and beyond that is like you. You wear what you want, model a personal style that belongs to you, have prepared more comebacks than he’s seen in his twenty years of life (that would shrivel any man’s ballsack and make all the other girls envious). It’s how you tried to make red, white, and black knit scarves to match their shirts for Christmas, and it ended with balls of fabric, your bloody thumbs, and Eddie helping you fix each one with a gentle hand (because everyone has to have something, Eddie). How can he forget that you’re not a baker, but your boxed brownies are Eddie’s favorite, especially when you wrap them in Christmas paper, serving hot chocolate to go along, making your way around the table to plop marshmallows in each styrofoam cup, that way no one is forgotten.

“Something for you and the group to have during tonight’s campaign. Oh! And my mom actually taught me how to make the hot chocolate in a crockpot, so…”

Eddie Munson has tried convincing himself that you’re just another sheep to protect. His stomach isn’t fluttering like a hoard of bats are shredding his insides, his knees aren’t growing weak everytime you smile, his breath isn’t getting caught on the wall of his chest on days that your full figure wears a skirt or a dress to accentuate features you love to possess, but can’t see their beauty with your eyes. He’s seen you in the morning, in the sun, in the rain, in the dark, and now, as it’s snowing outside the walls of this school. You’ll get up to retrieve something in the lunch line and Eddie will peer into your notebook, ringed finger scanning the lined page of your latest short story.

A guy and a girl, one small town, looking at the simplicity of various Christmas lights. It’s traditional, differing from what you usually let him read. You’re a sheep, lost from your flock in the manger. An angel so soft that feathers have nothing on you. A fucking Christmas star, shining so bright it burns the entire town to the ground.

By the time you’re carrying a bowl of cheese fries back to the table with two forks, Eddie has already picked you up in his van, a thermos full of his mom’s famous hot cocoa recipe. Eddie loves the way that you - oh… fuck… he loves you.

Merry Christmas…

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mcrdvcks · 3 months ago

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i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ wanna see what's under that attitude

chapter summary: The kids try scaring Logan but fail at every turn. You come up with a new binder.

word count: 8.1k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: like last chapter, this is pretty much mostly fluff. next chapter is where we ramp things up a bit :)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, slight angst, brief mentions of sex, slight scott slander (in a playful way...?)

series masterlist - chapter 10 → chapter 12

It was part infuriating and part upsetting. It’s not that the two of you never fought, you did, but it was usually about stupid things like Logan keeping his boots in the middle of the walkway, or you staying up late to finish grading papers.

After going to Jean’s lab to help her with a project, you went back to your classroom and found a cup of tea and a note.

“Sorry. Can I make it up to you? Love, your idiot husband.”

The note stayed on your desk longer than you intended. You read it again—Logan’s familiar scrawl, the self-deprecating humor tucked into his words. It was sweet, yes, but it didn’t entirely quell the lingering frustration from the fight last night.

Not that you could exactly pinpoint what the fight was about. It had started small, like they usually did, and spiraled into something heated before either of you realized it. Logan had been snappish, you’d been stubborn, and by the time the argument ended, you’d retreated to your classroom to prep for today’s lessons while Logan stomped off somewhere else.

Still, the tea on your desk—your favorite blend—was warm when you found it. And the note? It was peak Logan. Gruff but apologetic, with enough charm to make you start forgiving him before he even said the words.

You tucked the note into the front pocket of your notebook before starting class.

---

The rest of the day went smoothly enough. Your students were engaged, a few even managed to crack a joke that earned more than a polite smile from you. By the time the last class ended, you felt lighter, the earlier tension fading.

When you returned to your shared room, the sight stopped you in your tracks.

Logan had cleaned.

The scattered boots, flannel shirts, and that one stubborn pair of jeans that he left draped over the chair for weeks were all gone. The bed was made, the surfaces were wiped, and you could smell the faint scent of lemon from the cleaner he must have used.

You bit back a smile, crossing to your desk where even your papers had been neatly stacked. A small bouquet of wildflowers sat in a glass jar next to your lamp. They weren’t extravagant—just blooms he must’ve picked from the garden—but the thought behind them made your chest ache in the best way.

---

Dinner wasn’t just dinner—it was dessert.

When Jean intercepted you on your way to the kitchen, she barely contained her grin. “Don’t go in there yet,” she said, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall.

“Why not?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Jean just tilted her head, smirking. “Let’s call it a peace offering. Logan roped me into supervising.”

Your brows furrowed, but before you could press her for more details, the kitchen door swung open. Logan stood there, holding a tray with two small plates of molten chocolate cake. The edges were slightly uneven, but the rich scent of chocolate and caramel made your stomach flip.

“Dinner’s still cookin’,” he said, nodding toward the plates. “Figured this’d keep you happy ‘til then.”

Jean winked at you before slipping past Logan and disappearing down the hall.

You accepted the plate he handed you, raising an eyebrow. “You made this?”

“Well, Jean stopped me from burnin’ the place down, but yeah,” he admitted, smirking slightly.

You took a bite, the warm, gooey center melting on your tongue. “This is actually good,” you said after swallowing, and Logan chuckled.

“High praise, comin’ from you,” he teased, but there was no edge to his words.

---

Later that evening, you curled up in your favorite chair with a book, the day’s tension completely gone. Logan had been uncharacteristically subdued all evening, watching you with a quiet intensity that made you wonder if he was still waiting for you to forgive him fully.

When he finally approached, it wasn’t with words. He slipped the book from your hands and pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled into your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and soft.

You turned slightly to look at him, your fingers brushing the side of his face. “For what?”

“For bein’ an idiot,” he said, smirking faintly.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “I can’t even remember what the fight was about.”

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Somethin’ stupid, I’m sure.”

“Definitely stupid,” you agreed, a smile tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest, and you felt it down to your bones. “Still. Shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”

“You’re forgiven,” you said simply, leaning in to kiss him softly.

When you pulled back, his smirk returned, softer this time. “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.”

“Don’t forget it,” you teased, and the two of you laughed, the fight already forgotten as you melted into his embrace.

---

The two of you turned a corner as Theresa and Jones let out a “boo!” that startled you, making you yelp and grab Logan’s arm.

Logan, as always, didn’t have a reaction.

“Tess!”

The girl giggled, “sorry, Y/N! We were tryin’ to scare Logan.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.”

You shot a glance at Logan, who was, as always, unbothered by the kids’ antics. It wasn’t surprising—after all, he’d been through far worse than a couple of kids trying to scare him.

Theresa and Jones gave each other a glance and high-fived, clearly proud of their latest attempt. You, on the other hand, just rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t deny that their efforts did keep things interesting.

Kitty, Rogue, and Bobby weren’t far behind, each trying their own version of a surprise attack on Logan over the next few days. The thing was, Logan always managed to stay calm, unflinching. It was as if nothing phased him—not even the most elaborate scare attempts.

Kitty tried jumping out of a closet one afternoon, “Boo!” she yelled. Logan barely blinked.

“I’ll get you one of these days, Logan,” she muttered, walking off, her pride wounded.

Later, Bobby had hidden in the shadows near the kitchen, armed with a bucket of cold water. His grin was smug as he prepared for the perfect ambush.

But Logan never gave him the chance. As soon as Bobby moved to tip the bucket, Logan had already pivoted, his heightened senses picking up on his every move. A simple swipe of his hand sent the bucket flying, and Bobby got drenched.

“Next time, freeze yourself, Bobby,” Logan muttered, walking past him with a casual shrug. Bobby was too wet and too stunned to reply.

But it was Rogue who seemed most determined. She set up a whole contraption in the hallway, a series of loud noises, ropes, and traps designed to rattle Logan. The thing was, she had underestimated one key detail: Logan had been through far worse. Nothing in this mansion could surprise him anymore.

By the end of the week, you’d had enough of the spectacle. You overheard them planning yet another attempt—a clever one this time, involving wires, an old airhorn, and some poorly executed timing. It wasn’t exactly foolproof, but they seemed hopeful.

Curious, you made your way to the common room, hearing their hushed voices as you approached.

“We’re gonna get him this time. For sure,” Jones was saying, his voice filled with excitement.

“You just gotta set up the wires right, Bobby,” Rogue added, sounding slightly exasperated. “And remember, we hit the airhorn before he steps through the door. We time it perfectly, and he’ll jump outta his skin.”

Kitty added, “Yeah, and don’t forget the confetti—it's gotta be a show.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, catching their attention. “Really?”

They froze, like deer caught in headlights, before Bobby awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh... yeah. We’re... we’re gonna scare Logan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’ll handle it.”

Jean, who had been nearby and overheard the conversation, gave you a look. “You? You’re gonna scare him?”

You shot her a playful smile. “You’ve all tried and failed, right? It’s my turn.”

The kids exchanged skeptical looks. “Okay, but if this goes horribly wrong—” Bobby began.

You just waved him off. “It won’t. Trust me.”

---

That night, you set your plan into motion. It wasn’t anything big or flashy—no confetti cannons or dramatic airhorns. Instead, it was something subtle but effective. You weren’t trying to make a scene; you just wanted to prove a point. If anyone could catch Logan off guard, it was you.

Logan was in the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge for a beer. His flannel was rolled up at the sleeves, and his usual gruff muttering filled the space as he searched. You leaned casually against the far wall, glasses perched on your nose, watching him.

With a quick glance over your shoulder to ensure that the kids were watching, you exhaled and concentrated. Time slowed, the air thickening like molasses, until the faint hum of the fridge faded to silence. You stepped lightly across the room, weaving through the paused world, until you were standing right behind Logan.

Unfreezing time with a soft snap, you waited.

“Need help finding someth—”

Logan whipped around so fast he nearly knocked the beer he’d just grabbed from the shelf. His eyes were wide, and for the briefest moment, you saw the flicker of instinct—the readiness for a fight.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N!” he growled, clutching the bottle like it might ground him. “What the hell?”

You crossed your arms, fighting back a grin. “What?”

“Where the hell did you come from?” He narrowed his eyes, scanning the room as if trying to piece together what he’d missed.

“I was here the whole time,” you said, feigning innocence.

Logan huffed, stepping back to give you a once-over. “Don’t lie to me, darlin’. You weren’t there a second ago.”

“Maybe you’re just not as sharp as you think,” you teased, tilting your head.

His scowl deepened, but there was something else behind it—a flicker of realization. “You froze time, didn’t you?”

You shrugged. “Prove it.”

Before Logan could respond, a burst of laughter erupted from the doorway. You turned to see Bobby, Kitty, and Rogue peeking in, their faces lit up with glee.

“We saw that!” Bobby crowed, doubling over. “You actually got him!”

Kitty clapped her hands, practically bouncing. “I can’t believe it! Logan never gets startled!”

Rogue leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Guess the big bad Wolverine ain’t so unshakable after all.”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re all a damn pain in my ass.”

“Oh, come on, Logan,” you said, patting his arm. “It’s not every day we get to see you speechless.”

“You think this is funny?” He glared at you, but there was no real heat behind it.

“A little,” you admitted, biting back a smile.

The kids continued laughing as Logan shot them a look that could’ve melted steel. “You’ve had your fun. Now get lost before I make you regret it.”

Bobby snickered but wisely ducked out, dragging Kitty and Rogue with him. “Totally worth it,” he muttered as they disappeared down the hall.

When they were gone, Logan turned back to you, his expression softening. “You know I’m gonna get you back for this, right?”

“Good luck,” you said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You’ll need it.”

He grunted, shaking his head with a smirk. “You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

“Don’t forget it,” you said, grabbing the beer from his hand and taking a sip before walking off, leaving Logan standing there, muttering about how he’d never live this down.

---

The heat in the mansion quit working due to an ‘accident’ caused by Scott and Hank. This was the third day it was out, and everyone was freezing. Well, almost everyone.

Logan always ran hot, during the summer it was a curse to sleep in the same bed with him, tucked into his chest, but right now? Yeah, you can forgive him for holding you close when you were sweating in the summer nights.

The two of you were on the couch in the common area, with some of the other kids and adults trying to watch a movie and feel the heat from the small fireplace.

Your arms were wrapped around Logan’s waist under his jacket, and your face was pressed into his side, glasses sitting awkwardly on the bridge of your nose. His body heat was a gift, radiating through the layers of your clothes. You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him.

“You’re like a space heater,” you mumbled, voice muffled against his side.

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, his arm tightening around you. “Guess I’m good for somethin’, huh?”

Across the room, Scott was poking at the fireplace with a long iron rod, trying to coax the flames higher. Jean sat on the arm of the couch, balancing a mug of cocoa, while Bobby was busy freezing the edges of a blanket to stop Rogue from stealing it.

“Hey, Logan,” Bobby called, his breath visible in the cold air. “Why don’t you share some of that heat? You’re hogging it all.”

Logan shot him a glare, the kind that wasn’t entirely serious but still made Bobby hesitate. “Get your own,” he growled. “Ain’t my fault you can’t keep warm.”

“You’re so generous,” you teased, your breath making a small cloud as you spoke.

“Don’t start with me, sweetheart,” Logan muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched. His hand rubbed small circles on your back, an unconscious gesture that made you sink deeper into his side.

Jean’s gaze shifted between the two of you, her lips quirking into a knowing smile. “You two look cozy.”

“Warmer than you,” you shot back without looking at her.

“Oh, absolutely,” she agreed, holding up her mug. “But at least I’ve got this.”

“You could just sit closer to the fire,” Logan suggested, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

Jean raised an eyebrow. “And give up my prime seat for Scott’s endless fire-poking? No, thanks.”

Scott glanced over his shoulder, shaking his head. “It’s called keeping the fire alive, Jean.”

“It’s called annoying everyone within a ten-foot radius,” she countered with a grin.

You snorted softly, adjusting your glasses. The banter between the two of them was as familiar as Logan’s steady heartbeat under your cheek. Moments like this—small, quiet pockets of normalcy—were what you’d come to cherish most.

---

After another day of the cold, you had had enough. If Scott and Hank couldn’t fix their mess, you were going to have to do it yourself. You had layered on five thick layers of clothing, along with your gloves, beanie, and earmuffs. You weren't letting the freezing temperatures keep you from being warm and comfortable any longer.

The hallways in the mansion were unusually silent, and the only sound was the crunch of your boots on the frozen floor as you made your way to the furnace room. You were fully prepared to face this head-on, especially after Scott and Hank’s continued "lack of action" over the last few days. You weren’t sure what the problem was—Hank had said something about a malfunction and Scott was apparently trying to do some sort of "maintenance," but neither of them seemed to be getting anywhere.

It wasn’t the first time you’d had to step in and fix things—especially when it came to Scott. Sure, he had his good qualities, but there were times when he’d just... drag his feet on the simplest things, and you had no patience for it.

As you rounded the corner, there was Scott himself, bundled in a thick parka, kneeling on the ground next to the furnace. You sighed, already knowing exactly what he was going to say.

"Scott," you called, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow, "you still haven't fixed this thing?"

He looked up, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Well, I—"

"You said you were going to fix it yesterday, and the day before that," you interrupted, a little too sharply. "It's been three days! You can't just keep poking at it and hoping it will magically work."

He immediately sat back on his heels, clearly taken aback by the annoyance in your tone. "I was going to get to it," he mumbled, but you could see the guilt on his face.

"Yeah, well, I’m tired of freezing my ass off," you snapped, though there was no real malice behind the words. "You know what? I’ll do it myself."

Before Scott could respond, you got to work. You could tell he wanted to argue, to defend himself, but this wasn’t the first time he’d been in this position. And at this point, it seemed like you were the only one who actually cared enough to do something.

A few minutes into working, you heard footsteps behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to see Logan and Jean standing there, both clearly curious.

"What’s going on?" Logan asked, his eyes narrowing as he saw you kneeling by the furnace with a wrench in hand.

"I’m fixing this," you said simply, still focused on the task at hand.

Jean grinned. "You mean Scott’s not doing it?"

"Looks like it," you said dryly, giving Scott a pointed look. "He’s been staring at it for three days."

Scott shot you a defensive look, but you weren’t having it. "I’ve been trying," he muttered.

"Trying, or pretending?" you retorted, twisting the wrench harder.

Logan stepped closer, his arms crossed over his chest, his usual smirk making an appearance. "You know, sweetheart," he said, glancing at Scott with an amused glint in his eyes. "I think it’s better you’re handling this. At least you won’t take three days to get it done."

You huffed a laugh, then rolled your eyes at Scott’s defeated expression. "You’re lucky I’m even doing this. You know, I was going to let you do it, but it seems like that would take a lot longer than I have patience for."

Scott sighed dramatically. "I was going to fix it!"

"Yeah, in another year or two," you muttered, now tightening the last bolt.

"How much longer is this going to take?" Jean asked, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the little scene unfolding.

"Five more minutes," you said, your tone flat as you focused on finishing up.

"Should’ve just let her handle it from the start," Logan teased, looking at Scott. "But hey, now you’ve learned something for next time, right?"

Scott grumbled something under his breath, but said nothing more.

Finally, you stood up, wiping your hands on your thick layers, a small sense of pride swelling inside you. "There. Done. You’re welcome."

Jean raised her cup, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Nice job, Y/N. But did you have to do it like this?"

You shot her a sidelong glance, lifting your eyebrows. "Your husband is an idiot. You should really do something about that."

Scott groaned, rubbing his temples. "I was going to fix it, okay? Just... give me a break."

Logan chuckled, leaning against the wall. "You were going to fix it, huh? For someone who was going to do it, you sure did a good job of standing around."

Scott shot him a glare, but Logan was too busy enjoying the moment to care. "Don’t worry, Scott. Next time, just leave it to Y/N. She gets things done."

Jean rolled her eyes, but there was a fondness in her voice when she spoke. "You know, I’m pretty sure I told you to fix this a week ago."

"I know, I know," Scott muttered, now looking slightly embarrassed. "I’m not proud of it."

Logan chuckled again, giving you an approving look. "Well, sweetheart, it looks like you've done more in five minutes than Scott did in three days. Nice work."

You shook your head, fighting a smile. "I swear, you’re all so predictable."

Jean raised an eyebrow at Scott. "Guess I know who I’m asking next time."

Scott sighed dramatically again, as if defeated. "Yeah, yeah. You can ask Y/N next time. I get it."

You chuckled, crossing your arms as you turned to head back to the common room. "Glad I could help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to enjoy the heat I fixed."

Logan followed you with a smirk, hands in his pockets as he watched you walk away, amused by the whole exchange. "You’re somethin’ else, darlin’. You know that?"

You shot him a side-eye, your lips curling into a grin. "Don’t forget it."

The sound of Scott and Jean’s bickering faded behind you as you walked back inside, warmth finally returning to the mansion, and with it, a slight sense of satisfaction that maybe, just maybe, you were the one who kept things running.

---

Your new binder was different than your previous ones. Instead of it being pregnancy related it was completely relationship related.

Nothing was wrong with your marriage, far from it, just sometimes you feel like you… need a little help being affectionate. Logan seems to do it effortlessly and you overthink everything.

Which is why you had spent the last 2 months researching and putting everything into your binder, complete with tabs, highlights, and annotations.

Of course it was just for you. A guide if you will.

The binder sat neatly on your nightstand, innocuous to anyone else who might happen upon it. But to you, it was a treasure trove of ideas, strategies, and research on how to show affection—subtly, purposefully, and in ways that didn’t make you overthink everything. It wasn’t that you had a problem with affection or PDA. No, you didn’t mind being close to Logan or holding his hand when others were around. The problem was initiating it. That little voice in the back of your head would second-guess every move: Does he want this? Am I overstepping? Am I doing this right?

Logan, on the other hand, was a natural. He didn’t hesitate to grab your hand or pull you into his lap during movie nights. He kissed you in front of others without a care, and when he called you those pet names it sounded like it belonged to you and only you. He made it look easy—effortless, even. You wanted to match that, to give back as much as he gave, but your shyness and tendency to overanalyze sometimes got in the way.

Hence, the binder.

It wasn’t just any binder—it was meticulously organized. Each section was labeled with a handwritten tab: "Physical Touch," "Words of Affirmation," "Small Gestures," and even "Spontaneity." You’d spent weeks filling it with ideas, things you’d read, and even notes on what Logan liked. It was your secret weapon, and while you hadn’t exactly put it to the test yet, you felt more prepared.

---

Logan knew about the binder. How could he not? You weren’t completely subtle—leaving tabs open on your laptop, jotting notes in the margins of books he’d catch you reading, or the one time you left the binder wide open on the bed after getting distracted by a shower.

That day, Logan had walked into the room, ready to drop onto the bed after a long training session with the kids, only to stop short at the sight of your meticulously organized binder. Curiosity won out over respect for your privacy as he glanced at the open page.

At first glance, he thought it was one of your usual hyper-organized projects—another guide like the one you’d made for his motorcycle a while back. That one had been impressive, filled with diagrams, troubleshooting steps, and even a list of tools he might need. It had been so thorough it almost made him laugh, but he’d appreciated it. You always had a knack for diving deep into anything you set your mind to, and it showed in the way you approached every problem or idea.

But this binder was different. The tabs caught his attention first: Physical Touch, Words of Affirmation, Small Gestures, and Spontaneity. He frowned slightly, curiosity getting the better of him as his eyes skimmed the open page.

It only took a few seconds for him to realize what it was. A guide. For him. Well, not exactly for him—more like for you. A guide on how to be affectionate.

At first, it made him smirk. The idea of you, you, needing a manual to show affection seemed almost ridiculous. From where he stood, you were already the most thoughtful, caring person he’d ever met. You didn’t need a binder to prove that.

But as he looked closer, the smirk faded. The notes scrawled in the margins, the careful highlights, and the tiny hearts here and there—this wasn’t some casual project. This was you, trying your hardest to give as much as you thought he gave to you. And that hit him right in the chest.

Logan sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the binder still in front of him. He let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

You didn’t need to try so hard. Hell, you didn’t need to try at all.

The truth was, he’d seen you make gestures more meaningful than any grand romantic moment he could think of. The whiskey you gave him for your anniversary, aged for five years because you thought that far ahead. The way you’d ask, shy and hesitant, if you could trim his hair or beard, like it wasn’t the most intimate thing in the world. Or how you’d spend hours in the kitchen, making him dinner or baking something sweet, even though you never made a big deal about it.

You were affectionate. You just didn’t see it.

Logan closed the binder carefully and set it back on the nightstand. He leaned back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind whirring.

Later that evening, when you walked into the room, Logan was sitting in his usual spot on the bed, a book in one hand. He glanced up as you entered, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” you said, giving him a small smile as you slipped off your shoes.

“Hey, darlin’.” He set the book down, watching you move around the room. You seemed oblivious to the fact that he’d seen your binder earlier.

After a moment, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Been meanin’ to ask you somethin’.”

You froze slightly, looking at him with wide eyes. “What is it?”

Logan’s grin softened. “That binder you’ve been workin’ on…”

Your face went pale. “What binder?”

“The one with all the tabs and notes,” he said casually, leaning back against the headboard. “The one about… affection.”

You groaned, pressing your hands to your face. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Too late,” he said, chuckling. He reached out, catching one of your wrists and tugging you gently toward him. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, you let him pull you into his lap, your cheeks still burning. “It’s not what you think,” you mumbled.

“Uh-huh,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “You made a damn binder about us, sweetheart. I think I know exactly what it is.”

You squirmed slightly, trying to hide your embarrassment, but he held you steady, his arms wrapping around you. “Listen,” he said, his tone softening. “You don’t need a guide for this stuff.”

You looked up at him, your brows furrowed. “I just… I overthink everything. You’re so good at it—being affectionate, I mean. It’s easy for you.”

Logan tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think I don’t overthink things? Darlin’, half the time, I’m just wingin’ it.”

You blinked, surprised. “You are?”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “But you? You do things that blow me away without even tryin’. Like that whiskey you gave me. Or when you ask to trim my beard—do you know how much I look forward to that?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a kiss, his lips lingering against yours for a moment before he pulled back. “You don’t need to try so hard. I already know how much you care.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your heart full and your cheeks warm. “You really mean that?”

Logan smirked, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I mean it. But if you wanna keep the binder, I won’t stop ya. But maybe you could do some research on… something else.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you looked away, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Logan…”

“Hm?” His fingers lightly drummed against your hip as he leaned back, his gaze fixed on you with an amused glint.

You avoided his eyes, focusing intently on the fabric between your fingers. “I, uh…” you mumbled, barely audible, “had to put it in another binder.”

Logan stilled for a moment before a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Another binder?” His smirk widened, and you could feel it without even looking at him. “Well, now you’ve got me curious, darlin’.”

Before you could stop him, Logan reached over toward your nightstand.

“Logan, wait!” You grabbed his wrist, your voice more desperate than you intended.

His head tilted, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Unless what, sweetheart?”

You sighed, your face burning as you kept your hold on his wrist. “Unless… unless you’d rather not know,” you mumbled.

“Oh, now that’s just cruel,” Logan teased, leaning closer until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His voice dropped lower, gravelly and teasing. “You’ve been hidin’ a second binder from me? I’m startin’ to feel left out.”

“Logan…” You groaned again, burying your face in his chest.

He laughed, wrapping his arms around you as he leaned back against the headboard. “C’mon, Y/N. I ain’t gonna bite. Unless you want me to,” he added with a wink, making you swat at him lightly.

“It’s not—it’s not what you’re thinking,” you said quickly.

“Oh, yeah? Then what is it?”

You hesitated, your face still pressed against him. “Just… research. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Logan drawled, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. “Research about…?”

You stayed silent, your fingers gripping his shirt tightly.

Logan leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, “Darlin’, you know I’m not lettin’ this go.”

You groaned again, reluctantly pulling back just enough to look up at him. “It’s about… you know what it’s about!”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “Darlin’, if I knew, I wouldn’t be askin’. Now spit it out before I get the wrong idea.”

“It’s—it’s personal, okay?” You pushed your glasses further up your nose and squirmed slightly in his lap, the mortification nearly unbearable. “It’s just research. For us. About…” You sighed, the words dying in your throat.

Logan’s teasing grin softened as he studied you. “About what?”

He wasn’t letting this go—not because he was trying to embarrass you, but because he wanted to know. Logan didn’t pry unless it mattered. And right now, it mattered to him.

“About… that,” you whispered, motioning vaguely at him with one hand.

Logan tilted his head, the dots connecting in an instant. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That, huh? We’re talkin’ about sex?”

You groaned again, burying your face in his shoulder. “Yes, Logan,” you mumbled against his flannel, “we’re talking about sex.”

His laughter was warm, not mocking, and his hand ran comfortingly up and down your back. “Darlin’, you’ve got a binder… for sex?”

“It’s not like that!” you protested, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. “It’s not just… sex. It’s ideas, okay? And… you know… different kinds of… sex.” Your voice trailed off as if you were praying for the bed to swallow you whole.

Logan’s lips twitched, a smirk fighting to break free. His hand, still resting against your waist, gave a reassuring squeeze. “Different kinds of sex?” he repeated, his tone equal parts curious and teasing.

“Don’t make me explain it,” you mumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his lap, your glasses slipping slightly down your nose. You pushed them back up, avoiding his eyes.

Logan chuckled, the sound deep and warm in his chest. “Darlin’, you made a whole damn binder about it. Kinda feels like you owe me an explanation now.”

“Logan,” you groaned, pressing a hand against his chest. “It’s not—okay, fine. It’s just… research.” You sighed in defeat, giving in to his unrelenting stare. “While I was working on the first binder—about affection—I came across all these articles. They were talking about keeping relationships… fresh or whatever.”

Logan raised a brow, his smirk widening. “Fresh, huh?”

You huffed, the words spilling out faster now. “It’s not like we need that, obviously! I just thought it was interesting. Like… there’s so much information about the benefits of intimacy and… you know… other stuff.”

Logan stayed quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Then he reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingered, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. “So, you went down a rabbit hole and decided to make a sex binder.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to hide your face again, but his grip shifted to gently cradle your jaw.

“Hey,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m not makin’ fun of you, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

You hesitated, nodding slowly. “I know.”

“I just… I gotta ask.” His tone took on a playful edge again, but his eyes were kind. “Did you highlight stuff?”

You groaned again, louder this time, and Logan’s laughter filled the room. “Stop it!”

“I’m serious!” He was grinning now, his arms pulling you closer. “Did you? Little notes in the margins, maybe a color-coded system?”

You swatted at his chest, but your lips betrayed you with the ghost of a smile. “I’m never letting you see it. Ever.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Logan said, his hands sliding down to your hips. “You’ve got me all curious now.”

“It’s not meant for you,” you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction. “It’s… it’s just for me.”

Logan leaned back slightly, studying you with a mix of amusement and admiration. “You know, you don’t have to try so hard, right? With anything.”

“I know,” you admitted softly, your gaze dropping to the space between you. “It’s just how I am. I like being prepared.”

Logan’s grin softened, his eyes warm. “You’re already more than enough, Y/N. Binder or no binder.”

A warm flush crept up your neck, and you tried to shrug it off. “Maybe. But it doesn’t hurt to be extra prepared.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Logan said with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But for the record, darlin’, I think we’re doin’ just fine.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you rested your forehead against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He wrapped his arms securely around you, his voice dipping to a near whisper. “But if you wanna share any ideas from that binder, I’m all ears.”

“Logan!” Your laugh was soft but genuine as you swatted him again. He only chuckled, holding you close and dropping a kiss to your hair.

“Relax, sweetheart. I’m just teasin’,” he murmured, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Kinda.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, but the smile stayed on your face.

Logan smirked, letting you settle comfortably in his lap. “What can I say? You keep things… fresh.”

---

Logan stood behind you, his strong arms draped loosely around your shoulders as you both hovered near the bathroom counter. The soft hum of the mansion in the distance made the quiet between you even more intimate. You toyed with the pastel swirl of the bath bomb in your hand, letting its light weight roll across your palm as the faint scent of lavender and citrus teased the air.

Logan’s chin rested on top of your head as he glanced at the colorful sphere. “You’re tellin’ me this thing’s supposed to do somethin’ magical in water?”

A smile tugged at your lips, your fingers tightening slightly around the bath bomb as you tried not to laugh at his skepticism. “Not magical, just… fun. Jean gave it to me,” you murmured, tilting your head back to look up at him.

His dark eyes flicked down to meet yours, softened in a way most people never saw. “Well, if Jean says it’s good, I’m not gonna argue. You trust her taste more than I trust it.”

You laughed softly, leaning into his chest. “She said it would be relaxing,” you said. “And, to be honest… I thought you’d enjoy it too.”

One of Logan’s eyebrows quirked. “I enjoy baths, darlin’, but I ain’t ever thought about tossin’ a candy ball into one.”

You nudged him lightly, your shyness waning just a little under the bubble of his warm presence. “It’s not a candy ball! Just… watch.”

With that, you slipped out of his hold briefly to kneel by the edge of the tub. The still, warm water reflected faint ripples across the bathroom walls. You turned the bath bomb over in your hand once, the little ridges of its pastel swirl tickling your palm. Then, with one last glance back at Logan, you dropped it into the water.

The reaction was instantaneous. A quiet fizzing sound bubbled into the air as the ball began to spin, leaving a kaleidoscope trail of purple, pink, and yellow hues in its wake. A soft floral-citrus scent filled the room. You looked up at Logan, whose sharp expression had morphed into one of genuine curiosity.

“Huh,” he muttered, kneeling next to you and dipping a roughened hand into the water. “Didn’t expect all that.”

You grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “See? Magical,” you teased gently.

Logan’s smirk returned, his wet fingers brushing against your wrist. “Well, I’ve had my share of magic over the years, but this is new. You wanna take it together?” His voice held the gruff warmth that never failed to settle your nerves.

You nodded, cheeks warm as you stood. His hands ghosted to your waist to steady you as you slipped off your robe, leaving only your glasses perched delicately on your nose. Logan shed his own clothes quickly, his usual efficiency softened as he reached for you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping into the colorful water before holding out a hand to help you in. “You’ve officially sold me on this… thing.”

Once the water embraced you both, you leaned back against his chest, your shy hesitance melting into the warmth of his touch and the soothing swirl of colors around you. Logan’s arms wrapped protectively around your waist, his hand finding yours underwater and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“This is nice,” he admitted after a long moment, his voice a low rumble near your ear.

You hummed in agreement, adjusting your glasses slightly as they fogged. “Told you,” you whispered, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Logan’s mouth pressed to your temple, lingering there as his thumb traced lazy circles over the back of your hand. “Don’t think I ever needed bath bombs, but if it gets me this? I’ll take all the candy balls you can find.”

You laughed softly, warmth spreading through your chest, not from the bath but from the rare, unguarded tenderness in his words. For a moment, you closed your eyes, letting yourself exist in the colorful, fragrant water and the strong, steady hold of the man who always remembered you.

---

It didn’t matter at this moment that you had flour on your apron, possibly on your face, or that this is your 4th attempt at making the choux correctly. You were going to win the baking contest this year.

For 4 years straight you had won the contest, a little competition that the team set up to go along with the student talent show, but the past 4 years you lost.

What made it worse was that you lost to Hank of all people last year.

And though Jean had won the other 3 years, you weren’t going to let that happen again.

Logan leaned against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed and an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you meticulously pipe custard into cream puffs. The counters were a chaotic mess of flour, powdered sugar, and tools, with a faint scent of caramel lingering in the air. Your glasses slid down the bridge of your nose, but you didn’t stop to adjust them, too focused on perfecting the next puff.

“You know,” Logan drawled, his gravelly voice cutting through the soft hum of the radio, “I’ve seen you in a lot of situations over the years. Didn’t think I’d ever see this side of you.”

You glanced up briefly, brushing a strand of hair away with the back of your hand. “What side is that?” you asked, your tone a mix of distracted and determined.

“The cutthroat competitor,” he replied, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer. “You’re actin’ like you’re tryin’ to win the damn Olympics, not a bake-off.”

You let out a soft laugh, finally pausing to push your glasses up your nose. “It’s not just a bake-off,” you said, your voice tinged with mock offense. “It’s the bake-off. I’ve lost four years in a row, Logan. Four. And Hank beat me last year. Hank!”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “So what’s the plan, darlin’? Intimidate ‘em with your… what is this thing called again?”

“Croquembouche,” you said, your tone proud. “It’s a French dessert. A tower of cream puffs held together with caramel. It’s supposed to look impressive.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning on the counter to peer at your progress. “Impressive, huh? Looks like a lot of work for somethin’ that’s just gonna get eaten.”

You shot him a playful glare. “It’s not just about eating it. It’s about presentation, creativity, skill—”

“And your pride,” Logan interrupted with a teasing smirk.

You sighed, shaking your head but smiling despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little bit. But it’s more than that. Jean’s won three times, and I love her, but I’m not letting her win again.”

Logan leaned closer, his smirk softening into a fond smile. “Didn’t know you had this much fight in you about somethin’ like this. You’re usually so…” He hesitated, searching for the right word.

“So what?” you prompted, turning to face him fully, your hands resting on your flour-dusted apron.

“Calm. Reserved,” he said with a shrug. “Not the type to get worked up over a contest.”

You tilted your head, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. “Well, maybe it’s because I know I can win this. I just… haven’t yet.”

Logan reached out, brushing a stray bit of flour from your cheek with his thumb. “I like seein’ you like this. Fire in your belly suits you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you quickly turned back to your cream puffs to hide your flustered expression. “If you’re not here to help, you’re just in the way,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing to hide the smile in your voice.

Logan chuckled, moving to stand beside you. “Alright, tell me what to do. But if you make me use one of those fancy piping bags, I’m out.”

You handed him a small saucepan instead. “You can stir the caramel. Just… don’t let it burn.”

He took the pan and nodded, his expression serious. “Got it, boss.”

As the two of you worked side by side, the tension in your shoulders eased, replaced by the familiar comfort of Logan’s presence. He didn’t tease you much after that, instead offering quiet support as you assembled the tower, his large hands steadying the base while you carefully added each cream puff.

When the croquembouche was finally complete, you stepped back to admire your work. The golden caramel glistened under the kitchen lights, holding the delicate tower together with intricate threads.

“Well?” you asked, glancing at Logan. “What do you think?”

He crossed his arms, tilting his head as if appraising a fine piece of art. “Looks like a winner to me, darlin’.”

You smiled, the warmth in his voice melting away any lingering doubt. “Thanks, Logan.”

He reached out, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Don’t need some contest to know you’re the best, but I’ll admit… this thing’s pretty damn impressive.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. “I’m glad you think so. Now, let’s hope the judges agree.”

Logan pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice soft. “They’d better. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to answer to me.”

---

The judges were seated at a long, makeshift panel in the mansion’s common room, where the baking contest had been set up. Charles, as always, presided over the event with an air of calm authority. Beside him, Rogue and Bobby whispered back and forth, clearly enjoying themselves, while Scott sat at the far end, arms crossed but watching intently. A whiteboard behind them displayed the competitors’ names—Jean, Hank, Ororo, and you—with empty spaces awaiting scores.

You stood near your carefully crafted croquembouche, nerves buzzing. The caramel-glazed tower gleamed under the room's lights, every puff perfectly placed. Logan lingered just behind you, arms crossed, his presence grounding despite the mischief in his smirk.

“Alright, who’s up first?” Charles asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he glanced at the assembled desserts.

“I’ll go,” Jean volunteered, her tone casual but confident. She wheeled forward a stunning cake decorated with delicate sugar flowers. It was classic Jean—graceful and precise.

You exchanged a glance with Logan. “Of course she’d make something perfect,” you murmured, adjusting your glasses nervously.

Logan leaned closer, his voice low. “Perfect’s overrated, darlin’. Ain’t got half the heart yours does.”

You shot him a grateful smile, feeling your cheeks warm. Jean finished her presentation, earning nods of approval from the judges. Then it was Hank’s turn. He unveiled a surprisingly elegant chocolate soufflé, its rich aroma wafting through the room.

“Hank,” you muttered under your breath, watching him with narrowed eyes. “Where was that finesse last year?”

Logan chuckled. “He’s tryin’ to rattle you. Don’t let him.”

Ororo went next, presenting a tray of intricately decorated éclairs that practically sparkled under the lights. By the time it was your turn, your nerves were frayed, but Logan’s hand briefly brushed your back, steadying you.

“You’ve got this,” he murmured.

You stepped forward, your croquembouche balanced on a cake stand. “This is a croquembouche,” you began, clearing your throat. “It’s a traditional French dessert made of cream puffs and caramel. I, uh, thought it’d be... memorable.”

Bobby leaned forward, eyes wide. “Whoa, did you make all those little puffs yourself?”

You nodded, pushing your glasses up your nose. “Every single one.”

Rogue whistled softly. “Looks like a lot of work.”

“It was,” you admitted, glancing at Logan, who gave you an encouraging nod. “But I wanted to challenge myself.”

Charles smiled warmly. “Well, it’s certainly impressive. Let’s see how it tastes.”

You carefully dismantled part of the tower, handing plates of cream puffs to the judges. Logan stood just behind you, his presence steady and reassuring. As the judges sampled your work, you held your breath.

“This is incredible,” Rogue said, her voice muffled by a mouthful of pastry.

Scott, ever the critic, nodded slowly. “The caramel’s a little sticky, but the flavor’s perfect.”

Bobby gave you a thumbs-up. “Best one so far.”

You let out a small sigh of relief, turning to Logan. “Think that’s enough to beat Hank?”

Logan smirked, leaning down to whisper, “Not even a contest, sweetheart.”

When the scores were tallied, your croquembouche stood victorious. The room erupted in applause, and you felt a wave of pride wash over you. Jean clapped you on the shoulder, her smile warm. “Guess I’ll have to step up my game next year.”

Hank grumbled good-naturedly. “I demand a rematch.”

Logan pulled you into a brief hug, his voice low in your ear. “Told you you’d win.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him. “Thanks for being my sous chef.”

“Anytime, darlin’,” he said, his eyes full of warmth. “But next year, you’re on your own with those candy balls.”

i kinda messed up the timeline a bit here so this is part 2011/part 2012

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time #i love you always and forever #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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gohyemi · 3 months ago

Text

Birthday wishes 3

Mingyu paced back and forth, biting his nails anxiously.

"How the hell am I supposed to go back to the way things were?"

His mind raced with questions. Did I do something wrong? Was this some kind of twisted joke?

A sudden knock on his door made him freeze. He turned to see Jeonghan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Let’s go. We’re dead if we’re late."

Mingyu let out a deep sigh. Late? Late for what? He barely remembered what his schedule was back in university. But he had no choice. He grabbed his bag and followed Jeonghan out. ---------------------------

Throughout class, he couldn’t focus. The professor’s words blurred together, fading into the background as his thoughts spiraled.

How do I get back?

Everything felt so real. The familiar desks, the smell of old textbooks, the chatter of students who had no idea how out of place he felt.

What about my job? The career I worked so hard for? The sweat and tears I poured into it?

And worst of all—what about her?

The love he had chased so hard.

His fingers tightened around his pen.

"God… is this my punishment?”

As he walked aimlessly along the campus path, still lost in his thoughts, he collided hard into someone.

A loud gasp. A cup slipping from their hands.

SPLASH.

A cold, sticky sensation spread across his shirt. "Shit!" Mingyu hissed, looking down at the brown boba tea now soaking through his clothes.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry!" A flustered voice stammered in front of him. He looked up—ready to snap, his frustration bubbling over—but the moment his eyes met hers, the words died in his throat.

It was you.

Standing there, eyes wide, panicking over the mess you made.

His chest tightened. He forgot to breathe.

"Wait, let me grab some napkins—" You fumbled with your bag, reaching for the small towel you always carried, but Mingyu grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

"Babe…" he whispered, barely audible—but you heard it.

You froze. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you stepped back, gently pulling your wrist from his grip.

"Sorry?"

Mingyu’s heart sank.

Your voice, your face, everything was the same—but the way you looked at him wasn’t.

It was unfamiliar. Foreign. There was no warmth, no recognition, none of the love he once knew.

And that realization hurt more than anything.

"Sorry—no, I mean, it's okay. No big deal."

Mingyu quickly averted his gaze, avoiding eye contact. His throat tightened, and he didn’t know why his eyes felt moist. No. He couldn’t break down here. Not in front of you. Not while recreating history.

"No, it was my fault. Let me help you," you insisted, concern lacing your voice. But Mingyu didn’t wait. Didn’t think.

He bolted.

———————————————————

Back in his dorm, he slumped onto his chair, burying his face in his hands.

"God… I’m such a fool.” The scene replayed over and over in his mind—your confused gaze, the unfamiliarity in your eyes, the way you stepped away from him.

He exhaled sharply and grabbed a notebook, flipping to a blank page.

"Okay… let’s draft this."

He started scribbling furiously, tracing every event that led up to this moment.

The night before everything changed.

Went home.

Had a shitty day.

Acted like an asshole.

Mingyu winced, gripping his pen tighter. Well, that hurts to think about again.

He continued drawing a mind map, connecting events like puzzle pieces—until he reached that moment.

The cake.

The music. The laughter. The people cheering. And then—

“Make a wish…”

Mingyu’s pen stilled.

"Make a wish…" he whispered.

That voice.

That wasn’t anyone from the club that night. He was sure of it. wasn’t Mark, wasn’t any of his colleagues.

It was something else. A voice that felt like a passing breeze—fleeting, distant. Mingyu leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

————————————————————————

At the Girls' Dorm

Y/N sat at her study table, staring blankly at her textbook. The words blurred together, her mind elsewhere.

"Babe?"

His whisper echoed in her head.

Her chest tightened.

"Y/N!"

She snapped out of her thoughts as her friends called her name. Blinking, she looked up and forced an awkward smile.

"What's up?"

Both her friends exchanged teasing looks.

"Thinking about the drama from this morning?" one of them smirked.

"Gosh, it was adorable! The way it happened—you have to admit, it was kinda romantic."

"Don’t tell me your heart didn’t flutter when he looked at you like that," the other girl chuckled, nudging her playfully while making a dreamy expression.

Y/N let out a small laugh and shut her textbook.

"Nothing to fantasize about," she said, waving it off. "It was just a mistake. And honestly, I think he was pissed." She sighed. "Gosh, he’s Jeonghan's friend. How am I supposed to fix my image now?"

At the mention of Jeonghan, her friends groaned in unison.

"Ugh, why’d you have to bring him up?" one of them whined.

"Yeah, way to ruin the mood," the other pouted. Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. But deep down, her thoughts drifted back to Mingyu.

That look in his eyes… why did it feel so familiar? She shakes her head and focus back on her friends.

"By the way, speaking of Jeonghan..." one of her friends started, eyeing Y/N closely, trying to gauge her reaction—which, of course, worked.

"His sister said not to forget about next week," her friend added casually, passing along the message.

Y/N raised a brow. "Next week?"

"Giiirl, I bet you're already on her potential sister-in-law list," her other friend teased with a grin.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. Next week was Soobin's birthday—Jeonghan's sister.

"But here's the thing—she wants you to bring a plus one. And she already warned us not to be your plus one."

"Yeah, I think she wants you to finally have the guts to ask her brother out," her friend added, wiggling her eyebrows.

Y/N let out a deep sigh. "Okay, okay. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll contact her to confirm everything."

Her friends exchanged knowing looks before bursting into giggles, “Good luck okay any advice you can count on us” With that they both went out.

While Y/N buried her face in her hands, she sighed. Why did it always come back to Jeonghan?

Right. Of course, it made sense. Back in university, she had a huge crush on him. Funny how her heart took an emergency turn, falling for that big puppy instead.

Mingyu.

His eyes that afternoon… the way they looked at her—it stirred something in her chest. A part of her wanted nothing more than to pull him into a hug, to comfort him.

Yes, she is also back in the past. She thought she was the only one here, but after that incident, hearing him whisper that nickname like he used to. it seemed like he was here, too.

Her gaze fell on the watch sitting on her desk. The watch she had planned to give him before he lashed out and left that night.

Her fingers traced over the glass, the stillness of the hands catching her attention. The date displayed was today’s date—the present—but the clock’s needles weren’t moving.

All she had to do was push the crown back to make the needles move again, and she would return.

She exhaled deeply, her lips curling into a soft smile.

"I miss him already… but since we’re here, shouldn’t we enjoy it a little? It might be my last chance—who knows?"

---------------------🕰.......🕰------------------------

I make the story more complicated...damn it should end after this. part 1, part 2, part 4, part 5

#seventeen fluff #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #mingyu x reader #seventeen imagines #mingyu fluff #mingyu angst #kim mingyu imagines #mingyu imagines #jeonghan #svt #mingyu smut #svt angst #svt fluff

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baekhyunsbestie · 4 months ago

Text

study sesh.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ 18+/MDNI | nerd!baekhyun x f!reader, wc: 850 ꒱ ˎˊ˗

you really thought you’d have to teach him.

baekhyun, with his circle glasses and soft sweaters, always scribbling something in that little notebook of his. the boy who stammered over his own name the first time you complimented him. who flinched when your knees brushed under the library table, cheeks flushing like your skin was too electric to touch.

you’d watch him push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with that absent little gesture, eyes darting everywhere but yours, and you thought—yeah. you’d be the one to take the lead when things finally escalated.

he was cute, painfully so. the kind of shy that made your stomach twist with the urge to tease. you never expected him to have bite.

you’d imagined it all—how you’d guide his hands, whisper where and how to touch you, gently show him what you liked.

but now?

now you were flat on your back, trembling, clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

and baekhyun—nerdy, bookworm baekhyun—was between your thighs like he was fucking born there.

your brain barely has time to settle, let alone recover, before baekhyun's lips begin their descent—soft, lingering kisses trailing down the curve of your stomach, leaving heat blooming in their wake. his glasses slip lower on the bridge of his nose, catching the dim light, but he doesn’t bother pushing them up. he’s too focused—laser-focused—on you.

his hands, long-fingered and deceptively gentle, slide down to your thighs. he parts them with a firmness that contradicts the softness in his touch, spreading you open like a book he’s been dying to read cover to cover. and when you look down at him—glasses fogged, curls messy, lips already slick with you—his once-shy smile tilts into something slower. darker. unreadable.

something dangerous.

“you really thought i wouldn’t know what to do with you, didn’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth, words brushing over your skin like silk. his lips hover near the tender skin of your inner thigh, close enough to make your pulse trip.

you swallow hard, throat tight. “i—”

but your voice breaks when his fingers slip between your legs, sliding through the soaked mess you’ve already made. he hums softly, eyes flicking up through his lashes to watch your reaction, his touch featherlight but deliberate.

“you’re still shakin', pretty,” he says, almost in wonder, as if your trembling is something beautiful to behold. then he presses a kiss to the crease of your hip, lips warm and reverent. “guess i should help you relax.”

and then—fuck.

his mouth is on you again.

his tongue parts your folds with agonizing slowness, swirling over your clit with such calculated precision it knocks the breath right out of your lungs. not too fast, not too soft—just perfect. like he’s mapped every nerve ending, every pulse point. like he knows exactly how to break you apart and put you back together again.

his hands curl around your thighs, anchoring you down when your body jolts from the sudden overload of pleasure. you try to move—instinct, desperation—but he holds you open, holds you still, tongue working in tight, focused strokes that zero in on the spot that makes your spine arch and your vision blur.

“b-baekhyun—” you gasp, your voice catching like static, already unraveling.

“mm?” he hums against you, and the sound—low, deep, obscene—vibrates through your clit and sends you spiraling.

it happens too fast.

your body snaps, convulses, pleasure crashing over you in a wave so sudden and sharp it steals the breath from your lungs. you don’t just come—you detonate. thighs clamping around his head, hips jerking uncontrollably, and then—oh god.

you gush.

wetness floods out of you, your entire body trembling from the force of it. you feel it happen—you feel yourself squirting, and it shocks you almost as much as it wrecks you.

baekhyun pulls back, lips shining, a flicker of disbelief and something rawer—pride—in his eyes. he watches your body twitch with the aftershocks, watches your thighs tremble like he just rewired your nervous system.

“…w-was that your first time squirting?” he asks softly, voice raspy, breathless. still a little stunned. still a little smug.

you can’t answer. you’re still floating somewhere outside your body, brain scattered like confetti.

he licks his lips slowly, tasting you again, eyes dark behind those fogged-up glasses. and when he grins—lazy, knowing—it’s lethal.

“should’ve told me sooner,” he says, trailing his fingers over your soaked inner thigh, tracing the mess like a signature. “would’ve made you do it twice.”

your stomach flips.

you barely manage a breath before he’s moving again, crawling up your body with that same hungry glint in his eyes—half affection, half calculation, all heat.

“ready for another round?” he whispers, tilting his head, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers like he didn’t just destroy you.

“i still have a few more techniques i wanna try out.”

holy fuck.

you really thought you’d be ruining him.

but baekhyun came to study—and you? you’re the final exam. and baby, he’s going to ace you all night.

#nerd!baekhyun #baekhyun #baekhyun smut #baekhyun drabble #baekhyun one shot #baekhyun fic #baekhyun scenario #baekhyun imagine #exo imagine #exo smut #exo fic #exo one shot #exo x reader #exo drabble #hc #lisawrites

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sunrizef1 · 11 months ago

Text

Back in Japan

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Reader

Warnings: Not edited, cursing

Summary: You and Logan visit a restaurant and get your picture printed on the wall. Three years later, you’ve broken up and Logan’s right back where the picture came from.

Requested: Yes/No

“Have you ever been here before?”

Logan glances over at you, tilting his head to the side for a few seconds before shaking it, “No.”

He really hadn't. He didn't get around to Japan very often. The only reason he was here is because you wanted to visit during the off-season, trying to make the most of the rare break your boyfriend gets.

Logan notices the shiver that runs through you after his answer, the December air causing your shoulders to shake slightly. He reaches over, pulling you into his side. You shift closer to him, suddenly cursing your decision to wear such a thin shirt.

Luckily, the walk from the parking lot to the door of the restaurant is short, blessing you with a relieving respite from the cold winter breeze.

Logan, to his own discontent, untangles himself from around your shoulder after you've both walked in.

You're immediately greeted by a happy-looking older man, his hand coming up to wave at the two of you as you enter. Food stains line his apron and Logan can see a small notebook peeking out of his pocket, scribbles he can't really understand lining the pages. His glasses are fogged with steam, the man having to reach up to clear the lenses. The small name tag pinned to his shirt has Japanese lettering but, under it, there's what Logan assumes is the English translation, “Hiro.”

“Welcome! Welcome!,” Hiro shouts out as he walks toward the pair from out of the kitchen behind him, “Sit anywhere, please!”

Logan nods with a smile, turning as you grasp his hand and start to pull him through the restaurant, navigating around chairs and tables before coming to a stop at a booth in the corner.

You slide to one side and Logan sits across from you, his knees knocking against your now-crossed legs.

It's not much longer before Hiro walks up, setting two cups of water on the table along with two menus. He drops down two straws as well before he stands up straight, a large grin on his face, “Drinks?”

You smile politely, basking in the man’s joy, “I’m fine with water.”

Hiro nods before turning his attention to Logan who nods as well, “Water’s good for me.”

The older man nods, smiling politely before stepping back, “I’ll be back to take your food order in a minute.”

You both gleam, nodding as he walks away before turning to each other.

“Do you know what you want?” You ask your boyfriend, a grin settled on your lips.

Logan shakes his head, grinning as well, “No idea.”

You laugh, looking down at the menu in front of you. Logan just watches you for a few seconds, noticing the way you bite your lip as you focus on the words, eyebrows furrowed slightly in decision.

He does eventually look down as well, though, eyes drifting across the menu items. He honestly has no idea what to order, the pure spectrum of unknown items practically sending his brain into a spiral. But then his gaze is caught by an item he’d had a million times and he lets out a relieved breath. Sushi. He loves sushi. He decides he’ll just order that and then pick off your plate, knowing you’ll, no doubt, pick something he’d never had.

He’s proven right when Hiro comes back and he doesn’t recognize your order, wincing slightly as he’s forced to order sushi after you, making him really seem like the tourist he was.

When Hiro walks away to go put in your order, Logan looks up to see you holding back a laugh. When your own eyes catch his, you fall victim to your own humor, the giggle echoing out of your mouth.

Logan rolls his eyes playfully, leaning his elbows on the table, “What?”

You quiet slightly but your grin is ever-present as you explain, an occasional laugh spilling out of you, “You looked so awkward when you ordered!”

Logan huffs, leaning back and glancing around defensively, “Well how could I not be?! You ordered like a person of culture and I ordered sushi! Like a tourist!”

“You are a tourist!” You laugh, resting your own elbows on the table and leaning toward your boyfriend. There’s a sparkle in your eye as you say it, a sight Logan would never get tired of.

Logan scoffs, matching your posture in leaning on the table, “So are you!”

You laugh again, your eyelids falling closed as your head tilts up momentarily. When your head falls back and your eyes drift open, your met with your boyfriends smiling face, his slight laugh only fueled by your own.

Logan gazes at you for a few moments, basking in the happiness between you. You stare back, tilting your head as your eyes rake over his face. Logan’s pretty sure he’d do anything to stay in this moment forever, just watching your happiness.

After a few seconds, the warm moment starts to fade so Logan leans up, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before falling back into his seat and picking up his water, taking a long sip.

His affection seems to have frozen you as you still, eyes wide. Logan’s almost concerned but then you grin, cheeks heating as you lean back as well, picking up your own water to try and cool your face. Logan smirks.

Conversation flows between you smoothly, topics ranging from the upcoming season to your shared London home to your dog, Archer and even drifting to the topic of the most recent season of Love Island.

Eventually, the food does come, Logan being presented with your sushi and a bowl of what looks like stew of some sort is placed in front of you.

Logan watches you pick up your utensils first, biting into some kind of noodle that was in your soup, prompting him to pick up his own chopsticks.

You hum lightly as you take a sip of the broth in your bowl, smiling absently as you take another bite. Logan catches a piece of sushi between his chopsticks and raises it to his mouth, relishing in the taste of fish and rice hitting his tongue.

“D’ya wanna bite?” you manage to ask Logan through a bite of your stew, a hand coming up to cover your mouth as you ask, attempting to retain some amount of etiquette.

Logan looks between your face and the bite of stew you're offering him a couple times, conceding when he catches your eye and you grin, “Sure.”

He leans forward and you hold the food up to his lips, pulling away as soon as he's got it. It takes a few moments for the taste to register in his mouth but when it does, he hums warmly, eyebrows furrowing.

“Good?” you question, your face lit up as you take in his response.

Logan nods, swallowing down the stew, “Very good.”

You look down, pleased, to dip your spoon back in and take a sip of the broth. You look back up as you sip it, smiling at your boyfriend who laughs and takes another bite of his own food.

You both sit at the table for another hour or so, finishing your food and scarfing down whatever dessert Hiro had suggested for you.

Logan practically scoffs when you try an pay, gently slapping your hand away. You roll your eyes but concede, leaning back with crossed arms as Logan looks your way, a satisfied look on his face.

“You ready to go?” Logan asks you once he's paid, quirking his head as he points his gaze your way.

You hum, nodding as you start to slide out of the booth. Logan stands up first, swinging an arm around your shoulder once you manage to get up. Your head falls onto his shoulder, a small hum escaping your throat.

“You tired?” Logan asks, steering you both away from the booth. You don't respond, simply nodding your head against his shoulder.

“Well, we’ll get out of here and head straight back to the hotel. You can even sleep in, we’re not doing anything tommorow morning.”

You hum again and Logan smiles at the thought of getting to sleep in with you for once.

As you both start to reach the door, you stop, causing Logans arm to slip off your shoulder. He's about to turn to the door and hold it open for you when he hears you call out.

“Wait, Lo, look,” Logan turns his head to see you gesturing widely at the wall next to the door. He concedes, slipping away from the door to stand back by your side, wrapping his arm around your waist.

Your attention is still stuck on the wall so Logan looks as well, observing whatever had made you so attentive. He's met with maybe a hundred Polaroid pictures, all of happy friends and couples and families, grinning as they pose together. Logan glances over to see you staring at one specific photograph, a soft smile on your lips. He looks closer and sees that's its of an old couple, the mans arm wrapped around the woman as she places a kiss on his cheek.

“Thats so wonderful,” you practically whisper, eyes starry as you glance back over to Logan who smiles warmly.

You take one last look at the photograph of the older couple before you turn and practically launch yourself at Logan, giving him a tight hug before falling into his side. Logan, not exactly prepared for the hug, leans back slightly, laugh echoing from his throat.

As you turn, Hiro walks out of the kitchen, camera in hand. He holds it up with a gleeful grin, gesturing over your head to the wall you'd been staring at, “Do you two want to take a picture? For the wall?”

Logan can feel you straighten up, looking over to catch the excited look on your face, “We’d love to! Come on, Lo.”

Logan lets you turn him toward the camera, wrapping an arm around your waist as you lean into him. He glances over to Hiro, who's smiling widely at your obvious happiness. He holds up the camera and Logan smiles, face heating when you press an unexpected kiss to his cheek.

The camera flashes and you laugh slightly, pulling away from Logan who turns to press a kiss to the side of your head, trying to hide the red on his cheeks.

You pull away from the kiss, smiling when you see Logan’s flushed face. Hiro pulls the picture out, the picture developing quickly in his hand. You step away from Logan to watch Hiro stick it to the wall next to the picture of the older couple that you’d pointed out earlier.

“Ah, look, Lo!” Your bright grin practically forces Logan to walk over to you, the sight of your smile almost magnetic. He glances over as you point to the picture, admiring the way your picture almost perfectly mirrored the one next to it.

Logan lets out a small breath, lips upturning, “It’s cute.”

“Yeah, it is,” you laugh, turning your boyfriend away from the wall by the crook of his elbow, no doubt eager to get back to the hotel and sleep.

Hiro chuckles as you turn away, Logan leading you to the door. You turn your head to look back at the restaurants owner, bringing a hand up to wave, “Bye, Hiro! Thank you!”

“Of course, come back anytime!” Logan turns his head to nod politely at Hiro before he turns back around and steers you both out the door, sliding it open with the hand not wrapped around your torso.

The cold, night air immediately hits you both and you lean farther into Logan side, his hand moving to run over the skin of your shoulder in an attempt to warm you up a bit.

“Dinner was nice,” you say quietly, burrowing into your boyfriend’s side, “Thank you, Lo.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Of course, baby. Did you like your food?”

“Mhm,” you hum, stifling a yawn as you both reach Logan’s car. You stop in front of it but, instead of walking around to the passengers side, you turn to fully face Logan, “I love you.”

Logan’s face brightens and his cheeks heat as he looks down at the huge grin of your face. You reach your arms around his neck and lean into him, slightly swaying as he grasps your sides between his hands. Logan observes the content look on your face for a few seconds, simply grateful to be here with you right now.

“I love you too,” he finally responds, leaning down to capture your lips with his briefly before pulling away. You hum softly, looking at him with stars in your eyes. Logan’s pretty sure he could stay in this moment forever, swaying under the stars of the Tokyo night sky, your eyes on his face and his arms around your waist, “So much.”

You laugh, pressing another quick kiss to his lips and stepping away to walk to your side of the car, pulling the door open and sliding inside. Logan’s stuck to his spot, a stupid smile on his lips as he watches you walk away.

“You coming?” He hears your voice call from inside the car, causing his feet to actually move back toward you.

And when he falls asleep that night, your arm wrapped around him, he thinks that there’d never been someone so perfect for him.

——

“You ever been here before?” Oscar asks from the drivers seat, glancing over at Logan who’s sitting in the passengers side with a bored look on his face. They’d just pulled into the parking lot of some restaurant in Japan, the weekends race already practically forgotten in their minds.

Logan pockets his phone, having been staring straight down at it since Oscar had started driving. He glances up to answer his friend’s question, a denial already ready on his lips.

But, instead, he’s met with a familiar building in front of him, his brain fighting to push away memories he’d buried deep down over the past three years. He isn’t entirely sure how to answer the question, not wanting to lie but also knowing that if he tells the truth, Oscar would have questions about his previous visit. Questions he really didn’t want to answer.

So he settles for a half-truth, “Maybe, I don’t really remember much of Japan.”

He wasn’t exactly lying, he’d tried his hardest to not remember most of his time in Japan, the entire trip having your face intertwined in every building and street he passed.

Oscar hums, a small smile on his face as he turns the car off, “I went here last season. With my girlfriend.”

Logan nods, well-aware of the girl Oscar had taken a last-minute plane to Japan for after Suzuka last season. He’d been on the end of many a late-night text chains detailing just how into her he was. Considering Logan’s current relationship status, he sometimes honestly wished Oscar would turn these rants toward Lando. But, for the sake of friendship, he persisted.

As soon as Oscar kills the car, Logan steps out, hoping this would end Oscar’s relationship talk. It’d been three years since your breakup and being back at the restaurant was bad enough but if Logan had to hear Oscar talk about his persistent love life for the next two hours, he’d probably need to be admitted.

He hears the car door slam closed behind him and assumes that must be Oscar following him so he keeps walking, quickly reaching the threshold of the restaurant and pulling the door open. He turns back to face the parking lot as he holds the door open, half-hearted politeness seeping out of him. The only reason Logan’s holding the door open is to make up for his quick exit out of the car.

Oscar seems to be aware of Logan’s false-kindness, dramatically bowing his head as he walks by and into the building, “Thank you so much, Master Logan. How will I ever repay you for your kindness?”

Logan rolls his eyes, not even glancing at Oscar as he walks in behind him, eyes instead trailing over the rest of the space as he crosses his arm over his chest, “Shut up, man.”

Oscar huffs, smirking as he joins Logan in glancing around the room. His attention is brought back in front of him when Hiro’s familiar face walks up to them.

“Ah, I know you two! The American and the Australian!” Hiro exclaims, gesturing widely at the two, “Sit wherever you like!”

Logan nods, walking away as Oscar stays to talk to Hiro for a few moments. Logan makes his way around a few tables, sliding into a far corner booth. Oscar does eventually get to the table, a grin splitting his face.

He falls into the booth opposite Logan, tossing two menus on the table, “Hiro gave me the menus, he was asking about my girlfriend.”

Logan hums, eyes not moving away from the menu that he’d picked up. He’s not entirely sure why he’s even looking at the menu, he knows he’s just gonna order sushi like he always does.

Oscar, on the other hand, seems entirely too interested in the menu, eyes continuously scanning back and forth over the pages in front of him. Logan rolls his eyes, shutting the menu and setting it down on the table.

They both order, Oscar going for something Logan had never heard of, which Oscar explains is some eel dish, and Logan choosing sushi like he knew he would.

Conversation passes lightly, talk of the season passing over the table as they wait for their food. The food arrives eventually, the pair digging into their respective dishes. Oscar feeds Logan a bite of the eel dish, which Logan is slightly surprised to find out he enjoys.

After they’ve finished, there’s a quick argument over who’s gonna pay for the meal, Oscar being the first to give up and let Logan cover it after Logan starts listing everything Oscar had paid for so far over the weekend and Oscar, not wanting to hear Logan ramble, concedes.

Once Logan’s paid, Oscar gets up quicker than the American, finding his way to the exit. Logan huffs, having to rush out of his seat to catch the Australian.

“Osc! Wait-" Logan rolls his eyes as he gets up, a few steps behind his friend. He steps quickly toward the exit, starting to rush to the door when something on the wall next to it catches his eye.

He turns his head, stepping closer to the wall. Hundreds of Polaroids splay out before him, covering the wooden planks of the wall. Swarms of smiling faces look back at him, memories of friends and family of the past all ingrained into the mural of photographs.

His eyes trail the wall, skipping across the pictures and landing on one familiar one. The picture is now surrounded on all sides, unlike how it’d been the last time he was here. The picture of the older couple is still there, their smiling faces causing a passive smile to break out on Logan’s face.

But on the other side of his photo is an unfamiliar picture but with oh-so familiar subject matter. Logan rolls his eyes, smile dropping when he notices that Oscar had gotten a picture of him and his girlfriend slapped right next to Logan’s. He’s not even sure how he’d managed that. It’d been over two years since the original picture had been taken and Logan thought there would’ve been someone else’s picture stuck in that spot. But apparently not.

Finally, Logan can’t help when his eyes drift to the photo in the middle, his face almost twisting into a grimace. He’s suddenly reminded of everything he’d forced himself to forget since your breakup.

He’d been pushing back every memory, having never fully gotten over you. He’d thought that if he just didn’t think about your relationship, it would eventually fade into the back of his mind and he could live in peace without you.

But now that’s he’s been forced to face what he’d been trying so hard to avoid, he finds himself missing you. Badly. He knows the couple in that picture were happy, happier than either of them had even been. He also knows that he’d grown since the breakup, grown into the person you’d wished he been all those years ago.

“Shit,” Logan forces himself to tear his eyes away from the picture, hands fumbling in his pocket for his phone as he rushes into the parking lot, Oscar having already wandered back to his car.

“You coming?” Logan hears Oscar shout from across the lot. Logan holds a hand up, pacing just outside the restaurant as he types frantically into his phone.

“Yeah! One second, man!” Logan replies, holding his phone up to his ear. Oscar seems to let this go, sitting back into the car and shutting the door.

Logan paces back and forth, hoping to god you’ll answer your phone. You should, considering it was the afternoon where you were. Or where you should be, at least. Logan is suddenly hit by the reality that he has no idea if you’d moved recently out of England. Or if you were on vacation that specific weekend, he’d never know.

He’s about to give up when the phone clicks and Logan’s head shoot’s up.

“Who is this?” Logan winces, the sound of your voice almost unfamiliar after so long.

“Hey,” he starts, trying his hardest not to sound stressed, “It’s Logan.”

“Oh,” you sound surprised and Logan can’t blame you. He really had no reason to be calling you, “What’s up Lo?”

The nickname sounds wrong coming from your mouth. But maybe that was just because it’d been so long since he’d heard it.

“I’m in Japan,” Logan runs a hand through his hair nervously, “With Oscar. We went to that restaurant, the one with the photos, I saw that picture of us.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments and Logan has to check that you hadn’t hung up.

But you do reply. Eventually, at least, “Yeah?”

He hums nodding even though he knows you can’t see him, “Yeah. And it made me realize that-“

He takes a deep breath. It was now or never. He had to do this now, before his confidence ran out or you got scared and hung up.

“I really fucking miss you,” he huffs, a small laugh escaping him as he finally admits it out loud. Really healthy that the first time he’d acknowledged the thought is him saying it to your face. Well, not to your face, but close enough.

With every moment that passes and you don’t reply, more and more dread fills Logan. He shakes his head, suddenly aware of how stupid this idea was. He’d just called you out of the blue after two and a half years, sounding just like a clingy ex-boyfriend. God, you’d probably moved on by now, you probably weren’t even single! He’d done nothing but freak you out and he, honestly, wouldn’t be surprised if you blocked his numb-

“I miss you too.”

Your voice is almost a whisper and Logan momentarily thinks he must’ve heard you wrong.

“What?”

“I miss you too, Lo,” your voice is clear this time, leaving no room for Logan to mishear you.

“Really?”

You laugh, the sound causing Logan to brighten and a huge smile to shape his lips, “Yeah, really. I’ve been watching your races just to see you. I’m proud of you, by the way.”

Shock at not being rejected is still coursing through the man, causing his brain to completely miss your admission about watching his races. He only hears that you miss him.

“Are you still in England?” Logan asks, thoughts and ideas sprinting through his head.

You hum softly, “Yeah, I am.”

The American grins, trying his hardest not to fist-pump, “Can I see you? When I get back?”

“I’d love that, Lo.”

Logan pulls the phone away from his mouth, whispering a quick “let’s fucking go” before he pulls the phone back to his face.

“Alright, I’ll see you then, yeah?”

He hears you chuckle, his own smile getting slightly bigger, “Yeah, you will. Bye, Lo.”

“Bye, y/n.”

The phone clicks again, turning dark as you hang up. Logan finally gives into the fist pump, trying his best not to skip as he moves across the parking lot.

He reaches the car and swings the door open, falling into the passenger seat unceremoniously.

Oscar sends a confused glance his way, not familiar with this level of glee from the American, “What’s your deal.”

Logan, too happy to give any attention to anything other than the text he’s about to send you, waves his hand passively, “Don’t worry about it.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, it seeming that the pair had switched roles in the past five minutes, Logan suddenly the happier of the two, “Whatever.”

Logan huffs, looking out the window with a loopy grin. His thoughts are stuck on the date he’s gonna take you on when he gets back to England, ideas coursing through his brain.

When he pulls out his phone to search for potential restaurants to visit with you, he finds himself looking for Japanese food.

——

Tags: @casperlikej @evie-119 @c-losur3 @llando4norris @lokideservesahug

#scheduled #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #logan sargent fluff #logan sargent x fem!reader #logan sargeant x fem!reader #logan sargeant x you #logan sargeant fanfic #logan sargent x reader #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant fluff

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repulsiveliquidation · 1 year ago

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Scars || Alexia Putellas

Summary : you finally let Alexia be intimate with you. A little detail slips your mind but she soon uncovers the truth behind your hesitation to let her love you how she wants to.

warnings : smut in the beginning but nothing too explicit. angst. mentions of self-harm and bullying.

“Mm, amor you smell so good…” Alexia moans, kissing your neck. You smile and arch your back into her, biting your lip. She leaves wet sloppy kisses along your collarbones, nipping at them slightly. You giggle and tell her to stop tickling you with her blonde brunette hair, your hands tucking the loose strands behind her ears.

You hear her take a sharp inhale of your scent and feel your core throb at the deep sigh she lets out. Your hands cradle her head as she looks up at you, eyes darting down to your lips as she licks her own.

“Used that body wash you like,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss her. She kisses back immediately and you feel her melt, large hands pulling your waist closer to her.

“So beautiful,” Alexia whispers only for you to hear, the random assortment of rings on her hands leave cold shocks on your exposed skin.

Her hands roam your build with determination as her lips nip and nibble on your chest. She pulls the tank top off you and takes a breast into your mouth, suckling gently. You shudder and moan her name unashamedly, chasing the feeling she left on your chest as she moved to the other breast. She kneaded the other and you could feel the groan in the back of her throat, strong thighs keeping yours wide open how she wanted.

The cold air in the room kept your nipple taut and hard, her fingers rolling them around as she rushed forward to kiss you.

“May I?” she asked politely, pupils dilated and full of lust.

“Please,” you beg and you see the look in her eyes darken.

But all this fun was about to be cut short.

You forgot one tiny thing.

But you couldn’t warn her before she pulled your sweats off.

“Cariño, what is all this?”

You take a split second to understand what she meant and when you finally realize it, she had seen most of it.

“No!” you yell, pulling the sweats back over your thighs and bounding for the bathroom almost tripping over yourself.

Your teenage years were not easy. Abandoned by your father and neglected by your mother, you ran away from home at age 7 hoping for a better chance at life. Two months on the streets, you were left cold and hungry, when a kind slightly elderly couple took you in. Sharon and Thomas gave you a roof over your head, hot food, and clothes; most importantly, a home.

They were both school teachers; Thomas taught PE and Sharon taught English. They were kind and gave you free reign in life.

Thomas taught you how to play football and while you were good, English was your passion. Writing came so naturally to you, Sharon was the one who suggested you write your first book. So you did. Poems came so easily to you, the words filling pages so fast, Thomas could barely keep up with buying you new ones.

Being an accomplished writer at 15 was unheard of, which gained you some local fame.

But with fame, came a price you wished you didn’t have to pay.

A local rival publishing team that had rejected your book was vengeful of the success it gained and did a little digging. They found your parents and your past, learning about your brief stint at homelessness and how you ran away from home at 7.

The headlines the next day were the topic of bullying from a group of mean kids at school. You didn’t remember their names now, years later but their words rang fresh in your mind if you allowed yourself to spiral.

Each word was one stroke of the blade over your perfect skin.

Each bloom of blood was the pain fading away.

Or so you thought.

Somehow the next day, their fresh set of insults doubled the pain. It made your chest tight, your head pound, your grades drop and your passion for writing evaporate.

“Nothing new in your notebook, peanut?” Sharon asked so sweetly, finding you sipping on tea in the sunroom. She brushed your hair back sweetly, leaving a kiss on your forehead.

“Nothing,” you lied. There were new things. They weren’t particularly parent-friendly.

“Tom and I are heading to a school meeting, dinner’s in the oven for you, okay?” she walks away, a knowing expression on her face. She can sense the pain like she was your own mother but kept her mouth shut.

“I love you,” she added and you looked at her, close to tears. If she could tell, she made no move to let you know she did but smiled when you said it back to her with a forced one. It broke her heart but she did not know that yours broke more.

You sat in your bathroom, hands clammy and shaking. The blade glimmered back at you like it was taunting you.

“It’ll take the pain away,” you convinced yourself, pressing the cold object over your mangled skin on your thigh.

The blood washed away but more pricked to the surface with each cut. Soon the water turned a dark red, and your head dully thudded against the glass wall, the pain fading into numbing nothingness.

The beeping of the monitors around you was what roused you. There were too many lights and lots of voices at once, but your mother’s sobs were instantly recognizable.

“Where did we go wrong, Tom?” she asked your father, “how did we not know?”

“I don’t know, Shar,” he said, sounding sad, “I don’t know.”

His next words broke you more than any bully's words could.

“I’m sorry we failed you, kiddo. Dad’s sorry.”

“You didn’t fail me, Dad. You saved me,” you mumbled, tears filling your eyes as they pulled away from one another and rushed to your bedside. Mom hugged you tight and thanked her stars you were okay while your father held your hand and kissed it over and over.

“There’s my little girl,” he said, looking teary himself.

“You saved me, both of you. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner,” you apologized but they were not hearing none of it.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to us, peanut. The best.”

You don’t know when you started to build the dam in your heart but it broke the moment your parents held you in their arms. The safety of their arms was something you didn’t know you craved. But when they gave it to you, all your pain went away.

You never felt that safety from anyone else. Until you met Alexia.

You were merely a fan in the stands, dragged to a Barcelona game by your friends at work who happened to have an extra ticket to a Liga F game. She caught your eye and you hers, shy smiles and a hastily bought jersey from the stands outside got you her signature and her number written below it.

It took two coffees and a single baked good to know you were marrying this woman. She was funny, kind, loyal, inspirational, and simply devoted to you.

But most importantly, her arms were a safe haven. For you and your thoughts that still lingered to this day.

You explained every one of the scars on your legs after she had begged for you to let her into the bathroom. One thing about your relationship with Alexia was that you were sure she was too good to be true.

Part of you wanted her so badly, but the other part convinced you that she would leave the moment she saw the scars. the mangled skin from years of reopening wounds. The bumps and ridges that cheap blades from the corner store got you on a teenager’s allowance.

And when she didn’t leave, you hated that you felt her pity. This world-class football player felt bad for the girl she met in the stands at one of her games. But she didn’t. She sat with you and listened, eyes and mind solely focused on you.

“Show me your scars,” she asked.

“But why?” you answered, albeit through sobs.

“I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn’t there.”

It wasn’t long before you were back in her arms again, safe and sound, ready to be fiercely loved by her for the rest of your life.

#alexia putellas #fc barca femeni #woso x reader #woso community #woso imagines #woso #woso one shot #espwnt #woso angst #woso fanfics #woso imagine

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nottivagos · 6 months ago

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(Psst, read this!) Welcome Notti's "Not So Innocent" Notebook where I write some filth to make your Monday a little bit better <3 || 18+ mdni pls and ty

You and Mafia!Carlos Sainz have a messy kind of relationship. A tension that doesn't seem to dissipate as you both end up together, unable to keep your hands off one and other every time.

an: guys is my music inspo getting boring now because this is ANOTHER NOTEBOOK ENTRY inspired by a tiny lyric. anywho, the song is called "Sickly Sweet" by NewDad if you want to give it a listen!

You couldn’t do it again. Not now, not ever.

Strongly gripping onto your wine glass, you bit your tongue in irritation, deeply lost in your irked thoughts. How could you have been so careless? You’d told yourself over and over and even more over again that you wouldn’t be drawn into his wicked games. But here you were, standing around looking pretty, drawn to his estate like a moth to a flame.

Carlos Sainz was trouble. Big trouble, at that. He always had been. If he wasn’t trouble, he wouldn’t have acclaimed the reputation he did throughout Madrid. A dark shadow cast across the city, bringing Hell and suffering with it, crashing onto the innocent citizens like a wave.

Filthy businesses, the elites he’d been able to buy and bribe, large, wealthy empires built on crimson bloodshed that stained the pavements, people used as leverage and intel on the daily— the bitter reality churned with the burning alcohol in your stomach, the thought making you sick.

Maybe it was the thrill you clung onto. The fact that it wasn’t right, the knowledge that it never would be right morally, that kept making you crawl back hopelessly. The adrenaline of unleashing the beast inside of him, the sexual ferocity in his grip as he groped and touched every inch of your skin, the passion that coursed and shocked like electricity inside both of your bodies as you made messy love.

It’s not like it ended any differently. The finale was like clockwork, limbs tangled in twisted satin sheets, hands ever so gently intertwined, dried sweat and other human juices clinging onto your bare bodies as you bathed in the early morning sunlight— dishevelled, but content. Sexual bliss, or even a honeymoon period, perhaps as you crashed down from the high.

The feeling was too comfortable. It always was. It felt domesticated, too loving, too simple, as he pressed a soft kiss to the temple and muttered, “I love you, I’m sorry.” whilst you both stirred. Words and actions you’d felt and heard from the kingpin too many times before.

God, he was a walking juxtaposition. How the hell could a man so beautifully clean, fresh, neat and trimmed be so sickening to the stomach because of his occupation? His name? His status?

It was an intoxicating love affair. As if you both shared a sweet bite of each other, (in this instance, the sex), before the taste soured in your mouth, a bottomless pit of dread and regret pooling inside you, corrupting the one inkling of peace you’d both had together.

Messy was the only way to describe the ordeal. Maybe a good type of messy, (the type of messy that made you feel like a hormonal teenager experiencing sex for the first time– the type that makes your insides flip and turn fuzzy), because you were drawn deeper and deeper into his dark world of criminal boss madness.

Carlos himself wasn’t any better. To him, you were as addictive as a drug he desperately tried to quit, becoming love-drunk in your presence. Before he then inevitably fell into an obsessive spiral into getting you back. Not only in his arms, but in his bed, and fully in his life again.

Everything about you, in Carlos’s eyes anyways, was overwhelmingly magnetic. Soft curves and contours that complimented the sleazy designer dresses you wore like it was made solely for your body alone; plump, reddened lips that the sweetest of moans escaped from; pretty tits he could rub and pinch whenever he pleased; the wonderfully curved ass he cupped and slapped with ease; the richness of the colour of your hair, flowing graciously off of your shoulders…

It was a feeling and vivid memory he wanted to cling onto forever.

So that’s how you ended up here, dolled up and looking lavish on behalf of the Spaniard’s request, at one of his drab social events held at his estate. Gazes burnt holes into your form, men armed silently with guns and noticeably double your age, ogling dangerously for a second too long.

The air was suffocating. The clientele inside Sainz’s compound stunk of wealth, a fortune you yourself didn’t have. Lost in thought, you bit the inside of your cheek, the metallic bitterness simmering on your tongue.

“Thought I might’ve found you here, princesa,” a deep, thick accented voice spoke from the side of you, breaking your stream of consciousness. “Tense as always, I see,” the innocent tease made the man chuckle, despite your lack of amusement.

“Carlos,” you acknowledged, body burning but still looking ahead, before taking a brief sip from your glass.

“Do I not get the privilege of seeing your eyes?” he asked, before tutting disapprovingly. “It’s not polite to look away when someone’s speaking to you, nena,” he added, giving you a knowing glance.

The nicknames made your jaw tense and lock into place, the whites of your knuckles more visible as your body language tightened, posture stiffening. “Maybe you don’t deserve the privilege of seeing my face,” you bit back, voice spewing venom with each syllable.

He tutted again unamused by your witty remarks, arm coming to ghost over your shoulder, fingertips lazily brushing against your back. “That’s not very nice, is it?” he murmured lowly into your ear, words pooling thickly like honey. “Anyways, if you didn’t want to see me, then you wouldn’t be here.”

That comment wounded you even more. The tight coil of your wit nearly snapping as you couldn’t describe your emotion. Was it anger? Envy? Lust? The feeling unfathomable as you pressed the wine glass to your lips in response, drinking the rest of the liquid in one gulp, allowing the burning sensation to scorch your throat.

Tiny touches toyed with the flimsy straps of your dress, whilst you both looked forward, the silence heavy and palpable in the bustle of Carlos’s closest contacts and filthy assets who paraded the largely decorated room.

A faint flush burnt into your cheeks, gaze and tone dismissive, “I came for the free booze.”

“And now you’re a liar!” he exclaimed with amusement. His accent was like tar, low and gooey, as hot breath brushed against the shell of your ear, “We both know why you’re here. What's the point in lying, sweetheart?”

You bit the inside of your cheek again, nervous hands now playing with the hem of your skirt as Carlos continued to trail his own against your back, his motions creating soft, spontaneous patterns against the bare flesh.

“Can we go someplace quieter?” you blurted, eyes finally meeting his doe brown ones for the first time of the evening. “It’s stifling in here,” you muttered, a clammy palm rubbing against your arm slightly awkwardly.

Flashing his signature wolfish grin, he hummed contently. “That,” he began, the hand ghosting your back coming to snake around your waist, giving your hip a slight squeeze, “I can do, mi vida.”

Gazes burnt into you as other members of the party watched you leave the lavish hall with Carlos by your side. The winding corridors made the music seem distant, the melodies now distorted and humming faintly.

His eyes were hungry, you could sense that, as his spare hand came to grip the brass door handle in front of you, swinging the door open. “After you,” he motioned with such grace, stalking closely behind as you walked into the room.

Carlos Sainz’s office also reeked of wealth. The antique oak bookcases lining the walls, vintage leather chairs surrounding the polished wooden desk, his own portrait— hand painted with precision— staring down at you with that same authoritative glint in his animated eye.

“Is this more to your liking, darling?” His voice quickly broke you out of your drifting consciousness, a large hand coming to grip your wrist gently, before pressing your back into the edge of the desk in the middle of the room.

Briefly nodding, suddenly your shallow breathing mingled with his own steady breaths, the tension electric, dark eyes locking onto your wide ones.

“You don't know how badly I want you,” he mumbled, nose nuzzling your own as his hand slipped from your wrist to cupping your burning cheek. “How badly I need this,” his voice was breathy, the heat from his words dangerously fanning against your lips.

A gentle thumb brushed against the apple of your cheek, a crawling flush following in the calloused pad’s wake. Your own hand snaked around to his neck, “I want it too,” a whispered response followed as the slight pressure pushed his lips softly onto your own.

His smoky musk-like taste seeped into your mouth, as your lips magnetically intertwined, fighting for dominance. Breathing hitched, soft moans and groans echoed around the room when Carlos’s tongue dipped into your mouth. Frantic hands groping each other followed, tugging at any fabric they could grasp in your shared lustful frenzy.

Like a lone spark reacting with oxygen, the passion rekindled swiftly, the intensity of the flame rising as heat pooled to your core. Shared saliva mingled in your mouth, his tongue twisting and gliding over your own as his lips muffled your growing whimpers and moans. Fingers digging into your hips, lifting you onto the oak table with ease, kissing with the same passion as before.

Frantic fingers fumbled with his shirt’s buttons, before the fabric finally fell off of his back, your nails digging into his shoulders, muscles flexing in the shimmering moonlight. A breathy gasp escaped your lips as his own hungry fingertips found your flimsy straps again, pulling down your dress so it was hanging on your stomach, breasts spilling out gracefully.

His fingertips found your nipples, rolling the nubs into hardened, sensitive peaks as a whine escaped, silenced by another searing kiss. His hardening erection ground into your clothed cunt, the sensation burning your core, sending shocks of pleasure around your overheating body, his hands gripping your boobs in a lusty death grip.

“Carlos—” you whined breathlessly against his lips, hips bucking against his clothed cock like a bitch in heat. “Please…” you pleaded, puppy eyes meeting his darkened brown ones.

That small voice spoke volumes. His belt left his trousers, the soft clink heard as it dropped to the floor. Arms tangled around your half-naked body as his large palms left your breasts, pushing you against the cold oak, the sensation against your back tingling.

His pants slid down his legs, resting at his ankles as he allowed his hard length to bounce back as he revealed it from his boxers slowly, eye contact intense as he did so.

“Is this what you want?” a guttural, deep voice questioned as he gave the already throbbing shaft a few pumps, pre-cum angrily leaking from its tip. “Show me that you want it,” he challenged with a hungry growl.

Within an instant, your hands glided down to your burning cunt, fingertips hooking underneath your panties waistband, before pulling them down to your ankles as well.

Back arched as you dipped two fingers into your pulsing clit, spreading your pussy apart for him to see, juices leaking onto the desk below you, pooling as you panted.

“Please, Carlos,” you begged helplessly again, your bottom lip bouncing back from being caught in your teeth, chest rising and falling erratically with your overbearing need for him. “I need you.”

Carlos licked his lips at the sight of your leaking cunt, large hands coming to grip your thighs tightly, keeping them spread with ease.

He pointed the reddened tip at your folds, before thrusting deeply into your pussy in one sharp movement. A loud moan escaped your lips, hips bucking upwards to meet his controlled thrusts deep into your cunt.

Thumb trailed to your clit, adding extra stimulation as he twirled circles around it, allowing more moans to escape your lips uncontrollably. Eyes began to roll back in pleasure as your walls fluttered against Carlos’s cock, chasing your release relentlessly.

“Fuck, so good f’me, princesa,” he gruffly panted, gripping your thighs so tightly they started to bruise, thrusts deeper and harder as he chased his own release with gritted teeth. His mind was going fuzzy with the pleasure, the only sounds heard from inside the room being low groans and high pitched moans.

The coiled tightened in your stomach, the intensity of your orgasm reaching its peak as you cried out, hips moving with Carlos’s raging rhythm, walls fluttering against his cock, tightly milking him dry as your eyes went fully backwards.

You gasped, eyes widened as you rode out your high, followed with Carlos pushing himself deep inside of you, his cum shooting out of his length, your walls squeezing him dry as the ropes leaked out of your aching cunt.

Smiling whilst dazed, Carlos slipped his softening dick out of your pussy. You giggled, “thank you, Carlos,” you added with a cheeky grin, your combined juices leaking down your thigh onto the desk below.

He laughed a breathy laugh in return, lips lingering above your temple, before pressing a soft kiss there. “You're welcome, cariño,” he chuckled with a smirk, before straightening himself up, reaching for his boxers.

“You better get yourself cleaned, princesa. There's still a party happening to attend,” he hummed contently.

mafia carlos IM RIGHT HERE BABY. i don't care if your job is toxic and crazy as shit I'M RIGHT HERE. i'm going to lose the plot. - notti <3

#nottivagos #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 scenarios #carlos sainz #f1 x reader #carlos #carlos sainz drabbles #f1 carlos #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz jr #scuderia ferrari #cs55

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elliespassagerprincess · 1 month ago

Note

I was reading your fics and had an idea...

What about if yandere!Ellie falls for reader and basically goes through the motions to get reader to herself, only to be confused when reader isn't scared at all.

Bc plot twist, reader is also yandere for Ellie 🤯

So basically Ellie just kinda did all the work for reader without knowing but in the end they are together and all happy bc they see themselves as soulmates

Two Halves of the Same Obsession - ellie williams x reader

hi anon!! i hope you like it! this story actually reminded me of a fic i wrote 2 years ago lmfao... this deadass made me reminisce

pairing: yandere!ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts!

HUGE WARNING: stalking, obsession, possessiveness, psychological manipulation, toxic, codependent dynamics, mild violence and psychological instability, mature themes, sexual tension (no explicit smut, but heavily implied), not a safe or healthy depiction of romance, mental instability / emotional breakdowns, mention of murder, suicide

summary: Ellie watches you. Memorizes you. Loves you in a way that defies logic—so deeply it eats at her bones. She was always good at being invisible, good at hiding in shadows, good at peeling people apart from a distance. But you? You were the first thing she didn’t want to tear apart. You were something she wanted to keep whole. Keep close. Keep forever.

masterlist

This story contains dark and emotionally intense themes—please read with care. You are responsible for what you consume online. Please read the warnings before reading.

You always feel her first. That pulse behind your spine.

That breath that doesn't belong to you, coiling at the back of your neck. A hunger you don’t name, but know. Deeply. Intimately.

Ellie thinks she’s clever. And she is.

But not clever enough to know she was being watched, too.

She thinks she’s the predator. But you’ve been letting her bite.

Ellie Williams lives between seconds. She’s the ghost in the lecture hall corner. The whisper of worn Converse across linoleum.

The pen stroke in your notebook that wasn’t there a minute ago.

She sits behind you in class every Tuesday and Thursday, breath held like prayer. Green eyes heavy-lidded, dragging themselves over the curve of your neck. She copies your scent to memory. Cedar and static. She opens your water bottle when you leave it unattended, just to feel your lip gloss on her fingertips.

She’s sick.nShe knows it.

But it’s a beautiful kind of sickness.

The kind that doesn’t hurt unless you leave.bAnd you never do.

You noticed her months ago. Her eyes were too loud for someone trying to stay quiet.

You caught her staring. Not once. Not twice.

Thirty-seven times in a single week.

And when you turned to meet her gaze, she flinched—but never looked away. That’s how you knew.

People like that don’t run. They wait for you to chase.

She followed you home once.

Or… thirty-seven times.

Her boots left prints in the soft dirt outside your apartment window. You watched them disappear in the rain. And when they came back, you left your curtain cracked open, just enough for her to see the silk of your slip against your skin.

You were never scared. You were interested.

Ellie thinks she’s orchestrating this. She thinks she’s the architect of obsession.

What she doesn’t know is that you’ve never once touched your own homework. That you slipped a USB drive into her bag three months ago and waited. That she’s been doing your assignments, your lab reports, your essays—all because she thought it was her idea.

She did your assignments. She memorized your schedule. She followed you home. And you…

You let her.

Because you knew. You always knew. And you didn’t run.

You fed her guilt like candy. You let her spiral until helping you was an offering to her own madness.

She doesn’t know you saw her notebook. Your name written a hundred times between calculus notes and botanical diagrams. The sketch of your smile, detailed down to the shape of your molars. The phrase mine mine mine mine scribbled in green ink along the margins like scripture.

She thinks you haven’t noticed the Polaroid tucked in her sketchbook. She thinks you don’t know she broke into your dorm while you were in the shower.

She thinks you’re innocent.

But you?

You’re just patient.

The confrontation happens like all love stories do— on a night soaked in moonlight and desperation.

You're waiting on her porch. Sweater too big. Eyes too bright.

Lips parted like an invitation or a threat. She freezes at the sight of you.

“You followed me,” she says. Voice cracked open, thin as smoke.

You tilt your head. Smile.

“I know.”

The silence screams.

She swallows. “You… how long have you—?”

You stand. Walk slowly.

“Long enough to know you only follow me on Tuesdays, because that’s when your roommate works late.”

You take a step closer.

“And that you don’t touch yourself unless you’ve seen me smile that day.”

Another step.

“That you wore green three times last week because it’s the only color that doesn’t make you feel like a liar.”

Ellie’s mouth parts like she’s drowning. You lean in, breathe her in, just like she’s done to you a thousand times.

“You thought I didn’t notice?” you whisper. “Baby, I wanted you to.”

She kisses you like it’s the first and last time she’ll ever be allowed to.

Like she’s sorry for hiding. Sorry for wanting. Sorry for touching things she wasn’t supposed to.

And you let her. Because you wanted her to break.

You wanted to ruin her.

And she wanted to be ruined.

The obsession becomes something holy. She stops pretending. Stops hiding. She clings to your side like a second skin. Does your laundry. Sleeps on the floor by your bed unless you let her in. Writes Mrs. Williams in the fogged-up glass of your shower.

You start dressing for her. Reading her journal. Leaving her love notes in Latin under her pillow.

The world becomes you-and-her-you-and-her-you-and-her.

It’s toxic. Violent. Fragile. Perfect. She watches you sleep.

You pretend not to see. She claws at your skin when she thinks you’ll leave. You threaten to kiss someone else just to see how far she’ll go.

You get off on the obsession. She gets off on the worship.

And in your twisted little cathedral, there is only one truth: You were made for each other.

“You think we’re soulmates?” she whispers one night.

Her voice is hoarse from crying.

You nod, mouth pressed to her temple.

“I don’t think. I know.”

Ellie’s grip tightens around your wrist. “I’d kill for you.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “I’d let you.”

She chokes on a laugh, breath catching between your ribs. There’s no heaven for girls like you.

But hell? Hell is home.

And you built it together.

The first time Ellie hears it from you—the full truth, not veiled in suggestion or innuendo—it’s not from your mouth. It’s in a letter.

Folded neatly, slid into her sketchbook between pages of your smile.

“You always thought you were the monster.

But I let you come closer.

And you never asked why.

You watched. I danced.

You touched. I moaned.

You bled. I licked.

You were my favorite story before you ever spoke to me.”

Ellie stares at it for two hours. Her hands shake. She reads it again.

Again.

By the time you knock on her door, she’s on the floor, fingers stained in graphite and something feral, eyes bloodshot from sleepless need.

“Do you love me?” you ask, softly.

She doesn’t respond. She lunges. After, she sobs in your chest.

“I wanted to keep you clean,” she whispers, shaking.

You laugh like broken glass.

“You don’t get it, Ellie. I was never clean.”

Days blur. She builds a shrine of you in her closet.

A hairbrush.

Your lipstick, uncapped and half-melted.

A sock you “accidentally” left under her bed.

Your test answers—filled out in her handwriting, not yours.

You spray her pillow with your perfume when she’s not looking.

You leave voice notes on her phone in the middle of the night. Nothing but breathing.

She listens to them on loop until her ears ring.

Your favorite game becomes pretending you’re strangers again.

At cafés.

On the bus.

In alleys behind bars you’re not old enough to drink in.

She approaches you like prey. You taunt her like bait.

You say, “Please don’t hurt me,” and she growls, “Not unless you beg.”

Ellie carves your initials into her thigh one night. You find out because she sends you a picture.

No caption. Just blood and love and lunacy.

You show up at her apartment two minutes later, barefoot and panting. She opens the door and you slap her.

Then kiss her. Then cry. Then laugh.

Because you're both insane. But at least you're insane together.

You move in with her. Of course you do.

There are no toothbrushes. Only one.

Hers. Yours. Ours.

She tapes your photo to the ceiling above her bed. You let her tattoo your name just below her ribs. She sobs while she does it. You kiss the ink.

Neither of you will ever leave now.

One night, you press her face to your stomach.

“Do you ever want a baby?” you ask, quiet.

Ellie flinches. “Like… now?”

“No. Just… in the future.”

Ellie kisses your belly, slow and reverent.

“If it’s with you, yes. I’d give you anything.”

You smile. But your voice is ice.

“Good. Because I already stopped taking my pills.” you say knowing that to have a baby with another women is much more complicated,

But Ellie looks up, wild-eyed. Shaking. Worshipping.

You trace her lip with your thumb.

“Wouldn’t it be beautiful? Something made from obsession?”

You both spiral after that. Sex becomes war. Love becomes theology.

You pray on your knees between her legs. She offers her neck like communion. She wears your clothes. You wear her thoughts. You both stop existing as separate things.

People notice.

Friends fade.

Your families whisper. But neither of you hear them. Because there's no outside anymore.

Only her.

Only you.

Only us.

One day, you find her pacing the hallway, mumbling. She's got your schedule in one hand, a knife in the other.

“Someone touched you,” she says, not looking at you.

You nod.

“I saw.”

She looks up, eyes glowing like a creature in the dark.

“I’ll kill them.”

You cup her face gently. Kiss her once. Then again, softer.

“No need, baby,” you whisper. “I already did.”

Ellie cries harder than she ever has in her life. And she laughs, too.

Because you're not just her obsession. You're her twin flame.

Her god. Her grave.

You sleep that night with your hands tangled in her hair. And she murmurs into your skin—

“Promise you’ll haunt me if I die first.”

You kiss her pulse.

“We’re never dying. We’ll just… rot together.”

It doesn’t last. Of course it doesn’t. Things like this never do.

Even poison turns to ash if you hold it in your mouth long enough.

Ellie begins unraveling first. Not in ways you can see. In ways you feel.

The way she stares at you for hours, unmoving. The way her hand trembles when you say someone’s name that isn’t hers. The way she cries when you’re asleep, whispering your name like it’s the only word she knows.

You hear her chanting it into the sink drain. To the fridge. To the window.

You don’t stop her. You just watch.

Because madness is more romantic when it’s shared.

She builds a room for you in her head. You watch her disappear into it. Day by day.

Until the girl you love is no longer real— Just a mirror reflecting you back in pieces.

One morning, she’s sitting on the floor with a kitchen knife and a baby onesie. You don’t ask why. You just kneel beside her.

She holds the onesie to her chest and says,

“I want to put something in it.”

You tilt your head. She doesn’t elaborate. And you don’t want her to.

Because you know what she means.

Your obsession was a fire. Now it’s a coffin. And you both crawl inside it together.

You start hearing whispers too. At night. In the hallway. They say your name like Ellie says it. Like it’s sacred. Like it’s a wound. You hold your breath and wonder if it’s God. Or just her.

The murders start with mercy. A neighbor who asked too many questions. A professor who said you weren’t “applying yourself.”

Then: a girl who smiled too long. A man who bumped your shoulder. Then: a stranger who wore your shampoo.

Ellie calls it cleansing. You call it offering.

And when she brings you their earrings, you wear them all at once. Your ears bleed. But you smile.

The last time anyone sees you, you’re both at a park. Feeding ducks. Holding hands.

Your lips are red. Ellie’s are cracked. And your shadows are holding each other, too.

You kill each other on a Tuesday. Not with knives. With trust. You give her a bottle of wine laced with everything you know will stop her heart slow and soft. She drinks it without asking.

Because she knows. Because you both planned it without words.

Ellie dies first. You lie next to her, curled into the shape of her ribs.

You whisper: “I didn’t want a baby. I just wanted something that needed me like you did.”

Then, you kiss her still-warm mouth. And take your dose, too.

They find your bodies days later. Arms around each other. Mouths open. Fingernails broken.

And a note scrawled in both your handwriting:

“We weren’t made for this world.

So we made our own.

Rot with us, or leave us in peace.”

The city breathes a little easier after that. But not your home. That apartment smells like iron and flowers for weeks.

And the closet? Where she kept the shrine? No one dares open it.

Because some obsessions don’t die.

They wait.

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dollyfetti · 2 months ago

Text

𐔌　the perks of being a wallflower - d.w ₊˚ ♡

CHAPTER ONE - the kind of thing people do

summary: you’ve always been better at observing than participating, the quiet one in the corner, taking mental notes no one asks for. and that was fine, it was enough. but for once in your life, you didn't shy away from something you wanted, and suddenly you’re swept into a series of late-night diner runs, basement mixtapes, and conversations from your best friend that make your chest ache. you started to feel things. things you never thought you would get to.

notes: dean winchester x reader, normal au (mary is still dead tho um!), dean and sam are closer in age, alcohol consumption, edible consumption, best friends to lovers, kinda slow burn (starts in beginning of high school - ends in college), reader has social anxiety, suicide attempts (not in detail), SA mentions (not in detail), mention of familial loss. please let me know if i missed any!

word count: 2.6k

˚○ ୨୧ series masterlist main masterlist navi

the kitchen smells like toast and burnt coffee, it always does. the radio plays a song you half-remember from childhood, something your aunt helen used to hum in the car when the windows were down and the weather was just right. you don’t know the words, but you mouth along anyway, just because it feels good to try.

your mom’s already gone. she leaves early now, taking the long way to work even though she swears she doesn’t. there’s a note on the fridge, her messy handwriting squeezed into the corner of a grocery list.

“have a good day. be nice to yourself. love, mom :)”

you pick at the toast you made fifteen minutes ago, now cold and curling at the edges. the butter never really melted. you eat anyway, not because you're hungry, but because it’s the kind of thing a person does before school.

you glance back at the fridge. your sister left a photo of you two at the lake last summer, she must’ve just gotten the polaroid back from her friend. she’s the one with the huge sunglasses and obnoxious peace sign. you’re half-smiling, squinting against the sun like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to enjoy the moment.

the house is always too quiet in the mornings. you used to like it when you were younger, before everything started feeling too loud inside your head. now the quiet just feels like permission to disappear, and you’re trying not to do that anymore, it worries your family.

your bag sits by the door, already packed. a half-read novel, your spiral notebook with a bent corner, a pen that only works if you scribble on the margin first.

you exhale, not taking another bite of toast before pulling on your sweater and shoes. they’re the same shoes you wore last year, and the year before that. familiar and frayed at the edges, but you kind of like that about them.

this year will be different. different. better.

your ride honks outside. it’s not a friend, it’s derek, your sister’s boyfriend. he’s got a ponytail and an acoustic guitar in his trunk and calls everyone “brother” or “dude”, even your dad. you’re still not sure if he even knows your name, but he’s nice enough to give you rides.

you grab your bag, shout a half-hearted goodbye into the house for your dad, and head out to the beat-up sedan.

your sister spent the night at derek’s house, you can tell by the light circles under her eyes as you slide into the backseat. she liked to tell your parents she was at her best friend’s house or out at a party— even high school parties are better than sleeping over at derek’s, in their opinions.

“morning little dude.” derek lazily nods toward you in the rearview.

“hi.” you murmur quietly with a polite smile, pulling on your headphones. your sister doesn’t say anything.

you watch the trees blur by through the window, tapping your fingers to the music as you raise your volume to drown out derek’s smashing pumpkins tape. the high school comes into view too quickly, all brick and concrete and weirdly wide hallways.

you hop out of the car, adjust your sweater, and square your shoulders like someone pretending they’re used to this. the first day of school. you start walking next to your sister with a thudding heart as she talks to derek past the chain-link fence, past the kids clustered around the front steps, past all the noise.

she looks to you as you’re about to step inside the building. “high school’s not hard, okay?” she starts with a knowing glance. “just be yourself.”

you smile softly as you look back at her, even though you both know her advice is absolutely horrible.

shop. you make a mental note to change this class— you're not interested in using tools to make useless knick knacks. the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead is just loud enough to irritate you, and the smell of machinery and old wood clings to the air.

you sit by yourself, like always, watching some freshmen boys snort as a senior paints a cartoony goatee onto his chin with a grease pencil.

you swallow and avert your gaze, uninterested. your attention drifts to one of the many unfamiliar faces walking inside the room observantly.

he’s tall. too tall, like he’s been stretched out past what high school allows. maybe a junior, possibly a senior. but what sticks with you isn’t his height— it’s the mop of soft brown bangs that flop over his forehead, slightly curled at the ends to give him a gentle, almost boyish look. he also just has this sweet doe-like face, which makes you smile a bit.

then he grins wide and playfully, and the air in the room shifts. he walks straight to the front and without warning, launches into a dead-on impersonation of mr. callahan, the dull room perking up. you're thankful that he makes fun of the teacher instead of the freshmen, which you've been seeing and retrieving all day.

"the prick punch is not a toy." he mimics comedically, earning a few snickers from the students as his hand goes on his hip, his shoulders a bit hunched over. "i learned that in nam back in 68. callahan, the sergeant said. put down that prick punch and go kill some gooks."

the laughs die down a bit as the teacher steps into the class from the hallway, folding his arms as he walks up behind the boy, who continues obliviously. "but you know what happened? that prick punch killed my best friend in a saigon whorehouse."

mr. callahan sighs, a book in both hands as he stares, unamused. "i heard you were going to be in my class."

the boy turns around with an awkward, sheepish expression, but there's no trace of regret.

“are you proud being a junior taking freshman shop, sammy?"

sam huffs, scratching the back of his head, not even embarrassed at being called out. he's smart, not crafty, so what? "look, my name is sam." he notes flatly. "either you call me sam or you call me nothing... sir."

"okay, nothing." mr. callahan nods without missing a beat, pointing to an empty seat with the satisfaction of a man who thinks he’s just made the joke of the year.

sam resists the urge to roll his eyes as the class laughs. he ambles over and flops into the chair, unbothered, like he planned it that way.

"nothing, why don't you read first?" mr. callahan declares, opening the safety guide book as he leans against his desk.

you still have the faintest smile on your lips. sam's little act wasn’t about mocking mr. callahan, he was just trying to make the freshmen feel better, to make them feel like maybe this place didn’t suck quite as much as it did five minutes ago.

sam opens his manual with a furrowed brow, reading aloud in mock reverence. “chapter one,” he begins, eyes scanning the page with exaggerated curiosity. “surviving your fascist shop teacher who needs to put kids down to feel big.” he pauses to look up at the class with a nod, followed by some more chuckles. “wow, this is useful, guys! we should read on.”

your smile widens.

you weren't gonna go to friday football night originally. you have little knowledge on sports, let alone football. but your family insisted, saying you should go out and try to have a good time. it's not like you really had anything better to do anyway, and maybe you'd see sam.

you wanted to talk to him! you didn't know what you'd say, but he seemed like a friendly person, so maybe he wouldn't mind. he had that kind of presence— open, warm, like you wouldn’t regret trying.

with a lukewarm soda in one hand and nachos in the other, you make your way toward the bleachers. the chatter and cheers hit you like a wave as you settle near the edge of a row, hoping no one notices how stiff and out of place you look. you try to match the other students’ energy, clapping when they clap, shouting when they shout.

"come on devils!! whooo!"

you turn your head at the familiar voice, seeing sam towering over other students as he stands a few rows up, cheering for the school's team.

two girls pass by him with synchronized giggles. “hey, nothing!”

sam rolls his eyes, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that you can't make out over all the noise.

you want to go up to him so badly. he's intriguing, and you want this year to be different, to be better than all the horrible ones.

after driving yourself crazy, standing up and then back down twice, you shyly decide to approach him, your shoes echoing slightly on the metal.

"hey... sam." you murmur just loud enough so he can hear you over the roar of students.

his head turns with a bright smile, "hey!" he looks at you, pointing a finger like he's just recalled something before letting it drop. "you're in my shop class, right? how's your clock coming?"

you shake your head as your lips part. "my dad's building it."

"yeah, mine looks like a boat." sam chuckles with a small scoff. he looks back to the field, cheering and watching in enjoyment. you linger awkwardly, unsure what to do next. then he glances at you again. "you wanna sit over here, or are you waiting for your friends?"

"oh! no," you shake your head with a small, meek smile. "i'll sit here- if that's okay."

he nods and shifts, patting the spot beside him with an inviting grin as you sit down.

sam says, still facing forward, "thanks for not calling me nothing, by the way."

"it's an endless nightmare." he groans, shaking his head in annoyance, keeping his eyes on the game. "and these assholes actually think they're being original."

you nod nervously, your fingers wringing together in your lap. five seconds pass as your brain scrambles for conversation, something to say. literally anything.

"so, uh... you like football?" you offer gently, nodding as sam flashes you a beam.

"love it."

"oh, then maybe you know my broth-"

"hey dean." sam hums out of nowhere, his head turned to face someone beside you.

you look up from where you're sitting, your eyes almost widening as you glance at the prettiest boy you've ever seen. his dark jacket is half-zipped, hands shoved into the pockets, brows drawn together in disdain, but you swear your heart stops for a moment.

you take your gaze off him almost a second later, inhaling quickly as you look back at the crowd.

"could the bathrooms here be more disgusting?" the unknown boy grunts, sitting down next to you with no decorum, spreading his legs with a scoff.

you try to remain casual, scooting down a little as you keep your eyes fixed on the football field before you.

"well, i finally got hold of pete." he says, eyes on sam as he swipes a handful of popcorn from the bucket in his lap.

"party tonight?" sam asks along with a small, playful glare.

"nah, he's still trying to shag that waitress from the olive garden, that damn dog."

sam chuckles, shaking his head. "he's never tossing that salad."

now suddenly like he's just realized there was someone else sitting in between them, the boy looks to you curiously, giving you a once over before back at sam. "who's this?"

sam's lips part, blinking awkwardly. "uh, this is..."

you give them both your name, smiling politely. dean's eyes widen at your last name, stifling a laugh with his fist. "no shit! your sister dates ponytail derek, doesn't she?"

"is that what they call him?" you mutter, lips twitching into a reserved, lopsided grin.

"leave ponytail derek alone." sam scolds. "you put the ass in class, dean."

"i try, sam, i try." dean smirks, stealing more popcorn. he turns back to you, offering a charming smile. "hey, m dean."

you smile back, nodding your head as sam speaks up again.

"so, what's the plan, dean? you want to go to mary elizabeth's house?"

"can't. she got caught watering down her parents' brandy with iced tea. let's just go to kings." dean grunts, chewing his popcorn obnoxiously.

"hey, we're going to kings after the game if you want to come." sam bends down a little, smiling at you gently.

you nod your head for what feels like the hundredth time just as brad hays tosses a touchdown pass. the fans go crazy, especially sam, so you do too, clapping your hands loudly as you stand up.

you three headed to kings family restaurant after your team won, eating greasy diner food in a small booth with red cracked leather seats. you're sat across from sam, eyes flicking between both boys sitting side by side.

"so uh, you got a favorite band?” dean asks after shoving three curly cheese fries into his mouth.

you swallow, shaking your head with a small shrug. “well.. i... think the smiths are my favorite.”

“are you kidding?” dean grunts, freezing mid-chew, and for a second, you brace yourself for an insult or witty joke. but as he leans forward to take a sip from his soda, he grins, “i love the smiths.”

brad hays and his jock posse pass by behind you three to their table, some of them shouting “hey, nothing!” at sam, causing a huge grin to break from dean’s lips.

sam scoffs, spinning around in his seat. “let it go! jesus- it’s an antique joke. it’s over!”

“so, what’re you gonna do when you get outta this place?” dean asks you curiously, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“well, my aunt helen said i should be a writer.” you hum, looking down at the table. “but uh.. i dunno what i’d write about.”

“you can write about us.” dean hums with a small smirk, looking over beside him.

“yeah!” sam grins, turning his gaze back to you. “call it slut and the falcon..!”

ignoring the rolled eyes dean darts directly at him, sam adds, “make us solve crimes!”

"falcon? what are you, twelve?” dean grunts, munching loudly.

you smile, taking a piece of brownie into your mouth before asking, "how long have you guys been friends for?"

sam shakes his head, about to speak when dean beats him to it. "never."

you blink in confusion as sam grins, nudging dean's shoulder. "we're brothers."

you lips part a bit. of course they are, how did you not see that before?

dean leans back in the booth with his arms stretched along the top, chewing on a fry like it's a cigarette. sam hums something under his breath and drums his fingers on the edge of the table.

you’re full, but not just from the food. you’re full in a weird way, like something in your chest has opened, like the first breeze after a long, stale summer. you don’t say much more after that. you just listen, and watch, and sit between two people who don’t seem to mind that you’re quiet.

they talk about a party that might be happening saturday, and someone named craig who once shaved his eyebrows off on a dare, and they argue over whether or not rocky IV is a masterpiece or a cinematic war crime.

it’s not a big moment, it’s not even really a moment. it’s just a regular tuesday night. cheap fries, too much noise, and two people who haven’t asked you to be anything else.

꒰ 𑄽𑄺 ⠀you have a new message from dolly!

literally so thankful my bsf proofread this bc she gave me such good writing tips im im im im thank yew for reading (!!) i know this looks kinda um.. cliche but i swear im gonna lock in!!!!! 😼

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