#but like... in a bath like this. where he's trying to anchor himself

[fraldareius]

✦ ; @furiaei │ prompted.

≋ I know you did not as per se rb it buuuut you did mention wanting Felix pov soooo </3 Felix and Mya

Send me ≋ to share a bath with my muse

Should he be there? Well, NO, he shouldn't be. ( but he is anyway . ) This was the the women's side of the bathhouse. He, a man, should NOT be here. ( not at all . ) But, still, he stays; he sits; he bathes. Alone. In the corner of the communial bath, he find some what to sooth his aches and pains. his aching bones, his aching body. his aching heart. Away from any ( well , most ) prying eyes. He could have most likely been mistaken for a woman himself, too. all due to his long hair - like silk, when it was down, in its resting position; and his somewhat lithe body. Maybe those who are not familiar with him would have assumed that anyway. At least from a distance. Maybe it would have been better. To be mistaken as a woman. ( maybe then he wouldn't be nearly as judged if he was to be found weeping . ) Yet, here HE is: Felix Hugo Fraldarious; sole surviving son of Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, and heir to the Dukedom of Fraldarius, in the women's bath.

how sacrilegious . 

he is alone, though. rather, he was alone. he had been alone. The lone wolf had tactically chosen a time where activity here would have been at its lowest for the women. to avoid most of them, at least, and any scorning or reprimands from them, had they seen him there. he is not there to pester anybody, he is not there to harrass them. that was not his intent. ( mercedes had been the one to accompany him at the time of entering anyway . ) if anything, he, truly, was looking for peace - some respite - during these cruel times of war. they were all given a small moment to themselves. he intended to use it. he was avoiding human contact . & interaction. but, mostly, he was avoiding a certain person, a certain man - if he could have been even called that anymore. ( that boar ... ) &, though they were not immune to the gossip & chatter either, the women always seemed to have more... grace, & finesse, when it came to the heavier discussions.

well.... most of them anyway. ana-maria lupu was certainly not one of them . 

mercedes had long since left the bathhouse: she was needed elsewhere. though, at the very least, the soft-spoken DOVE had stayed long enough to tend to his wounds from the most recent battle. ( he would forever be grateful for her , not just for her healing abilities , but for much more . ) she healed them enough that they no longer needed any immidiate attention, but not nearly enough to hide whatever remained of them. ( new scars . that was for certain . ) she had chastised him plenty of times before, for things lesser than, but, this time, she had said nothing about it. she simply did her duties, and left. ( as if she really needed to say anything though - the looks she gave had said more than enough . ) he believed, that after her exit, he would have been left alone, with no interruption of any kind.

oh ! how wrong he had been to assume . 

he did not know how long it had been before another had come to the baths, but somebody did come. he was, however, still far to lost in his thoughts to notice. the wamrth of the water was busy TRYING to melt away his haunting thoughts. It had been working, too. It had been slowly lulling him to sleep. Alas, the splashing of somebody entering the bath from the other side did stir & shake him enough away from his thoughts to know that he was no longer alone. he tensed for a bit, yet still kept to himself. head bowed, his long hair used as a cover & sheild. Instead of trying to look at her, he stared at the water ripples that began to bump up against him. ( see , he too, does know some manners . for a feral animal . ) felix shifted only slightly to turn AWAY from the source, away from the other, to let her know that he was not there to trouble her. he just wanted to be left alone.

she, however, whoever she was, had other plans.

somehow he knew, from the moment she scoffed, who it was. ( was it a scoff ? or was it a sigh ? it sounded like a dry laugh honestly . ) the lone wolf knew who had entered the baths. ( why did it have to be her ? ) he almost flinched. ALMOST. ( would it have given her pleasure to know that she could make him wince ? ) he did brace himself for a verbal lashing, but, aside from that, he didn't really have any other desire to show her even more weakness than that. he didn't want to give her any more ammunition to use against him. he knew that with him just being there, she had enough to berate him. 

he is an injured animal ; a wounded beast with sharp teeth ; don't make him feel cornered .   . . . please . . .  he hasn't the energy to bite back . he knows he is not supposed to be here .

when ambered hues look up to meet storm colored ones, there seems to be something completely different than the usual CLASH of energies. HE is tired. ( so tired . so exhausted . ) but it also seems as though he is... scared ? fearful, maybe. definitely sad. Not of her. no, not at all, he is not afraid of her. ( he is afraid of somebody else . he is hiding . ) but it is still there nonetheless. a silent plea telling her:     ' please , just let me stay . '     it is stark difference of what she probably is accoustomed to. at least with him. If he had the energy, he would have expressed it, but, for once, his blades have been dulled. he doesn't want to fight. he doesn't want to argue. 

please , just let me be .

❛ don't . ❜   he speaks, looking away from her, fatigued,   ❛ save me the verbal lashing, i know . ❜   he would have shown more dissatisfation if it had not been for the fact that he was not in the proper mental capacity for it.    ❛ mercedes knows , ❜   he murmers softly,   ❛ she let me in . ❜

he pulls his legs closer to himself. it is almost absurdly funny, him retracting & hiding away, instead of of his usual biting. but he is doing it nonetheless. ( she caught him at the worst imaginable time . ) he does find himself glancing towards her, only to feel disatifaction with the sight of her seating herself in front of him. he hides it - his discontent - for whatever reason, &, instead, he simply watches her, carefully, waiting for her to say something. anything. Which, she does. He thinks. 

felix witnesses her mouth move. Sounds are coming out of her: in the form of words. she is speaking: he knows this. & he should be able to understand her, they speak the same language after all. they share the same culture. ( to a fault . ) yet, he simply cannot comprehend what she is saying. he doesn't know. To him, it's complete nonesense. a garbled mess. the only thing that seems to be consistent, that he recognizes, is a peculiar ringing. 

confusion. he lifts up his head a little bit, tilting it ever so slightly.  ❛ hah ?? ❜

he studies her again. watches her move. he noticed her brows furrow - probably at the annoyance of being asked to repeat herself - he mirrors her reaction. ( he isn't trying to upset her ! ) she IS speaking, but he doesn't understand. &, now, she's even more muted than before. the ringing, too, is still consitent. maybe even louder. it takes a moment, & another, to process. ( or attempt to anyway . ) but, then, his heart suddenly drops. his eyes narrow, something is wrong. something is severely wrong.

his body freezes. he WANTS to leave. to get up. to escape. but, instead, his muscles tense up. a choked laugh escapes him. ❛ what ...? ❜ he asks again. trembling this time. 

he's not even sure if she's angry & upset, or if shes concerned. felix struggles to pay close attention - he can barely hold it together. his vision blurs intermittently, he's losing focus. to him, what he percieves, it seems like shes getting angry - which is not something he wanted, but he genuinely doesn't know what shes saying. 

instead, he slips into his more native tongue, one of the languages found within the kingdom, but his tone is that of a panicked one. he cries out, one of his hands reaches out to his ear, the ringing now becoming more unbearable, ❛ wolf of fury, i do not KNOW what you are saying . ❜

his other hand reaches towards the edge of the bath. it is an attempt to stablize himself. which does help, albeit only for a little bit. until he slips. ❛ ana-maria … ❜ he frantically looks at her - with something akin to disgust & frustration ( not with her ) but also with desperation. ( of all the people , it had to be with her . )   ❛ mmn … ❜   he is annoyed with the situation - well, he would have been, at least - but there is a feeling that is more overwhelming right now. it feels as though it is consuming him. he is scared. nervous. anxious.

is she mad at me ?   ( yes ! yes she is ! )   she must hate me .   ( she does ! )   she's going to tell everybody you panicked .   ( weak . youre weak ! )   she's not going to help me .   ( why would she ? she's always yelling at you . she despises you . )   i hate you ...   ( you don't hate her . )   i hate you .   ( you really don't hate her . )   no . ' i hate you . '   ( you want her to tell you that ? )   yes ! tell me: ' i hate you . '     ( would it make you feel better ? )   no ...

with labored breaths, felix pulls away from her at first, unintentionally.   ❛ ━━ something's….. ❜   wrong.   did he need space? Maybe, perhaps. He didn't like being touched. he doesn't want to be held. ( does he ? ) but, at the same time, she would HAVE to grab him, she would have to hold him. To keep him from falling under the water.

how laughable , him needing help from something as harmless as a bath . felix hugo fraldarious : he has fought plenty of times on the battlefield, but the thing to do him in would have been 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒉 .

does she know? does she realize? does she understand? that underneath all of that ice-cold demeanor, & anger. behind those tall, jagged, walls & underneath all of the crumpled ruins of a once tall-standing foundation, there still remains a scared little boy. trying his best to survive. in a cold, cruel world, he is trying to live. Felix, too, is afraid.

                                                                                                  i just miss my friend .

he leans forward & presses his forehead against her shoulder, for support. as an anchor. perhaps not the most ideal thing, but, alas, it cannot be helped. 

❛ don't... ❜   dont what?   dont look?   dont ask?   dont talk?   dont tell?   dont leave?   honestly, it could have been anything - it could have been everything - but he doesn't finish the thought.

instead he seeks out her warmth & tries to find himself again. They could talk later. or maybe they could just pretend that this didn't happen. but, for now, he just wanted to sit there, in the water, in silence. with her. 

[beloveds-embrace]

cw: bittersweet(?)

(a different take on the fae poly 141 x human reader au)

The throne was bathed in blood long before the flowers bloomed again.

John Price, once a Prince and now King of the Fae, had carved his crown from the heart of a curse- his mother’s heart, torn still-beating from her chest when she dared to threaten what he loved most. You.

The kingdom still whispered of that day beneath the great moon of ash and fire, when the late Queen shrieked her final decree into the world, a last act of vengeance and hatred. Her voice, furious and cruel, broke the sky itself with the bitterness of her spell:

"As long as you love her, she will wither."

And so you began to fade.

Not all at once. No- she would not grant you such mercy. This curse was crueler than death; it stole you slowly, like moss creeping up an old stone wall and time smudging the edges of a painting.

Now, the kingdom thrives. Blossoms fat with dew crown the high branches of the frostwillow trees, whose trunks shimmer like glass. Rivers run clear and sweet as honeyed wine, singing through emerald meadows. Human and fae laugh together in the sun-dappled courtyards, their wars forgotten, their wounds scarred over in gold.

All for you, you, you.

John made peace because you once dreamed of it- when your eyes still shimmered with dreams and not distant fog. He razed cities of dissent in your name and made widows and widowers of those who muttered against you. Laid their bones beneath the roots of your favorite garden, where the jasmine still grows white and wild.

But your smiles are rarer now.

You wander the palace like a half-formed spirit, your fingers trailing the walls as if they alone remember who you used to be. Servants bow and the tapestries shift for you. The flowers bend to greet you and the patient trees hum lullabies when your steps falter. And still, still you drift.

Today, the sky is ocean-blue and split with clouds like splashes of faint. You sit on a velvet bench beneath the shade of a weeping crystalvine. Its translucent leaves chime softly in the breeze, a lullaby only the Fae would understand yet even you find comfort in.

You don’t notice Johnny at first, warborn and thunder-hearted, his smile always one heartbeat away from laughter. He kneels beside you now, not as a knight or an advisor, but a friend.

“Hey, lass,” he says gently, brushing a leaf from your hair. “You wandered off again, aye? Thought I’d find ye here.”

You blink at him. It takes a moment longer than it should to recognize his face, his voice, the weight of his warmth. But then, you slowly nod.

“I like the sound the vines make,” you murmur. “Like bells. Like... snowflakes made of music.”

Johnnh smiles, though it’s not the playful one he gives to others. This one is softer- dimmed by grief.

“I ken. We planted them for you, remember? You said they reminded you of home.”

Home. You frowt; that word feels distant and slippery.

Behind him, the wind shifts. Simon, death-masked and silent- watches from the path, his shadow cast long over the garden’s edge. He says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you. Not judgment, but mourning. A man who has watched too many fade.

From the east arch, Kyle approaches with a tray of your favorite tea. He brews it himself now, every morning. Infused with memory moss and dreampearl petals- ingredients forbidden to most but allowed for you, in the desperate hope they’ll keep you anchored.

He kneels to pour a cup, the steam curling with soft light. “You didn’t eat breakfast again,” he says, gentle but firm. “You have to try, love. Just a sip.”

You take it; You always do, because you want to be good for them. For him.

Because somewhere in this palace of carved moonstone and singing glass, your husband sits on a throne built from vengeance and devotion. John, crowned in starlight and soaked in blood, ruling not for power but for love.

You remember his voice best. When everything else fades, his voice cuts through the fog. When your compass no longer works, he is your North Star.

You can’t always recall the words, especially lately, but you remember how it felt. Like summer heat after a storm. Like hands pulling you up from drowning in the cold, icy depths.

He visits you each night without fail. Wraps you in silks and warmth and whispers of your old jokes. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you don’t.

And every night, when you sleep, he holds you close, whispering ancient incantations, searching, begging- through spellbooks, through time, through fae and forbidden gods- for a way to break the curse.

You don’t know how long you’ve lived. Time has lost its shape. The stars shift differently here and the moons are always full.

But you know he still loves you, and you know that’s what’s killing you.

The crystalvines chime again as a breeze stirs the garden. They remain beside you- your ever-loyal wardens, your quiet protectors. Not jailers, never that, becayse they are the hands that catch you when you fall.

Somewhere, a throne pulses with magic, and a man who once killed his mother for you breathes your name like a prayer.

Would you want to be saved, if it meant he stopped loving you? You think- maybe, once, you would have said yes. Now… you don’t remember.

The garden hums with twilight, long after they leave you in the company of Thrain. Fireflies drift like fragments of fallen stars, weaving through the nightsky. The palace breathes around you, alive and watchful, its towers coiling like silver thorns into the indigo sky. Somewhere, music has started filtering from the halls- faint, wistful, played by an orchestra of wind spirits and fae-wood strings.

But here, now, in this secluded alcove, there is only him.

John.

He kneels before you like a knight before a goddess, though he wears a crown of blood-forged gold and starlight in his hair and beard. His hands cradle yours- calloused, warm, grounding. You feel small beneath his touch, like a flickering thing. A candle fighting wind, cupped between his palms.

“My heart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Where did you go today?”

You blink slowly. Look at him through a haze that feels too heavy to speak through. The words are in you, but tangled. Frayed at the edges. You reach up instead, trembling fingers pressing against the curve of his cheek, and he leans into your touch like flowers bend for the sun, like the ocean waves reaching for the moon.

“You’re... still here.” You whisper, hushed and awed, and watch as his eyes close. A long, silent breath leaves him.

“Always.”

Your hand slips. He catches it, presses it to his lips like an oath. You smell the iron of magic on him- old, desperate, clinging to his skin. He has burned through centuries of fae history searching for an answer, and still he searches. Still he hopes.

You see the exhaustion in his face, etched into the lines of his mouth, hidden beneath the stern strength he shows the court. But here, with you, he allows the weight to show.

“I’d stop,” He says hoarsely, the way he does every night. “If I thought it would save you. I’d tear the love from my chest with my own hands. I’d become something cold. Something empty.”

“No.” You breathe, because even now, in the haze, you know that truth. You would not survive a world in which he stopped loving you.

He gathers you into his arms, pulling you into his lap as if you were made of mist. You fold against his chest, your ear close to the the beating of his heart. Familiar and steady and so, so comforting.

“Then we’ll find another way,” John says. Promises, like every night under the solemn moon’s witnessing. “Even if it takes a thousand more years. Even if I have to barter with stars and slit the throats of gods. I will not lose you, love.”

You close your eyes.

For a moment- just one brief, aching flicker- you remember: John’s laugh on your wedding day and way he looked at you when you first said his name, the quiet sound he made the first time you cried in his arms.

For now, for tonight, you are aware enough to hold him back just as tight, wrapped in magic and moonlight and love so deep it defies the curse.

Tomorrow, the fog will return. Tonight, you close your eyes and hold your hands over your ears, and let yourself be loved.

p2

[fawnoria]

thinking about cockwarming nanami kento in the bath… how the heat makes it easier to take all of him. (in theory) 18+ (𓇼 ) warnings. cockwarming. size kink. 𓏲࣪ mdni

the bath is hot—near-scalding—but you both prefer it that way. stream curls in lazy spirals around the tile, thick with the scent of hinoki oil and the faint mineral trace of bath salts. kento sits at your back, long legs spread to cradle you between them, the firm plane of his chest pressed flush against your spine. one broad hand anchors at your hip. the other drapes along the rim of the tub, wrist resting behind your head, veins visible through the droplets running down his forearm.

his cock is already sheathed deep inside you.

you’d eased down slowly, thighs trembling as your cunt stretched to accommodate him. the bath helped: heat loosening your muscles, water lapping against your stomach, easing the sting of fullness. still, the stretch was unrelenting. your walls gave with effort, not ease. even now, settled atop him, it feels like too much; pressure blooming low in your belly, something you’ll never grow used to. you shift a little. he grunts.

“stay still,” kento murmurs, lips brushing your temple. his voice low, graveled from restraint. “you said you wanted to warm me. so be good. jusy sit.”

you can feel every ridge and vein, the dull throb where you’re split open around the thick girth of his cock. hot inside you, the length of him heavy and unforgiving, pulsing with want. your cunt flutters despite itself, involuntary and greedy. he feels it��of course he does—and you feel the sigh he gives behind your ear.

“always so tight,” he drawls, one hand sliding up your abdomen beneath the water, fingers gliding between the swell of your breasts. “clenching already and i haven’t even moved.”

“can’t help it,” you whisper, squirming again.

his hand palm flattens against the outline of himself on your belly. “i know you can. you just won’t.”

you whimper, because he’s right. you love this: the pressure, the fullness, the intimacy of it. he shifts beneath you, pelvis rolling slightly up into the curvature of your ass, and the movement forces a wanton sound from your throat. you lurch forward but his arm catches you, pulls you back.

“shhh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “just a little longer.” the water ripples around nanami’s hand returns to your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles near the crease, just shy of where you want him most.

exquisite torture in the form of pleasure. not just the stretch—it’s also the restraint. the waiting. the unbearable lull of no friction, just weight and fullness and the constant pulse of your cunt trying to accommodate him.

“ken… i wan’ to move,” you whine, a bit petulant.

“i know, love,” he says gently, as though he’s not hard as iron inside you.

“but you won’t.”

and you don’t. not yet. but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re pulsing around him again—hot, tight, slick—and he’s so deep you swear you feel him in your belly. his mouth lowers to your neck. and this time when his hips rock up, slow and torturous, he doesn’t stop you from rolling down to meet him. the water sloshes high against the tub.

“you’re gonna make a mess,”

but you both already have.

[hauntedbyjoel]

Let Me Learn You

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mdni, | age gap | oral (f & m) | fingering | unprotected sex | size kink | dirty talk | praise + possession | face grabbing | mild & mutual obsession | Joel being emotionally unwell about it in the hottest way | no outbreak word count - 7.7k summary - Your dad’s old friend Joel helps you move. You don’t see the tension—but he does. And when it finally breaks, there’s no going back. A slow build into something filthy, soft, and completely his.

part two

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your place was already too warm by the time the couch got wedged in the hallway.

Boxes everywhere. Cabinets open. You’d been living out of a backpack for three days and still hadn’t figured out where to put your bath towels or your coffee mugs. But it was your first place, and the chaos felt kind of earned. You weren’t expecting help until later, but someone knocked just after noon. When you opened the door, a man was already walking up the short front path. Mid-40s, maybe older. Black shirt. Solid frame. A calm face that didn’t give much away.

“Your dad said you might need help with furniture,” he said. “Oh—yeah. I didn’t know he sent someone already.”

He nodded once, like that was enough talking, and stepped inside when you held the door open. You moved a box out of his way and watched him take in the space.

“Sorry it’s such a mess. I’m still figuring things out.”

“That’s what movin’ is,” he said, and then he gestured toward the hallway. “You want that couch in there?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that’s the living room.”

He got to work without another word.

You grabbed the lighter end automatically, even though he didn’t ask, and together you managed to get the thing unstuck from the hallway and into place. He didn’t struggle much. Barely looked winded. You didn’t talk a lot while he moved the rest. Just helped where you could—pointed at where things should go, said thank you more than necessary. He wasn’t cold, just quiet. Direct. There was something steadying about it, actually. The way he barely blinked when you offered him a half-finished bottle of water or said you were probably gonna live with a broken bookshelf for the rest of time.

“You don’t need a new one,” he said. “Just better anchors.” “That sounds like something a bookshelf would say right before collapsing on me in my sleep.”

That made him smile. Small, quick, but you saw it.

He finished sooner than you expected. Wiped his hands on his jeans. Gave a little grunt of finality like he was mentally checking the job off a list. You followed him toward the door, grabbing a new bottle of water from the fridge.

“Thanks again,” you said, handing it to him. “Seriously. I would’ve been here all day trying to flip the mattress on my own.”

“No problem.” He took it, his hand brushing yours. “Glad to help.”

Then, like it was nothing:

“Take it easy, sweetheart.”

The word didn’t stick. Not in a weird way. Just something he said, maybe a habit. You smiled, nodded.

“See you around, probably.”

He left with a short nod and a low “mmhm” that barely registered before the door clicked shut behind him.

You didn’t think twice about it.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He wasn’t planning on saying yes when her dad called.

It was supposed to be his day off. A list of errands to half-ignore. Tools to clean, laundry to avoid. But then the man mentioned his daughter—first place on her own, said she was “barely five feet and stubborn as hell,” trying to move a bed frame solo.

Joel didn’t ask for details. Just wrote down the address and showed up twenty minutes later with a socket wrench in his back pocket and a short list of things he was telling himself this wasn’t. He was expecting someone anxious. Chatty. The kind of girl who got overwhelmed easily and didn’t know the difference between drywall and brick. He wasn’t expecting her.

She opened the door barefoot, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair barely held in place by a clip. A box cutter was still in her hand. She blinked like she forgot anyone else existed.

“Oh—yeah. Hi. Come in.”

She didn’t look twice at him. Didn’t pause or fidget or start fixing her hair. She just waved him in and apologized for the mess, like he gave a shit. Joel followed her inside, slow, eyes catching on the curve of her back as she bent to move a box. Her legs were bare—soft, clean skin above the knee, and a pair of shorts that weren’t trying to be anything but comfortable.

It didn’t mean anything. Didn’t have to. He kept his voice steady.

“Your dad said you needed help with the bed frame?”

She nodded, smiled like it was nothing. “Yeah—it’s in the bedroom. Not built yet. It’s kind of in pieces, sorry.”

Joel just grunted, made his way down the hall, and tried not to think about how small her bed was. How soft the mattress looked when he pressed it into place. How nice her voice sounded when she laughed at herself.

She stayed close. Helped with one end of the dresser. Pulled things out of boxes while he worked. Told him about the bookshelf she half-built and already gave up on.

“It’s gonna collapse on me in my sleep. Death by IKEA.”

He’d smiled. Couldn’t help it.

She had no idea how easily she pulled reactions out of him.

She moved like no one was watching. Sat with her legs folded under her. Hummed along with her phone when music came on. Handed him tools without making it weird. Said thank you every single time like she meant it. He tried not to stare at her mouth when she talked. The way she bit her lip when thinking. The little breath she let out when lifting something heavier than expected. By the time he finished, his hands were itching. His jaw ached from how tight he’d kept it the whole time. He took the water bottle she offered him, let their fingers brush for half a second too long, then stepped toward the door before he did something dumb.

“Thanks again,” she said behind him, voice easy, warm. “I would’ve been here all day trying to flip the mattress on my own.”

“No problem.” He forced the words out. “Glad to help.”

He turned back to her. She was smiling, casual, eyes bright but unreadable.

“Take it easy, sweetheart.”

It slipped out. Not flirtation. Not even affection. Just… instinct. Something familiar to fill the space before it got quiet enough to admit what he was actually thinking. She didn’t react. Just nodded and said see you around.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t even fucking know.

Joel walked down the steps with his jaw tight, grip still too firm around the neck of the water bottle. He told himself he wasn’t coming back unless she called. And that if she did—

He’d keep his hands to himself.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your shelf gave out around 11:45 on a Tuesday night.

You weren’t surprised. It had been tilted since move-in, bowing just slightly in the middle. You told yourself it’d be fine as long as you didn’t put anything too heavy on it—which was, in retrospect, a lie. Three cookbooks and a ceramic bowl later, it tipped forward and slid halfway off the wall with a low, dramatic creak.

You stared at it for a minute from the hallway, then texted your dad.

Me: hey do you still have joel’s number? the guy who helped move the bed?

He sent it over right away.

Dad: What’d you break lol Me: nothing important

You stared at Joel’s number for a second. Then tapped out a quick message.

Me: hi! this is y/n, from the move-in last week. my shelf kinda fell off the wall and i think i stripped one of the screws trying to fix it. no rush at all but if you’re around sometime this week, i’d really appreciate the help.

You hovered over “send” for about half a second—then hit it.

He replied later that morning:

Joel: I can come by after 6.

You changed into a hoodie and shorts after work, didn’t think twice about it. Hair up. Face clean. You weren’t trying to impress anyone—you were just tired. You cleared the area near the shelf, shoved the broken screws into a Ziploc, and ate half a granola bar standing at the counter while you waited. 

When the knock came, you opened the door barefoot again.

“Hey,” you said, stepping back. “Thanks for coming.”

He nodded once, stepping inside, his tool bag slung low in one hand.

“This the one?” “Yeah. It gave up.”

He crouched without hesitation, unzipping the bag and pulling out a drill. You moved to the side, then bent down next to him without thinking—knees close to his, your hip brushing his arm as you leaned on one hand. 

He stilled, just for a second. You didn’t notice.

“I tried to tighten it again myself,” you said, squinting at the side bracket, “but I think I stripped the screw.”

“Probably,” he said. “Wrong kind for drywall.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching as he fit a new anchor in place. His hands moved slow, careful. He didn’t fumble or double check. Just measured, placed, and drove the screw in clean.

“You make it look easy,” you said, and you meant it.

He didn’t respond right away.

“It is,” he said eventually. “Just takes practice.”

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft breath. Felt the hoodie rise slightly against your ribs but didn’t bother fixing it.

“I should learn,” you said. “So I don’t have to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not,” he said. Quick. Low.

You blinked. Looked at him.

He was still focused on the wall. Like the drywall had something real important to say. When he finished, you stood and stepped back, brushing off your legs as he gave the shelf a firm test tug. It held.

“All good now,” he said, rising.

You smiled. “You’re magic.”

He didn’t smile back—not fully—but something in his face shifted. Like he wanted to.

“Seriously, thank you,” you added, walking toward the kitchen. “Do I owe you anything for the anchor things?”

“No.” “Not even like, a coffee or something?” “You don’t owe me,” he repeated. “You needed help. That’s all.”

You turned, leaning your hip on the counter, granola bar wrapper in your hand.

“Well I still appreciate it.”

Joel adjusted the strap of his bag.

“Text if anything else breaks.” “Hopefully that’s not a weekly thing.” “You never know.”

He walked to the door, pulled it open.

“Night, Joel.” “Take care,” he said. Then, after a pause—“See you.”

You nodded once. Locked the door behind him. Then turned back to clean up the mess of drywall dust on the floor, not thinking twice about how close you'd been. Not even wondering what he’d seen when you bent down next to him.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He shouldn’t have said yes.

He told himself that the first time, and again when her text came in. He sat there with the phone in his hand, staring at the words like they meant something bigger than they were.

Her: hi! this is y/n, from the move-in last week. my shelf kinda fell off the wall and i think i stripped one of the screws trying to fix it. no rush at all but if you’re around sometime this week, i’d really appreciate the help.

It was polite. Friendly. Clear. Not flirty. Not suggestive. Still ruined him anyway.

He told himself not to answer right away. Answered anyway.

Him: I can come by after 6.

And that was that.

She opened the door in that same kind of outfit—something soft and small and lived-in. Hoodie half-tucked, legs bare to mid-thigh, hair up in a clip that didn’t look like it was doing much.

He looked at her face. Only her face.

“Hey,” she said, stepping back to let him in. “Thanks for coming.”

“This the one?” “Yeah. It gave up.”

She smiled like it was no big deal, then followed him to the wall.

He crouched low, unzipped his bag, pulled out the drill.

And then—then—she crouched down beside him. No hesitation. Her knee knocked gently into his. Her hip brushed his arm. She planted her hand beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.

Joel’s heart stuttered hard in his chest.

She didn’t notice.

“I tried to tighten it again myself,” she said, leaning in closer. “But I think I stripped the screw.”

“Probably,” he said, throat dry. “Wrong kind for drywall.”

She rested her chin in her palm. Her shorts rode up slightly as she shifted her weight.

He didn’t look.

He absolutely looked.

“You make it look easy.”

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn't.

“It is,” he managed. “Just takes practice.”

And then she stretched. Arms over her head. Hoodie lifting just enough to expose the soft dip of her waist, a sliver of skin above the waistband of her shorts. She sighed like she’d been holding her breath all day.

He almost did something stupid.

“I should learn,” she said. “So I don’t have to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not.”

Too fast. Too hard.

She blinked at him, caught off guard. He didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t. Focused on the drywall like it was going to crawl off the wall if he didn’t stare it down.

When he stood, she did too. Watched him test the shelf, nod in approval.

“You’re magic,” she said.

He wasn’t. If he was, he’d disappear before he did something he’d regret.

“Seriously, thank you. Do I owe you anything for the anchor things?” “No.” “Not even like a coffee or something?” “You don’t owe me,” he said again, voice rough. “You needed help. That’s all.”

That was supposed to be it. His line. His boundary.

Then she leaned against the counter. Granola bar in hand. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Looking at him like he was just… normal. Like she wasn’t killing him without even trying.

“Well I still appreciate it.”

“Text if anything else breaks.” “Hopefully that’s not a weekly thing.” “You never know.”

He turned toward the door before his mouth could get ahead of him. Opened it. Let the cooler evening air hit his face.

“Night, Joel.”

“Take care,” he said.

He hesitated and looked back.

“See you.”

Then he left before he could fuck it all up. He didn’t even make it to the car before he had to stop and breathe. Stared at his truck like it might help. Gripped the edge of the driver’s side door like he needed something solid to hang onto. She had no idea.

Didn’t even know what she was doing. Didn’t know what she’d done.

And that? That was the worst part.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

You hadn't seen Joel in almost two weeks.

You hadn’t needed anything since. The apartment was starting to feel like yours now—boxes gone, rugs laid down, kitchen mostly organized. You spent your mornings with coffee by the window and your evenings on the couch with a book or something half-watched on TV. Quiet. Repetitive. In a good way.

Some nights, you stayed up too late just rearranging cabinets or deciding which drawer made the most sense for silverware. It wasn’t that deep. It just felt nice—having your own space, your own rules, your own rhythms.

Every once in a while, you’d think about Joel. Not in a way that meant anything. Just—when something squeaked. Or when the fridge made a sound you didn’t trust. He was the kind of person who’d know what it meant. That’s all.

So when the kitchen drawer started acting weird—handle loose, catching on something inside—you didn’t think twice.

You grabbed your phone and texted him:

You: hi. sorry to bother you again but my kitchen drawer is being weird. handle’s all wobbly and i have no clue what i’m doing. if you’re around, i’d love the help. but no pressure!

He replied an hour later:

Joel: I’ll be there after five.

He showed up in a navy work shirt this time. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Same tool bag. Same quiet expression.

“Handle loose?” “Yeah. It’s barely hanging on.”

You gestured toward the drawer, stepping out of the way. He crouched beside it, tugging gently on the knob. Watched it tilt sideways and catch.

“You got a screwdriver?”

You blinked. “Somewhere. I think.”

He gave a low hum—noncommittal—and set his bag down.

You turned toward the junk drawer, rummaging through it with one hand, then realized the screwdriver you did have had rolled under the counter the other night when you tried to open a wine bottle with it.

You spotted it—tucked just behind the leg of the lower cabinet.

“Wait—I think it’s down there.”

You bent at the waist, one hand on the counter, reaching for it blindly. 

Behind you, Joel went still. You didn’t see it—didn’t turn around. Didn’t notice how close he was standing. Just grabbed the screwdriver, stood back up, and turned to hand it to him.

“Found it. Not that I know how to use it.”

He took it slowly. Said nothing at first.

“This one’s fine,” he said, glancing it over. “You wanna try?”

You blinked. “You mean actually fix it?”

“Why not.”

You smiled, stepping in beside him as he held the drawer open. He pointed to the screw just inside the panel.

“This one’s backing out. You wanna keep it flush. Push in, twist clockwise.”

You crouched down again beside him and lined it up—then tried to turn it. It slipped.

“Here,” he said, quiet again.

His hand came around yours, firm and steady, guiding your wrist. His palm covered the back of your hand easily, fingers calloused but warm.

“Like that,” he murmured. “Gentle pressure.”

Your breath caught—not sharply, just enough to notice. Enough to make you pause. His chest brushed your shoulder. He didn’t move away. You kept your eyes on the drawer. Focused.

“I think I got it.”

He let go a beat later. Stepped back just slightly.

“Good,” he said. “It’s in.”

When you both stood again, you smiled without thinking. A little dazed, maybe, but content.

“Thanks,” you said, and meant it. “That was kind of satisfying.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice a touch rougher than before. “Guess it’s worth teaching.”

You laughed. “Well I’ll still probably text you next time something breaks.”

He nodded once. Looked at you for just a second too long.

“You’re welcome,” he said finally. “Glad to help.”

He left not long after. And once again, you stayed in the kitchen long after he was gone, still holding the screwdriver in your hand like it was worth something.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

It was just a drawer. A loose handle. Five minutes of work, tops. She’d probably be busy—on the phone, cleaning, half-distracted. He’d fix it, nod politely, get out before he did something stupid.

And then she opened the door. Same bare legs. Same oversized hoodie, sleeves pushed up her forearms. Her hair was clipped back messily, like she hadn’t thought about it once.

She smiled when she saw him.

“Yeah. It’s barely hanging on.”

She pointed to the drawer like it wasn’t a trap.

Joel crouched, checked the damage, asked for a screwdriver even though he already had one. Just to hear her laugh. Just to keep her talking.

“Somewhere. I think.”

She turned to look for it, rummaging like she’d forget it halfway through.

And then she bent.

Bent.

At the waist. One hand braced on the counter. Shorts lifting just enough to expose the full curve of her thighs, the soft underside he’d been trying not to think about for weeks. He was behind her. Close.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She had no idea. She came back up like nothing happened. Smiled as she handed it to him. No pause, no shift in her voice. Like she wasn’t burning him alive.

“Found it. Not that I know how to use it.”

He wanted to tell her. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.

But he just nodded. Told her to try. Handed her the screwdriver like it was a test.

She crouched beside him. Elbow bumped his. Her shoulder brushed his chest.

He stared at her hands, small and careful, fingers slipping once.

“Here.”

He wrapped his hand over hers, gently. Guided her wrist, pressed his palm to the back of her hand to steady her grip. 

And that was it. That was the fucking moment. He felt it—heat, want, something hard and undeniable sparking low in his spine. She was so close. Warm. Smelling like laundry detergent and faint vanilla and something softer underneath it all. She looked so serious. So focused.

She didn’t notice. Didn’t shift away. Didn’t tease. Didn’t flinch.

When he let go, her fingers flexed just once. She smiled at the drawer like it had passed a test.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “That was kind of satisfying.”

Joel couldn’t speak for a second. His jaw was locked. His pulse loud.

“Yeah?” he managed. “Guess it’s worth teaching.”

She laughed, soft and light. Like nothing had happened.

He nodded when she said she’d probably text again soon. Forced himself to turn around. Told her “glad to help” like it wasn’t the fucking truth.

He made it out the door without letting it show. Made it to his truck before his breath caught.

But he didn’t drive home right away. He sat there with his hands on the wheel, hard and shaking, and his dick aching so bad it bordered on painful. Her laugh. Her legs. Her little thank you. The fucking bend.

He drove home with one thing on his mind. Locked the door behind him. Dropped the bag. Went straight to the bathroom. Unzipped his jeans, fist already tight around the base of his cock before he even got the water running. Leaned hard against the counter, eyes closed. Thought of her on her knees—not because she meant to be there. Just crouched beside him, bare skin brushing his arm, looking up like he was someone worth listening to.

He came fast.

Too fast.

Palm braced to the mirror. Breathing rough.

Still hard. Still wanting.

It wasn’t the first time. He thought of her more than he admitted. At night, especially. When the house was quiet and the TV was off and there was nothing left to distract him. He saw her laugh. Saw the way she sat cross-legged on the floor. The way she always said thank you. The way she smiled when she held the door open and didn’t look at him twice.

She didn’t know.

And that was the thing he hated most.

Because part of him was starting to hope that one day she would.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your door wasn’t broken, not really.

It latched. It locked. But sometimes it stuck, and sometimes it didn’t. The key turned stiff. The frame shifted just slightly when it rained. You weren’t sure if it was normal, but the idea of it not working right—the thought of forgetting to double check it before bed—had started to settle in your chest the way small anxieties do.

You told yourself it wasn’t worth bothering anyone. Then you texted Joel anyway.

You: hey—sorry again lol but do you mind checking something with the door lock? it’s probably fine but i’m paranoid and you’re the only one who knows what they’re doing.

He replied quickly, like always.

Joel: I’ll stop by. Be there in an hour.

You didn’t rush to get ready. Just changed out of your tank with the bleach stain and pulled on a clean one. Combed your hair. Opened the windows to let the evening breeze in. You weren’t trying to make anything of it.

But when he knocked, your stomach did that quiet fluttery thing anyway. He looked the same. Always did. Button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled high, work-worn jeans, one hand loose at his side and the other around the handle of his tool bag.

“Door’s acting up?” he asked as he stepped inside.

You nodded. 

“It’s probably nothing. The latch just sticks sometimes. Or it clicks too fast. I don’t know—I don’t want to lock myself out one day and realize it’s been busted this whole time.”

He gave a small grunt in response, already crouching near the frame, running his hand along the wood with practiced ease. You leaned against the counter and watched him move—quiet, focused, not in a hurry. There was something oddly calming about the way he handled things. Like he could break something down and make it make sense without saying much at all.

He worked in silence, checking the alignment, nudging the hinge with his thumb. He didn’t ask for tools. Didn’t explain what he was doing. Just moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You stayed still. Tried not to let your eyes linger too long.

But when he bent to inspect the strike plate—shoulders flexing under the fabric of his shirt, jaw set tight as he leaned into the motion—you looked. Just for a second. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him crouched over things before. You had. The bed, the shelf, the drawer. But something about tonight felt… closer. Or quieter. Like your apartment had shrunk while he was in it.

He stood again, twisting the deadbolt back and forth until it slid smoothly.

“Heat’s probably pushing the frame out a little,” he said. “Wasn’t latching clean. Fixed now.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

You didn’t move right away. Neither did he. He glanced toward you, eyes unreadable, and for just a second the silence stretched—not awkward, but full. Charged. Something in your chest stuttered.

“I feel like I should pay you for this,” you said lightly, voice thinner than you meant it to be.

Joel shook his head. “You know I don’t want that.”

The way he said it made your throat go tight.

He stepped forward to put a tool back in his bag, and as he passed, his arm brushed yours—bare skin to bare skin—and the contact left something behind. Something warm. You could still feel it after he moved away.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the counter.

He picked up the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and didn’t speak again until he reached the door.

His voice was low this time. Softer.

“You keep the bolt oiled, it’ll stay smooth.”

You nodded. Didn’t say anything.

“Night, sweetheart.”

You heard the door click behind him. And you didn’t move for a while.

Just stood there, hand still pressed to the spot where he’d touched you, wondering when his voice started sounding like that in your head. Then—

The doorknob turned again. You’d forgotten you hadn’t locked it yet.

He hadn’t made it far—probably still on the porch—maybe he forgot something, maybe—

You opened it just a little.

Joel was still there. One hand at his side, the other adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He looked up like he was about to say something, but didn’t.

And before you could stop yourself—

“Wait.”

He blinked.

You opened the door a little wider. Stepped back.

“Do you… wanna stay a little longer?”

It came out too fast. Not flirty. Not smooth. Not even really intentional.

You didn’t know why you said it. You weren’t lonely. You weren’t scared. You didn’t need anything. You just didn’t want him to go. Joel didn’t move at first. Just looked at you—slowly, like he was trying to understand something you hadn’t even figured out yet.

“I mean—if you’re not busy,” you added quickly. “Or if you don’t want to drive yet. I don’t know. It’s dumb. Forget it.”

He didn’t let you spiral. Just said it, quiet and even:

“You sure?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t hopeful. It was serious. Rough around the edges. Like he needed to hear you say it twice, just so he wouldn’t do something he couldn’t take back.

You swallowed.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stepped back inside. You shut the door behind him, heart hammering like you were the one who had something to hide. You didn’t know what you wanted. But you wanted it to be him. 

You didn’t know what to offer him. He’d already fixed the door. Already stepped back inside. It wasn’t like there was something to do—no show to watch, no dinner to finish.  

So you said:

“You can sit if you want.”

And he did. Took the end of the couch like he was still on duty. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands folded. He didn’t relax. He didn’t sprawl. Just… sat.

You curled into the other corner. Pulled your legs under you. Told yourself not to overthink it.

At first, it was small talk. Something about the weather. The construction noise a few blocks down. You said your neighbor’s dog barked like it had been through a war and Joel let out the smallest huff of a laugh. It was easy. Comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the quiet stretched again and your eyes drifted—slow, unthinking—to the way his forearms rested across his thighs. To the line of his profile in the soft light. To the way he looked at the floor like he was trying not to look at you.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your legs. Your knee bumped his.

Just a brush. Just skin.

But it was something. 

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

Your breath slowed in your chest like it was afraid to make a sound. You said something then—you couldn’t even remember what. A question. Something about where he grew up. Or maybe if he liked his job. Anything to fill the space.

He answered softly. Nothing too deep. But his voice had dropped again—lower, quieter, like it only belonged in the room you were sharing. You nodded along. Fiddled with the hem of your tank top. Your hands were warm. You didn’t know why.

A few more minutes passed. A few more glances. The energy never spiked. It just sat between you—thick and warm and new.

Eventually, he checked the time.

“I should head out.”

You nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

You walked him to the door again. He didn’t look at you quite the same way. And when you said goodnight, it came out quieter than you meant.

He said your name, low and even.

“Take care.”

You locked the door behind him. Checked it twice, like that would make the moment last longer. The living room felt different after he left. Not colder. Not empty. Just… aware. Like the air had shifted around you and was still trying to settle. You stood there for a while. Then turned out the lights. Got a glass of water. Tried to act normal. But when you passed the couch—that spot—you felt it again.

That hum under your skin.

The tension in your chest.

The way your breath had slowed when his knee touched yours.

You went to bed without brushing your hair. Climbed under the blanket and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. It didn’t. You closed your eyes. And the first thing you thought of was his voice. That low “take care” at the door. The way he said your name. The way his hands looked when he fixed things—rough, steady, careful. You exhaled, quiet and shaky. Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket.

You didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. But your hand slid down anyway.

Just over your stomach. Just under the hem of your shirt. You weren’t thinking clearly, weren’t even sure why you were doing it—but your body was buzzing, hot, still echoing from the way it had felt sitting next to him. You touched yourself softly. Slowly. Just enough to take the edge off the ache you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t say his name. But you thought about his hands. And somehow... that was worse.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

It was around 8 pm the next day when she texted.

Her: hey—are you around?

No other details. No broken drawer. No explanation. Just like the night before.

Joel had spent most of that day trying not to think about her. Didn’t work. He kept seeing her—how she looked when she asked him to stay. The way she leaned on the counter, lip tucked between her teeth like she didn’t know what she was doing to him. He kept hearing her voice in the dark. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He didn’t know what the hell she thought this was. He didn’t even know what he thought it was anymore. But when she sent that message, he didn’t hesitate.

He answered.

Him: Yeah. You need something? Her: no just—wanted to see you if you’re not busy

He read that last part twice. Then grabbed his keys.

Her apartment was dim when she let him in—lights low, one lamp near the window, something soft playing in the background. She wore a ribbed tank top and sleep shorts, her hair half-clipped up, a faint line across her cheek like she’d just woken up from a nap on the couch.

She didn’t look nervous. But she didn’t meet his eyes right away either.

“Hi,” she said.

That was it. No reason. No problem to solve.

Joel stepped inside and felt his body lock up almost immediately. The air felt too warm. The room too quiet. Like the walls knew something he didn’t.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Smiled. Tucked her leg up on the couch and motioned for him to sit.

“I just didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”

She said it lightly, like it didn’t mean anything. But Joel could feel it. Something was different.

He sat at the opposite end of the couch. It felt too small. She curled up in her usual spot, blanket draped over her legs, a glass of water resting on her thigh. Her foot brushed against the cushion near his hip when she shifted. She didn’t pull it away.

He couldn’t focus on what she was saying. Some story about her neighbor’s smoke alarm going off for two hours, about how she tried banging on the wall but it didn’t help. He nodded when he should. Said “yeah” once. Let her talk.

But all he could think about was how good she smelled.

How soft her voice was.

How close her knee was to touching his.

The worst part was how normal it looked. From the outside, it could’ve been nothing. Just two people sitting. One talking. The other listening. But inside him, everything was clenched.

Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear. Every time her tank top shifted when she reached for her glass. Every time her voice went quiet at the end of a sentence. It was like being on fire. Quietly. And she didn’t even notice.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that. Maybe an hour, maybe more. The sound of her voice, the way she laughed at her own joke, the curve of her body under that blanket—it all started to stack up. He shifted once. Adjusted the way he sat. It didn’t help. His hands were too still. His legs too tense. His jeans too tight across his thighs.

He wanted to leave.

And he wanted to stay forever.

Eventually, she leaned back a little, head against the cushion, voice low.

“It’s nice when you’re here.”

Joel didn’t respond. He couldn’t. 

She looked over at him. Eyes soft. Barely searching. And God help him—he almost reached for her. Almost touched her ankle where it peeked out from the blanket. Almost slid his hand over her knee and just held it there. But he didn’t.

He just nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

When she walked him to the door an hour later, she said goodnight the same way she always did. But her voice had changed. And Joel? Joel barely made it to his truck before he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and sat there in the dark, breathing like he’d just run six miles uphill.

She didn’t need anything from him. She just wanted him there. And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep coming over without letting her know what that did to him.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

It was 6 pm on a Thursday. You had just gotten home from work and settled in.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You hadn’t texted him. Hadn’t broken anything. You’d just been pacing a little—half-folding laundry, checking your phone without a reason, replaying the sound of his voice from last night in your head. It was quiet. Too quiet. 

You were mid-sip of water when the knock came. Not loud. Just two firm knocks—confident. Familiar. Your breath caught before your brain caught up. You set the glass down and wiped your hands on your shorts. Walked to the door slowly. When you opened it—he was already looking at you.

Joel. Still in work clothes. Shirt wrinkled, sweat at his collar, bag slung off one shoulder. His eyes didn’t move like they usually did. No casual sweep of the room. No distant quiet. They were on you. And they stayed there.

“Hi,” you said, soft. “I didn’t know you were—”

“I know.”

His voice was rough. Tired. Not angry. Just… decided.

You blinked. Your fingers curled lightly around the edge of the door.

“Everything okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. And then, without breaking eye contact— “Can I come in?”

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

She opened the door wearing that same look she always had with him—soft, unsure, like she didn’t even know what she was doing.

But he did. He knew. It had hit him earlier that day, hours after he left—when he realized how long she’d watched him from the couch. How quiet she’d gone. How the blanket had slipped down just far enough to show the top of her thigh and she hadn’t pulled it back up.

She’d wanted him there. Not because she was lonely. Because she wanted him. And that was it. That was the fucking end of his restraint. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t thought it through. Just got in the truck. Drove straight to her door. And now he was standing inside her apartment, watching her back away slowly as he stepped in. She looked nervous—but not scared. Like her body was catching up to something her brain hadn’t named yet. 

Joel dropped his bag by the door.

“You sure you’re not just bein’ polite?” he asked quietly. “What?” she blinked. “You didn’t ask me to fix anything.”

She shook her head once, eyes wide.

“No. I just… wanted to see you.”

He stared at her. Then took one slow step closer.

“You ever let anybody else in here just because you wanted to see ‘em?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Joel’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“Didn’t think so.”

She was still standing by the doorway, arms at her sides, breathing like she didn’t trust her own chest to move too much. Joel took another step.

Closer.

Slow.

The silence between them folded into something heavier.

“Why’d you really want me here?”

She blinked, lips parting. No words. Just air. He could see it in her eyes—the hesitation, the pull, the heat she hadn’t admitted to herself yet. And it wrecked him.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured. “Do you?”

She swallowed. Didn’t speak.

“You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

That made her breath catch.

He stepped even closer, so close now he could feel the warmth coming off her skin, could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

“Every time I come over here. Every time you call. Every time you smile like that like I ain’t comin’ apart at the fuckin’ seams…”

His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t move.

“You sit there in your little tank tops. You lean close. You say my name like it don’t mean nothin’. And you don’t even know.”

She was staring up at him now—still quiet, still frozen—but there was something in her eyes.

A question.

A need.

She whispered it, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard.

“What if I do?”

Joel went still. Just for a beat. Then—

He moved. Not rushed. Not soft. Just real—a hand at her jaw, fingers curling gently but firmly, tilting her face up. Not a kiss. Not yet. His mouth hovered just over hers, breath mingling, eyes locked.

“You say that again, baby… I won’t be able to walk away.”

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth. Then back to his eyes. She didn’t say it again. But she didn’t move. And she didn’t stop him when his forehead came to rest gently against hers.

“Tell me to leave,” he rasped, jaw tight. “If I stay, I won’t keep pretendin’ I don’t want you.”

She didn’t say a word. And that silence? 

That was all he needed.

She just looked up at him with those wide, careful eyes, breath slow and warm on his mouth. And he knew.

Joel’s hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, slow and certain, and the second his mouth touched hers—it was over.

Soft at first. Gentle. Like maybe he could stop himself if he started slow. But then she made a sound—something small, something like a sigh—and it wrecked him.

He pulled her in. Gripped her waist, pressed her back against the wall without meaning to. Mouth open now, kissing her like he needed it, like it had been building for years instead of weeks. Her hands slid up his chest, shaky, unsure, fingertips digging into the fabric like she didn’t know what to hold on to.

“Joel—”

She breathed it like she couldn’t help it. Like it was already a habit.

He groaned, low and deep into her mouth, then pulled back just enough to look at her.

“Tell me to stop.”

She blinked, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Didn’t say a word.

He kissed her again. This time rougher—hands in her hair, thigh between hers, tongue tasting the little gasps she gave him. She clung to him like she didn’t know what else to do, and he let her. Let her pull, let her press up against him, let her feel everything he’d been trying to hide.

He dragged his mouth down her neck, nipped lightly at her collarbone.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me,” he muttered, voice ragged.

She whispered back, almost dazed:

“I want to.”

That was it.

Joel lifted her without thinking. Hands on her thighs, walking her backward through the apartment until the backs of her knees hit the couch. He laid her down gently. Crawled over her slow.

She looked up at him like she was still trying to believe this was real.

He kissed her softer this time—one hand braced by her head, the other brushing her cheek.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely there.

She nodded—then paused.

Eyes searching his face. Lips parted, like the words were already sitting there, waiting to fall out.

“I’ve never…” she breathed. “Not like this.”

Joel froze. Not because he was surprised. But because of how softly she said it. Like it mattered. Like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just about sex—it was him.

She looked up at him, nervous. Exposed. Brave.

“I’ve never been with anyone like this before,” she said again, quieter now.

Something in Joel’s chest cracked wide open. He touched her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“You don’t have to explain that to me, baby.”

His voice was low, almost reverent. His hand cupped her jaw like she was breakable. Like he’d do anything not to hurt her.

“You just tell me how to touch you,” he murmured. “Tell me what you like. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Eyes locked on his. Lips parted. Like something was about to come out, but her breath caught instead.

“I—I don’t know what to… I mean, I’ve never—”

Her voice cracked. She swallowed. Blinked fast like she was frustrated for even trying to say it. 

Joel leaned in, hand cradling her face, steady and warm. He kissed the corner of her mouth—just once, gentle—then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to know what to do.”

“You just let me learn you.”

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. He brought his forehead to hers.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmured. “You wanna stop, you tell me. You want more—I’ll give you more.”

“Joel…” she whispered.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

She looked at him—wide-eyed, nervous, open.

“I want it to be you.”

Joel exhaled like her words physically hit him in the chest. But he didn’t move forward. He leaned in, kissed her—once, slow, firm. Then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

Her face faltered. She looked like she was about to apologize. Joel shook his head—soft, gentle—thumbing her cheek before she could look away.

“I like that you’re new to this. Like that you trust me.” “But I’m not in a rush, baby.”

He kissed her again. Deeper this time.

“Not gonna take you fast. Not gonna take you like you’re just somethin’ I can fuck and leave. I want you feelin’ safe. Wanted.”

She blinked up at him—something between a gasp and a breath catching in her throat.

“I do,” she whispered. “Feel safe.”

That almost did him in. Joel groaned softly and dipped his head, kissing her slower now—longer, lips moving against hers like he was savoring the shape of her mouth. Like he had all night to learn it.

Her hands came up around his neck. Her body pulled him closer. The couch shifted beneath them as he laid her back gently—not to take, not to fuck—but just to have her close.

He kissed her jaw, her cheek, her neck—each one softer than the last. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. He let out a breath against her skin.

“You tell me when you’re ready,” he said, voice low. “Until then… I’m gonna take my time.”

She nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he kissed her again.

And for a while, there was nothing but the sound of mouths meeting, breath between them, the soft drag of his fingers over her waist and thighs—not pushing, just exploring.

Not claiming. Just caring.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

You didn’t expect it to feel like this.

His weight above you. His hands slow and steady. His mouth moving like he wanted to memorize you—not take you apart. Joel wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t even undressing you anymore. Just kissing. Letting the couch shift beneath your backs while his hands slid over your waist like it was something precious.

“You tell me when you’re ready,” he’d said.

And you believed him. God, you believed him.

Now his lips were on your throat. Your collarbone. His hand was smoothing over your thigh—up, down, warm, patient—like he wasn’t trying to get anywhere. Just feel. Just touch. You didn’t know your body could light up like this. Every place he kissed felt like it meant something. Your skin tingled. Your breath kept catching—right in that tight little place under your ribs.

You didn’t feel nervous anymore. You felt wanted. Not like a thing. Not like a curiosity. Like something he needed. Like something he’d been waiting for.

“You’re killin’ me,” he whispered suddenly, voice thick and low in your ear.

You smiled—barely.

“Why?”

He kissed your neck again, then your jaw.

“’Cause you don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

That made your stomach drop. Your hips shifted before you could stop them. You didn’t mean to grind up against him—but you did. And he groaned. Deep. From the chest. His body stiffened. Then he backed off just an inch—eyes meeting yours, wild but controlled.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head immediately.

“No.”

It came out faster than you meant. Hung in the air between you. He nodded once—then leaned back down, kissing you softer now, his hand cupping your face, holding you like he didn’t want to let go.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he murmured. “You just let me hold you like this, and that’ll be enough.”

And God— that made your throat tighten. Because you didn’t want to stop either.

You just didn’t know how to say: I want to feel like this forever.

So instead, you whispered,

“Okay.”

And then you let him hold you. Let him kiss you slow. Let his hands slide over your skin like he was trying to learn every inch of it before asking for more.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel nervous about being touched.

You just felt like you wanted to be.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Joel: “Go out with me.”

You hadn’t seen him in about a week.

Not since the night he held you on the couch like something worth keeping. Like he didn’t want to rush, or take, or ruin anything. Just learn you. Kiss you slow.

But he texted. Every day. Never too much—just enough to stay in your head.

Sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes something stupid he saw at the hardware store. You smiled every time his name popped up. Sometimes you reread the things he sent you when you couldn’t sleep. Tonight was quiet. Laundry folded. Tea in your mug. You were halfway through some show you weren’t paying attention to when your phone buzzed again.

Joel: You eaten tonight?

You smiled.

You: not yet. why?

There was a pause—long enough you almost thought he got busy or changed his mind.

Then:

Joel: Thought I’d take you out.

You stared at the screen.

Out.

Not over. Not “swing by.” Not “grab something on the way.”

Out.

You: like… out out? Joel: Yeah. A date.

Your stomach flipped. Then a second message came in.

Joel: Unless that’s not what you want.

You answered fast.

You: no. I do. I want that. Joel: Friday okay? I’ll come get you. You: what should I wear? Joel: Somethin’ you feel good in. Joel: Don’t dress up for me.

Another pause. Then:

Joel: You’re already pretty.

You set the phone down. And sat there for a while, smiling at your hands.

[gtgbabie0]

Aegon Targaryen x Wife!reader

Synopsis: {The upcoming war has brought a great stress upon you which causes you to go into an early labour}

!CW!//blood, premature childbirth// Enjoy lovelies💕

The days following Aegon’s coronation were nothing short of exhausting, the mornings dragged and the nights were sleepless. The new king found himself in over his head with the only solace being you, someone who has stubbornly been there for him since childhood.

There was a familiarity to your warmth and kind words of encouragement, you were his only constant in a world of ever-changing conditions and he latched onto that never willing to let go. Always checking up on you and the babe inside your womb with worried eyes.

In turn, you had done the same, constantly seeking him out when horrible thoughts of the brewing war were all that plagued your mind, leaving you paranoid and constantly on edge.

You were each other’s anchors in ways that you both never thought possible.

The afternoon sun drips through the clouds, casting warm orangey rays through Kings Landing and across the Red Keep, bathing your shared bedchambers in a comforting light.

It is supposedly meant to be peaceful, or that is what Aegon thought when he practically demanded for you to stay in bed. Yet it has proven to be much more stressful, the books and cross-stitching doing nothing to distract your mind from what lingers over the horizon.

You have taken to pacing the length of the room, much to the dismay of your maids who watch on with panic in their eyes. A few of them had prompted you to sit down, trying to sway you with tea and sweet cakes but you waved them all off with a frown, desperately trying to ignore the dull pain that was beginning to grow in the small of your back.

You refuse to believe that your baby is arriving, it is far too early, yet you can hear the Maesters voice in the back of your mind telling you how ‘stress is not good for the babe’.

“Your grace, please take a seat.” The youngest of your maids try once more, daring to step forward to you with careful footing as if you were some sort of scared deer.

At her words you shake your head, turning your back to her with a small sigh, your fingers pressing against your lower spine and your other hand resting against the swell of your belly.

“Where is my husband?” You demand, turning back to face the women whose eyes never leave you.

“The King is attending a small council meeting, he shan’t be long, your grace.” Her words do nothing to calm the way your hands tremble nor the thoughts that race through your mind, despite how soft her tone is.

You purse your lips together tightly with a sharp inhale as shooting pain rips through your lower abdomen, causing you to hunch over slightly, grasping onto a chair for support.

You can hear the women behind gasp, saying something about blood but it all seems like distant noise almost as if you were underwater. There is little you can do but groan in pain, finally allowing your maids to guide you over to your bed.

You know something is deeply wrong, having already been through this once before. But that was extremely different, your mother was there even Aegon who stood speechless in the corner of the room with wide eyes… Gods you were both so young then, it seemed like a memory that wasn’t yours.

Now you are alone, save for the Maesters and Maids who are frantically trying to keep your temperature down with damp cloths, water dribbling down the side of your temples as you lay in fear.

You push yourself up onto your elbow, resting up on the mountain of pillows, letting out a strained cry at the feeling of an agonising pain that cramps up your abdomen causing you to fist the bedsheets beneath you.

The sound of your bedchamber doors slamming open catches your attention, but only for a brief moment before collapsing back down against the bed with a stomach-churning cry.

The staff around you don’t dear to try and turn Aegon away, especially when his eyes darken at the sight of the blood stains on your chemise and bedspread, a heavy look of terror masked behind an anger that sends a chill through the hot room.

“She is bleeding— why is she bleeding?!” He shouts, demanding an answer from the Maester who is trying to coax you to breathe deeply and then push.

His demands are met with silence before Orwyle steps away from the bed where you lay, squirming in pain. The maids and nurses all rush together, trying to guide your breathing through your clenched teeth.

“The babe is breeched your grace, coming feet first.” Maester Orwyle says, casting his eyes down to the floor with a troubled expression.

The sound of your agony echos within Aegon’s mind sending his thoughts spiralling far out of his control, the helplessness of it all eats away at him making his hands tremble with frustration that he can’t do anything to help you, to take you away from this damned situation. His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking anywhere but at you as if he was trying to find a hidden answer to save you from this nightmare.

“Well, then why are you still standing here? Do something, help her!” He shouts, slamming his closed fists down upon the wooden table as he watches the Maester scurry back to the bed.

He stands there frozen, his breathing ragged suffocating on his own emotions. He wants the throw things, and curse the gods, the mother and the warrior because where is mercy and strength as you lay there in this torment?

“Aegon…” the sound of his name leaving you so weakly, the hushed word that is strained in desperation tumbling past your chapped lips hits him square in his chest, almost flooring him in shock.

His body moves on its own, practically collapsing onto the edge of the bed with his brows pinched together and his glossed-over eyes looking down at you. He wants to help you so bad but the only thing he can do is stroke your hair away from your sweaty forehead.

“Do not leave, stay here please,” you plead through gritted teeth, looking up at him through your bleary sight.

“I am staying… I’m right here.” He tells you firmly, the back of his fingers caressing your warm cheek gently. The cool metal of his rings keeps your eyes from falling close, fighting the fatigue.

He watches you intently, every twitch of your face only sends him further down into this maddening spiral of despair and frustration. “You’re doing so well… keep going.” He whispers, brushing his thumb over your hot cheek.

Aegon doesn’t move from his spot beside you, allowing your hands to tighten harshly around his own each time your body is wrecked by a contraction. He takes one of the damp rags from the maids, dabbing it against your chest and face in hopes of soothing you, even if it is only for a mere second because he cannot… he will not sit there doing nothing.

“We must sit her up,” Orwyle says through the sounds of your screams, resorting to the last possible option.

“What will that do if not cause her more pain?… I will not have her suffer more than she already is.” Aegon retorts with a deep frown, his words stern and laced with worry.

He was extremely stubborn and firm, even more so when the matter was about you. Never letting you leave from his side let alone out of his sight any longer than needed and even then he made sure at least one Kingsguard was standing behind you at all times.

“It is noted that movement helps set the babe correctly, your grace.” His words do very little to calm the maelstrom of dread that wraps around his heart and chokes him up. “Unless you wish to leave her in the hands of the gods…”

Aegon’s eyes meet your own for a very brief moment, the gods have already failed her, he thinks.

“No… no sit her up.” He agrees, looping his arm around your shoulders and pushing you upwards as you demand and scream for him to stop, fingers digging into his arms as you call his name weakly.

The hours that you were in labour for the Red Keep was still, silently waiting on bated breath for news of you and your babes' wellbeing. The echoes of your screams and pleas were the only thing that could be heard even from all the way down in the kitchens.

It was the hour of the owl when you finally made the final push, sinking back down against the pile of soft pillows. “Congratulations your grace… a boy,” Orwyle announces as your son wails making his presence well known. The maids swaddle your son up in a clean blanket before placing him gently upon your chest.

You take deep laboured breaths, your eyes heavy with exhaustion as you look down at your son. He was tinier than the twins when they were born, so much more delicate, his breathing weaker.

Aegon was completely stunned, he doesn't know what to say or do, instead, he simply watches you and the way cradle the baby’s head ever so gently, greeting him with a soft kiss on his forehead.

He had seen this before but yet he still feels as if his heart might just leap out of his chest. An overwhelming feeling of pride bursts through him leaving him all teary-eyed and soft smiles.

“He’s beautiful.” Aegon finally breaks his silence, his voice thick with indescribable emotions. The words don’t do your son justice, the little ball of pureness that is cuddled up against your chest. He can’t believe that something so precious… so innocent could be half him but the shape of his nose could attest that, he was Aegon’s.

You nod softly, brushing the back of your finger across his cheek as you admire him. The rest of the world seems to disappear, the maids cleaning up around you turn into white noise, and all you can focus on is your boy.

“Would you like to hold him?” You ask, voice a little hoarse from all the crying and screaming that was so worth it for the price of this feeling of contentment that has washed over you.

He holds back a sharp response that his hands were too rough, too clumsy. The last thing he wanted to was hurt him, he was already so tiny. You can see the look of trepidation that passes through his amethyst eyes, he was hesitant.

Your fingers slip between his own, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You won’t hurt him Aegon, I promise.” You tell him, melting away all of his persistent worries that had rooted themselves into his heart.

With a small, almost nervous, nod of his head, he pulls the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows before you place the newborn babe in his arms, his heart stops for a small second, the breath in his lungs completely gone and all he can do is marvel down at his son.

“You’re amazing…” he whispers, voice steeped in reverence as he casts his gaze down to you as if you were some sort of deity to worship. You had nurtured a life and now here he is holding that very same life, it completely astonishes him.

You chuckle at his words, lifting your hand to rest against his cheek ever so gently. He leans into the warmth of your palm, pressing a soft kiss against your wrist. “He’s ours Aegon, yours and mine.” You remind him with a weak smile.

It’s a simple word, ours. But the way you say it with such emotion, with no hesitation, leaving no room for doubt to plague his heart made him happy. So happy.

“Ours,” Aegon repeats, brushing the back of his fingers across his son’s cheek ever so gently. “Maelor…” He smiles, testing the name softly before looking back down at you as you nod in agreement, repeating the name lovingly.

☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾

The following days were slow, quite a nice change of pace especially with everything that had been happening. You sit, leaning back against the velvet cushions of the chair, with Maelor in your arms as you wait for Aegon and the twins.

“Remember, you have to be gentle and quiet,” Aegon says, walking into the bedchambers with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera at either side of him.

They both let go of his hand before rushing over to you with wide curious eyes, looking down at their new sibling with excitement.

“Can he play with us in the garden?” Jaehaera smiles, looking up at you.

“Not just yet my sweet, he’s got a little growing to do before then.” You tell her softly, brushing her curls behind her ear.

“Am I allowed to read to him?” Jaehaerys asks next, his hand grasping the armchair as he leans over to look down at Maelor.

“Soon, let’s give him time to settle first.” He nods at your words and soon enough they’re both asking question after question.

Aegon stands behind you, his hands massaging your shoulders as you answer the twins with a patience he admires. The sight fills him with a sweet warmth that bleeds through him, his heart full of love. Perhaps the weight of the crown isn’t so bad if it’s for you four.

Dad Aegon as he deserves.

[doujindungeon]

summary: while you were upset at lewis after a recent argument, perhaps it wasn't the wisest idea to try and test your lover's endurance in bed. rating: nc-17 pairing: f!reader/lewis content warnings: established relationship, smut, marathon sex, missionary/doggy style/cowgirl, a bit of spanking and hair pulling, the loving wrath of 7-time world drivers champion lewis hamilton word count: 0.7k previous one-shot - toto w. | next one-shot - charles l.

“You know, I could die like this.”

A sigh of absolute satisfaction.

It was a serene sound compared to the abrasive noise of a water bottle being crunched and tossed aside after it was emptied of its contents from a quick chug just a moment before.

For Lewis, some hydration was needed after such a vigorous exhibition of his stamina.

Calm and relaxed as ever, his gorgeous muscled physique glistening with sweat, nude skin bathed by the low warm lighting from the ceiling, he carried himself as the textbook definition of ethereal.

Your current state told a completely different tale.

By contrast, you were sprawled on the bed, hair disheveled and make-up smeared as you gulped down the bottle of coconut water that your boyfriend fetched from the kitchen while you caught your breath earlier.

At this point in your relationship, you were well aware that Lewis was fierce in his discipline when it came to his craft of driving. Training, focus, determination–there was not a sliver of slack in any aspect.

And for as long as you’ve been together, you were well familiar with how passionate and doting he could be during intimacy. A couple hours being delightfully tangled together in bed at a luxurious tropical bungalow oceans away, a quick and needy fix on the couch in his driver’s room whenever you were able to make it out to a race.

This was what you were used to.

But to bear the merciless brunt of his stamina in bed–to put it simply, you were unprepared.

After all, upon Lewis bringing you back home after an argument that burst forth towards the end of your recent vacation together–a spat that bubbled and brewed from you feeling as though your place in his life was relegated to last place in the grand scope of his legacy–, when he casually declared that he would prove and demonstrate his resolve to devote his heart, soul and body to you within this night alone, he meant it.

From the moment the door closed behind as he herded you straight into the bedroom, time turned into a complete and utter blur, with the firm surface of his king sized bed serving as the only anchor that kept you grounded to reality as your lover kept you absolutely overwhelmed with dizzying euphoria.

At one point, he was pounding you straight into the mattress, his tattooed hands locked onto your thighs to keep them spread wide apart so he could drill his thick cock into your core over and over.

The next, he had you on all fours upon the bed, the lewd rhythm of his hips–and his palm here and there–striking against your ass making for an obscene symphony, your moans and squeals mingling in seamlessly with his grunts and curses while his fingers maintained a commanding grip on your hair.

When he then had you seated on his lap, his fingers squeezed your waist as he guided and coaxed you through the tempo under which you bounced upon his dick by, the two of you locked in a kiss as his tongue probed into your mouth right as he pumped another load of cum into your cunt.

True to his word, he had certainly made his case.

Still, while you were thoroughly delighted to receive his fierce display of his affection for you, seeing the beaming pride on his handsome features had you pouting in-between sips of your coconut water.

“Well take it easy, Sir Hamilton,” you huffed out at last in response, eyeing him warily. “You’re at the age where you shouldn’t be pushing yourself too much.”

His eyes sparked.

Fitting, since you may as well have set the entire house ablaze by your remark.

“Aha–I know fighting words when I hear them, lovely.”

While he let out a chuckle, the way he stalked back towards the bed, back towards you, was far from humorous.

Just by the way he looked at and approached you, deep in your bones you knew he wasn’t going to let up until you were absolutely devastated, especially as his voice dipped down to a deep purr as he continued, “I can keep this up, but can you?”

In response, you simply downed the rest of your drink, setting the empty bottle aside on the bedside table.

Defiance in your eyes, rebellion on your smile–you responded simply with,

“See for yourself.”

He was back on you in an instant.

But he wouldn’t be content with only seeing. Rather, he would be kissing, teasing, toying, licking, groping, possessing, and punishing you until the break of dawn and beyond.

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

🤸‍♀️ SIR LEWDIS HAMILTON EVERYBODY 🤸‍♀️

i'm cryin tho i originally had the reader rehydrate with gatorade but after i started thinking more about it, i found out that gatorade isn't vegan??????? LEWIS THE THINGS I RESEARCH AND ADJUST IN MY WRITING TO ACCOMODATE YOUR VEGAN LIFESTYLE 😭😭

but with this!!! we finally approach the end of this run of one-shots with charles tomorrow!!! thank you again for your support and i hope to see you all tomorrow for the finale!!! 🙇‍♀️❤️

[mangooes]

A Future, with you in it

The night was quiet, the world bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Sylus and his wife lay side by side on the balcony of their estate, a blanket draped over them as the cool breeze danced through the air.

From their vantage point, the city below flickered like a sea of fireflies, but neither of them were watching.

(Name) leaned against Sylus’s chest, tracing absent patterns over the back of his hand. His warmth seeped into her, steady and grounding, like an anchor tying her to the present.

“Sylus,” she murmured, her voice soft, thoughtful.

“Hm?” His fingers lazily played with her curls, his other arm wrapped securely around her waist.

She hesitated for a moment before exhaling a small laugh. “Have you ever thought about the future?”

Sylus paused, his hand stilling for a fraction of a second before resuming its slow strokes. “The future?” he echoed.

“Yeah.” She tilted her head up to look at him. “Like… years from now. Us. Where we’ll be.”

Sylus considered her for a long moment. He had spent so much time ensuring that she stayed by his side now, never allowing himself to think too far ahead. Because deep down, he had always feared what the future could take from him.

But here she was, so certain. So unafraid to imagine a life with him for years to come.

“I want to grow old with you,” She continued, shifting so she could properly face him. “Not just as some distant dream, but as something real.”

Sylus’s throat tightened, his crimson eyes darkening with emotion. “Sweetie…”

She smiled, curling her fingers around his. “I want us to wake up every morning to the sound of birds instead of gunfire.” Her thumb traced over his palm, as if sketching the image into existence. “I want to live somewhere quiet, away from all this uncertainty.”

Her voice was soft, wistful. “Maybe somewhere near the mountains. Somewhere peaceful.” She sighed, closing her eyes. “Imagine it—waking up to crisp morning air, the scent of flowers drifting in through the windows. A house with big windows, where the sunlight pours in…”

Sylus listened in silence, captivated by the picture she was painting.

“And outside,” she added, her lips curving slightly, “a field of datura flowers.”

Sylus blinked. “Datura?”

She nodded. “They’re beautiful. They only bloom at the late of afternoon, did you know that?” She smiled. “They remind me of you.”

Something in his chest twisted, warmth seeping through his very bones.

She turned her gaze skyward, a dreamy look in her eyes. “And maybe one day, we’ll have grandkids. We’d sit on the porch and watch them run through the fields, laughing. You’d probably be the overprotective grandpa.”

Sylus let out a small huff. “Who do you think I am kitten?"

She chuckled, squeezing his hand. “I want that, Sylus.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, as if afraid saying it too loud would shatter the dream. “A lifetime with you. Until our hair turns gray, until our hands are wrinkled, until we’ve spent every second we possibly can together.”

Sylus stared at her, his expression unreadable, yet his grip on her tightened. “…You’re serious about all this?”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and cupped his face between her hands. “I love you, Sylus,” she whispered. “Not just for today, or tomorrow, but for every single day after that. I want all of it—with you in every lifetime.”

His breath hitched.

For a man who had spent lifetimes losing the things he loved, who had lived in fear of history repeating itself, this—her—was the most precious, terrifying thing of all.

A future.

A real future.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. His voice, rough and heavy with emotion, murmured against her skin:

“Then I’ll give you that future, sweetie. No matter what.”

And in that quiet moment, with only the stars as their witnesses, the promise of forever bloomed between them.

HEY IS THIS ANGST?? ASKJDNASKJDNAK IM NOT SURE buttt i decided to try making a more serious scenarios, but ofc! The fluff funny ones are still here :))

[leyavo]

The TF141 guys when you mention you’re trying to romanticise your life:

John’s the only one that questions it, knows he’s not in the loop with trends/slang etc. “What do you mean darling?” And he starts romanticising his own morning routine. A nice black coffee, your drink of choice too waiting for you. some music playing as he gets dressed for the day.

Planning shared time with you later, having a bath together and little candles flickering on the side. He also values his alone time and has a bubble bath, cigar and a glass of whisky. Getting himself some fancy pens, the ink smooth so it makes writing up all those reports so much easier and more fluid. He takes time to check in on your day too, a text here and there when he’s not busy or weighed down with work.

Simon’s panicking, thinking he’s been neglecting you. He’s getting you seasonal flowers, bright tulips or daffodils in spring etc. buying you your favourite chocolate. He’s doing little things like ironing your shirt for work or packing your lunch when he gets time. It’s not till you confront him about doing all these little things do you realise he took it to heart.

“Si, I meant romanticising my day, the mundane things I can do to make me feel a bit better.” After convincing him he does enough and he’s romantic in his way he begins to think. Simon then starts small by adding a hazelnut syrup to his black coffee in the morning. Washing his mask more often too, a ritual after each op where he hand washes all the sweat and dirt as if cleansing himself of the sins.

Johnny’s thinks romanticising his day is day dreaming about you and how you smell so good. How he’d like to have his way with you before you go to work. But in all seriousness, Johnny journals (like in the game). He’s got one for work and one for his home life, some pages are scribbled mess of writing and sketches, of you, of little things that catch his eye (also you).

He’s got a box full of journals under the bed, sometimes he likes to read them, connect with who he was years ago and appreciate who he’s become. Loves reading back on your first dates and what he thought you (man’s a dog). Adds some more notes in the margain “we married them.” “You did get laid this night.” Maybe he’ll even show you some of them one day.

Kyle’s knows exactly what you mean, you’re always trying to add more intention to your day and being present. Kyle understands and uses the present as an anchor to stop him spiralling with his job. He calls them glimmers, how when the sunlight steals his attention and reminds him to breathe and stop overthinking.

He makes time for himself to stretch as soon as he gets out of bed, create small moments in between his fast paced job. Loves reading fantasy books, dragons preferably and designates his time before bed to read at least one chapter (you’re normally reading beside him too). Even part of an online fanclub for said book where he talks about theories for the next book in the series. Total nerd for it there like eight books already.

[mikkies]

「 EVEN IN THIS SICK GAME, MY HEART IS ALWAYS YOURS. 」

Builderman x GN! Reader

warnings: violence and injury (mentions of blood, injuries, and narrow escapes from danger.)

notes: as a fellow Builderman simp, I also crave the thought of him. Anyways, I had nikko_cage's Builderman in mind while writing this, hope you enjoy! But.. I think I recognize you from wattpad.. idk🤷‍♀

THE COLD, UNYIELDING darkness stretched endlessly across the landscape, illuminated only by the faint glow of Builderman’s sentry. Shadows danced and twisted in the corners of your vision, a constant reminder of the threat lurking in the perpetual night.

Your breathing came in shallow gasps as you pressed yourself against the crumbling wall, your hands trembling as you clutched your side. Blood seeped through your fingers, warm and sticky, a vivid reminder of the narrow escape you’d just made. Shedletsky had drawn the killer’s attention, his desperate shouts echoing through the air as he disappeared into the gloom. You’d been too weak to call out a warning, too terrified to do anything but collapse here, hoping the shadows would swallow you whole.

The faint hum of an approaching figure made your heart race, panic threatening to overtake you again. Your fingers dug into the wall’s rough surface, trying to steady yourself as you prepared to run, but your legs felt like lead. Then, a voice cut through the tension, warm and calm.

“Hey, I’ve got you. Stay put.”

Builderman’s familiar silhouette emerged from the shadows, the orange hard hat atop his head standing out like a beacon. His light gray skin and chubby frame carried a strange comfort in the oppressive darkness. The hammer strapped to his back clinked softly as he knelt beside you, his dark gray hoodie brushing against your arm as he set down his bag.

“You’re a mess, huh?” he said softly, his light gray hair falling forward slightly as he rummaged through his supplies. He pulled out a medkit and handed it to you, his hand lingering just long enough to steady your trembling fingers. “Take this. You’ll need it until the dispenser kicks in.”

You nodded weakly, fumbling with the medkit. Builderman moved with practiced efficiency, reaching into his bag to retrieve parts for his dispenser. The faint whir and clank of assembly filled the air as he pieced it together, his brow furrowed in concentration. His presence, steady and sure, felt like an anchor in the chaos.

“There we go,” he muttered, straightening up as the dispenser hummed to life beside you. The soft glow of its healing aura bathed you both in light, and the tension in your muscles began to ease as warmth spread through your body. “That should hold you for now. Stay close to it while it does its thing.”

You managed a shaky smile, gratitude evident in your eyes. “Thank you…”

Builderman’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t mention it. Just doing my part to keep us all in one piece. Can you move?”

You tested your legs, the pain dulled by the dispenser’s effects. With a nod, you pushed yourself upright, leaning against the wall for support. Builderman stood beside you, his frame shielding you from the surrounding darkness.

“Good. We’ve still got a long way to go,” he said, glancing toward the horizon where faint screams echoed. He glanced at his watch and sighed, the faint lines on his face deepening. “There’s only 45 minutes left until we can rest.”

You couldn’t help the faint laugh that escaped your lips, tinged with both relief and exhaustion. “We’ll make it, right?”

His gaze flicked to you, a mix of determination and something softer lingering there. He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours briefly before he adjusted the strap of his hammer. “Yeah. We always do.”

The situationship between you hung in the air, unspoken but ever-present. It was in the way his hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, in the way he positioned himself between you and the dark. It was in the weight of his words, the promise hidden beneath them.

“Stay sharp,” Builderman said, his hammer now in hand as he scanned the path ahead. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

The endless night loomed, but with him at your side, it no longer felt so suffocating. For the first time in what felt like hours, you felt a spark of courage ignite within you.

[ksnzuy]

୨ৎ How They’d Be as Dads

୨ৎ auth: hello again everyone!! I’m so so sorry for the long hiatus. As of lately I have t been in a good mental space + have had no motivation to write really anything. But that’s not an excuse to put off others requests, thank you all so much for your concern and for checking in on me. I am doing much better now and definitely will get back to writing, take this first post as an apology <3

୨ৎ Summary: how they may act if they were dads

୨ৎ: drabbles | fluff | Children | characters are aged up(time skipped)

୨ৎ Characters Included: Manjiro “Mikey” Sano, Chifuyu Matsuno, Kazutora Hanemiya, Izana Kurokawa, Nahoya “Smiley” Kawata, Souya “Angry” Kawata, Takashi Mitsuya, Haruchiyo Sanzu, Ran Haitani, Rindō Haitani, Shuji Hanma,

୨ৎ Manjiro “Mikey” Sano

• Surprisingly soft-spoken and patient with his kid.

• Likes to nap with them on his chest being deeply comforted by the physical closeness.

• Has a weakness for their baby talk and will do whatever they ask with a quiet smile.

• Keeps their home minimalistic but their toy collection massive.

• Gets emotional during milestones (first steps, first words) but keeps it private.

Mikey wakes early to make pancakes in sleepy silence while his child toddles behind him dragging a stuffed animal. He doesn’t say much, but his quiet smile when they climb into his lap says everything. He takes them for rides on his bike (carefully, of course), one hand on the bars, the other holding theirs as they sit in a child seat. He doesn’t bring the past into the house. It’s just him and them—and that’s his peace.

୨ৎ Chifuyu Matsuno

• Reads every parenting book ever written and still doubts himself.

• Cries during every school play, no matter how small the role.

• Tries hard to be the “cool” dad but it fails since he’s the “soft” dad.

• Teaches them how to stand up for others and encourages emotional honesty.

• Keeps their fridge stocked with little snacks labeled with their name.

Chifuyu’s the dad with a meticulously packed lunch in their backpack, complete with sticky notes that say “You’re awesome.” He bikes to school with them, waving too long at drop-off. After work, he helps with homework at the kitchen table while playing music in the background. Bedtime is a heart-to-heart and a story, where he does all the voices.

୨ৎ Kazutora Hanemiya

• Has immense fear of failing as a father, but tries with his whole heart.

• Overly protective, flinches at any potential danger, even scraped knees.

• Teaches his kid to value second chances, kindness, and choosing peace.

• Refuses to let them see his darker past, but it haunts his parenting style.

• Loves crafting DIY toys or painting with them as a form of bonding.

Kazutora wakes up at the crack of dawn, checks on his sleeping child, then sits with coffee in silence to brace himself for the day. He takes them to the park and watches like a hawk, trying to smile when they fall. They come home with paint under their fingernails and stories from their made-up games. At night, he kisses their forehead like it’s a prayer of hope.

୨ৎ Izana Kurokawa

• Terrified of emotional vulnerability but becomes completely soft for his kid.

• Treats his child like royalty, overdoes birthdays, gifts, attention.

• Struggles with healthy emotional modeling but is deeply loyal.

• Extremely protective in a quiet, calculated way.

• Tries to overcompensate for the love he didn’t have growing up.

Izana gets them dressed in designer clothes and takes them to places most kids don’t go, museums, rooftop gardens, quiet cafés. He doesn’t baby them, but he spoils them. He silently watches as they laugh, clutching small hands like they anchor him to the world. He tucks them in with a story from memory, even if his voice shakes.

୨ৎ Nahoya “Smiley” Kawata

• Funniest but equally most annoying dad on Earth, turns tantrums into giggle fits.

• Makes bath time a full comedy routine and breakfast into a mini carnival.

• Refuses to ever let them feel scared, he’s always one joke away.

• Surprising emotional depth, gives profound life advice when it counts.

• Coaches their soccer team and brings the most snacks.

Smiley wakes them up with a loud “GOOD MORNING!” Usually said when his child looks grumpy so early in the morning. They laugh until their stomachs hurt. He packs their lunch with doodles on the napkins. After work, they race to the park on scooters. They end the day watching cartoons while he braids their hair, humming the theme song out of tune.

୨ৎ Souya “Angry” Kawata

• The gentlest dad, they come to him when they’re hurt or scared.

• Bakes with them and lets them pick the sprinkles.

• Tells them it’s okay to cry and cries with them.

• Reads to them in bed with a voice so soft it’s like a lullaby.

• Will absolutely go feral if someone makes them cry.

Souya kneels to tie their shoes carefully while they chatter about dreams. He walks them to school, hand in hand. They bake cookies in the afternoon, their aprons mismatched. Later, they fall asleep on his chest as he softly tells them how proud he is.

୨ৎ Takashi Mitsuya

• The perfect balance of structure and softness.

• Makes their clothes by hand, asking for their input on designs.

• Keeps a consistent routine: chores, bedtime stories, one-on-one talk time.

• Teaches them patience, humility, and creativity.

• A single dad energy even if married, handles everything with grace.

Mitsuya packs lunch with a bento box that looks like a literal work of art. He wakes them with a gentle voice, already dressed in a clean apron. They visit the fabric store together and pick out swatches. At night, he teaches them how to sew a little plushie before brushing their teeth and singing them a lullaby in a whisper.

୨ৎ Haruchiyo Sanzu

• Obsessively protective would probably have trackers on their backpack and always knows where they are.

• Spoils them, but has trouble showing affection healthily.

• Unstable parenting days when his moods swing but he tries to shield them from it.

• Uncomfortable with emotional conversations but shows love through gestures.

• Strangely tender in private moments, braiding their hair, clipping tiny nails, holding hands.

Sanzu wakes with them curled against him, their tiny body grounding him. He prepares breakfast absentmindedly, eyes always watching. At night, they climb into bed beside him and he stares at the ceiling, unsurprisingly or maybe surprisingly, it brings him comfort.

୨ৎ Ran Haitani

• Tactile, stylish, and low-effort parenting that somehow works.

• Acts like he doesn’t care but would burn the world if their feelings were hurt.

• Dresses them up like mini models, does their hair.

• Shares sweets and secrets, often spoiling them more than needed.

• Teaches quiet confidence, charisma, and how to read a room.

Ran’s morning routine includes brushing their hair into some perfect style of their choice while sipping his coffee. After work, he takes them shopping or dancing in the living room. At bedtime, might even tell them stories of his youth; censored, but entertaining nonetheless.

୨ৎ Rindō Haitani

• Surprisingly anxious; constantly checks if they’re okay.

• Overthinks every parenting decision but hides it behind a smirk.

• Teaches them how to defend themselves and how to avoid fights.

• Weirdly sentimental, keeps every drawing, broken toy, school photo.

• Always lets them win at games (unless they get cocky).

Rindō pours cereal while watching them with bleary eyes. His nerves are on edge, but he hides it well. He walks them to school with one headphone in and a pocketful of hand sanitizer.

୨ৎ Shuji Hanma

• Chaotic dad energy, encourages rule-breaking within reason.

• Teaches them how to question authority and trust their instincts.

• Way too honest about life, death, and pain, but somehow gentle about it.

• Surprises them with wild, spontaneous adventures.

• Doesn’t call it “parenting”.

Hanma wakes them up with blasting music without a care in the world. He makes breakfast. They spend the afternoon building a pillow fort that turns into a nerf war. At night, they curl up in a nest of blankets while he tells them outrageous bedtime stories that are half-truths, half-myth. And they believe every word.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Blood singer, part 3

Summary: Hiding from the storm, Jasper is tested as he finds himself close to Y/N for much longer than he had hoped.

Warnings (be mindful of your triggers): injury, blood and death, angst, fluff, grief, swearing, sexual content, mentions of mental health struggles, alcohol, detailed descriptions including physical harm

Pairing: Jasper Hale x human!reader (blood singer), Paul Lahote x human!reader

Word count: 10.1k

Blood singer - Series Masterlist

Teeth chattering, Y/N clings to Jasper, even though his skin is just as cold as hers, if not colder. It's counterproductive. She knows that, but her body refuses to let go. Logic says she should pull away, give him space and stop abusing his kindness, but his touch feels like salvation.

There’s no fire in his hands, only ice. Yet somehow, it burns. It seeps deep into her bones, awakening a part of her soul she long set to rest. All her life, she craved warmth, Paul’s warmth. That human, familiar kind. But this? This icy flame Jasper lights in her makes her feel more alive than any heat ever could.

And God, the way he smiles at her.

Her heart skips a beat every time his lips curl just slightly, just enough to incite the feeble muscle on a course of pure insanity. His voice alone seems to unravel her nerves, twisting her up and settling her all at once, disturbing the rhythm of her pulse. Even now, with his jaw tight and posture stiff, like he's trying to hold himself back from something, he looks at her like she’s the only thing anchoring him.

As he walks inside the cabin, she inhales deeply. To her dismay, she knows he needs to put her down. He can't carry her forever.

So she taps his shoulder lightly. “You can let me go now,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry,” Jasper murmurs, his voice smooth but a little too strained, like it takes effort to speak. He lowers her carefully onto the couch, his movements overly cautious, as if touching her too long might break his control.

She shakes her head, offering a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not.”

He licks his lips, clearly flustered, and then offers her one more of those slow, devastating smiles that could stop the world from spinning. It damn near stops her heart and she has to physically restrain herself from squealing like a teenager with a crush. This can’t be healthy. She doesn’t even know him. Not really.

But he makes her feel… light.

Like the darkness inside her, all the anxiety, the pain, the pressure was never even there. She doesn’t understand it, but something in her soul recognizes him. She feels safe with him. Maybe a little too safe.

“I should set up the fireplace,” Jasper says, finally breaking the moment, “Warm up the place.” He nods toward the hallway behind him. “You’ll find some dry clothes in the bedroom. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” she says, standing with a wobble. She’s soaked to the bone and freezing, and any clothing that’s not clinging to her like a second skin will be a step up.

The bedroom is warm, bathed in honey-colored light from a small lamp in the corner. The bed is centered beneath a large, tinted window, and a closet stands tall beside it. It’s simple. Rustic. Comforting. She wonders if this is his room, if he chose this color palette, if amber is his favorite shade.

Bracing for some vintage cowboy fashion, she opens the closet, only to freeze.

Dozens of dresses greet her. Not jeans. Not flannel. Not even a dusty old hat. Just designer dresses; sleek, expensive, feminine. Her jaw drops.

“What the actual fuck…” she whispers, flipping through them. Labels that most people would kill for. Some are still tagged. Others look barely worn. A chill races down her spine, this time not from the cold.

Why the hell does Jasper have a wardrobe full of high-end women’s clothing?

Her heart rate spikes.

Did he break into this place? Was he following her? Did he plan this?  Is she in a damn Lifetime movie?

The thoughts spiral faster than her heart can keep up. She doesn’t even know where they are. What if he brought her here on purpose? What if…

“You alright, darlin’?”

She gasps, whipping around so fast her wet hair slaps her neck. Jasper’s leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, that unreadable look on his face. He seems calm, but his eyes…they’re a little too sharp. A little too dark…Where has the golden gone?

Still, the way his presence makes her nerves soothe is suspicious. She recognizes it now. It’s as if he is doing something. Jasper’s presence feels like a weighted blanket, steadying her breathing, grounding her thoughts. She swallows hard.

“Be honest,” she says. “You’re not, like…a criminal or something, are you?”

His brow arches, and he lets out a soft, breathless chuckle. “What? Why would you think that?”

“I mean, look.” She gestures wildly toward the closet. “You have, like, a dozen high-fashion dresses in here. Unless you’re secretly married or have a very niche hobby, this looks like a setup. Like… a really weird hostage situation.”

Amusement sparks in his darkened eyes. “It’s my brother’s cabin,” he says with a lazy shrug. “His wife’s real into fashion. Leaves her stuff here.”

She stares at him, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole. But Jasper only grins wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. If he thinks she’s amusing now, he should see her with her claws out. Might erase that confident smirk right off his face.

“But if you’re into roleplay,” he adds, voice low and teasing, “I won’t put up a fight.”

She snorts, folding her arms across her chest as she leans against the closet. “Might take you up on that, Cowboy.”

His grin turns lopsided, lazy and cocky, but his eyes stay locked on hers, darker now, like storm clouds just before a downpour. The warmth that spreads through her is instant, crawling beneath her damp skin, finding a home low in her belly. He doesn’t even have to touch her to ignite something. The way he looks at her is dangerous. Addictive. Trouble with a capital T. Girls probably fall for him in seconds. But Y/N? She’s far too proud to admit she desires him openly, resorting to teasing. Her specialty isn’t the fire most are drawn to, it’s ice. Cold, calculating, distant when she needs to be.

And yet…

There’s something in his stillness that mirrors hers. Something cool. Controlled. Until it’s not.

She shifts slightly, and Jasper’s eyes dip, just for a second. She doesn’t miss it. Neither does he. Her shirt is soaked clean through, clinging to her skin in all the worst ways. The thin fabric does nothing to hide the curve of her breasts or the black, lacy bra covering them. She knows she should be embarrassed.

She’s not.

Not when Jasper’s shirt is just as wet. Just as translucent. She can see every line of his chest, the way it narrows down to his waist, the sharp dip of his collarbones and the delicious happy trail. And damn him, he knows it. Knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having on her.

“You know,” she drawls, voice silky, “I was going to change out of these clothes. But… With you standing there, giving me a nice view, it feels a little unfair not to return the favor for a moment or two longer.”

Jasper’s brow lifts slightly, a slow smirk tugging at the corner his mouth. “You think I haven’t noticed, darlin’? Been tryin’ not to stare like a gentleman.”

“Failing miserably,” she murmurs, stepping toward him, a single step, measured. Testing.

Jasper’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hands curl into fists at his sides, his jaw ticking, but he doesn’t move back. Doesn’t breathe. And she feels it, his presence wrapping around her, trying to still her racing heart. Trying to calm her, like she’s some wild creature that might bolt if he makes a wrong move. How does he do that?

One thing is certain. She’s not running. Not tonight.

She takes another step, now close enough to reach out. And she does, just lightly brushing the soaked fabric over his chest with the back of her fingers. His shirt clings like a second skin, and he tenses beneath her touch, muscles rippling beneath her fingertips. Still, he lets her, almost as if he’s been waiting for her to make a move.

“You’re freezing,” she murmurs. She doesn’t mention his hard muscles. She’s never touched someone like that, ripped to the point of feeling like marble.

His voice comes out rougher than it was a moment ago. “So are you.”

“So warm me up.”

His gaze sharpens like a blade. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

She meets his gaze head on, daring him. “Maybe I do.”

That breaks some of his resolve. Not all the way, but enough.

Jasper closes the distance between them with terrifying, graceful ease, pressing her into the closet door. One of his hands lifts, fingers grazing the curve of her jaw, trailing just beneath her ear. It’s such a gentle touch, but the way her body shivers under his fingertips drives him insane.

“You’re playin’ with fire,” he says, voice low, the southern drawl thicker now. Rougher. It drips with warning. Hunger. “And fire melts ice, sweetheart.”

Y/N smirks, heart beating far too fast. She’s not letting him believe he’s winning though. “I thought you were cold.”

He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle, but his eyes stay locked on hers, black with no gold in sight, wild, and aching. “I am. That’s the problem.”

Did he…Did he imply he’s she’s the fire melting him? Good, she thinks. I’m winning. And if she must become a flame to get this man to surrender, she will let the fire reign.

His thumb brushes over her bottom lip, featherlight, but it leaves her dizzy. She should move. She should think. But all her body wants is more.

Jasper leans in just slightly, like gravity’s pulling him closer against his will. She can feel the tension in him, how tightly wound he is, how hard he’s working to stay in control. He wants her. That much is obvious. But it’s not just want. It’s something deeper. Something almost dangerous.

And she’s loving every second of it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over her lips.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. Her heart thunders, her skin tingles, and every inch of her screams for more. Her voice, when it finally emerges, is soft and certain.

“I’m not that nice.”

Jasper closes his eyes for a moment, just one, and when they open again, there’s a war inside them. Then, with a breath that sounds almost like a growl, he steps back. Just far enough to put space between them, yet close enough for her to still feel him.

“Get changed,” he says, voice strained. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

Y/N bites back a smile, the heat in her chest flaring. “You regret things easily?”

His eyes drag over her one more time, lingering like a promise. “Only if I mess ‘em up.”

“If you don’t want to touch, it’s fine by me.” She lets the words hang, tilting her head slightly as a devilish smirk appears on her lips. “But you’re free to look if you want to stay for the show?”

His eyes darken, not with lust, exactly, but something more primal. His eyes meet hers. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.

Her heart skips three beats and then pounds back with a vengeance. The room is quiet. Too quiet. She swallows hard, and the blush creeping up her neck gives her away. Jasper notices. His stern expression softens into something tender, almost…shy.

 “Don’t tempt me, darlin’,” he says, voice is low. “I’ll leave you to it,” he murmurs, offering a small nod.

And with that, he turns, disappearing down the hall, leaving her to catch her breath and pretend like her knees aren’t shaking. She finally lets out the breath she’s been holding and her lungs feel like they just ran a marathon. She plants her hands on her knees, trying to steady herself.

Jasper is going to be the death of her. And for once…she doesn’t mind the idea. She’s rarely ever pursued men like this. It’s as if the mere thought of him is bringing her to the brink of madness. Whatever it may be, Jasper is different. Something isn’t quite right about him or the way his presence causes her to act and yet she finds no regrets about any of it.

She was wrong about Paul. She might be wrong about Jasper. To hell with consequences! Her heart’s broken anyway. It may fracture to the point of no return…or it may heal. Feeling this drawn to someone is rare. Of course, it could be caused by her near death experience and yet she doesn’t care. She’ll discover it along the way and the way might be leading her straight to hell, but at least she’ll make sure she enjoys the ride.

The closet is full of surprises. She pushes hangers aside until her fingers brush against silk. Her eyes catch the shimmer of crimson, a deep, blood-red nightgown tucked in the far back. It’s soft, almost liquid to the touch, sliding like water through her fingers. When she pulls it out, her brows lift in surprise. It’s... simple. Elegant. A little sexy without trying to be. The kind of fabric that kisses the skin when you move. It falls to mid-thigh, the top a delicate web of lace that dips low, supported by slim, almost invisible straps. No sleeves. No bra. No armor.

She hesitates, her heart doing that annoying flutter thing again.

She slips it on anyway. Over it, she finds a matching robe, same rich crimson, edged in subtle lace, loose enough to keep things comfortable but tied snugly around her waist. The cool silk caresses her skin and clings in places it probably shouldn’t.

Her reflection in the small mirror over the dresser stops her. For a second, she doesn’t recognize herself. She looks like she’s about to seduce a man instead of relax by the fireplace until the storm ends.

With a sigh that’s half exasperation and half laughter, she gathers her hair up into a messy bun, strands falling loose around her ears. The motion exposes her neck, pale and vulnerable. She considers letting her hair back down but... no. She likes the honesty of this. It feels brave in a quiet way. She washes her face, the last remnants of her make up. She’s bare now, entirely vulnerable to his gaze.

Then she pauses.

This is insane.

You’re acting like a damn cat in heat, she scolds herself silently, adjusting the robe’s tie. Her fingers linger at her waist, and she forces herself to breathe.

This isn’t about sex. Not this time. She’s learned her lesson with Paul, burned herself on the promise of something hot and fast that turned to smoke in her hands. That’s not what she wants from Jasper. She wants to know him slowly. Carefully. Until she’s learned every corner of his soul. And if he lets her... she might just show him every hidden part of hers too.

Composing herself, she pads back into the hallway, bare feet silent on the wooden floor.

The small living room glows softly, bathed in the gold orange flicker of firelight, and a night-lamp by the doorway. The flames dance lazily in the hearth, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls.

And there he is.

Jasper sits low in a chair just in front of the fireplace, his back to her, the light tracing the silhouette of his broad shoulders and long frame. His legs stretch out in front of him, relaxed, and his posture is looser now. He’s not stiff like before. But there’s still that… tension. Always with him.

She holds her breath as she studies him.

His hair is drying, slightly wavy, reaching his shoulders. That golden honey tone gleams darker in the firelight, tousled and imperfect in the most perfect way. His skin glows pale and smooth, almost too flawless. And his jaw… it’s sharp with a quiet restraint, like he’s sculpted from stone. But it’s his lips that hold her hostage, pressed together, unreadable, in control. She wonders what they’d feel like if he ever let go of all that restraint. Jasper is beautiful in a way most men aren’t. Not pretty. Not handsome. Beautiful. Angelic. A creature from a painting brought to life.

She smiles softly, involuntarily, as memory flickers to life.

She has seen him before.

Just once or twice. Passing glances in Forks, back when she visited her grandmother at the hospital. Her grandmother had raved about Dr. Cullen, how kind and polite he was and of his well behaved children she wanted to set her up with. She talked about their unusual beauty and more than once, she mentioned the “quiet southern one” with the saddest eyes that seemed to be in perpetual pain. Y/N always thought she was imagining things. Now… now she knows she wasn’t.

The wedding of Bella Swan with Edward Cullen. That was the last time.

Her grandmother had been invited but passed before she could go. Y/N brought the gift in her place. Just an awkward drop-off. But the Cullens had all been there. She remembers the short girl beside Jasper. The way he looked at her back then, fond, maybe even in love. Everyone said they were adopted into the family. He went by Hale, if she remembers correctly.

And then she left.

Now, here he is, sitting in front of her like a beautiful ghost. She can’t help but wonder if his restrain is due to his feelings for the adopted sibling he was with. If rumors were true, they were together back then. Are they still? Or was the pain in his eyes born from heartbreak she caused?

“I can feel you starin’, sweetheart.” His voice rumbles through the quiet like a secret. He doesn’t even turn around.

Her lips curl. She bites her lower lip to hide her smile. “I think I prefer darling.”

He turns his head, just slightly. Enough to catch her in his peripheral. She sees the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll make sure to remember that,” he says.

His eyes glance down, flicker, just for a moment, over the length of her, then back to her face. But that one look is enough. She can’t stop the blood rushing to her face, and she’s done hiding the blush it brings.

She walks closer, slowly, barefoot steps padded and quiet. But he hears her anyway. Probably knew where she was before she moved. There is something between them, something wordless she can’t quite explain. Not quite desire. Not yet. But the possibility of it.

She sinks onto the couch across from him, crossing her legs casually.

“Nice fire,” she says lightly.

His gaze lingers on her face. “You’re not cold anymore.”

“No,” she says softly. “Not at all.”

The silence between them is comfortable but weighted. The only sound is the crackling fire, its warmth only fueling the tension growing between them. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them moves much. She watches the flames, but her gaze drifts. Always back to him.

Jasper’s eyes are cast downward, though he’s not really watching the fire. He seems lost in thought, jaw tense, the tip of his finger tapping against the arm of the chair in a slow, restless rhythm.

She can’t help but steal glances.

Again. And again.

The golden hue of his eyes has returned, it shimmers in the low light, intense and quiet all at once. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Her breath hitches. She’s seen them before. Not just at the wedding. Not just tonight. But inthe dream.

That recurring dream she never quite understood. The one that left her aching and hollow every time she woke. A figure in the dark. A storm outside. Golden eyes glowing in the shadows, looking right into her, like they’d always known her. And she’d reach for him, desperate, always desperate, and wake up before her fingers could touch him.

She thought it was a metaphor. A manifestation of loneliness. Of longing.

But those eyes?

They're his.

Her heart skips a beat. She saw those eyes recently, as well.

“I saw you before,” she says, almost absently, like the words slip past her lips before she can second guess them.

Jasper freezes. He doesn't look at her. Not right away. But the tapping stops. His whole body goes still, so still it’s unnatural. Tension spikes, growing in the space between them, and for the first time tonight, it’s not playful. It’s something colder. Darker.

His voice is low, cautious. “When?”

She tilts her head, brows drawing together as she watches him. “The other night,” she says slowly. “I think I stumbled into you. You caught me before I fell.”

Jasper exhales. His shoulders drop. Relief flickers across his face like wind snuffing out a flame, and he finally meets her gaze. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That was me.”

“You left pretty fast,” she adds, her voice lighter now, testing him, watching him closely. “Why?”

He shrugs, looking away again, his jaw ticking just slightly. “You seemed... busy.”

“Busy?”

“There was a guy.” His tone is flat. The accent thicker. “He was walking toward you with roses.”

Her lips part. And then she laughs, warm and genuine, caught off guard. “Oh my God.”

He looks back at her, brows lifted, uncertain.

“I hate roses,” she says, smiling wide. “They always feel like a cop out. Like the guy couldn’t be bothered to think for more than ten seconds.”

Jasper blinks, processing that.

“And the guy?” she continues, rolling her eyes. “Let’s just say... he’s very much out of my life. Where he belongs.”

A flicker of something shifts behind his eyes. A subtle satisfaction. It’s there and gone in a second, but she sees it. His lips twitch, and for a moment, he looks smug.

“Is that right?” he murmurs, and the warmth in his voice makes her toes curl.

“Mm-hm.” She leans back slightly, watching him from beneath her lashes. “So if you disappeared because you thought I was on a date with Mr. Red Roses, I’m here to clear it up. Just in case that’s why you were holding back.”

His eyes are on her again, fully this time. No restraint.

The firelight dances in the reflection of his gaze, and the tension from before doesn’t vanish completely. It just shifts into something else. Something quieter. Hotter.

“Noted,” Jasper says at last, his voice velvet soft and unmistakably pleased.

She smiles at him, soft and secretive, her heart fluttering in her chest like it hasn’t in years. And as the fire crackles and the silence fills the room once more, it’s no longer heavy.

Blinking slowly, she reminds herself to breathe, inhale, exhale, don’t fall apart. But it’s not easy, not when Jasper is looking at her like that. His golden eyes glow in the low light, molten and unreadable, and she feels like she’s standing too close to something she should be afraid of.

But she isn’t.

She’s captivated.

"Your eyes are like liquid fire," she murmurs, her voice soft, words leaving her before she can weigh their weight. "I fear the burn… but I cannot look away."

Jasper’s lips twitch at the corners, a faint smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. His gaze stays locked on hers, unwavering. "You sure you’re not the poet, darlin’?"

His voice is low, rich like dark honey, and it’s impossible to remain ice cold as she initially planned.

"You bring it out of me," she replies, chin tilted ever so slightly, matching his smirk with one of her own. "I don’t do this often, you know."

"Flirt with strange men in little cabins in the woods?" he drawls.

"Compliment their eyes while half-dressed," she clarifies, raising a brow. "Totally different."

Jasper’s gaze flickers downward, just once, just enough to remind her that her robe, though tied, clings to the curves beneath. He hasn’t changed his clothes. His shirt is still damp, clinging to his frame in a way that should be illegal. She can see the definition of his chest, the broad cut of his shoulders, the faint pattern of bluish veins on his forearms as he rests them lazily against the chair’s armrests, the tension in every inch of him like a spring ready to snap.

And yet, he doesn’t move. He just watches her.

"What's your favorite color?" she asks, wanting to ground herself and lustful thoughts before she combusts.

Jasper raises an eyebrow, almost caught off guard by the simplicity of it. "My favorite color?"

"You heard me." She tucks her legs under her body slowly, watching the way his eyes follow the movement before moving back to her face with a faint edge of restraint.

He chuckles softly, surprised. Then glances at the fire, as if searching for the answer there. "No one’s ever asked me that before."

She frowns, genuinely stunned. “You’re kidding.”

But something about the way he says it, quietly, almost hesitant, makes her believe it. There’s truth in it. Pain, too. She sees it then, emerging behind those golden eyes, buried beneath years of silence and shadows. The light from the fire doesn’t just dance across his skin, it reflects all the things he tries to keep buried. It catches on the cracks.

“It’s red,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Deep red.”

His smile is small but real. She swears it steals the breath from her lungs. Red like her nightgown and robe, she realizes. Even unintentionally, she’s trying to seduce him.

"I would've guessed… green," she teases. "You have that forest recluse vibe."

He huffs a laugh. “Not quite.” Then his eyes narrow playfully. “You strike me as a purple girl.”

She gasps, mock offense showing across her features. “Wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Blue,” she says with a grin of victory. “Like the sky… like freedom. Ever changing shades of blue that make up every part of our lives.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for her to avert her gaze shyly.

"Freedom, huh?" Jasper echoes, like the word tastes unfamiliar to him.

Her smile softens. “What about the season? What’s yours?”

He leans back, resting his head against the chair. His profile in the glow of the fire looks carved, almost unreal, sharp lines, sculpted features, that unruly hair drying in soft waves. She has to remind herself he’s real. That she’s here. That this isn’t another dream.

“Fall,” he says eventually. “It’s colorful… but everything’s fading. There’s something honest about it.”

Thunder rumbles low in the distance, a reminder that the world outside this cabin is wet, wild, and cold. But inside, it’s warm. Warmer than ever before. And safe… for now.

“You’re not what I expected,” she admits, watching him with curiosity.

His eyes meet hers again, calm but cautious. “What did you expect?”

She shrugs. “A flirt. A cowboy. A mystery. But I didn’t expect you to be… kind.”

That startles him. Not in a dramatic way, but in the flicker of his eyes, the slight movement in his shoulders. Like her words hit somewhere deeper than he expected.

“You don’t know me,” he says.

“I’m starting to.”

And something in his expression shifts. He straightens a little, just enough that the damp fabric of his shirt stretches across his chest again. She wonders if he notices the way her gaze lingers on him now, the way her breath is forgotten when he licks his bottom lip absently.

She doesn’t say anything about it, but her heart is pounding.

He’s too perfect. Too careful. Too calm. Every move he makes seems calculated. It goes against every natural instinct she’s learned. Every red flag she's ever ignored before being burned. Yet here she is. Still leaning in. Still falling.

“You’re dangerous,” she says suddenly, smiling through it.

Jasper tilts his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be,” she murmurs, shifting slightly on the couch, the robe slipping to reveal a sliver of her thigh.

Jasper’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.

“Do you always seduce women by lighting fires and answering personal questions?” she asks, her tone light, teasing.

He smiles, just barely. “Only the ones I save from drowning.”

Her laugh is soft, breathy. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have to sing like Ariel to draw you in. I’m a terrible singer.”

“No need for singing,” he says, his voice dropping low, eyes darkening slightly. “I’d find you anyway.”

She swallows. He looks at her like he’s memorizing her. Like he’s restraining himself, but she wishes he’d stop. The storm outside rages inside her as well, and she needs to know if he feels it too.

She shifts on the couch again, the soft rustle of silk brushing against her skin. Jasper's eyes flicker toward the sound, briefly, before returning to her face. But that brief flicker is all she needs to know he notices everything.

She should look away, but she doesn’t.

Instead, her voice lowers as she leans a fraction forward, the firelight painting her skin in honey and shadows. "You said something earlier," she murmurs. "About no one ever asking your favorite color."

Jasper nods once, slow. Measured. “Mmhm.”

"Made me wonder…" Her gaze drops to the fire, lashes casting shadows on her cheek. Her tone is soft, almost musing, like she’s trying not to sound like she’s fishing, but she is. "Have you always been alone? Or just… lately?"

That gets his attention. She feels the shift before she sees it, like the world stops and gravity itself tilts toward her just slightly. When she meets his gaze again, it's already locked on her, heavy with something she can't quite name.

"Is that your way of asking if I’m single?" he says, one brow arching with just enough amusement to take the edge off the raw honesty underneath.

She huffs a soft laugh, caught. A flush rises to her cheeks, warm and betraying, but she doesn’t look away. “Maybe. I like to think I’m more subtle than that.”

“You’re not.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes not leaving hers. “But I don’t mind.” He pauses. “I’ve been alone for a while now,” he says, voice quieter. Still warm, still steady, but pained. “Long enough that it stopped feeling strange.”

She nods slowly, letting the words settle. And then, because she can't help herself, she continues. “Was it by choice?”

Jasper doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze lowers, down to her lips, her throat, the pulse that jumps beneath her skin, and then locks on her again,

“Not at first.”

She swallows. “And now?”

His smile is soft. Shadowed. “Now I think some things happen when they’re meant to.”

She wonders if that’s meant for her. The fire cracks beside them, thunder still rolling faintly in the distance. The storm hasn’t passed, but in here, it might as well not exist.

“Are you asking because you’re thinking about changing that for me?” he teases, voice low.

She smirks, though her stomach flips. “Would it be a problem if I were?”

He lets the silence set again, a practiced pause, like he’s savoring the weight of her words before letting his answer fall: “No,” he says. “No problem at all.”

Her pulse pounds louder in her ears, but she plays it cool, leaning back slowly and smoothing the edge of her robe where it’s fallen slightly open at her thigh. “Good. I’d hate to waste a perfectly good storm on poor timing.”

Jasper leans back in his chair, watching her like she’s both a challenge and reward. “Darlin’, with you here…” He tilts his head, a slow grin forming. “Timing feels just right.”

His words linger in the air, rich and slow like honey dripping from a spoon.

Timing feels just right.

The way he says it, how it bears intention, makes her stomach flutter. She’s not easily rattled, but Jasper is a dangerous exception.

“You always talk like that?” she teases, stretching her legs across the couch, draping herself like she’s in control of this entire exchange, when she absolutely is not. “Or am I just a special case?”

His gaze falls to the ground. “I want to answer, but it wouldn’t be polite to say what I’m thinkin’,” he replies.

That does something to her. She swallows, glancing at the fire to cool the flush rising to her cheeks. Her fingers fiddle idly with the edge of the robe belt tied at her waist, nerves masked as restlessness.

Jasper shifts subtly in his chair, sitting a little stiffer now, as if resisting the urge to move closer. His knuckles seem paler against his knees, hands clenched tight, so still. Unnaturally still. Her eyes move toward his chest, narrowing slightly. Is he even breathing?

“Are you…” she trails off before she can finish the question, unsure what she’s even asking. She frowns softly, watching him too closely now. “You’re… hard to read.”

His head tilts slightly. “That so?” His tone is amused, but there’s tension beneath it, like he’s trying to play casual while keeping a tight grip on something unruly just beneath the surface.

“You’re calm. Too calm.” Her voice is soft, speculative, like she’s thinking out loud. “You barely move. You barely blink. It’s like… you’re not even breathing.”

That earns her a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not fear, not annoyance, something like... regret. Guilt, maybe. It's gone before she can name it.

“I do breathe,” he says evenly, lips twitching into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just not when it’s difficult.”

Her brows knit. He doesn’t make any sense “Difficult?”

Another pause. He shifts again, a subtle turn of his body away from her, like distance might help. She notices how tightly he holds himself, like one wrong move might crack him wide open and she’d catch sight of his soul on display.

Jasper’s jaw tightens. “You make the air… a little thick, is all.”

Her breath catches at the implication, heart thudding. “You blaming me, Cowboy? Telling me I smell bad?” she teases.

“I’m saying it’s not your fault your presence is…intoxicating,” he murmurs, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “But I reserve the right to suffer because of it.”

That gets a breathy laugh out of her before she can stop it. “You’re really pulling out all the lines tonight, huh?”

He finally turns fully to her again, and his expression softens. No grin. No teasing. Just quiet intensity.

“I’m not tryin’ to charm you,” he says, voice low. “You’re just… easy to talk to. Easy to look at.”

Something flutters in her chest, wild and unexpected. She’s not the only one who feels it then. And yet, there’s still that distance in his body. The way his fingers grip the chair too tightly, the way his shoulders lock, like he’s constantly reminding himself to stay exactly where he is. She wonders again if he’s fighting something she can’t see.

Y/N leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch, not with suspicion, but curiosity. “Why do I get the feeling there’s a lot you’re not saying?”

Jasper hesitates. There it is, that flicker again. This time not just in his eyes but in the way his entire body goes just a little too still, like he's deciding between fight or flight.

“I’ve been told I’m a hard person to get to know,” he admits, training his eyes on the fire. “That I keep my true self hidden.”

“Maybe,” she says softly, tilting her head. “Or maybe you’re just scared someone might see too much and use it against you.”

That makes him look at her again, really look. Something shifts in his expression then, and for the first time tonight, he looks… unsettled. But he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he clears his throat and leans back in his chair, creating just enough space to keep whatever storm is inside him from spilling over.

“Tell me more about the man with the roses,” he says abruptly, deflecting with calculated ease. “You said you hated both?”

She laughs, letting him have the shift in conversation, for now. “I did. I do.”

He smirks. “What kind of woman hates roses?”

“The kind who likes honesty over grand gestures. And prefers thorns out in the open.”

That earns a quiet chuckle from him. “Noted.”

Their eyes meet again, and this time, neither looks away. Y/N tugs the robe closer around her body, more out of instinct than chill, because despite the warmth of the fire, there's something in Jasper’s gaze that makes her skin prickle. It's not fear. It's want.

He shifts again, subtly angling his body toward her as though gravity itself favors her presence. But still, not a single unnecessary movement. Still no breath.

“I’m trying to figure you out,” she says softly, her lips curving as she rests her elbow on the armrest. “You seem to act like you’re made of stone.”

He chuckles low in his throat, the sound dark and husky. “Stone’s more accurate than you think.”

“See? There you go again,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “Being cryptic. It’s infuriating.”

His eyes flash at that, and for a second, the teasing slips from his face. Something lingers there. Almost like he is wounded.

“You’re not the only one who’s been burned before,” he says quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Her smile fades, gaze narrowing as she leans in, heart thudding just a little harder. “That sounded like the beginning of a story.”

Jasper stiffens. His jaw tenses, and he glances down at his hands like he’s just remembered he has them. She watches his knuckles go white again, the firelight catching the fine tremble in his fingers.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he says quietly. “Ones that don’t go away with time.”

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. She just watches him, lips parting slightly as if to invite more, but he doesn’t continue. He swallows hard, like the words are sitting razor-edged in his throat, and one more would tear him open.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she says gently. No wonder he is so guarded. Is he afraid she’d be a mistake, as well? “But that? That was the most human thing I’ve heard all night.”

He looks up at her then, and for the first time, his gaze isn't guarded. It’s aching. Vulnerable.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” he breathes.

“It is,” she says simply. “People carry their damage. Doesn’t make them less worth knowing.”

Jasper’s lips twitch, almost a smile… almost, but there’s something close to fear dancing in his eyes now. Like she’s getting too close to something he’s buried deep. She can feel him pulling back again, emotionally if not physically.

Before she can push further, before she can even ask the question dancing on the edge of her tongue.

CRACK.

The entire cabin rattles as thunder explodes overhead, so loud it sounds like the heavens have split in half. The lamp light flickers, the fire jumps, and Y/N jumps too, a startled gasp leaving her lips as she instinctively presses a hand to her chest.

Jasper’s up in a blink.

She doesn’t even see him move, he’s just suddenly there, closer than he was a second ago, hand half-outstretched as if to shield her from something. That strange stillness returns to his frame, but his eyes are sharp and alert now, scanning the shadows for signs of danger.

“Storm’s getting worse,” he mutters, voice low again, low and too calm.

“You don’t say,” she breathes out, forcing a laugh that’s more nerves than humor.

His gaze finds hers again, and there’s a softness to it now, something almost apologetic, as though he’s sorry for pulling away, sorry for not saying more. But he doesn’t speak, while outside, the storm screams.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop soon.” Jasper’s voice is quiet, measured. Too careful. “You should probably get some rest.”

Y/N blinks, heart sinking a little more than she wants to admit. Just as she felt she was chipping away at his defenses, this happens. A soft dismissal. She breathes out through her nose, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips out of sheer stubbornness. “Yeah,” she says, nodding as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Guess you’re right.”

She hesitates a moment longer than necessary before adding, “When will you rest?”

Jasper glances toward the fire, then back at her. “Soon.”

The way he says it feels like a gentle deflection. She fights the sting of disappointment, but she doesn’t let it show, at least, not entirely.

“I hope you're not a blanket hog,” she jokes, forcing a playful tone as she rises to her feet, brushing invisible lint off her robe. “You'll be joining me, right?”

His smile is subtle, restrained, like everything about him. It's more in his eyes than his lips, but it hits her all the same, right in the chest. She licks her lips to hide it, but she’s saddened by the way the day is ending.

“I’m good on the sofa,” he says, voice warm but distant. Polite. Detached. She’d much prefer an open rejection, something she can hold close to her stubborn heart and replay in her mind. This only gives her the idea of rejection, but in such a sweet way that it almost angers her.

“I don’t mind,” she presses, hands sliding to her hips. “The bed’s large enough for both of us.”

He shakes his head, golden curls falling softly around his face. He looks ethereal like this, hair dry and tousled, jaw sharp beneath firelight, eyes deeper than anything she's ever seen. How is he real?

“You saved my life,” she says, quieter now, less flirtation and more sincerity. “The least I can do is let you have the bed.”

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he replies with a familiar softness, one that only twists the knife. “I’ll be fine out here. Wouldn’t be a very good host if I took up all the space and hogged the covers, would I?”

His smile is back again, easy and charming, and yet all she can think is, he’s not going to come with me.

She nods, looking away briefly to blink back whatever disappointment is threatening to rise. You’re reading too much into this, she tells herself. He’s being kind. That’s all.

“Don’t be afraid to join me if you change your mind,” she says over her shoulder, quieter now, walking slowly behind his chair. Her voice is smooth, but her stomach churns, unsure if she’s flirting or begging.

He stops her.

A cool hand wraps gently around her wrist. She’s startled, gasping at the contact. His touch is cold. Not unpleasant, but cold enough to send a shiver running down her spine. He pulls her hand toward him, slowly, deliberately, and presses his lips to the inside of her wrist, just over her pulse.

She forgets how to breathe.

The kiss is featherlight, reverent. And it lingers, not long enough to be improper, but just enough to undo her completely. She stands frozen, hoping to hell her legs won’t fail her.

He’s still holding her gaze when he lets her go.

Maybe that’s what people mean when they talk about a gentleman, she thinks dazedly. Not one of weakness or practiced charm. But one who holds back even when he clearly doesn’t want to. One who shows restraint where others would have taken. And yet… there’s something mournful in him. Something unspoken. Something so filled with fear and guilt and she can’t understand where it comes from.

“Goodnight, Jasper,” she says, voice soft, uneven now. Her heart is still racing in her chest.

His eyes search hers for a second longer before he replies.

“Sleep well, darlin’.”

She walks away slowly, still reeling. The storm still howling outside, but it’s nothing compared to the one stirring in her chest. Biting her lower lip, she wracks her brain for a suitable word to say, but she can't even think properly. He has distorted her train of thought entirely.

The bed is too soft. She shifts beneath the covers, one arm thrown over her eyes, the other splayed out on the sheets beside her. The room is warm, her silk nightgown clinging to her skin in places she wishes it wouldn’t, heat rising from the fireplace lingering.

But it’s not the fire keeping her awake.

It’s him. Jasper.

She stares at the ceiling, heart still racing from his touch, from that kiss on her wrist. It replays over and over like a movie scene she’s memorized. Her skin still tingles where his lips pressed against it, as if they branded her, marked her. But that’s not what keeps her from sleeping. It’s the distance in his eyes. The contradiction. He’s warm and kind and gentle, but there's something in him that holds back, as though he's constantly walking the edge of a cliff and can't afford to look down. And God, it hurts a little, the way he wouldn’t come to bed. She had given him an open invitation. It wasn’t about sex, not even closeness, really. It was about comfort. Warmth. Trust. She had wanted to offer it. And he’d turned it down. Not cruelly. But carefully. Which might’ve been worse.

Was she wrong to want more? Was she imagining things, the tension, the shared glances, the moments that felt stolen from something bigger? She bites her lip, the taste of disappointment sharp as she sighs into the darkness.

What is he hiding?

And why does part of her still want him to knock on her door and climb in beside her, cold skin and secrets and all?

Despite her busy mind, sleep finds her soon enough and for the first time in forever, there are no golden eyes haunting her dreams.

--

The fire crackles, low and steady, bathing the cabin in flickering shadows. Jasper stares into it like he’s trying to burn the hunger out of himself.

He can still feel her wrist against his palm. Still taste her pulse against his lips, though he didn’t taste anything, not really. Not like he wants to.

His jaw clenches.

He hadn’t meant to touch her like that. Hadn’t meant to kiss her. But the moment she walked behind him, smelling like honey and warmth and a faint trace of something undeniably her, he lost the thread of his resolve.

And now? Now it’s fraying at the edges.

He inhales deeply, though it’s a habit more than a need. Each inhale is torture. Her scent lingers in the air like a ghost. He holds his breath again, trying to dull the ache in his throat. The hunger. The need.

She has no idea what she’s doing to him.

He imagines it, just for a second. The way her blood might taste. How warm it would be. How it might sing through his body like wildfire, like salvation and damnation all at once. The monster inside him stirs, just a little. He forces it down.

You’re better than this.

But God, it’s been so long since anyone made him feel… alive. He closes his eyes, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him like he’s praying to a god who long stopped listening. She was kind to him. Open. Inviting. She didn’t flinch when he pulled her close. Didn’t run when she saw something darker in his eyes.

She saw the monster in him and smiled anyway.

And that’s the problem.

Because if he gives in, even a little... He’s afraid he won’t stop.

Jasper flees the cabin like the devil himself is at his heels. Trees blur past in streaks of black and green, rain lashing against his skin as he tears through the forest. The sound of her heartbeat still echoes in his ears. His throat is a furnace, a hollow tunnel of fire and ache. The taste of her is everywhere and nowhere, a ghost on his tongue, phantom sweetness that never came, but almost did.

Too close. Far too close.

By the time he stumbles up the porch steps of the Cullen house, he's shaking. Not visibly, his body is still and statuesque as always, but inside?

Inside, he's on his knees.

Carlisle opens the door before Jasper can raise a hand. “You did well, my son.”

A hand clasps his shoulder. Warm. Steady. Reassuring. But Jasper can’t respond. Can’t even meet Carlisle’s eyes. He’s terrified to draw a proper breath, certain that her scent is still clinging to him, soft and honeyed, soaked into the fabric of his shirt, caught in his curls. If he inhales too deeply, he’s afraid his resolve will fracture.

If I feel her again… would I go back?

Edward appears beside them, arms crossed, face unreadable. “He needs to hunt. Soon.” If anyone understands him, it’s him. He’s had it bad with Bella too. “I’ll help,” he adds. “We all will.”

But Jasper barely hears him. His voice sounds like it’s coming through water. Thick. Distant.

“If I hurt her…” Jasper begins, low and hoarse.

“You won’t,” Edward says quickly, confident in his response.

“There’s no guarantee,” Jasper growls, stepping back like their proximity alone is too much. His eyes, once a soft gold, are dark now. Bottomless. Ravenous. A predator’s stare. “You might know how it feels, but you don’t know what she does to me.”

Edward’s jaw tenses. But he remains calm. “The fact that you saved her, multiple times, means you’re in control. You’re doing better than I ever did with Bella.”

Jasper wants to agree. God, he wants to believe that.

But how can he?

The first time he caught her scent, he hadn’t even seen her face. He and Alice were in the hospital, watching from a distance after Edward saved Bella from being crushed by a truck. Amidst the chaos, the sterile tang of blood and adrenaline, her scent hit him like a freight train.

He hadn’t known who she was. He only knew he needed to feed.

It took three of his siblings to restrain him. For weeks afterward, he couldn’t be left alone. Someone always hovered close, Alice, Carlisle or Emmett, just in case. He was locked in a constant battle with the beast inside, writhing in silence.

He never connected the dots. Never knew that mysterious, maddening scent belonged to someone who would one day look at him like he was something good.

Looking back, it made sense why he snapped at the birthday party. Why a single papercut shattered him. He’d been teetering on the edge for months, made unstable by an unknown presence that inflamed his thirst every time it brushed against the periphery of his senses.

When the Cullens left Forks, he felt relief. The scent vanished. The haze lifted.

And then came the wedding. And again, there she was.

Unseen, but felt. Her scent turned his hunger into barbwire, it wrapped itself around his throat. Alice had to drag him away before he did something irreversible. That time, it only took him a few weeks to regain his senses. He clung to control like a lifeline, forced himself to act normal when Bella returned from her honeymoon, pregnant and terribly human, more human than ever as life drained from her. He distracted himself with the chaos, convinced it was all behind him.

But it wasn’t.

It would take a year and a half before Jasper would finally see her. Finally learn her name. Y/N. It was the same night Edward erased her memories. The moment their eyes met, the thirst returned, tenfold.

Now that he knows her, now that he’s touched her, heard her voice, watched her laugh…this is hell. Pure, exquisite torture.

Edward thinks he’s doing well?

He’s barely holding on.

Half the time she speaks, all Jasper can think about is how easily he could draw her closer. How sweet her breath would feel against his lips if he kissed her, right before sinking his teeth into the softness of her throat. If she came to him willingly, he could almost pretend he wasn’t a monster. Could almost lie to himself about what he would do next.

But no, he’s not in control. Not really.

And definitely not doing well.

Not at all.

Jasper shakes his head. “I almost killed her at the beach. When I pulled her out of the water and the ocean stopped masking her scent... I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to. The hunger was...” His voice trembles, and he clenches his fists to still the shaking. “Intoxicating. Like every cell in my body was begging for a taste. Just one.”

His eyes flash to Carlisle, wide with guilt. “I brought her to the woods planning to drain her dry. I had her in my arms. I ran with her into the trees, ready to end it. And then she opened her eyes and... I couldn’t.”

Carlisle exhales softly. “She’s your blood singer.”

Jasper flinches at the term, as if it brands him. He doesn’t want this. Not this way.

Emmett steps onto the porch, arms folded, the usual grin absent from his face. “She’s lucky it’s you and not me. I killed mine on sight.”

Regret pulses off Emmett like a wave, and Jasper, despite the pain clawing at his insides, instinctively dampens it, dulling the sharpness of his brother’s grief. And he hates that. Hates that even now, he’s still trying to fix everyone else while he’s falling apart inside.

“I don’t want to be around her,” Jasper murmurs, eyes locked on the treetops. Dark. Wet. Tempting.

“Just because your blood singer was your mate,” he says to Edward, “doesn’t mean she’s mine.”

“Alice said -” Emmett starts, but Jasper cuts him off, sharp.

“I know what Alice said.” His voice is rough, stripped of its usual smoothness. “She can’t be the one. No human can survive me.”

“She already has,” Carlisle reminds him gently. “She survived then and today again. She survived you at the beach. She survived the cabin. And you’re standing here, begging for a way to keep her safe. That says everything.”

Edward steps forward, gaze knowing. “You should hunt. Then go back to her.”

Jasper scoffs. “You think feeding will fix this?”

“No. But it will make you stronger and help the burning in your throat.” Edward’s voice is calm but firm. “If Alice is right, if she’s your mate, do you really want to lose her because you were too afraid to try?”

Jasper is silent.

He wants to scream. Wants to vanish into the forest and never return. Wants to erase the memory of her warm skin, her wide eyes, the soft pulse beneath her wrist as his lips hovered over it. He wanted to taste her so badly, he can still feel it. Like her blood is already in his mouth. Lush. Lively. Fatal.

He imagines it again, just for a moment. Her body against his. Her breath hitching. The way she would sigh when his teeth found her throat, the blood rushing to meet him, a welcome he doesn’t deserve. Her heart would stutter. Then stop.

It would be bliss. And it would ruin him.

He looks at Carlisle, then Edward.

“I can protect her from anything.” His voice is almost a whisper. “But how can I protect her from me? Every time I touched her, I was terrified. That I’d snap a bone. Cut her skin. Taste blood.”

Carlisle places a hand on his shoulder again. Steady. Fatherly. “Practice.”

Edward nods beside him. “A lot of it.”

The forest is still damp with the remnants of the storm. Jasper is running wild, untethered, finally hunting. Emmett charges alongside him with a shout of excitement, and Carlisle moves with graceful precision, already several yards ahead. The trees bend to make way for them. He will feed until the hunger is satiated, until his thoughts move away from all the ways he’d savor the taste of her blood, until every last drop is in his system. Until his eyes brighten and the hunter is appeased.

Back at the house, Alice stands by the window, watching shadows move beneath the moonlight. Her arms are folded, but her eyes are distant, seeing something no one else can. Almost no one.

Edward watches her, then speaks. “Are you absolutely certain your visions were right?”

She exhales slowly, finally looking away from the night. “Do you think I would leave Jasper for anything less?”

Edward nods once. “You knew before any of us.”

She smiles, faint and sad. “Y/N was already in town when you met Bella. Back then, Jasper was struggling to stay in control around her… but what none of us realized was that it wasn’t Bella driving him to the edge.”

Edward’s brows pinch together. “It was her.”

Alice nods again, slower this time. “He could smell Y/N in the hospital. I stopped him from seeking her out because I saw what would happen if he did...she’d die. I made a choice, and it changed everything. Because when I stopped him… I saw a different future.”

Her voice softens, wistful. “The future he could have with her. If we keep her alive long enough… it’s beautiful. She’s his mate, Edward. I’ve never doubted it.”

Edward wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in gently. “Still… it couldn’t have been easy. Leaving him.”

Her laugh is quiet and bitter. “Of course it wasn’t easy. I loved him. But I’m not his mate. And I wasn’t going to stand in the way of what he’s meant for. I knew if he was freshly single when he met her, she'd never trust him. I had to make it clean. Immediate. For all our sakes.”

“You’ll find your mate too,” he tells her softly.

“One day.” She leans into his side. “But that day isn’t here yet.”

They sit in the silence for a moment longer. The moon is high up, peeking out from behind clouds, casting light across Edward’s face. Alice studies him for a moment, then asks gently, “Does his thirst for her unnerve you?”

Edward hesitates. Swallows. “The rest of you don’t have a front row seat to his mind like I do. I won’t lie and say it’s been easy.”

“Far from feral?” she teases, trying to lighten the mood.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ve had… worse. But he’s right at the edge. And the things he thinks… the way he imagines her blood…and other things he’s like to do with her…” His voice falters. “It’s a struggle. Every second.”

Alice nods solemnly. “Well, I can already tell you this, none of those futures I’ve seen end with you killing her. You don’t need to carry that fear. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Both of you are.”

Edward looks at her, hesitant. “And in how many of those futures does she actually survive this?”

Alice’s smile fades. Her eyes darken. For a moment she’s still, then she opens her mind to him completely. One by one, visions flood into him. Flashes of blood. Of her body limp in Jasper’s arms. Of him falling to his knees in despair. Others are better, she’s laughing, Jasper seems radiant, they’re kissing underneath the moonlight.

But they’re few.

Edward’s lips part, his breath shuddering. “That was… difficult to watch.”

“I know.” Alice’s voice trembles just slightly. “Now you understand.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, turning from her to the moonlight. “If we can’t save Y/N…”

“We lose him,” Alice finishes.

He nods once. “Yes.”

A heavy silence settles again.

“One in a million chance,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “The odds are stacked against us.”

Alice shrugs with a whisper of a smile. “Well… her chances are higher after tonight.”

He raises a brow. “You’re sure?”

“We’ll see how she feels after breakfast.” Her grin turns sly. “Jasper’s not the only one who’s going to be tested tomorrow. It’s been a while since we’ve had a human in the house.”

Edward groans. “Just wait till we tell Rosalie.”

Alice snickers. “I already saw how that goes.”

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

Tags: @moonmark98 @formulas-bitch @ronniesreverie @anongirl007 @foxycrafterofgreenwood @lamelover @sl4t4darkling @megaprincesscakes @aj3684 @xnarixkimx

A/N: If you want to be tagged for future parts, leave a comment and make sure your blog's visibility is on (in settings) otherwise Tumblr won't allow me to tag you.

[heartlogan]

living to learn

✮— logan x f!mutant!reader (set in deadpool & wolverine)

✮— summary: logan mulls over all that he has lost, and all that he has found, in the void

✮— a/n: i was enabled by yall - please heed the warnings! you dont need to read pt 1 to read this!

✮— warnings: MAJOR DEADPOOL & WOLVERINE SPOILERS, major character deaths, angst, incredibly sad backstory, dead kids / teenagers, practically a genocide of mutants, suicidal ideation (from logan, kind of), reader acts as a mother figure for someone, incorrect dialogue from dp&w, a smidge of comfort, again ANGST, lmk if there’s more!

part one | masterlist

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It’s almost impossible not to linger on the things that you have lost.

And for Logan, it is impossible.

He spends every waking moment craving for the touch of somebody he lost, and he’s painfully aware that it’s all his fault. He caused the loss. And he’s the only one left to mourn you, because god knows the humans won’t.

Even for him, some two hundred years old, it’s all too painful. And he has experienced plenty of pain in his life. But this? Losing you? Losing everyone? It’s too much. So, he does what he can, he pours so much alcohol into his body that he can’t think, can’t imagine what your final moments must have been like.

But between bars, when his healing factor wears the alcohol down, it’s all he sees.

He imagines you there, surrounded by all of your loved ones except for him, unable to save them. And he can remember finding you so vividly, can remember the ashy tone your skin had taken on, all the life drained from you. He can remember exactly where he found you, in front of the doors, your dying action being to try and save the kids in the mansion. He prays to a god that he doesn’t believe in that you died before they did, because knowing that you hadn’t been able to save them would have killed you.

And the other X-Men, they died the same way. Trying to protect each other, trying to protect those kids. And perhaps the only one who knew that it was all in vain would’ve been Jean. Jean, who he found in front of the children.

Where was he?

At some bar, surrounded by humans he couldn’t care less about, all because he was selfish. All because he didn’t want anybody thinking he wanted to be part of the team. God forbid he actually care about something.

And because of his selfishness, his fear, he lost it all.

He lost you.

So when Wade said he could fix Logan’s universe, he would’ve done anything to make that happen. Anything that Wade asked for, he would’ve done. And as soon as his universe was fixed, Logan would go to you and get to his knees, he would beg for your forgiveness.

And all of that, that hope that had evaded him all those years, was for nothing. For an educated wish.

Logan couldn’t do anything but resort to his old habits, grabbing the first bottle of actual alcohol he saw, and finally numbing the image of you dead in his arms.

“There’s five of us.” Elektra told Wade, and Logan paid her no mind. Everything was futile now, pointless. He was only helping Wade to help the team, to help you, and that was likely impossible. So whatever these so-called heroes were planning, he wanted no part in it.

Logan had already secured his legacy in his universe, and it wasn’t the one you had always imagined for him. He was the Wolverine, and he was every bit of violence that name suggested. Because even though he hadn’t been able to save the X-Men, he sure as hell got his vengeance. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, until every single human who was remotely involved in the blood bath at X-Mansion was dead.

You wouldn’t have been proud of his actions, true, but you were dead.

Cassandra had mentioned something about temperance, earlier, and it hadn’t taken him long to recognise that you were the anchor of his. Without you, Logan hadn’t managed any sort of self-restraint. He had slaughtered people. And he could only bring himself to regret those that hadn’t quite deserved it.

By the time the red had faded from his vision, Logan realised he had gone too far. He hadn’t just killed the ones who had murdered his friends, but anyone in connection to them, and anyone who had gotten in his way. The only reason he wasn’t arrested was because they were too afraid of him, and the only reason he hadn’t been killed was because he couldn’t fucking die.

Even the fuckers that had slaughtered the X-Men couldn’t figure out how to kill him, and that was a sick kind of irony.

“Logan, that’s who I was telling you about! X-23!” Wade said excitedly, pointing across the room at a teenage girl, who stared at him like she was seeing a ghost. From the sound of what Wade had said earlier, she probably was.

And the sight of her, for some reason, tugged at his chest. He drowned the feeling with more whiskey.

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“Hey.” Laura greeted you, fidgeting with the strap of her bag as she watched you enter the back of the base, carrying a bag full of food. She seemed nervous, and you couldn’t figure out why.

“Hey, Laura, everythin’ alright?” You asked fondly, glancing at her as you started unpacking the supplies that you’d found scattered across the void.

She hesitated, glancing back through the doorway she was stood in, before focusing on you. “Yeah. Uh, I need to talk to you.” She said, sounding incredibly serious, which wasn’t unusual for her. Laura had been through so much, including everything that she had told you about her life before the void. Being here hadn’t made her life any better.

You immediately paused your actions, and turned your full attention towards the teenager across from you. You nodded for her to start.

“I was out patrolling earlier, and I found some people.” Laura said slowly, thinking her words over thoroughly before she spoke them aloud. She didn’t want to make this any worse. “I drove them here, and we’ve made a plan to attack Cassandra’s first thing. Except for one of the two, who doesn’t want to help.”

“Okay…” You said cautiously, almost confused. “This all sounds good, doesn’t it? Whoever they are, they can stay here if they want. Fill me in on the plan, and we’ll handle it.”

“It’s… okay. It’s about who they are.” She clarified finally, giving up on trying to approach the situation cautiously. “It’s a variant of him. Of Logan.”

Your chest squeezed painfully immediately, and you hand to hold a hand to your sternum to try and ease it. If it were any other situation, Laura may have made a joke about you having a heart attack, but she knew better. She knew how she had felt when she first saw the man, so she could imagine how you were feeling.

Immediately, your heart was torn between rushing to see him, and refusing to lay your eyes on the man at all. You weren’t sure you could handle seeing him, or, well, a variant of him.

It hurt too much. Every day you were reminded of how you had failed to save him, but you had to keep going, for the others in the void. Because they needed you, just as much as you needed them. Laura needed you.

She knew your pain all too well, having lost her own Logan. So you knew what she was telling you was the truth. There was really, finally, a Wolverine variant in the void.

“You okay?” Laura asked, after you had been silent for more moments than she was comfortable with. She was looking at you with such concern, and you could tell that her own heart was practically bursting in her chest from the sight of him.

“Are you?” You asked in return, eyebrows raised as you finally started to get a grip on yourself, shaking yourself from the pit of loss you had begun to get stuck in. She nodded, and you nodded yourself before pausing to think. “And this… Logan, he doesn’t want to join to Cassandra’s?”

Laura shook her head, looking down momentarily. “No. He’s… he’s as messed up as my Logan was.”

You approached her, drawing her into a silent hug. She squeezed you tightly, and the strength her mutation — Logan’s mutation — had given her wasn’t lost on you.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” You asked her quietly, and felt her nod against your shoulder. “Alright. Where is he?” You questioned, silently steeling yourself to face a copy of the man you had lost. The man you had loved.

She pointed you in the right direction, letting you go with a simple, “Good luck.” The entire walk outside, you were holding your breath, trying to prepare yourself somehow. As if this was something you would ever be able to prepare for.

And the moment you saw him, you knew it was all in vain. Because nothing could’ve prepared you for seeing him again, after all this time.

For a moment, it felt as though time was stood still, suspended.

Until he opened his mouth. “‘M not lookin’ for company.”

It was him. His familiar voice. The voice that you would’ve recognised anywhere, even after so long not having heard it. He sounded just the same as your own Logan, the same gruff tone to his voice, all grumpy expressions and furrowed brows. You could imagine it all as though your Logan was still alive, as though he was actually here. It took more than a moment for you to recall that this wasn’t your Logan.

You shuffled over to the log he sat on, the sun setting over the trees surrounding the two of you. He lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips, glancing at you as you sat. His entire body went shock still, and he turned to look at you fully.

You smiled, and prayed he said nothing about the way your eyes became watery. “Hi, Logan.”

He said your name, sounding as though he was a mere man sat before a god, reverent. The bottle slipped from his hand as he spoke it aloud, his eyes watering immediately, his lip trembling as he looked at you like he was seeing you for the very first time.

“Are you… her?” He asked hesitantly, hand hovering halfway towards you, and you hated to be the bearer of bad news. But if you had to be conscious that he wasn’t yours, it was only fair for him to know the truth.

Reluctantly, you shook your head. “I’m sorry. I’m not your version of me, and you’re not my version of you.”

His hand fell to his lap, but he didn’t take his eyes off of you for a moment. He seemed reluctant to believe you, and you couldn’t blame him. He looked just like your version of him, grey streaks and all. But it wasn’t him, you knew, because he wasn’t coughing up blood, wasn’t actively dying in your arms.

You cleared your throat, glancing to the fire before him, watching the way the smoke curled into the slowly darkening sky. “My Logan died. I—I couldn’t save you. I’ve been here, in the void, for a year, I think.” You elaborated slightly, not wanting to overwhelm him with information. “I’d like to go home. Mourn my losses.”

He stared at you, saying nothing, fingers still outstretched where his hand lay.

“Laura said you weren’t coming with in the morning. I was hoping you might change your mind. We need your help.” You continued, trying to remain convincing despite the shake in your voice.

But that seemed to do the opposite of what you wanted, and he blinked out of the trance he had been in. He started shaking his head immediately, fingers clenching into a fist. “You got the wrong guy. I’m not… I’m not who you think I am.”

“Maybe not, but, Laura told me you were always the wrong guy, up until you weren’t. And to her, that means something. To me, too.” You said, hoping he wouldn’t pull away further than he already had. As selfish as it was, you didn’t want to lose another Logan. You wanted to see him and his friend succeed, even if you didn’t. Maybe, this time, this Logan, you could save him.

“You don’t get it.” Logan refuted, shaking his head, glancing towards the fire as the sun finally finished descending the horizon. He seemed to get lost in the blaze, and you watched his eyes become unfocused, showing him images that weren’t really there. “I failed them. My team. You.”

You stayed quiet, wondering if he was going to elaborate, or if he was too caught up in his vision.

“D’you know something’?” He asked, blinking until the fire came back into focus. “You used to beg me to wear this suit. So did Storm, Scott, Beast. All of you. And I refused, because god forbid anybody believe I wanted to be there.”

“What happened?” You asked him, wanting to reach for his hand, but knowing it wouldn’t help him get through this.

“I went out. And the humans went mutant hunting. By the time I stumbled home shit-faced from the bar… you—you were all dead. Every single mutant in that house.” He explained, his voice shaking, his lower lip trembling once again. You were almost certain he was seeing those images again, because he squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth.

A surge of sympathy shot through you. You wanted so badly to comfort him, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but you knew he wouldn’t believe it.

“So now I wear this goddamn suit as a reminder. To remember all of you. To make sure I never forget what I did.”

You released a deep sigh, the story sounding familiar to you, in some ways. He glanced over at you, seeing somebody else for a moment. After another few seconds, you reached into your shirt and pulled out the dog tags you had been carrying with you. You turned them over in your hand, running your thumb over the inscription.

He glanced wearily at them, and you reached out, grasping his fist in your own hand and pulling it loose until you could fit the dog tags in his hand, which you then squeezed shut. “I carry these with me, for the same reason. To remind myself that I failed you. That I can’t take that back. That I have to do better, even if all I want to do is give up. You aren’t the only one who did something wrong, here. If I could fix my mistakes, I would, but I can’t. So I carry on. For Laura. For anyone who needs it. And it seems like this… Wade needs it. From you.”

His hand was splayed open, turning over the dog tags in his palm as he listened intently to you.

“Be the hero you weren’t the first time around.” You told him finally, reaching out and placing your palm in his, squeezing around the dog tags, before letting go.

You went to stand, and he stood after you, reaching out.

“I—I know you aren’t her. I know that. But can I pretend, for a minute, that you are?” He asked you, and the vulnerability of the request wasn’t lost on you. Your Logan rarely ever asked for anything, even if he desperately needed it, so you could only imagine the courage that this Logan had mustered to ask you that.

You nodded, silent.

There was a pause, and he looked into your eyes, searching for something that you didn’t know you possessed. But he seemed to find it.

“‘M sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Logan told you at last, the apology seeming to burst from the depths of his chest. “I love you. I have loved you the whole time. I should have told you as soon as I felt it.” He confessed, and you saw the dog tags hanging from his fingers as he reached for you. And you couldn’t help yourself — you reached right back.

Your hands landed on either side of his face, so full of care, and you watched the tear run down his cheek. His own hands gripped you tightly, scared to let you go.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, voice broken.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You told him firmly, before rushing forward, pulling him into a hug so tight you could’ve heard his metal bones creak. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, and held you tight. “I don’t blame you. I love you.” You said, breathing the words into his ear as though that would make him believe it. He gripped you tighter, squeezing you against him. “I love you.”

You cradled the back of his head with one hand, pressing him close, because you were just as scared to let him go. Distantly, you heard Laura call your name.

After a moment, you pulled back slightly, only to press your forehead against his for a minute. You could pretend that he was your Logan, selfishly, just for a moment more.

Laura got closer, calling out your name once more, and you pulled back to look in his eyes. “I love you.” He told you one last time, before he allowed you to pull yourself from his grasp.

You had no idea whether he would be joining your group tomorrow, but you walked away from him with an empty chest, wiping away the tears that had dared to fall during the encounter. You would leave the last of the motivational speech to Laura, who you smiled gently at as you passed her in the woods, nodding towards where Logan still stood.

Logan had gotten what he needed from you. And you, from him.

[neospade]

THOUGHT IT WOULD BE YOU

pairing- MODERN AU! Portgas D.Ace x fem!Reader word count- 6.8k genre- fluff and angst synopsis- We tend to plan things beforehand but never know how things will take turn. you hoped it never turned out this way. note- You're going to hate me for this one...

The summer evening drifts in, slow and golden, as the sun sinks toward the horizon. The air is thick with warmth, carrying the lazy scent of sun-warmed earth and salty waters. A faint breeze stirs the trees, your leaves whispering softly, but the heat still clings to the skin like a fading memory of the afternoon.

The sky is painted in layers of fire and silk—deep oranges melting into soft pinks, then into the dusky purple of the coming night. The sun, heavy and low, lingers for a moment as if reluctant to leave, casting long, syrupy shadows across the fields and rooftops. Everything is bathed in its amber glow—fences, windowpanes, the still surface of a lake reflecting the sky like molten gold.

Somewhere, ice cubes clink against a glass. A distant laugh floats through the air. The hum of cicadas rises and falls in waves, blending with the occasional murmur of a passing breeze. Fireflies flicker lazily in the tall grass, tiny echoes of the stars that will soon appear overhead.

You and Ace lay side by side on the shore, your bodies sinking into the sun-warmed sand, molded to the earth beneath them. The waves roll in gently, touching your feet before retreating, leaving cool trails of foam against your skin. Your fingers are loosely intertwined, half-buried in the soft grains, as if anchoring themselves to the moment.

Ace’s dark hair fell in unruly waves, thick and wild, the strands sweeping over his forehead like the gentle aftermath of a storm. His skin was pale, the kind of pale that seemed to almost glow in the fading light, a stark contrast against the deep intensity of his features.

His face was sculpted, sharp cheekbones and a defined jawline that gave him an air of quiet strength. His eyes—dark, almost fathomless—held a depth to them, like they were searching the world and finding something there that others couldn’t quite grasp. A tattoo stretched across his forearm, partially covered in sand, its dark ink a striking contrast against his fair skin.

At first, you and Ace couldn’t stand each other. It wasn’t the kind of rivalry where words were exchanged or fists were thrown, but there was something about him—something in the way he carried himself, so effortlessly cool and distant—that grated against the quiet, orderly world you were used to. His dark, messy hair and that neglectful  way he looked at everything made your skin itch. You couldn’t understand why your parents insisted on playing the role of best friends, why their close bond had to extend to their kids.

You’d been forced to spend hours together, days even, while your parents chatted over coffee or attended dinner parties that stretched late into the night.

At first, Ace would ignore you completely, his attention always somewhere else, as if the world outside your house was more important than whatever games or stories you tried to pull him into. When he did speak, it was often some sarcastic remark or a quiet laugh at your expense, a teasing that you didn’t know how to respond to. You were opposites in every way, and it felt like you were always trying to prove something—to prove that you were different, that you didn’t belong in the same space as him.

"That's no way to treat people, Ace," Rouge, his mom would scold him, her voice a mixture of amusement and discipline, though it was hard to tell if she was truly angry or just mildly exasperated by his constant distance. "You don’t get to just ignore someone like that, especially not my sweet girl Y/N."

Ace would usually roll his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, but there was always a flicker of recognition in them—he knew she was right, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Rouge’s words were direct and unwavering, like a constant reminder that, despite his effortless cool and quiet detachment, there were rules that even he had to follow.

But then one day, you just stopped trying to get close to him. You were tired of the endless attempts to break through, tired of being ignored. So, you did what felt natural—you just started to ignore him back. You stopped pretending to care if he was there or not. If he was too cool to play, then you’d play alone. If he didn’t want to talk, then you’d spend your time in your own thoughts. Slowly, his presence became nothing more than background noise.

That’s when things started to change.

Out of nowhere, Ace began talking to you. Not in the sharp, biting way he had before, but in a quieter, almost casual tone, like the wall between you had finally been noticed and, for some reason, he decided it was time to tear it down. He’d start with something simple, like asking about a book you were reading or commenting on the way the sun hit the yard in the late afternoon. At first, you’d glance at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion, unsure of his intentions.

But he kept talking, kept finding ways to fill the silence that had once felt so heavy. It wasn’t instant, but slowly, bit by bit, you began to realize that you didn’t mind his company as much as you once did. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind yours, either. By the time high school rolled around, the tension between you and Ace had reached its peak. It wasn’t just the quiet indifference anymore—it had grown into something more complicated, something thick and heavy that seemed to hang between you two at all times.

His aloofness, his sarcastic remarks, his quiet dismissal of your existence—everything about him grated on you. And yet, there was something in the way he carried himself that always pulled you in, like a magnet you couldn’t escape, even when you wanted to.

Despite the constant tension between you and Ace, there was always something odd about the way he acted in front of your families. When the two families gathered for dinner, Ace would sit beside you, his usual aloofness replaced by easy banter and a relaxed smile. He would talk to you like you were old friends, the way he would have with anyone else—casual and comfortable, as if there was no lingering tension between the two of you.

His teasing would shift from sharp jabs to playful nudges, his dark eyes glinting with a mischievous warmth that made him seem like the Ace you’d always wanted to know. He’d lean in a little too close when talking, brushing his shoulder against yours with an exaggerated grin, as if to make a point of how “friendly” you were.

"So, how’s the relations between you two going these days?" Roger asked, his voice light but with a hint of amusement. "I remember when you both were kids... you couldn’t stand each other." He chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "Quite the transformation, huh?"

"Yeah, we’re really good friends now," Ace said casually, his tone smooth, a little too smooth.

And then, without warning, his hand moved under the table. You didn’t even have time to react before you felt his fingers lightly press into your thigh. His hand was warm, his grip tightening slightly, the subtle pressure enough to send a jolt through you, but he kept his gaze focused forward, maintaining the same easy-going smile.

"We've got a good thing going," he added, his voice soft but firm, as though it was an unspoken truth between the two of you that no one else could see. His hand squeezed your thigh once more, just enough to make your breath catch, and for a moment, everything felt dizzying. The contrast between the words he spoke and the way he was touching you sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you tried to keep your composure, even though the tension between you two was thick enough to cut.

Without thinking, you gently placed your hand over his and pushed it off, a quiet but firm motion. His fingers stiffened for a moment, but then he pulled away. You quickly returned your hands to your lap, keeping your eyes on your plate, pretending nothing had happened. Roger, thankfully, was still absorbed in conversation, oblivious to the tension that had just passed between you and Ace.

You didn’t dare look at him. You could feel his gaze on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it—not yet.

It wasn’t until senior year that something started to shift—slowly, almost imperceptibly, like the tide creeping in. Ace began to change. Not in any drastic way, but in small, subtle movements. He started talking to you, not with the biting sarcasm, but with an ease that was new. There were moments, in the hallways, after class, or at the lunch table, when his sharp edges softened, and he’d actually listen. He wasn’t dismissive anymore. He wasn’t the boy who always had a sarcastic comment or the one who barely acknowledged you. Instead, there was a quietness to him, a quiet that somehow allowed you to hear him, to see a side of him that no one else ever did.

You and Ace had been talking—well, arguing, really—and it was one of those moments where the frustration from years of unspoken feelings came rushing to the surface. He was saying something about how you overreacted, and you, of course, had a retort ready. The words were sharp, too sharp, and before you knew it, the distance between you felt impossibly vast again.

"I don’t need you to tell me how to feel, Ace," you snapped, trying to hold your ground, your voice trembling with emotion.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, exasperated. "I’m not trying to tell you how to feel, I just—" He stopped himself, his jaw clenched. "You’re so difficult sometimes."

"Me? I’m difficult?" You could feel the anger bubbling up, but somewhere beneath it, there was something else—something raw. "Maybe I wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a jerk half the time, you would understand my point of view-“

And then, without warning, Ace stepped forward. He reached for you, his hand finding your chin and tilting your face up toward his. You were caught off guard, your breath hitching, and before you could protest or pull away, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was fierce, urgent, as if he was trying to silence everything—every word, every thought, every argument—by kissing you into submission, as you kissed him back.

His kiss deepened, and that rush of feeling you’d been suppressing for so long came flooding back—everything that had been left unsaid between you two, everything you had both been hiding. When he pulled away, his eyes were soft, almost apologetic. "I don’t know how to do this," he murmured, his voice low. "I never knew how to tell you... how much I care."

You stared at him, the world around you suddenly quiet, as if the kiss had erased all the noise. "I don’t either," you confessed, your breath still uneven. "But I think I’ve known for a while, Ace."

Ever since that night, when everything changed, things between you and Ace had fallen into place. What started as an impulsive kiss grew into something real, something neither of you expected. The tension that once existed between you was replaced by an ease you hadn’t realized you both needed.

You spent your days in simple ways—drives to nowhere, lazy afternoons in the park—finding comfort in each other's presence. His teasing was no longer annoying; it was just a part of your rhythm, a connection that felt natural. There were moments when his gaze would say more than words ever could, and you’d realize you were falling for him all over again. Just like you did when you were just a child with a silly crush.

It’s been almost six years since you and Ace started dating, and somehow, it still feels as new as it did in the beginning. The days have turned into months, and the months into years, but the connection between you two remains as strong as ever.

Laying next to you, his arm behind his head, his eyes half-closed but clearly still watching you. After a few minutes, he broke the silence, his voice teasing. "Lost in your little cloud world again?" he said, his lips curling into a smirk. You turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You’re so up in the clouds right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if you started floating away," he said, his tone playful. "I’ve never met someone who could get so lost in the sky." You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. "Maybe it’s better than being stuck on the ground with someone like you," you shot back, nudging him with your elbow.

He chuckled, his gaze still fixed on you. "Yeah, I get it. You’re too busy thinking about your clouds to pay attention to me." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mock-whisper. "Don’t get too comfortable, though. I might just pull you back down to Earth with me."

You laughed, but Ace only grinned wider, clearly enjoying the way he had distracted you. The teasing, lighthearted banter between you both was as familiar as the sound of the waves, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for how far the two of you had come.

You rolled onto your side to face him, the teasing still lingering in your smile. "Oh, really?" you said, narrowing your eyes playfully. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

Ace stretched his arms out and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. "Easy," he said, leaning in a little closer, his breath warm against your skin. "I’ll just pull you down with me." Before you could react, he reached out, grabbing your wrist and tugging you gently on top him, his grip strong but playful. You laughed, trying to resist, but he just grinned wider, clearly enjoying the chase.

"You’re impossible," you muttered, squirming slightly to free yourself, but you didn’t really want to.  Ace’s face softened a little, his eyes meeting yours, the teasing fading as the moment turned more serious. "You know, I think I kinda like it when you get lost up there," he said quietly, the edge of his smile still there, but there was something else in his gaze now—something warmer, softer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change, but the moment passed quickly, and you could only roll your eyes again, pretending to be unaffected. "I’ll take that as a compliment," you teased, though your heart fluttered a bit at the sincerity in his voice.

Ace chuckled, leaning back into the sand, his arm once again behind his head. "You should," he said. "But still, don’t stay up there for too long. I might start missing you down here." You laid back beside him, the two of you silent for a moment, the quiet comfort between you filling the space. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the sound of the waves and the warmth of his presence beside you.  

Ace pushed himself up first, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he extended a hand to you. “Come on, let’s get in the water,” he said, his voice teasing, but warm with excitement. You hesitated for a moment, the cool evening air brushing against your skin, but then you took his hand. His grip was firm, steady, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to be pulled up with him.

You both walked toward the edge of the water, the gentle waves rolling in, sending shivers through your feet as they met the wet sand. Ace, with his usual daring grin, ran into the shallows first, laughing as the cold water lapped against his legs.

You followed, unsure at first but soon swept up in the carefree moment. Ace turned toward you, his eyes glinting with playful energy. “You’re so slow,” he teased, splashing water toward you. You retaliated by splashing back, the playful tension between you both rising as you laughed together, carefree as the ocean around you.

It wasn’t about anything other than the moment—the way the waves seemed to carry you both away, erasing everything else but the feeling of the cool water, the warmth of the sun setting behind you, and the sound of each other’s laughter blending with the rush of the sea.

The vacation had been a perfect escape, a brief reprieve from the usual pace of life, filled with lazy days on the beach, quiet nights under the stars, and moments where it felt like everything between you and Ace was exactly as it should be. But as the days passed and reality began to creep back in, things slowly started to shift.

It started with little things. Ace had always been the one to keep things light and carefree, but suddenly, there were moments where he seemed distant. His attention would drift when you spoke, and the playful teasing had begun to feel more like avoidance than affection. When you asked about it, he would always offer the same excuse: "I’ve got work to do," or "I’m just caught up in duties, you know how it is."

At first, you tried to brush it off, telling yourself it was just temporary, a byproduct of his busy schedule. But the days turned into weeks, and nothing seemed to change. He would come home late, always with the same excuse, and when you tried to talk about it, it was as if he was listening to you through a fog, distant and distracted.

"You’re just overreacting. Everything’s fine. I’m just busy, that’s all. You knew how this was going to be when I started taking on more responsibilities. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now." Is what he would say everytime  you  would try to discuss something with him.

The tension between you two grew, but it wasn’t the playful kind you were used to. It was something quieter, sharper—a weight that neither of you acknowledged, but both of you felt. Ace’s preoccupation with "his job and duties" had started to feel more like an excuse than a reason, and the space between you two widened, even though you were physically together more than ever.

You’d catch him staring off into space, his mind clearly elsewhere, and when you tried to reach out, he’d brush it off with a tired smile, muttering something about "being busy." His smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore, and it was becoming harder to ignore the coldness creeping into his words.

"You’re making this into something bigger than it is, I’m fine. We’re fine."

It wasn’t until that moment—the silence stretching between you two—that everything clicked into place. Ace’s coldness, his avoidance, his constant excuses—it had all been a way to hide the truth. The truth you had been blind to, even though the signs had been there all along.

You had been holding onto the idea that things would get better, that he’d snap out of whatever funk he was in. But now, sitting across from him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ignore the little details—the late nights, the odd behavior, the way he’d always seem to be “busy” or “working.” His preoccupation with “his job and duties” had always felt like a convenient excuse, and now you could see it for what it truly was.

The pain of that realization hit you like a punch to the stomach. All this time, the coldness, the emotional distance, the shift in his behavior—it hadn’t been about work or stress. He’d been cheating on you. It had been going on even before the vacation, long before you started feeling the cracks between you. And now, in the quiet of this conversation, everything came into focus.

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the overwhelming mix of betrayal and disbelief. How had you not seen it before? All those late nights when he was “working late,” the way he’d never let you near his phone anymore, the random trips he’d make out of town with no explanation. It all clicked now, the pieces falling into place like a puzzle you’d been too afraid to finish.

You swallowed hard, trying to hold onto your composure. “It’s not just work, is it?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended. “You’ve been seeing someone else.”

Ace froze, his expression faltering for the first time. The look on his face confirmed everything you needed to know. There was no denying it now. His eyes shifted uncomfortably, and the guilt was all too clear in the way he avoided your gaze.

“It’s not what you think,” he muttered, his voice low, but it was weak, the words lacking any conviction. The excuse was coming, and you already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

“Don’t,” you snapped, standing up from the table, your heart pounding in your chest. “I don’t want to hear it. I see it now. All of it. You’ve been lying to me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him. “Don’t try to make this my fault. You’ve been lying to me for months, Ace. And all this time, I’ve been here, thinking everything was fine. Thinking it was just work, that you were just stressed. But this… this is something else.”

The anger and hurt bubbled to the surface now, no longer something you could hide. “You’ve been cheating on me, haven’t you? And you’ve been using ‘work’ as an excuse for weeks. No more lies.”

His silence told you everything. It was the final nail in the coffin. There was no denial, no apology, just the heavy weight of his shame hanging in the air.

“I’m done,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite your best efforts to stay strong. “I can’t do this anymore.” Without waiting for him to respond, you turned and walked out, every step feeling heavier than the last. The pain of betrayal, the crushing weight of realizing you’d been fooled for so long—it was almost too much to bear. But you couldn’t stay there, not with him, not when everything had been shattered.

In the days that followed, Ace’s attempts to reach out to you started almost immediately. His calls flooded your phone, each one unanswered. The texts came in waves—at first, they were apologetic, full of excuses, each one more desperate than the last. “I’m sorry. Please, just talk to me.” “We need to fix this, I swear I can make it right.” But you didn’t respond.

The silence was the loudest thing in the room. You weren’t sure what hurt more—the betrayal or the fact that he thought his words could make it all go away. That his pleas could somehow undo everything.

After a few days the phone buzzed with an incoming call from Rouge. You knew what it was about, but you answered anyway, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air.

"Hello?" you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Hey, sweetheart," Rouge’s voice was gentle, but there was a sense of urgency underneath. "I’ve been talking to Ace, and he’s really struggling with everything that’s happened. I know you’re hurt, but I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing."

You sat back, pressing your fingers against your forehead, trying to push down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. You’d heard Ace’s apologies. You didn’t need to hear it again from his mother.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “But I can’t just pretend everything’s okay. What Ace did… it’s not something I can just move past.”

“I hear you,” she said, her words slow and measured. “And I’m not going to push you. You have every right to feel the way you do. I just… I just thought you should know, he’s really struggling. He never meant to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes. "I know he’s struggling. But so am I. And I don’t know if I can ever trust him again. I can’t just pretend everything’s fine."

Rouge didn’t try to change your mind, didn’t ask you for anything more. There was a long pause, and you could feel her letting go of the fight, accepting what you were saying, even though it was hard for her to hear.

“I understand,” she repeated softly. “I’m not going to ask you to forgive him or to talk to him. I just wanted you to know that he’s... he’s not okay. But you don’t have to fix that. You don’t owe him anything, not after what he’s done.”

You felt the weight of her words settle in. She wasn’t trying to convince you, wasn’t offering any more excuses. She wasn’t defending him. It was almost as if, in that moment, she had finally understood your decision.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, the weight of the conversation settling over you.

The call ended, and for the first time, you felt a sense of finality. Rouge hadn’t pushed, hadn’t tried to reason with you. She had heard you, truly heard you, and she had accepted what you had said.

You didn’t have all the answers yet, but at least for now, you knew you were done trying to explain. It was over. And now, all that was left was finding a way to heal from it.

A few years had passed since that last conversation with Ace. The days had stretched into months, and those months had turned into years, each one gradually pulling you further from the life you had known, the person you had once been.

You had moved abroad, leaving behind the echoes of your past, the memories of Ace, and everything that had once felt so real. It wasn’t a sudden decision—more of a quiet, inevitable one. It had been about distance, about time to breathe and rebuild.

At first, the distance had felt like a weight lifting off your chest. It was easier, somehow, to not be reminded of him every day, to not see his face in the crowd, or hear his voice in every corner of your thoughts. But as the years had gone by, the absence of him had settled in—a quiet ache, a ghost of the past you couldn’t quite shake.

Now, living in a different city, surrounded by new faces, new experiences, it was almost as if you had shed that old life entirely. You had built something new. Your own space. Your own routine. Your own life, separate from the ties of the past.

And yet, every now and then, you would catch yourself thinking of him. You’d see a pair of dark eyes in a crowd, or hear a laugh in the distance, and for a split second, your heart would stutter. Then, just as quickly, you would remind yourself of the reasons why you had left, why you had walked away, and the quiet reminder would fade.

You had moved on.

The decision to return had been a quiet one, almost accidental. You hadn't planned it. It had been years since you had been back in your hometown, years since you had set foot on the streets that used to feel so familiar, so comforting. But now, standing at the edge of the familiar skyline, everything seemed distant, altered by time and distance.

The reason for your return was simple: family. Your parents had asked you to visit, and despite everything, the pull of home, of the people who had shaped you, was something you couldn't ignore. Your parents missed you, and after everything that had happened, you had missed them too.

It felt strange, stepping back into the house where so many of your memories had lived. The rooms were the same, the furniture worn in the way only years of use could wear it, but everything felt different now. You weren't the same person who had walked out that door years ago.

When you walked in, your mother looked up first, her eyes lighting up when she saw you. "There she is!" she said, rising to greet you with open arms.

You smiled, your chest tightening slightly at the sight of her warmth. You let her pull you into a hug, feeling the familiar comfort of being held by her, even as a part of you hesitated.

"It’s so good to see you, honey," she murmured, stepping back to look at you, her hands brushing your shoulders. "You’ve grown up so much since the last time we saw you. How’s everything been?"

You nodded, taking a seat beside her. "It’s been good," you said softly, your voice not quite matching the smile you tried to offer. "Busy, but good. I’ve… been settling in."

Your father smiled at you from across the room, his expression softer than you remembered. "I’m glad you could make it back. We’ve missed you around here." His voice was steady, comforting in its usual tone, but you could sense the underlying question—what had happened? Why hadn’t you come back sooner? You could feel their eyes on you, expectant, and for a moment, a wave of guilt washed over you.

The conversation drifted between family updates, work, and life in general. Your mother asked about your new place, and you found yourself telling her about the little details of your life now—your favorite coffee shop, the parks you’d started running in, how much you had gotten into reading again. Your father chimed in with a few stories about old neighbors, making you laugh.

Your mom had moved around the kitchen, preparing lunch with the same practiced ease that you had always remembered. The scent of fresh ingredients filled the room, and for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. She hummed softly to herself as she chopped vegetables, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around you like a familiar hug.

Suddenly, she stopped mid-chop, her eyes widening as she looked at the counter. “Oh no, I completely forgot to pick up something from the store,” she said, putting the knife down. “I need cream for the sauce and—oh, some more potatoes too.”

Without missing a beat, you stood up from your seat, offering a reassuring smile. “I’ll go. I don’t mind,” you said, heading toward the door. “I’ll grab everything for you. Plus I wanna take a walk around the area to see what has changed”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” You gave her a quick hug, and stepped out of the kitchen, the door clicking softly behind you. The air outside was crisp, carrying with it the scent of earth and the familiar quiet of the small town.

You started down the street toward the market, your footsteps slow, giving yourself a moment to breathe. It wasn’t a big deal, just a simple errand, but something about it felt oddly grounding—like a tiny, fleeting return to the part of your life that had once felt so natural.

You walked through the narrow aisles of the store, picking up the items your mom needed—cream, potatoes, a few other things she’d mentioned. The shelves seemed the same as always, stocked with familiar brands and colors, but there was a slight unfamiliarity to it now. As you turned toward the dairy section to grab the cream, a voice broke through the soft murmur of other shoppers.

"Sorry, can I passthrough pleas-"

Your heart stuttered for a brief moment, and you turned toward the voice, your eyes scanning the aisle. There, standing with a cart half-filled with groceries, was a man you had once known so well.

His presence hit you like a rush of cold air, catching you off guard. He was older now, of course. His features were sharper, more defined, but that same dark intensity still lingered in his eyes. His hair was shorter, styled neatly, no longer the messy waves that used to fall over his forehead, but the same familiar shape of his jawline, the same confidence that used to make your heart race, was unmistakable.

“Hey,” he started after noticing it was you, his tone much lighter than before. “It’s really good to see you, actually. It’s been... what, a few years?”

You nodded, allowing the small smile to return. “Yeah, a few. It’s kind of strange being back here, but it’s nice. My mom’s been wanting me to visit for a while now, so I finally made it back.”

He chuckled, his hands casually resting on the handle of the cart. “I get it. Sometimes it’s nice to just come back home for a bit, even if it’s just to catch up with family. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You shifted slightly, feeling a little more at ease as the conversation shifted. “I’m good, yeah. Settling in, you know? I’ve been living abroad, so it feels a bit like a homecoming.”

Ace nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I can imagine. I’ve heard from some people around town that you’ve been doing really well. It’s good to hear.”

You smiled, feeling a little warmth in the exchange. “Thanks, it’s been a big change, but it’s been good. And your family? How are they?”

He seemed to soften a little more, his expression changing from casual to genuinely thoughtful. “They’re good. Roger’s still... well, Roger. Same as ever, and my mom’s doing well, too. You know, keeping busy, but always there to give advice whether you ask for it or not.” He laughed softly, a fondness in his voice.

But then, just as the conversation seemed to settle into an easy rhythm, a soft, high-pitched voice interrupted.

“Daddy!”

Both of you turned toward the sound. It came from a little girl, maybe four or five years old, standing a few aisles over. She had her arms stretched out, calling out to Ace with wide, excited eyes.

“Daddy!” she repeated, her voice full of joy.

Ace’s face shifted in an instant—his smile turning to one of pure affection as he looked down at her. “Hey, sweetie,” he called softly, and immediately the little girl came running toward him.

You stood there, feeling a soft pull in your chest as you watched the scene. Ace bent down to scoop her up into his arms, the little girl wrapping her arms around his neck and giggling as he lifted her effortlessly. She kissed his cheek and smiled brightly.

“This is Ann,” he said, looking over at you with a sheepish grin. “My daughter.” You already knew whose choice the name was. Roger always would mention that if he had a daughter he would name her Ann.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him with her, the love between them undeniable. “She’s adorable,” you said, your voice soft, the smile lingering.

Ann looked up at you with wide, curious eyes, the innocence in her gaze disarming. She couldn’t say much, but her gaze spoke volumes. Her small hands reached out toward you, almost as if asking who you were. You smiled at them both, feeling a quiet warmth spread through you.

 “She’s lucky to have you.” Ace’s eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the past felt like yesterday. You stood there, watching Ace with Ann in his arms, a soft smile still lingering on your lips. The moment felt strangely peaceful, the distance between you and him gradually shrinking in ways you hadn’t expected.

But then, as Ann fidgeted slightly in his arms, Ace’s expression shifted. He looked at her for a moment, his gaze soft, almost protective, before turning back to you.

“I thought it would be you,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something unreadable. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you had heard him right.

You blinked, surprised by the weight in his voice. “What do you mean?”

Ace hesitated, his fingers absentmindedly brushing through Ann’s hair, but his eyes never left you. There was something vulnerable in his gaze, something raw. “I thought it would be you,” he repeated, this time more clearly, his words wrapped in an apology. “You were... always the one. The one I thought I could get it right with.”

You felt your chest tighten, the years of distance between you both suddenly feeling so close, so real. His admission, the quiet honesty in his words, hit you in ways you hadn't expected.

"I'm sorry," he added softly, the weight of his regret lingering in the simple phrase. “For everything. For how things turned out... I never wanted it to end this way.”

A woman’s voice broke through the moment—sharp, familiar, and warm, but with an edge of impatience. “Ace, I was looking all over for you,” she said, her voice a little breathless as she walked up to him. Then, her eyes landed on you, and she paused for a moment, a flicker of recognition passing through her expression.

“Ace,” she repeated, looking at him curiously. “Who’s this?”

Ace shifted, his expression faltering for just a moment before he regained his composure, his hand still holding Ann’s small hand. “Someone I knew a long time ago,” he said with a stern look. “We grew up together.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, still holding a warm smile, but now there was a glint of curiosity behind it. “Oh, I see. Nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand to you with a polite but cool gesture.

You shook her hand, her grip firm and confident. “Nice to meet you,” you replied, though something about the interaction made the air feel charged, almost awkward.

"Well," she said with a small nod, clearly not pressing further, but her gaze lingered for a moment too long. "I guess it's been a while. It’s good to see old friends reconnecting. Anyway, I was just finishing up with the shopping, and I thought I’d find you before we head out."

Ace nodded, his posture shifting slightly, clearly more at ease with her presence. “Yeah, we should get going.”

As the woman turned to leave, she gave you one last smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It was nice meeting you,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of politeness but something that seemed slightly guarded, too.

You excused yourself from the store, feeling the weight of the encounter settle in your chest. The smile you had worn so easily just moments before had faded, replaced by a quiet uncertainty. The warm, light atmosphere of the store now felt stifling, and the chatter around you sounded distant as you pushed your cart toward the self-checkout.

The drive back to your parents’ house was a blur. Your thoughts kept circling back to that brief moment at the store, replaying every word, every glance, trying to make sense of it. The town you once called home suddenly felt foreign, as if everything had shifted without you even realizing it.

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your bags and walked up to the door. Your mom’s voice greeted you from inside, muffled by the closed door, her usual energy filling the space. You opened it and stepped inside, the familiar scent of your mom’s cooking filling the air, mixed with the softness of home. She looked up from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she saw you.

“Welcome back, sweetheart,” she said with a smile, though her eyes searched yours for something more. You couldn’t help but give her a smile, but it was fleeting.

“You alright?” she asked, noticing the subtle shift in your mood as you began unpacking the items from the store.

"I ran into Ace at the store."

Her expression shifted slightly, but her face remained neutral. She didn’t ask how it went, or if it had been awkward. Instead, she just nodded, waiting for you to continue.

“His wife was with him," you continued, feeling the words spill out before you could stop them. "She called him over, and he... he introduced me to her. I never thought I’d see him like that, you know? Like... a different person."

Your mom didn’t say anything, just watched you carefully, her hands folded in her lap. Her face was calm, but her eyes seemed to hold a depth of understanding, as if she knew what you were feeling without you having to explain.

“ ‘I thought it would be you’ he even told me” you add with a smile, holding back tears from the feelings of the past that are rushing into you right now.

“Oh my dear, we all thought it would be you…”

all author rights go to @neospade

[legendofmorons]

Written in the stars (forever on loop) chapter eleven - something in the orange

Pairing: eventual poly! Chain x reader, Wind & reader

Rating: T

Summary: After a nice break and lunch you find yourselves under attack in the evening. Injuries and hovery heroes leave you ready to bathe... but when you're alone you meet two people you probably shouldn't. The boys are trying their best to help you and handle themselves but the shadow makes that hard.

(Aka: After you and Wind chill, Time experiences grief during a battle and then sees the injuries. Oh, and you meet Onyx and Dink, who are Poorly Socialized... the boys have a heart attack. Twilight and Aild are just... tired.)

Warnings: cursing, injury, blood, canon typical violence, semi-graphic descriptions of injury, broken bones that stick out

Other: If I missed anything please let me know

Curse count: 3

Previous masterlist next

-------

Even after eating breakfast and packing up camp, you find yourself dealing with two hovering heroes in the form of Legend and Warriors. Both men walk directly behind you and Wind, bantering half-heartedly and staring at you.

You're about ready to ask them what's going on when Wind grabs your arm and excitedly points to a hill that looks perfect to roll down. "Race you to the top!"

"We can't just run off," you snort as you eye the teen.

"Old man!" Wind calls, "Can we take a break?"

Time turns, surveying both the group and the land around you. He looks so serious.

He isn't like you remember, but you barely remember anything. Do you even know him?

Do you know any of them? Are you going to?

Time's voice cuts through your thoughts. "We can take a break."

("We can take a break, darling," the man before you soothes as he loops his own red scarf around your shoulders as you shiver. "You will get sick at this rate.")

Wind grins as he takes off towards the hill. His excitement is infectious as he cackles.

You snort again, running after him.

You drop your bag at the foot of the hill where he drops his and then keep going.

Wind beats you by a little bit, but he's absolutely grinning.

It's good to see him happy.

Wind throws himself sideways and rolls down the hill as you gasp his name in shock. He laughs the whole way down.

He pops to his feet and calls out to you, "Come on! Roll down here. It's fun!"

"Sailor don't make people roll down a hill," Hyrule sighs.

You snicker, but roll down the hill anyway.

You roll to a stop at the bottom, and Wind flops over your stomach immediately.

Grunting, you raise a hand to pat his back. "Warn me next time."

"Sorry," Wind says.

You let your eyes close, soaking in the sun.

The others chat around you, and Time passes lazily. The sound of your boys is relaxing in a way that only

"You know, I'm glad you're traveling with us again," Wind informs you.

You let yourself smile a little, "Me too."

"Do you know what's going on with Legend and Warriors?" Wind asks you as he turns his head, resting it on his arms while he still lays across you.

You give a half shrug. "Not really."

"They're being... weird," the teen muses. He bites his cheek and then sighs. "They only act like this when something is hurt or upset."

"Is someone hurt?" You ask, eyes widening.

"Not that I know of."

"Maybe... maybe they're upset?" You muse.

It makes sense.

There's the way they hover and the strange far away looks. Both of them trail after you...

Maybe watching you fall into the river upset their grief again...

"Maybe," Wind says.

You sigh, relaxing into the ground.

Wind's weight across you is a welcome anchor to reality.

"You know, I met you as a grown man?" You offer idily.

"What?" Wind says.

"I went through a portal between the town and reuniting with you guys."

"You did?" Wild asks from where he works on lunch.

"I did. I met Wind, but he was old enough to have gray hair," you say easily. "Spooky loved him too."

"No way," Wind gasps.

"Yes way."

"Prove it!"

"He knew about the seagull you gave me. Also , he had pictures of the group."

"That's so cool!" Wind declares.

His eyes may as well have stars in them. His excitement is almost contagious.

You laugh. "He was pretty cool."

"Well, duh," the boy snorts.

Spooky comes to stretch out across your chest and lean against Wind. They would like attention now. Please and all that.

You grunt but move to pet the panther.

"Did I tell you anything important?" Wind asks.

You give a soft smile, trying to be reassuring.

Nausea courses your viens. How do you answer that?

So much of what older Wind spent time telling yyouis important. Most of it you aren't supposed to share.

Well...

You can say one thing.

"He said we all live through this mess," you offer.

"Fuck yeah!" Wind cheers.

"Language," Time calls with a sigh.

"Hylian!" Wind calls petulantly.

You snicker. Should you encourage the kid? Probably not. But it's funny in a petty sibling way.

When lunch is ready, you find yourself thanking Wild. His food is amazing.

-------

Time finds himself in the back of the group for the second half of the day's walk.

You're in the front now, with Wind and Spooky on either side of you. Warriors and Legend are still hovering around you.

Twilight walks beside Time this time, silent as Epona walks with them.

The oldest of the group can't pull his gaze from you.

Nothing you're doing right now is particularly eye-catching, aside from the fact that you could convince anyone you are his dearest. You are not. He knows this, but you are so close that it both burns and frozen his heart at once.

There's a split second of dread. Something is incredibly wrong.

Time opens his mouth to warn them, but you beat him to it.

"Get down!" You bark in a voice far too close to commanding officer than a civilian should possess.

He barely has time to process your voice.

There's the sound of horns as moblins and bokoblins rush from the trees, rocks arcing through the air haphazardly.

Time takes his sword in hand, and he focuses on the fight.

He can't afford to stare after you. Not in a fight like this.

The monsters are a mix of black blooded and not, which makes it hard to tell until you get a cut on them.

Metal clashes.

Time catches strikes on his blade.

Growls and grunts echo around him.

Hissing and curses.

Thuds sound around him.

Time finds himself back to back with Warriors.

You fight back to back with Legend and Wind both, Spooky happily mauling monsters in Time's peripheral. He has the moment to think a quick 'good kitty'.

Lizafos and keese come out of the trees.

The monster forces double in numbers with the additions.

This is not good.

At all.

Adrenaline pumps in his viens.

His heart thunders in his ears.

Time grips his sword in both hands as he blocks a strike. He twists it around and disarms the lizafos.

He stabs through it.

There's a yowl of pain.

Time glances over as he slashes his sword.

Spooky is flying, deep slashes across their ribs.

Ouch-

"THAT'S MY CAT!" You shout as you dart forwards towards the moblin responsible for it.

"(Y/n)!" Legend calls.

Time flinches.

He turns to his own fight.

He has to get through this.

Then he can help others.

Time becomes more vicious.

He bashes aside swords.

He knocks his pommel into heads.

His slashes become faster.

His stabs crueler.

The only thing that exists aside from his blade is the captain at his back.

Time is not letting -

There's a hiss that steals his attention.

"Leave them alone!" Wind calls.

Arrows start piercing through monsters.

Time glances over towards the trees and spots Wild.

The champion is firing off arrows two or three at a time with deadly precision.

Good.

Time finally is able to look back towards you, whole fighting.

Your sword stabs through the beasts leg.

Good.

Legend speeds behind it via pegasus boots and ends it with his own weapon.

Time slays the last of his monsters.

The rest of the fight blurs.

His heart pounds.

His sword sings.

His body twists around.

Blood rushes his viens.

Laughter rings out from Warriors behind him as the last monster goes down.

Time puts his sword away.

He takes a deep breath.

He starts his post battle head count and safety check.

Warriors is fine with a few scrapes and minor cuts. Nothing major. Maybe a bandage or two for the slash across his bicep.

Time finds Wild with a few gashes and dark bruises but standing and coherent.

He sees Hyrule and Four together, also a little roughed up but no worse for wear.

Sky has a limp and a gash across his leg, but he is stable for now.

Time checks himself and finds some new dents and a few new gashes and bruises, but he is fine.

The old man looks to where you, Legend, and Wind are, and his blood runs cold.

You have a solid wound across your side, tunic sliced and hanging open over the wound.

Legend has a broken arm that hangs at odd angles.

Time swallows hard when he sees Wind.

The sailor is in the worst shape by far. He has blood coming from the back of his head and a bone actually sticking out of his shin. Blood is all over him.

He wants to take you, Legend, and Wind to a healer right now. All three of you are hurt beyond acceptable and expected fight standards.

Time can't make his feet move.

He watches as Warriors starts towards you three.

Hyrule is rushing over as well.

"Don't look at your leg, look at me," your voice carries through the open area.

"My bone is sticking the fuck out," Wind grits.

You nod. "It is. Look at me anyway."

Time manages to start moving now. He walks closer.

He watches as you take Wind's hand in your own.

"You're going to have the coolest scar," you say.

Wind groans as Hyrule starts prodding around the extruding bone.

"And you'll have a new kick ass story," you offer easily.

"What happened to you three?" Time asks as he stops behind you.

"Lizafos," Legend huffs.

Wind shouts a curse as his bone is reset.

Hyrule starts healing him.

You pat Wind's shoulder gently. "You're doing great."

"I'm not a baby," Wind huffs.

"No, but you got slammed against a tree, and your bone was sticking out, I'd tell anyone they're doing great. You didn't even kick when they reset the bone. I'd have kicked," you admit wryly.

Wind sighs, "I guess."

Time glances over to see Twilight set Legend's arm and watch the veteran grunt. Ouch.

You still bleed steadily from you gash in your side.

Time can hear Warriors muttering about shields. Again.

Hyrule heals Wind quickly.

Wild fishes out a fairy from the depths of his slate before releasing it above you.

The fairy heals you with a few chimes.

Hyrule heals Legend next.

Time doesn't know what exactly you just experienced, but he does know he should have protected you.

He didn't.

Time failed miserably.

He can't justify the ocarina, but part of him wants to.

-------

You find yourself at a river a little bit away from camp. Bathing in a river is not ideal, but it's a thousand times better than nothing. You aren't going to pitch a fit. You're just happy to wash off the sweat and blood.

You set out the extra tunic that Twilight scrounged up for you.

Finally away from the group, including the oddly hovery Warriors and Legend, you let yourself relax.

Spooky, who currently has bandages around their injury, sits nearby playing gaurd for you.

Convincing Hyrule to wait to heal Spooky until after he's got his magic up again was a test in patience. You aren't even sure why he's so set on it? Spooky's is okay, the slashes across them are shallow and mostly done bleeding.

(He doesn't hate Spooky, but he also hasn't spent much time around the panther?)

You strip off your clothes and step into the river, wading in until the water reaches your waist.

The cool water rushes by like a blessing.

You allow yourself to take this time to reflect.

Since you found the boys you almost drowned, had some weird flashback to a war, gotten a hurt again, and found yourself two clingy heroes.

Sky is withdrawing, but you can't blame him. He's probably got a lot on his plate, and if you're bringing up memories...

You're just grateful he waited to withdraw until after a few of the others started to step up.

Sky is such a sweetheart, you know, aside from killing a God and also being a menace. You're still unclear on if he took the gremlin options in his adventure that was presented in the game or not...

You can't even begin to understand what's going on with Time and Twilight right now.

This is such a mess.

It would he so much easier if there were a walk through of this like there are for the games.

You bathe and let yourself take time to recharge.

You dry off and re-dress in the clean tunic, putting the torn one on top of your bag so you can ask Legend to repair it.

He did offer after all.

There's a ripple of something distinctly cold in the air but it's almost a sub consciousness feeling.

You turn to look behind you and gasp, stepping back.

Two shadowy figures are before you.

One is easy to name, a familliar figure that sends your heart on a run.

Dark Link stands there, shadowy magic whips around his firm as his red void eyes seem to peer into your soul. He looks like the teen version of Time...

He looks dangerous.

The air is getting colder by the second.

The second figure has the same dark grey skin. Their eyes are a silver void, haunting and strange. They look like - like a Dark Link version of you.

You yank your sword from beside your bag, and hold it out towards them. Your hands shake.

"What do you want?" You ask as calmly as you can.

Your heart races.

Spooky comes up to your side, staring the two figures down.

"You're scared," Dark Link says with a grin.

"We won't hurt you unless you start it," the Dark You (?) assures in a sickly sweet tone.

"Who are you?"

"You, little human, can call me Dark," Dark Link - Dark - says before he takes the hand of the other dark figure. "This is my darling lamb, Onyx."

You have the distinct and half hysterical thought that Onyx looks less like a lamb and more like a wolf borrowing your shape.

"What do you want? I'll scream right now," you threaten.

"We just want to give you some friendly advice," Onyx purrs. "Those heroes of yours are no good."

"They are deplorable, but you especially are better off away from them," Dark informs evenly.

You take a deep breath.

You white knuckle your sword.

"You aren't making any sense. They are heroes," you say.

"They are a death sentence," Dark sneers immediately, shadows starting to whip around him like fire.

"Why do you care?" You ask.

You should probably scream... you probably should have already screamed or tried to run.

But honestly? Your curiosity is always easy to peak. It's part of how you ended up staying to meet Spooky.

It's how you found so many things in Zelda games.

Your curiosity is strong... and the two beings before you have piqued it.

"We rather like you alive," Onyx says as they step forwards.

They cross the space between you, knocking your sword aside and to the ground before you react.

Onyx grips your chin, resting it on their minter and using their thumb to angle up your head. They run a nail along your throat. "You're rather breakable, (Y/n) (L/n), and those heroes will get you killed."

You yank away from Onyx, swallowing hard. "Don't touch me."

"So touchy," Dark chuckles, and he slides up beside Onyx, snaking an arm around their waist. "For a light creature, you are entertaining."

You swallow hard. You don't like any of this.

You know you won't win this fight. Spooky is hurt, and your sword is already on the ground.

You make a choice.

If you are going to die on this adventure, it will not be because you didn't ask for help against the being made to match the best fighters in Hyrule.

You know Legend and Warriors can probably run the fastest without grabbing anything. Split second thought running like a tornado.

"HELP! LEGEND! WARRIORS! ANYONE!" You scream at the top of your lungs.

"Oh, you just had to ruin our fun," Onyx pouts.

Dark sighs, "You will never learn, will you? Tell me, do you even know what you are?"

Onyx tilts theie head, "You know, I know you better than you know yourself, little human. You're still curious."

"You - You don't know me," you say.

There's the sound of running coming from behind you.

"We should go," Dark says, "Do try to stay alive, yes?"

Legend and Warriors break the tree line.

"GET AWAY FROM THEM!" Warriors snarls.

Dark and Onyx laugh as they sink into the shadows, letting the sound echo.

The two beings are gone.

Your heart still feels like it might beat out of your chest.

"Are you hurt?!" Legend demands as he skids to a stop by your side.

"I - No."

The others come sprinting over.

"Thank the Golden Three," Warriors breathes out as he sets a hand on your shoulder.

"What happened?!" Wind demands.

"The shadow was here, talking to them," Legend snarls lowly.

"It had a friend," Warriors grits out tightly.

"Holy shit," Wind breathes out, "(Y/n), are you okay?!"

"Just... shaken up?" You manage as you turn to see the others.

Every single hero looks like they have lost all the blood in their face.

"You're sure you're not hurt?" Time asks tightly.

"I'm sure."

Legend grabs your arm, hands gentle with you even as he looks like he might go hunt down every evil of the world right now. "You're absolutely sure? If you're trying to hide something and it gets infected-"

"I'm okay," you say firmly. "It was just - really weird."

"What happened?" Twilight asks.

You swallow. "They showed up behind me and started talking? They said you're all bad and are going to get me killed? They're weird..."

The entire group aside from Wind reacts to the 'getting you killed' comment so strongly it hurts.

Legend's grip on your arm turns bruising as he makes a soft, half cut off sound.

Warriors stiffens beside you and chokes on a response.

Time looks like he's going to vomit, face going even paler.

Twilight and Wild both look incredibly akin to guilty dogs, refusing to meet your eyes.

Hyrule has his hands in fists as he stares at the ground like he's trying to psychically light it on fire.

Sky and Four both look like they might pass out, eyes wide.

"Well, evil assholes always say dumb shit," Wind scoffs.

Thank goodness for Wind.

"Seems like it. Thanks for coming... I - didn't know what to do," you admit.

Legend lets go of your arm. "We're just - glad you're okay."

Sky nods, "We are."

"Let's get back to camp. We all need to eat," Time says quickly, not looking at you.

Oh.

He has too many feelings about this.

He can't be blaming himself... can he?

You take your things and let yourselves go back to camp with the others.

Warriors and Legend flank you on either side.

None of the heroes seem willing to stray too far from you... but you aren't upset about that right now.

-------

Twilight is on middle watch with Wild keeping him company while he lets his mind wander. The champion can't sleep, and Twilight is happy for the extra eyes.

"I can't believe the shadow got so close to them," Wild sighs.

Twilight nods, looking over the camp again to be sure everyone is safe. "I dunno what he was thinkin', but I don't wanna risk lettin' him get so close ag'in."

Wild huffs, "You said it."

Warriors mutters in his sleep, turning over.

Twilight sighs. "I dunno how any of 'em are sleepin'... I couldn't get a wink 'fore my watch."

"I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight," Wild agrees.

The rancher sighs, gaze landing on you like it often does during his watch these days. His shoulders are still tense. "I - I know that the (Y/n) here isn't our (Y/n)... but they're close 'nough that hearin' that scream damn near killed me."

"I know where you mean," Wild sighs.

You lay on your stomach with Wind across your back and half out of his own bedroll. Spooky lays against your side.

There is no cause for concern. You sleep hard still...

Twilight can't stop worrying.

What does that damnable shadow want from you anyway? You are already on this adventure despite not being a hero.

Is this a way to torture them?

"What are we supposed to do? Twi - we can't keep this up. They're in danger all the time and nome of us are doing okay..." Wild sighs as he trails off.

"We just -" Twilight takes a deep breath. "We just gotta do our best, Wild."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Wild says before he offers an empty chuckle.

"Y'know, yer gonna be fine."

"I'm just tired, Twi. We all are."

"Yeah..."

You mumble something in your sleep, faintly sounding like a name.

Twilight just sighs. This is going to be a long night.

--------

Next

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[strawberryblue-blog]

Astraphobia —FC BARCELONA.

summary: How would you react to you having a phobia of storms/lightning/thunder?

warnings: none. fluff, cute, angst, sad, discomfort, etc.

words count: +1.2k.

#SEXYNOTE: kinda inspired by my own fear. I hope you enjoy it, love you 🩵💌

Pedri González.

He feels guilty when there are storms, because he enjoys them, while you suffer. He would quickly run to you and wrap you tightly, cradling you while whispering that everything is going to be ok.

For that reason he would be very close to you, holding you, hugging you, whispering random things in your ear, so he can distract you and help you.

He really doesn't like to see you like this, so small on the bed, covering your ears while loud booms fall from the sky, your tears and sobs make him sick. He feels he can't do anything else and that makes him angry so he won't move from your side until it's all over.

Pablo Gavi.

He doesn't like or dislike storms, let's say it's all the same to him. But after he found out about your phobia, he started to hate them. More because he knows they hurt you, he doesn't like to see you suffer so he will make sure to take care of you.

Before leaving home he looks at the weather forecast, he knows that so you can be safe. He doesn't want to leave you alone suffering. He would be very attentive to everything and if he is away from home, Gavi would come back quickly while he can.

His strong arms hold you, while you are under the blanket, cuddling. Your scares and jumps scare him, so he will hold you tight, if you cry he will tell you jokes, kiss your face, make noises, anything to distract you.

Ferran Torres.

He never met anyone with this fear before, he didn't even know it existed, but when you told her, vhe began to research it to educate himself and help you.

He has several techniques, like taking you to the shower, running you a hot bath and playing the music very loud, before the storm starts. Because if you hear a single rumble, you will collapse and he won't be able to get you up.

He also usually closes the curtains and turns on all the lights so that you do not see the lights, he would also make a homemade tent in the room where she would put lights, candles, food and anything for you. While cuddling and soothing you with his sweet words and touches.

Fermín López.

Although he likes storms, he prefers that they don't happen for your sake. He doesn't like to see you bad and understands your phobia.

He would be very attached to you, even if you want to look strong and try to overcome it, when you jump or scream, he will run to you. He will never let go of you, he wants to make you feel safe and loved, that nothing will happen to you when Fermin is with you.

He would accompany you to the therapist to help you overcome this fear and be your anchor, he wants you to feel good, he wants you to not have to hide every time it rains, he wants you to get out of that hole and be able to keep on living. He will be there for you always, no matter what.

Alejandro Balde.

At first it was hard for him to understand your phobia, he would see you disappear when the storm came and crawl under your bed without talking while you cried. He had no idea it existed and after your parents told him, he now understands you completely.

He got mad at himself for not asking you sooner and not helping you when it happened. Now he doesn't leave your side while you play chess on the floor.

He knows that chess distracts your mind so you can get through the storm faster, but when the rumblings get too loud, he will put you under his arms and cover you, while whispering beautiful things to you and kissing your hair.

Héctor Fort.

He thought it was kind of funny when you told him because he didn't know someone could have a phobia of storms but after hearing your trauma and understanding it, he regretted it.

He will be by your side when it happens, he will hug you while they are under the quilts, playing and tickling each other, trying to distract you from the noises.

He would carry you on his back to go to the kitchen or the bathroom while he covers you and takes care of you, you could watch movies, read, sleep, listen to music. Hector would do everything to protect you and keep you from suffering during storms.

Lamine Yamal.

If it were up to Lamine, he would fight the storms for you. He doesn't like it when something makes you feel so anxious, trapped and scared. He really hates it when you suffer and will do anything to take care of you.

From setting up a shelter in the bedroom, with fun things, movies, food, books and whatever it takes to keep you sane and not to worry.

He will help you get through it with therapy sessions, talk about your fear, try to face it to overcome it. He wants you to get through it but in the meantime he will protect you from everything.

Pau Cubarsí.

He's not going to lie to you, he's a little scared of storms too. But not the way you do because of your trauma. And he's aware of that, so he would try to support you in any way he could.

That's why, every time there's a storm, Pau gets more affectionate than usual. He will kiss you, hug you, hold you, anything to make you forget what's going on outside.

If he can't calm you down, he will play music at full volume and dance with you, all the songs you ask for and even teach you his master steps. You will jump, you will play, you will do anything to make your mind go blank. All night long he will be there for you, because you are special to him and he doesn't want anything bad to happen to you.

[speaknowgirl3184]

Visions Of Death

Anakin Skywalker x Y/n

Haunted by relentless visions of your death, Anakin Skywalker begins to unravel, growing distant in a desperate attempt to change the future the Force has shown him, no matter the cost.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of death, killings, gore and more. (Let me know if there is anything else I did not mention).

Word Count: 2.7k

Masterlist

Anakin jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his heart hammering so violently it felt like it might tear through his ribs. The sheets clung to his sweat-drenched skin like shackles, his chest heaving as though air itself had become too heavy to breathe.

He lies in the bed in your shared quarters in the Temple, bathed in the pale glow of Coruscant’s skyline. Outside, speeders hum, indifferent to the war, the death, or his unraveling mind.

But Anakin heard none of it. All he could hear was your scream.

His hand shot up to his temple, trembling violently as he tried to steady himself. It had been more than a dream. It felt real, like he had lived through your death and was being forced to wake up in a world where it hadn't happened, yet.

He squeezed his eyes shut and saw it all again.

His hand trembles as he runs it through his hair. The way the ceiling buckled and collapsed in a roar of metal and flame. You, beneath it, too far away. Him, shouting your name until his voice broke, using the Force to tear beams aside like they were nothing. Reaching. Running.

But not fast enough.

You had looked at him just before the end, your eyes locking onto his. Wide. Glassy. Mouth slightly open, saying his name. 

He sat up sharply, dragging both hands down his face and into his hair, gripping fistfuls of it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Anakin swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cool floor. For a moment he remained still, trying to focus on his breath.

His eyes drifted to your side of the bed. You were still curled there, soft and warm beneath the sheets, your face turned slightly toward him in sleep. Peaceful. Innocent.

Untouched by what he had just seen.

He reached for you, instinctively, his hand hovering just above your shoulder, fingers shaking with the urge to wake you. To pull you close. To feel your heart beating against his. Alive. Alive.

But he stopped himself. You deserved your rest.

With slow, stuttering movements, he rose from the bed and crossed the room, pacing like a caged animal. The walls of the Temple felt tighter tonight. Every step he took echoed too loudly.

Every thought he had was of you. Broken. Gone. And him, kneeling in the wreckage, surrounded by fire, with nothing left to save.

He didn’t sit again until the horizon had begun to pale—Coruscant’s first hints of dawn brushing the clouds in shades of violet and rose. He sank to the floor beside the window, back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest like a child.

-----------

You feel it before you see it, the way he begins to pull away. At first, it’s little things. His greetings are rushed, distracted. He forgets your routines, your jokes. Conversations stall. Kisses are fewer, colder.

Anakin still looks at you the same way, sometimes. Like you’re his sun, his anchor. But those moments are fleeting now.

“You already ate?” you asked one evening after a mission, frowning at the untouched plate you’d left for him.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he replied flatly, not even looking up.

He was hungry. You knew him. You knew his tells. But he hadn’t lied to hurt you. He lied because the truth would’ve been worse.

He was slipping away.

Sometimes you caught him meditating alone in your quarters, legs folded in silence, shoulders rigid with tension. His brows were always furrowed, like he was bracing for impact only he could sense.

Once, you reached out to place a gentle hand on his back.

He flinched.

He flinched.

You never mentioned it. You only stepped away and sat beside him in silence, pretending not to notice the ache blooming in your chest.

One evening, the sun was setting over Coruscant, the Temple balcony bathed in hues of gold and fading rose. He stood there with his back to you, arms crossed, cloak fluttering gently in the breeze.

You sat beside him, close enough to touch but leaving a deliberate gap.

He didn’t look at you.

"You don't talk to me anymore," you say quietly.

Anakin didn’t respond right away. His jaw clenched. His breath hitched.

"I'm trying to keep you alive," he snaps, then catches himself, the words bitter on his tongue.

You turned to him fully, studying him, seeing everything he wouldn’t say in the furrow of his brow, the tremble in his jaw. "What does that mean?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You reached for his hand, your touch hesitant, but firm. “Anakin…”

He pulled away.

“I can’t,” he said finally, his voice a low tremor. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked away, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor, leaving you behind in the fading warmth of the sunset.

And for the first time, you felt truly alone.

-----------

You’ve waited, tried to be patient, tried to understand. But there’s only so much silence a heart can take before it breaks.

So when you find him alone in your quarters that night, sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, you don’t hesitate.

“Anakin.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look up. But you see the way his shoulders tense at your voice, like the syllables physically hurt him.

“You can’t keep shutting me out,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re scaring me.”

He lifts his head slowly, and your breath catches.

He looks like he’s been through war all over again. His cheeks are hollowed, eyes bloodshot and ringed with purple shadows. There’s stubble on his jaw that he hasn’t bothered to shave, and his tunic hangs looser than it used to. He looks thinner. Fractured.

He clenches his jaw, his voice a low rasp. “I can’t stop it.”

You blink. “Stop what?”

He exhales shakily. His hands tremble at his sides.

“I see it,” he says. “Every night. I see you die.”

“What… what do you mean?”

His gaze is intense now, burning with desperation, grief, and fear tangled together in a storm you can’t begin to unravel.

“In my arms,” he says. “You’re dying in my arms. And there’s nothing I can do. I try, I try so hard to reach you, to get to you in time. But I will never make it.”

You step closer, heart hammering. “Is it a dream?”

“No. A vision. From the Force. It’s real. It’s all real.” His eyes are wide, bloodshot. “And every time I try to change it—something else happens. A new death. A worse one. Always you.”

His eyes meet yours, bloodshot, too wide, filled with terror. “Every time I try to stop it, something else happens. Something worse. You fall. You burn. You drown. And every time, it’s you. It’s always you.”

You reach for him, your hand trembling. “Anakin—”

This time, he doesn’t flinch.

He lets your fingers close gently around his. His hand is cold, but he clings to yours like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Let me help you,” you whisper, stepping closer. “We can face it, together.”

His face twists like something in him is breaking. You see it, the moment he lets his guard fall completely. His breath shudders out of him and he sways slightly, like the admission cost him everything he had left.

“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, barely audible.

Your free hand rises to cup his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone.

“And I can’t lose you, Anakin.”

He pulls you into a kiss, sudden and consuming, his hands threading into your hair, arms pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish between one heartbeat and the next. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Like he's trying to anchor himself to this moment, to your warmth, your heartbeat.

Like he’s saying goodbye without the words.

You kiss him back, fiercely, trying to pour all the love, all the defiance, all the life you have into him.

Neither of you says it, but the kiss tastes like a promise you both know you can’t keep.

Like a goodbye.

-----------

It happens after another vision. This one longer. Sharper. Clearer.

You’re surrounded by fire, crimson and gold licking at the edges of a collapsing structure, the heat so intense it warps the air around you. Smoke coils like a noose, choking the light. You’re on your knees, hand outstretched, reaching through the chaos.

You cry out his name.

Your voice pierces the roar of flames, raw and desperate, not with fear, not even for your life.

But for him.

And that’s what shatters him.

You’re not afraid of dying. You don’t scream for help. You scream because you know what this will do to him. You scream because you’re trying to reach him, to ground him, even in your final breath.

When Anakin jolts awake, his skin is drenched in sweat, his chest tight with a sob he doesn’t let out. The image of your hand, charred, reaching, burns behind his eyes.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He’s already halfway out the door before his mind fully catches up.

There’s only one person left who might know how to stop this. Only one voice whispering promises in the silence.

He finds Sidious that night.

-----------

He comes to you in the middle of the night, like a man possessed.

You wake to the sound of the door sliding open, too fast, too loud, and the rush of unsteady footsteps crossing the room. The air is still thick with sleep when your eyes flutter open.

Anakin stands at the foot of your bed, shrouded in shadow.

He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s run through the entire Temple.

“Come with me,” he says. 

His voice is hoarse, low, and sharp around the edges.

You sit up slowly, heart already beginning to race.

“What?” you whisper. “Anakin, what—?”

“Come with me.” He takes a step forward, urgent now. “We have to leave. Now. I know how to save you.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, rising to your feet. “Anakin, what? What are you talking about?”

“I did it.” His voice is almost reverent, trembling with conviction. “I found the way. You don’t have to die. I can stop it.”

You study his face. He’s shaking, not from fear, but adrenaline. His pupils blown wide, his jaw tight with restraint. There’s something feral in the way he looks at you, like he’s cornered by his own desperation.

“What did you do?” you whisper.

He hesitates.

Just for a breath.

“I did what I had to,” he says finally.

But he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He tells you bits, too fast, too vague. You hear words like power, saving you, destiny. But none of it makes sense.

You see it now, the way his aura has shifted. The way his presence in the Force has grown colder, heavier. His voice used to carry warmth, even in his rage. Now it echoes with something else entirely.

“Anakin…” Your voice breaks. “You’ve changed.”

He shakes his head fiercely, stepping closer. “No, I’m finally strong enough. You won’t die. I won’t let you.”

You shake your head and step back instinctively, he freezes. “This isn’t you, Anakin.”

He reaches for you, and you let him—for one breathless moment, forehead against his, hands in his hair, his arms around you like he’s holding on for dear life.

He looks pained. Like your words are knives. He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, and before you can stop him, his hands are in your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

His forehead presses against yours, and for one suspended second, you’re both still.

Your hands lift, one resting on his cheek, the other against the back of his neck.

You can feel him trembling.

And still, some part of you wants to hold on. Wants to believe this is still him. That he can come back.

“I’m doing this for you,” he whispers, his breath warm against your lips.

Your eyes burn. “I never asked you to.”

You feel his exhale shudder, as if the words have gutted him.

But he doesn’t let go.

-----------

You’re kept away from the Temple when it happens.

It’s a coincidence, maybe. Or the Force. Or fate, cruel and precise.

Or maybe… maybe it’s him.

Maybe some part of Anakin, some fractured, hidden sliver still clinging to who he was, found a way to send you elsewhere. Kept you just far enough away. Gave you just enough time.

You don’t know.

And you never get the chance to ask.

You hear whispers first.

Murmurs in the hangars. Half-formed rumors, impossible claims. A fire at the Jedi Temple. An uprising. A massacre. No one speaks with certainty, but the fear is there, tight and coiled in every voice.

You try to contact the Temple. Over and over.

No one answers.

And then you hear the truth.

The details come in fragments, like shattered glass. Each one cutting deeper than the last.

The Jedi are dead.

The clones turned on them.

He led it.

The Chosen One.

Anakin Skywalker.

The boy who burned with love and fury and stars in his eyes. The man who swore he would protect you. Who kissed you like you were his tether to the world.

He led it.

He walked through the Temple with a blade like death in his hand. And children, Force, children, fell at his feet.

You’re in a crowded refugee transport when the name Vader reaches your ears.

And you know.

It settles into your chest like cold iron. Your breath leaves you in one slow, silent exhale.

Anakin Skywalker is gone.

And what remains is not yours anymore.

But you also understand something else—something worse, something heavier than death.

He gave it all up trying to save you.

His soul. His name. The light inside him. The very thing that made him who he was.

He burned it to the ground, piece by piece, for a future you never asked him to make.

And somehow, you survived.

Because he wanted you to.

Because he made sure you did.

-----------

 Years Later: 

The galaxy has shifted, crumbled, rebuilt itself on the bones of what came before. Empires rise. Rebels bleed. Stars die, and still, time marches on.

And Vader stands alone.

The Force is quiet here.

There are no orders. No missions. No one to kill. No one left to serve. He doesn’t know why he came to this place, only that it pulled him, subtly, insistently. And he obeyed.

He stands at the edge of a canyon, motionless, a dark figure against a lightless horizon.

And he remembers.

He remembers you.

Not always clearly. Time and pain have blurred the edges. But there are moments, brief, blinding in their clarity, that return with unbearable sharpness.

The sound of your laugh echoing through temple halls.

The way you used to stand with the sunset behind you, golden light caught in your hair.

The warmth of your hands cupping his face after a nightmare, whispering, “I’m here. I’m always here.”

He feels you still.

In dreams, though he rarely sleeps. In the quiet just before waking, when the world hasn’t yet reassembled itself into metal and fire and pain.

In memories that strike without warning, like lightning to the chest.

In the ghost of your touch.

Sometimes he reaches for it. For you.

Anakin. Please. Come back.

But he cannot go back. He cannot undo what he did.

So he stands. And he waits.

Not for redemption. Not even for death. But for the end of all things, perhaps. For the moment when memory finally leaves him. When even your face will fade.

But it hasn’t yet.

And above all else, he remembers the last thing you said to him.

You’d whispered it like a vow. Like a truth deeper than the Force.

“I would’ve rather died with you… than lived without you.”

He does not speak.

But if he could, if there was anything left of his voice that still belonged to him, he might’ve said,

I’m sorry. I loved you. I still do.

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

This might be my new favorite. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did writing it! 💗