#ca!fragmentation

[heliotrope155]

Cas always manages to carry and conceal a weird assortment of stuff in his coat (a magic trick that endlessly amuses Dean) and eventually Dean starts groping Cas as he rummages through the coat (Cas lets him, knowing that Dean's going to find nothing) and Sam's horrified by whatever bizarre foreplay he's watching and irritatedly informs them that he's getting another room.

[fuckspn]

i have nothing funny or clever or insightful to say. cas told dean he loved him and then he died.

[godgavemenoname]

hmmm im trying to think of an alter name for myself but i can't find one that rly fits me aaaa ;~;'

[p0tasiu]

Cand Nietzsche a zis "Ich wandle unter Menschen als den Bruchstücken der Zukunft: jener Zukunft, die ich schaue" am simtit aia

[pastellus]

Another gem from my latest ROM visit that filled me with immeasurable glee:

Look at that little owl!! He's so goofy and cute and so dear to me and so so very clearly a LITTLE OWL (Athene Noctua) which is, of course, the species of owl that represents Athena

Look at how small that little guy is:

Athena holding a helmet and a spear, with an owl. Attributed to the Brygos Painter (c. 490–480 BC). The Metropolitan Museum of Art. And, look at these incredible further examples cute little owls in pottery:

Armed owl. Attic red-figure Anthesteria oinochoe, ca. 410–390 BC

Skyphos with Owl between two branches of olive wood. Attic red-figure pottery. Archaeological National Museum of Spain.

Attic red-figure kylix, owl between two olive branches. Found in the Mengíbar Necropolis. Archaeological National Museum of Spain.

Owl skyphos. From Most na SočI, end of the 5th century BC. Tolmin Museum.

Owl skyphos. Attic, mid-5th century BCE. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Terracotta rim fragment of a kylix. Attic, dating 480–470 BCE. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I just wanted to share these because they also always make me smile. One of my favourite things about going to the museum has always been looking at sculptures and pottery.

[j3lly-fish]

Well, about time I stop teasing and actually post these, right? 🤣 I decided to post the horns individually and have the accessories come out in batches later, gonna be better for my mental health LMFAO. I made these in hopes to have some variety for my unicorns in my story, which turned this whole project into a massive set, so I hope you enjoy them!

This was a pretty big project, so let me know if there's any issues I may have missed!

Unisex

All LODS

10 New Meshes

Teen to Elder

Polys: Azazel (382), Orpheus (298), Poseidon (586), Lyre (586), Cyclone (634), Chrysalis (690), Scythe (418), Mini (298), Broken (148), Fragment (524)

Found in Occult Details, Skin Details and Hats

Disallowed for Random (At least im 99% sure I fixed that)

50 swatches each (They all use the same texture!)

Known issues: These horns use a small portion of the Hat texture slot, meaning hats will most likely not be compatible with this. If you can't find some of my cc in your game, its likely you'll need CAS Unlocks for it (like occult detail slots).

You can recolor and edit my meshes, but please just link back to my original post! ♡

DON’T reupload, claim as your own or put behind a paywall

You can tag me so I can see what you do with my cc!

✦ DOWNLOAD (SFS) ✦ DOWNLOAD (PATREON) ✦

[wendichester]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ heaven and other things,

summary. castiel tends to ramble. a lot

pairing. castiel x reader

wordcount. 475

The bunker is unusually quiet tonight. No hunts, no pressing research, no looming apocalypse. Just the hum of the overhead lights, the faint scratch of Sam’s pen against paper in the library, and Castiel’s voice, steady and low, filling the room.

You sit across from him at the war room table, a half-finished beer in front of you, your legs tucked beneath you on the chair. He’s talking—has been for the last fifteen minutes—and you don’t interrupt. You never do.

“…Of course, the celestial hierarchy is more complex than humans often assume,” he says, brow furrowed in thought. “For instance, cherubim are not as affectionate as the name might suggest, nor do they resemble infants with wings. That was an artistic misinterpretation.”

You nod slowly, watching him with something between amusement and fondness. “That so?”

Cas tilts his head, considering. “Yes. They are, in fact, quite fearsome. Their true form is—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Difficult to describe in a way that wouldn’t inspire existential dread.”

You huff a quiet laugh, resting your chin on your palm. “I think I’ll just stick with the Cupid version.”

He gives a small, almost imperceptible smile. “That would be wise.”

The conversation drifts.

He tells you about the stars, about how humans barely see a fraction of what’s out there, about constellations that don’t have names in any human language. He talks about Heaven—not the version people imagine, but the real one. How it shifts and changes, how souls exist in fragments of memory, how time doesn’t quite work the same way.

“I don’t visit as often anymore,” he admits, fingers idly tracing the edge of his trench coat where it drapes over his lap. “It doesn’t feel like home.”

There’s something unspoken in his voice, something heavy, but you don’t push. Instead, you offer him something simple.

“You feel at home here?”

Cas looks at you, and there’s a beat of silence before he nods. “Yes.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, quiet and soft, like the glow of a candle in the dark.

Neither of you speak for a while. The bunker hums around you, steady, safe. Castiel’s eyes flicker toward your beer, thoughtful.

“I still don’t understand the human attachment to alcohol,” he muses. “It tastes unpleasant and impairs cognitive function.”

You grin. “Yeah, well, sometimes humans like being impaired.”

Cas considers this for a moment. “That is… troubling.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Welcome to humanity, Cas.”

He exhales, almost like a laugh, and settles back in his chair. And for the rest of the night, he keeps talking, and you keep listening—because there’s something soothing about his voice, about the way he sees the world, about the way he cares.

And in the stillness of the bunker, with Castiel’s voice filling the space between you, everything feels a little less lonely.

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[lionofchaeronea]

Mosaic fragment, ca. 400 CE, from Roman Syria, depicting a peacock. Now in the Kimbell Art Museum, Fort Worth, TX, USA.

[valkyriexo]

You Faint | Bang Chan

ᑉ³pairing; Bang Chan x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff,

ᑉ³warnings; Fainting due to Dehydration and being busy, mentions of not eating, mentions of not drinking water, kissing, Implied Female reader, Established relationship

ᑉ³Authors Note; Other members coming soon!

Part of the "He helps you when.." collection. Other members parts: Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Han | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

In the flurry of your responsibilities as a personal assistant to the CEO of a massive corporation, every second counts, every task critical to the smooth functioning of the business. Despite the hunger gnawing at your stomach and the parched feeling in your throat, you soldier on, driven by the need to ensure that everything operates seamlessly for your employer.

Hours blur together as you navigate the demands of the corporate world, your own needs pushed to the sidelines in the relentless pursuit of success. The weight of expectations presses down on you with each passing moment, propelling you forward even as exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you. You don't have time to notice the way your limbs grow heavy with fatigue, the world around you fading into a distant blur as you push yourself beyond your limits.

But as the day wears on, your body begins to rebel against the neglect it's been subjected to. Dizziness clouds your vision, a warning sign of the toll the day's exertions have taken. With every step, your limbs grow heavier, protesting against the punishing pace you've been maintaining.

And then, without warning, it all becomes too much. Your vision blurs, black spots dancing at the edges as dizziness overwhelms your senses. Your knees buckle beneath you, unable to support the weight of your weakened body, and before you can even comprehend what's happening, darkness claims you.

As consciousness slowly seeps back into your awareness, you find yourself nestled on the plush couch of the CEO's office, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only sound in the room. Your head throbs with the remnants of your fainting spell, a dull ache echoing through your skull.

Blinking groggily, you glance around the room, your eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. To your surprise, you find yourself surrounded by two or three other assistants, their faces etched with concern as they hover nearby, murmuring amongst themselves.

"Hey, are you okay?" one of them asks, her voice laced with worry as she kneels beside you, her hand hovering over your forehead. "You gave us quite a scare there."

You nod weakly, the events of the day slowly coming back to you in fragmented pieces. "I... I think so," you mumble, your words slurred with exhaustion.

The other assistants exchange worried glances, their concern palpable in the air. "You should rest for a bit," another assistant suggests, her tone gentle as she helps you sit up, offering you a glass of water.

Taking a sip, you feel the cool liquid soothe your parched throat, the sensation a welcome relief. As you lean back against the cushions, you're grateful for the support of your colleagues, their presence a comforting reminder that you're not alone in your struggles.

"Thanks," you murmur, offering them a weak smile. "I appreciate it."

"We were so worried about you," one of them says, her voice filled with genuine concern. "You gave us quite the scare."

You offer a weak smile, still feeling disoriented and unsure of what happened. "I'm sorry," you mumble, your words barely audible.

Another assistant nods sympathetically. "We called for help," she explains gently. "We wanted to make sure you were okay."

You furrow your brow, confusion clouding your thoughts. "Called for help." you repeat, the words sinking in slowly.

Your mind feels foggy, memories hazy and fragmented, making it difficult to grasp the severity of the situation. The concern in the assistant's eyes only adds to your growing sense of unease, prompting a knot of anxiety to tighten in your chest.

Before anyone can elaborate further, the door to the CEO's office swings open, and Chan rushes in, his expression a mix of panic and relief. "I got here as fast as I could," he says breathlessly, his eyes darting around the room until they land on you. "Are you okay? What happened?"

You swallow hard, the reality of the situation hitting you like a ton of bricks. They called Chan, your emergency contact, before they even called the paramedics. You feel a pang of guilt knowing that he's here now, worrying about you, when you hadn't wanted to burden him.

As Chan rushes to your side, his expression a mix of relief and concern, you can see the worry etched into every line of his face. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches out to grasp yours, his touch both reassuring and desperate.

"I... I don't know," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I fainted, I think."

Chan's eyes widen with alarm, his grip on your hand tightening. "You fainted?" he repeats, his voice tinged with disbelief. Chan's concern deepens, his brows furrowing with worry. "Do you know why?" he asks gently. "Did you eat today? Drink enough water?"

You shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny, the guilt of neglecting your own well-being weighing heavily on you. "I... I may have forgotten," you admit sheepishly, avoiding his gaze.

His expression softens with understanding, but a flicker of frustration dances in his eyes. "Y/N.."

"I just didn't have time," you whine, feeling the weight of his disappointment settle over you. "I have deadlines to meet, and it's been really busy here with the CEO prepping for a major partnership with another company. Plus, I'm in line for a promotion, Chan. If I do well, it's almost guaranteed. But if I fail, then I have no shot."

Chan's expression doesn’t give much away, but his resolve remains firm. "It's not that important," he insists, his tone gentle but firm. "There will always be other opportunities. Your health should come first."

You shake your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Not everyone can lead and be super talented like you, Chan," you argue, your voice tinged with emotion. "Some of us have to work twice as hard just to keep up."

"I know it feels that way," he says gently, as he reaches out to cup your cheek, his touch warm and comforting. "You're already doing more than enough," he assures you, his gaze unwavering. "But your health should never be sacrificed for success."

You sigh, feeling the weight of his words settling over you. "I know," you whisper, your voice heavy with resignation.

Chan's hums at your response, his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment longer before he reluctantly withdraws. "Let's go home," he says gently, " You need rest."

With a heavy heart, you rise from the couch, your legs trembling beneath you as the full extent of your exhaustion becomes apparent. Chan's eyes widen in concern as he notices your struggle, his expression softening with empathy.

"Here, let me help you," he says, moving to your side and slipping an arm around your waist for support.

You lean into him gratefully, feeling the warmth of his embrace. With Chan's steadying presence, you manage to make your way out of the CEO's office and towards the elevator, your fatigue pressing down on you with each step.

As you reach the lobby, Chan guides you towards the exit, but when you attempt to take a step forward, your legs buckle beneath you, weakened by fatigue. Chan's eyes widen in alarm, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he catches you before you fall.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.

You nod weakly, feeling embarrassed by your inability to stand on your own two feet. "I'm just... really tired," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Without hesitation, Chan sweeps you up into his arms, his strength a reassuring presence against your exhausted frame. "Let's get you home," he says softly, his voice filled with tenderness.

You nestle into his embrace, feeling safe and secure in his arms as he carries you out of the building and towards the waiting car.

Once you're settled into the car, Chan drives you home with careful attention, his concern never wavering as he steals glances at you from time to time. When you finally arrive at your apartment, he helps you out of the car and guides you inside, his arm wrapped protectively around you.

As you enter the cozy sanctuary of your home, Chan guides you towards the couch. However, he senses your hesitation, the way you lean heavily on him as if struggling to keep your balance.

"You need to rest," he insists softly, his voice laced with concern as he helps you settle onto the cushions. Despite his gentle urging, you remain silent, the weariness evident in every line of your body.

"I feel gross," you finally murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, admitting to the discomfort that weighs heavily on you.

Chan's brows furrow with worry, his gaze searching your face for any sign of discomfort or pain. Seeing your distress, he nods in understanding.

"Would you like to take a shower?" he suggests gently, his tone filled with empathy. He waits patiently for your response, ready to provide the support and comfort you need

You shake your head slowly, a feeling of exhaustion washing over you. "I don't think I have the energy," you confess, feeling a pang of guilt at the admission.

Chan's expression fills with empathy as he steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently squeeze yours. "That's okay," he reassures you, his voice soft and comforting. "Why don't we start with something smaller? Like washing your hair?"

You blink back tears, starting to feel overwhelmed. "I just... I feel so drained," you admit, your voice trembling with emotion.

Chan nods sympathetically, his gaze filled with compassion. "I understand," he says softly, his words a soothing balm to your weary soul. "Let's take it one step at a time, okay?

As Chan helps you make your way to the bathroom, you feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at your limbs. With his steady support, you settle on the edge of the bathtub, feeling drained and weak. Chan kneels beside you, his gentle hands reaching for the shower head. His concerned gaze meeting yours.

"Lean back," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody in the quiet bathroom. You obey, allowing your head to rest against the edge of the tub as Chan pours the water over your hair, the liquid cascading down in a comforting stream.

The sensation of the warm water against your scalp is both soothing and revitalizing, washing away the weariness that has settled deep within your bones. Chan's touch is tender, his fingers massaging your scalp with care as he works shampoo into your hair, creating a rich lather that fills the air with a subtle scent of eucalyptus.

As Chan tenderly tends to your needs, a wave of helplessness crashes over you, leaving you feeling small and useless. The inability to perform even the simplest tasks on your own gnaws at you, a constant reminder of your vulnerability. You watch as Chan effortlessly takes care of everything, his competence highlighting your own shortcomings.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips as you struggle to suppress the rising tide of frustration and self-doubt. "I hate feeling like this," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, tinged with the bitterness of inadequacy.

"Like what?" Chan's voice is gentle, his concern evident as he seeks to understand you.

"Helpless," you confess, the word heavy with emotion.

Chan notices the heaviness in your sigh and the sorrow in your eyes, and his heart aches with empathy. Leaning closer, he places a soft kiss on your lips.

"You're not helpless, love," he murmurs, his voice soft and filled with affection. "You're just taking a break. Everyone needs a little help sometimes, even superheroes like you."

His words are like a warm embrace, wrapping around you with love and understanding.

"You're my baby," he whispers, "And I'll always be here to take care of you, no matter what."

As Chan rinses the shampoo from your hair, the water running clear and pure, you feel a sense of renewal wash over you. With each gentle stroke of his hands, you can feel your energy slowly returning, a flicker of hope igniting within your chest.

When the task is finally complete, Chan reaches for a fluffy towel, wrapping it around your shoulders with care. He helps you to stand, guiding you away from the bathtub.

"Let's dry your hair a bit so you don't go to bed with it wet," he suggests, his lips forming a shy smile. He grabs a hairdryer, carefully adjusting the settings before starting to blow dry your hair, the warm air a comforting embrace against your skin.

As he works, you feel a sense of peace settle over you, the sound of the hairdryer a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Chan concentrates intently, his brow furrowing as he focuses on the task at hand. His brow furrows in concentration, his lips pursed in determination as he attempts to weave the strands of your hair into a braid. With each failed attempt, a mixture of frustration and amusement flickers across his features, his cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment.

You can't help but find his earnest efforts endearing, and a soft chuckle escapes your lips as you watch him work. The sound fills the small bathroom, mingling with the gentle patter of water droplets.

"Where did you learn to braid?" you ask, genuine curiosity in your tone.

Chan looks up at you, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "I've been teaching myself," he admits, his fingers still fumbling with the strands of your hair. "I thought... one day, when we have kids together, I want to be able to braid their hair. I want to be the kind of dad who can do that."

His vulnerability touches your heart, and you reach out to gently squeeze his hand, a tender smile playing on your lips. "You'll be an amazing dad," you assure him, your voice filled with love and admiration. "And you're already an amazing partner."

"I want to be better,"he says softly, his voice tinged with sincerity. "For you."

He leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. His lips are soft against yours. As he pulls away, his eyes shimmering with adoration, he presses another tender kiss to your forehead before returning to his task.

"You did great," Chan whispers, his voice filled with pride and admiration, as he guides you to your bedroom. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm, comforting light across the room as he fusses over you, fluffing pillows and tucking blankets around you until you're cocooned in warmth.

With gentle hands, he arranges the pillows behind you, ensuring you're propped up just right for maximum comfort. He tucks the blankets snugly around your shoulders, his touch tender and reassuring as he ensures every corner is tucked in securely.

After making sure you're settled, Chan disappears into the kitchen, the faint clinking of dishes drifting through the air as he prepares your meal. Moments later, he returns with a tray laden with food – a simple yet nourishing meal, prepared with love.

The aroma of home-cooked food fills the room, mingling with the soft scent of freshly laundered sheets. Chan sets the tray down on your bedside table, arranging the dishes with care before settling in beside you.

As you eat, Chan sits close by, his warmth radiating beside you. He regales you with stories and jokes, his laughter filling the room with a sense of joy and ease. Each tale is punctuated by his infectious laughter, and despite your weariness, you can't help but smile at his antics.

As you finish your meal, feeling the warmth of the food spreading through your body, Chan rises from his seat beside you, his movements fluid and graceful as he clears away the dishes. The clinking of plates and silverware fills the air as he tidies up, his attention to detail evident in every gesture.

Once the dishes are cleared, Chan returns to your side, settling in beside you on the bed. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle embrace. The familiar scent of his cologne envelops you, soothing away the remnants of tension that linger in your muscles.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle closer to him, reveling in the warmth and security of his embrace. Chan presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his touch a silent reassurance that everything will be okay.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice low and raw. As he speaks, he guides your hand to his chest, letting you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath his shirt.

"Every time you're in pain or in danger," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, "it's like my whole world stops."

You feel a lump form in your throat, a rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. "I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. "It wasn't on purpose."

Chan shakes his head, his grip tightening around you as if afraid to let go. "I know," he says softly. "But I need you to promise me something."

"What?" you ask.

"Promise me that you'll always try your best to care of yourself," he says, his tone earnest. "Promise me that you won't push yourself too hard, that you'll listen to your body and prioritize your health."

You meet his gaze, seeing the depth of his concern reflected in his eyes. With a nod, you offer him a small smile, filled with gratitude and determination.

"I promise," you vow, your voice steady with conviction.

Chan's eyes soften, a tender smile playing on his lips. "And I promise in return," he says softly, "to always be there when you need me, or a little extra help."

He settles back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you're both comfortable. As you nestle into each other, Chan reaches for the remote control, flicking through the channels until he finds a movie that catches your interest.

The soft glow of the TV bathes the room in a warm, flickering light as the movie begins to play. You rest your head against Chan's chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat getting faster beneath your ear. It's a comforting sound, a reminder of the love and stability that he brings into your life.

As the movie unfolds, you lose yourself in the story, the worries and stresses of the day fading into the background. With Chan by your side, you feel safe and at peace, cocooned in a bubble of love and warmth.

ઇଓ M.LIST | Ko-Fi | Taglist | Thank you for your support ♡ | Consider leaving a comment, reblog or like ♡ | © 2024 Valkyriexo 

[syncsnzthings]

(A little bit of a mess warning at the end. Just a little, though.)

"Don't sneeze," they whisper close to your ear before pulling back just enough to see your face.

They trace a white feather up the side of your face, teasing your cheek, under your eye, then lightly trailing down the bridge of your nose. You can already feel your nose reacting to the stimulation, even before the feather reaches your nostrils. The structured tip of the feather reaches your nostrils and circles them lightly.

Your breath hitches softly and your nostrils flare out in protest. You already feel like you could sneeze, but you have to obey. You can't sneeze so soon. You spend a few moments like that; hitching softly as the feather gently traces your sensitive nostrils.

"Good, keep holding it in for me," they say softly. You can feel their eyes on you, even with your own eyes squinted in concentration as you try to subdue your twitching nose.

Your hand rises naturally to rub the irritation away, but they catch your wrist in their hand. They tug your hand back down to your side. "Nuh uh, no touching. You have to prove to me that you can hold it back on your own."

As punishment, they insert just the tip of the feather into your left nostril. You can feel the feather tickling and teasing the sensitive inside of your nostril. Your nose twitches, your mouth opening wider with panting breaths interrupted by sharp hitches. You can feel every little plume of the feather irritating your nose.

The feather slowly pushes even further into your nose. You gasp. You feel like your nose is quivering, trying desperately to expel the irritant even as you resist. Your eyes water, obscuring what little vision you had left. Your nose is twitching frantically now, nostrils flaring wide.

You can feel your nose running, and you sniffle in an attempt to control yourself. Sniffing like that only causes small fragments of the feather to break off and fly even further up into your sinuses.

"Don't sneeze yet. You have to ask for permission," they tell you, wiggling the feather inside your nose to aggravate it even further.

You open your mouth to ask, to beg to sneeze, but the tickling in your nose is making it nearly impossible to speak. All you manage to do for a few moments is gasp and hitch helplessly.

"P-puhhh-! Ple-hease!" You try, hoping it's enough.

It's not. "Please what? Use your words."

"Cad I- hih! Ca-ahh! Cad I s-sdeehh- Sdeeze? Please-!" Your consonants are nasally as you beg to be allowed to sneeze. Your poor nose is trembling and nearly dripping.

They don't say anything for a moment. You barely hold on, gasping in rapid, sharp breaths as you teeter on the edge.

"Alright, go ahead and sneeze for me." They slowly pull the feather out of your nostril, allowing it to drag against the sensitive flesh as they do so.

Finally given permission, you take in one final gasp of air before expelling it all back out in a massive, desperate sneeze. You can feel mucus shoot from your nose and dribble down to your upper lip. It feels so good to sneeze. You take in a shaky post-sneeze breath ad do it again. Several times in a row, you suck in a huge lungful of air just to shoot it back out in a loud, satisfying sneeze.

By the end of the fit, you're panting and your face is a mess. tears streak down your face and mucus dribbles from your bright red nostrils.

"Oh, good job, honey. You held back so well for me. And now look at how messy you are, poor dear," they coo at you, but they don't make any move to clean you up. Instead, they bring their hand up and press their thumb to the sensitive tip of your nose. "Let's do that again."

[p-seduonym]

The Little Light That Got Lost (Part Nine)

A/N: Yall I was so wrapped up in the two updates yesterday that I forgot I had homework. Was up for hours finishing it. Anyway, here's more of my bad life decisions. I should be reading Shakespeare right now but I'd rather make this.

Taglist: @cheust, @i-simp-for-women, @goodsoup19, @143637-hrrm, @delias-stuff, @12nitled, @cutenessbun, @rinkydinkythinky, @trashlanternfish360, @bunbunbread, @daddysfangirls-dc, @justannie18, @moon0goddess

Part One

Part Two

Part 2.5

Interlude

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Gotham City Municipal Archives — Document No. 2287-A Collection: Morwen Estate Holdings Recovered: October 16, 1936 – from subfloor storage, Morwen Parish House (formerly Wayne Estate) Condition: Bound parchment folio, twine binding. Ink faded. Final pages partially destroyed by moisture.

Document Title: "Untitled Journal (Author Unknown, presumed female servant of Wayne Household, ca. 1640s–1660s)"

Archival Notes:

Entries contain frequent references to infant care, religious guilt, dreams, and sightings of the dead.

Name “Yaya” appears repeatedly, possibly a nickname or spiritual moniker.

Multiple entries imply mistreatment by an unnamed governess and inappropriate attentions from a male figure— possibly Nathaniel Wayne, referred to as “The Master”

Final pages include erratic symbols and fragmented writing.

Catalogued by: A. Kearney, Archivist

Accessed by: John Constantine

[Journal Entry--date unknown]

madam is sick. she don’t rise no more. she dont eat cept a bite or sip. the babe did wake at the 3rd hour. madam did not move. I shaked her and say “madam, the babe be hungry” but she dont hear me or dont want to. I give the babe pap. he cry till light come. master come home after a long while. I say madam be bad sick. he say I am to sit with her, watch her close. I dont want that. I dont like the room. there is little fiends there. they watch me by madam bed. I do not tell master that. nites is heavy. sumone is watchin me. not the shades. not them. it feel like eyes behind the wall. when I cant sleep I rock the babe. the babe burn hot. he dont stop crying.

lace is hard to make. takes long time. like the babe. the babe call me Yaya. he cant say my name rite. master say my name much. he say it pretty. he say it soft. he say it like a prayr.

miss did screem at me for the pot fallin. twas not me what done it. twas the babe. they be walkin now. but not walkin right. I din’t say nothin to miss. she hit my hands with the switch. five time. it hurt bad. I did not cry but I wanted. I went to market today. wheat cost dear.they say crops be dyin. they grow then curl up dead. they whisper bout miss annie. they say she be witch. I bringed her a flouer. she gave me a shilling

the babe love flouers. in the mornin when I dont see them, they be in the medow. I scold them but they smile. then I smile too. master bring me a fruit. a fig he call it. it taste like honey. smell like flouers. I say thank you. master say he bring me more.

master’s oldest is kind. he been at school. he know many things. he come home and smile at me. not like others do. he say my lace is real pretty. I say thank you. I think I was smilin too.

madam died. she was in bed. I was by her side. the babe was in my lap. they was sleepy but tryn not to. I say sleep now. then madam say “may I sleep?” I say yes. she dont wake up.

no one say nothin bout madam. the house is quiet but not soft. it feel heavy like rain comin. miss wont look at me. she give me chores and dont say please. the babe cry more now. they look at doors like they waitin. I clean madam room but I dont touch the bed. I think she still there. not in the bed. in the walls. in the air. I say sorry. I dont know why. just feel like I must. I tell the babe she sleepin long. they nod like they know. master come to me today. he say I done good with madam and the babe. he say I am strong girl. he touch my hair. I dont like it. he say I look like spring. I dont know what he mean. he say I must stay close now. he say he need me. I nod. I dont speak. when he go, I wash my hair.

the oldest come again. he say I should go. I didn’t know why. it made my heart hurt. did I wrong him? he not mad. he look sad. he say there a place. far. kansas, he say. he take me if I say yes. I don’t know.

the big one is gone. the oldest. they say he fall in the pond. but he swim good. he always swim. they pull him out and he don’t breathe. miss scream. master dont. the babe hold tight to me.  I think I saw somethin. his eyes was open when they find him. mouth too. like he tryin to say.

miss be mad at me. I heard her and master talkin low. she say I am cursed. say I bring bad things. maybe I do. I see things. but I dont tell her. I never told her. she aint s’posed to know. maybe they tell her. the ones in the walls. the ones what watch. shell go to the revrent, she says. she say I am made wrong.  that sin do live in girls what got no mama. Revrent say the Lord don’t suffer witches. I don’t be no witch.

miss is gone now. I found her. bottom of the stair. her neck was wrong. bent like branch. they say she fell. but she don’t fall like that. master come. not alone. men with him. he grab me. took me to the cellar. it cold down here. I aint done nothin.

A/N: ooh getting into Yaya's past. She's supposed to be semi-literate so that's why the spelling is bad. I promise it's not cause I suck at writing. Btw, you ever written for a puritan era semi-literate servant? Shit's hard. Anyway, hope you liked it!

[leighbaye]

— SIGN YOUR NAME ACROSS MY HEART

written by mina leigh 𝜗᭪ , mike wheeler 𝔁 f! reader | wc 1325

summary. mike wheeler , member of the notorious hellfire club, has a hopelessly hopeful crush on you. it takes the simplest thing, a yearbook signature, for him to realize the feeling is indeed mutual.

labels. no definite description of reader, cheerleader reader, friendly & extroverted reader, introvert ­ mike, basically loser boy + popular girl trope.

‧₊˚ ୨୧ mina speaks. hope you guys enjoy some mike wheeler! i just really miss stranger things right now.

should i just leave right here, right now? mike asked himself, clearly internally monologuing.

his frail legs shaking slightly under his black skinny jeans, wiping his sweaty palms on them, switching one hand to wipe while the other holds his yearbook.

i should just turn the balls of my feet the other direction and walk off, i mean y/n wouldn’t notice, right?

his thoughts of escaping running through his poor head were abruptly interrupted as another body jostled against him, laughing unapologetically as they, too, headed towards the object of mike’s affection.

It was whoever they were, along with at least three of y/n’s cheerleading teammates, and no less than eight screaming boys and girls (consisting of at least two teammates from lucas’s basketball team, if mike’s memory served him correctly) all holding their yearbooks out as if y/n were some hollywood star in california.

she could be one, mike mused. she certainly has the looks for it. and maybe mike might even feel better if it were just that. if it was just that y/n was practically aphrodite’s incarnate and people couldn’t take their eyes off her.

but, she’s just so good. she’s beautiful and athletic, yes, but she’s also caring and whip-smart and bright in every sense of the word. she constantly does volunteer work and has a ridiculously high gpa and smiles at everyone she sees, including himself, just because.

everyone loves her, and of course they do. how could mike blame them for seeing exactly what he sees?

a pang of something courses through him. it’s probably a bit of jealousy, a bit of uncharacteristic obstinacy, and a bit of (characteristic, dreadful) hope. if mike were less of a romantic, he might be able to see this for what it is: a fantasy.

he’s standing here, waiting his turn, as if the living, breathing portrait of goodness would choose him out of everyone. and, even worse, he can’t even muster fear within himself, because it’s y/n.

it takes mike a moment to register that everyone else has cleared out, and it’s just him and the person who plays the role of the sun in his universe standing face to face. mike just hopes that the blush he can feel starting at his pale neck reaching to the tips of his ears don’t show up where y/n can see it.

❝ hi ❞ y/n says. her voice is soft, much softer than mike is used to, only ever hearing it up close when she’s yelling out supporting words to the basketball team, and he wonders if that’s how y/n always talks to people one-on-one.

he also wonders if that’s how y/n ever talked to lucas, a memory of him feeling the most uncomfortable he’s ever felt after seeing her talk to him making each other laugh and acting casually with each other seeing y/n playfully smack his shoulder clouded his thoughts. its not everyday you see your crush talking to one of you best friends like, since forever. well not that i’d know, he internally chastises himself.

y/n is smiling and her eyes crinkle at the corners and mike doesn’t have it within himself to look away, even as he abruptly pushes his yearbook out in front of him and holds it there. mike’s heart skips a beat as y/n grasps it carefully, as her gorgeous eyes skip over his face again, as she uncaps a pen to start writing.

without a yearbook to hold on to, mike is left waiting with shaky hands and trembling legs, trying to grab on to just a fragment of a thought so he doesn’t float away. unsurprisingly, the first one he can seize is still distantly about y/n. it’s dustin’s voice, echoing once again in his head, just as it recurrently had since they last talked. about life, about love, about y/n.

❝ you need to go for it mike ❞ dustin had urged, his face unusually grim and serious. ❝ you need to let yourself have things, at least once. ❞

mike takes a breath, remembering all of his years - long longing and misery and idealism, and tries. he opens his mouth to say something, anything. if he can stomach it, he’ll ask for y/n’s number or, at least, say something that y/n could respond to.

he can give himself one conversation. he can give himself one syllable so he can at least say that he gave it an honest shot, so the flavor of regret he’s bound to taste will wash away faster.

but y/n closes the yearbook, and mike closes his mouth.

y/n holds the book out away from her, the same way mike had. like there was something burning inside it that she needed to let go of.

❝ here you go ❞ y/n says, closer to a whisper than anything mike’s ever heard.

something seems off. and mike can’t tell if it’s just that he feels caught out, with y/n looking at him as he was thinking about his irrepressible crush, or if it’s really right there in front of him. y/n is still smiling, but it’s small and a bit strained. her lips are pressed together and she looks… red? there’s a tinge of pink across her cheeks, coating her perfect features. She looks exerted.

of course she does, she just finished her cheer practice, you lovesick idiot. mike barely stops himself from covering his face in embarrassment. this is what he gets for trying, for thinking too hard and making himself look like a total and utter imbecile.

so, he overcompensates.

❝ wow uh thank you, so much, y/n really, ❞ mike replies, rushed and vaguely fearful. the adrenaline has worn off and he’s starting to feel the comedown of this prolonged period of stress.

he can’t tell if he wants to say more or if he merely, momentarily, considers it, but it doesn’t end up mattering. his traitorous legs betray him and spin him around, pushing him onward in the opposite direction.

now mike can feel the flush of deep, burrowing shame rising to the surface. he cringes and keeps walking.

once he’s far enough away, mike decides to open his yearbook and take a look at y/n’s signature before he inevitably throws up on it and renders it illegible.

mike doesn’t have to look long. he knows y/n’s handwriting, just like everything else even tangentially related to her, by heart. and he’s relatively certain that he’ll see what y/n has left behind in seemingly every other yearbook: a simple ❝ y/n ^_^ ❞ that evokes the image of her toothy, genuine grin without fail.

what he finds, though, leaves him frozen in the middle of the hallway. he is so taken aback that his limbs don’t even shake. It’s just his heart—his foolish, faithful heart—that does a little dance.

he gets stuck on his own name, ❝ mike ❞ in y/n’s charming scrawl. he never told y/n his name. he didn’t even dare to dream that y/n remembered his face.

mike reads on and lets a little gasp of laughter escape. he can’t tamp down his uncontrollable smile as his eyes trek across the words over and over and over again, as he quickly closes the book and opens it again to make sure the words haven’t somehow flown away.

he grins, wider than he can ever remember, before closing the yearbook again with finality and hugging it tightly to his chest. y/n’s words cycle through his mind, becoming new fragments for mike to grab on to. he doesn’t need to open his yearbook to be able to re - read the words that traveled straight to his heart. to be honest, he could probably recite the message word for word, letter for letter, with his eyes closed:

mike,

i think you’re cute

if you also think i’m cute

maybe we can do something about it ^_^

xxx xxx xxxx

have a summer as beautiful as you

y/n ♡

© MINA LEIGH 2023 - 2024

[egypt-museum]

Relief of Scribes at work

A fragment of a wall relief showing scribes intent on writing, probably under dictation, holding their tablets in their left hand and their pens in their right. The relief was part of a more elaborate composition from the memphite tomb of Horemheb at Saqqara.

This limestone relief with traces of painting from the Saqqara tomb of Horemheb dates to the reign of Tutankhamun. Horemheb was the commander-in-chief of the army under the reign of Tutankhamun and Ay.

New Kingdom, late 18th Dynasty, ca. 1336-1292 BC. Now in the National Archaeological Museum of Florence. 2566

Read more

[w1w2]

A Contract of Silence

Previous part | Part 10 | Next part

Giselle x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 8k

Synopsis: As Y/N continues to slip away, Giselle is forced to confront the consequences of her own actions. Will she finally stop avoiding the truth, or is it already too late?

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The absence was immediate, a clean break rather than a slow unraveling, a severance so precise that it left no frayed edges, no lingering traces of warmth.

Y/N wasn’t fading from her life in small, unnoticed ways, she was pulling away with deliberate precision, withdrawing from the spaces they had once shared, leaving behind only silence in her wake. And Giselle noticed it, not in fragments, not over time, but all at once, like walking into a room that had been stripped bare, like reaching for something familiar only to find it missing.

The penthouse had always been quiet, but this was different. The air felt colder, heavier, as if the walls themselves had grown indifferent to her presence.

She didn’t hear the soft rustling of pages as Y/N sat curled up on the couch. The throw blanket remained folded neatly over the armrest instead of tossed carelessly over her legs, the coffee table held no half-empty tea mug, no absentminded fingerprints smudging the glass. The spaces Y/N once filled were still there, but they were empty now, hollow in a way that made something inside Giselle clench, though she refused to name the feeling.

It wasn’t just that Y/N had retreated into her room, it was that she had disappeared from every shared moment, every place where her presence had once been constant, leaving Giselle alone in a home that suddenly felt far too big, far too impersonal, as if something essential had been removed from it without her permission.

For the first few days, Giselle convinced herself that it was nothing, that Y/N was simply keeping to herself, that she was imagining the way the absence pressed in on her like a weight.

But then she stopped coming to dinner.

The first night, Giselle barely noticed, too preoccupied with work, with the endless stream of reports and negotiations that usually kept her thoughts occupied. The second night as she sat at the massive dining table, staring at the untouched place setting across from her, she found herself hesitating between bites, chewing slower, drinking slower, as if waiting without realizing she was waiting at all.

She glanced toward the hallway more than once, her gaze lingering a second too long, a fraction too expectant, but the door never opened, the seat remained empty, and the silence around her grew heavier with each passing minute.

She had never waited for anyone before, had never needed to, had never cared enough to, and yet here she was, sitting in front of a meticulously plated meal that tasted like nothing, counting the seconds until she could convince herself to stop expecting someone who had already made it clear she wouldn’t come.

And that was when she understood, in a way that settled deep and uncomfortably in her chest, Y/N wasn’t just avoiding her. 

She was removing herself from her life, untangling herself from every thread that had unknowingly bound them together, and she was doing it with an ease that should have meant nothing but somehow meant everything.

The most unbearable part wasn’t the silence itself, nor was it the way Y/N passed her in the hallway without so much as a glance, her shoulders squared, her chin lifted, her eyes set forward as if Giselle were nothing more than an object in her periphery. It wasn’t even the fact that the sign language lessons had stopped, that Y/N no longer lingered in the living room, no longer left her books scattered on the coffee table, no longer sat beside her in the late hours of the night, their hands nearly touching as she slowly, patiently guided Giselle through each movement.

It was how effortlessly she did it.

Y/N didn’t slam doors, didn’t argue, didn’t demand explanations or lash out in frustration. 

She simply stopped. 

Stopped leaving room for Giselle in the quiet spaces they used to share, stopped offering silent acknowledgments when they passed each other, stopped existing in a way that felt like she had ever truly been there at all.

And yet, Giselle still felt her absence like a phantom limb.

The half-written messages that used to linger unsent on her phone screen were gone, the soft exhales of breath when Y/N was deep in thought were no longer there to fill the stillness of the room, and the scent of vanilla and something delicate, something that had always remained long after she had left, had begun to fade, as if even the air had started to forget her.

The penthouse, once impersonal but never empty, now felt stripped of something fundamental, something Giselle hadn’t realized she had grown accustomed to until it was no longer there.

And she hated it.

Hated that she cared.

Hated that she found herself lingering in doorways, staring at the places Y/N used to sit, catching herself in moments of stillness where she expected, no, wanted to see her, only to be met with nothing at all.

This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? A clean separation, no complications, no blurred lines.

Y/N was simply following the terms of their contract, doing exactly what she was supposed to do, playing the role of devoted fiancée in public, standing beside her when cameras were flashing, smiling when the situation required it.

And when no one was looking?

She disappeared.

She erased herself so completely that it felt like she had never truly belonged here in the first place.

And yet, Giselle felt her absence like an open wound, a quiet, relentless ache that she refused to acknowledge, refused to name, because doing so would mean accepting that she had lost something before she had ever even had the chance to hold it.

It was late when Giselle found herself standing outside Y/N’s door, her fingers curled into her palms, her breath slow and even, as if stillness alone could make the weight in her chest any lighter.

She hadn’t intended to be here, hadn’t meant to stop walking, hadn’t meant to press her hand against the wood as if she could feel something on the other side, something tangible, something real.

She could knock.

She could step inside, demand an answer, demand to know why Y/N had taken the knife Giselle had placed in her chest and turned it back on her, demand to know why it hurt to have the very thing she had wanted all along.

But she already knew why.

Because she told her to.

Because she was the one who shut the door first.

And now, Y/N wasn’t opening it again.

Y/N told herself this was the right thing to do. She reminded herself every time the ache crept in, every time she caught herself listening for footsteps that never came, every time she sat alone in the quiet of her room, staring at the ceiling, wondering when the hollow feeling in her chest would subside. It wasn’t real. It had never been real. 

Giselle had made that perfectly clear.

“We both know what this is.”

The words played on repeat in her mind, circling like a cruel, inescapable loop, carving themselves deeper into the places where hope had once lived. They had been spoken with such ease, such finality, as if there had never been another possibility, as if the thought of more had never even crossed Giselle’s mind. 

And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe Y/N had been the only one who had blurred the lines, the only one who had allowed herself to slip into something dangerously close to longing.

She should have known better. She should have never let herself believe, even for a second, that Giselle could be anything more than what she had always been: untouchable, indifferent, bound to her by nothing but paper and signatures and obligation. 

And yet, for a fleeting moment, Y/N had let herself want.

And wanting had been her first mistake.

She had let her guard down, had let the small moments fool her, the brief, stolen glances, the way Giselle’s touch had lingered when guiding her through a crowded room, the way she had, without a word, started bringing her favorite tea in the mornings, setting it down beside her with an absentmindedness that had felt too natural, too soft, too much like something real. 

And the lessons, God, the lessons. The way Giselle had sat beside her late at night, hands moving in slow, careful motions, brows furrowed in concentration as she repeated each sign with quiet determination. The way her lips had pressed together in frustration whenever she got one wrong, the way she had glanced at Y/N after finally getting one right, as if seeking approval she would never admit to wanting. The way their hands had brushed, not once, not twice, but more times than Y/N could count, and neither of them had pulled away.

For a moment, she had thought that maybe.

Maybe Giselle wasn’t as cold as she pretended to be. Maybe there was something beneath all that control, beneath the sharp words and guarded expressions, something soft, something fragile, something waiting to be touched. Maybe Y/N had started to mean something to her, something that wasn’t written in their contract, something that wasn’t tied to necessity or business or obligation.

But she had been wrong.

She was just another deal. Another name on a contract. Another temporary fixture in Giselle’s carefully constructed world. 

And if she had ever allowed herself to believe otherwise, then that was her own mistake to bear.

So she forced herself to let go.

She stayed in her room, only leaving when necessary, only appearing when the world demanded it. She let the hours stretch long and empty, filling the silence with books, with sketching, with anything that would keep her hands busy, anything that would stop her from remembering the way Giselle used to glance at her when she thought Y/N wasn’t looking.

She convinced herself it was better this way, that distance was necessary, that pulling away before she could fall any further was the only way to keep herself from breaking completely.

But no matter how many times she told herself that, no matter how often she repeated it like a prayer, like something meant to ward off the ache sitting heavy in her chest, it still felt like losing something she had never even had.

Giselle was used to control.

She had built her empire on it, had shaped her entire existence around the idea that emotions were nothing more than distractions, that power belonged to those who could remain untethered, that attachment was a weakness she would never allow herself to entertain. She was steady. Composed. Unshaken by the fleeting nature of people, unmoved by their affections, untouched by the idea of love in all its naïve, reckless forms. She had spent years perfecting the art of restraint, of making decisions with a calculated mind, of never letting anything slip through her fingers unless she wanted it to.

This was different.

Because Y/N was slipping away, and for the first time, Giselle didn’t know how to stop it.

She told herself it didn’t matter, that this was how things should have been from the start. The distance, the cold professionalism, the clearly drawn lines, this was what she had wanted. This was what she had established from the beginning, what she had demanded without hesitation. 

But the silence ate at her. It burrowed beneath her skin, stretched through the penthouse like an oppressive weight, settled in the spaces where Y/N should have been but no longer was.

At work, she found herself distracted, fingers idly tapping against the surface of her desk, staring at reports that should have been simple but suddenly felt unreadable. Her mind, usually sharp and methodical, refused to focus. Meetings stretched on, voices droning in the background, but none of the words stuck, none of the numbers made sense. She nodded in all the right places, kept her posture composed, maintained the cold, detached authority she was known for, but beneath it, she was fraying.

She caught herself checking her phone too often, glancing at the screen between emails, between meetings, between sentences, half-expecting to see a message from Y/N. A small, simple message. A question about something trivial, a quiet acknowledgment of her presence, anything at all. Y/N had always communicated in ways that were easy to miss if one wasn’t paying attention, but Giselle had been paying attention, she had always paid attention.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but an empty screen, a hollow ache, a realization she didn’t want to name.

At night, the penthouse felt cavernous. The absence wasn’t just something she noticed, it was something she felt. There was no soft rustling from the other room, no quiet presence curled up on the couch, no subtle glances exchanged over the glow of a lamp. The space beside her on the sofa remained untouched, the blanket Y/N once used to wrap herself in still neatly folded, as if she had never occupied it at all.

It was wrong.

Everything about it was wrong.

She would sit in the dim light of the living room, a glass of wine untouched beside her, the world outside continuing on as if nothing had changed, as if she weren’t coming apart at the seams in the most subtle, insidious ways. She had never noticed how much she depended on Y/N being there. Not just physically, not just as a contract-bound presence in her life, but as something more, something constant, something grounding, something she wasn’t sure she could live without.

The realization made something cold settle in her chest, something that clawed at her ribs and refused to let go.

Giselle was afraid.

Not of failure, not of the weight of expectations that had followed her since childhood, not of the carefully built empire she had spent years perfecting suddenly crumbling beneath her. Those things had never truly shaken her; she had faced them with a steady hand, with the kind of ruthless composure that had made her untouchable.

This was different.

This was something she had no strategy for, no plan, no solution neatly outlined in bullet points and contingency measures. This wasn’t a deal she could renegotiate, a contract she could amend, a misstep she could erase with power and influence.

This was Y/N.

And Y/N was slipping through her fingers like fine grains of sand, impossible to hold onto no matter how tightly she clenched her hands.

The feeling unsettled her in ways she refused to name.

It followed her through the hallways of the penthouse, through the boardrooms and press events, through the restless hours of the night when she found herself staring at the ceiling, fingers gripping the sheets as if grounding herself to something tangible could keep the thoughts at bay. She had never been afraid of losing before, had never allowed herself to become attached to something so fragile, so breakable, so devastatingly human.

And yet, the thought of Y/N walking away, truly walking away, not just retreating into silence, but leaving entirely, was enough to send a sharp, unfamiliar panic crawling up her spine.

Because she wasn’t sure she could stop it.

Because maybe she didn’t deserve to.

Because she had been the one to push Y/N away first, to draw the lines, to tell her, this is all it will ever be.

Giselle wasn’t used to feeling powerless, but now, she had no idea how to undo it.

She had spent her life bending circumstances to her will, shaping outcomes with cold precision, ensuring that nothing, no one, could ever slip beyond her control. She had mastered the art of manipulation, of carefully constructed words, of making people believe what she wanted them to believe. If something was broken, she fixed it. If something threatened her stability, she eliminated the threat before it had the chance to grow. There was no problem she couldn’t solve, no obstacle she couldn’t navigate, no situation she couldn’t mold to her advantage.

But this?

Y/N wasn’t something to be manipulated into staying. She wasn’t a contract to be rewritten, wasn’t a deal waiting to be closed, wasn’t a variable that could be neatly calculated into an outcome that favored Giselle. She was a person, one Giselle had hurt in a way she didn’t know how to undo.

And no matter how much she wanted to fix this, she had no idea how.

Still, she tried.

In the quietest ways, in the smallest gestures, in moments so fleeting that they might have gone unnoticed if not for the weight behind them.

She started bringing Y/N’s favorite tea to her room, a habit so ingrained now that she barely thought about it, waking in the morning, preparing the drink exactly the way Y/N liked it, setting the cup just outside her door before walking away. She never knocked. Never lingered long enough to see if Y/N took it. Never allowed herself the humiliation of waiting for a reaction that would never come.

Some mornings, the cup would be gone by afternoon. Other times, it would remain untouched, the liquid long since gone cold, the porcelain still smooth beneath her fingertips when she picked it up hours later.

Giselle had no way of knowing if Y/N had taken it only to throw it away, if she had even noticed the effort at all.

But she did it anyway.

Because it was something, because it was all she could do, and dinner was no different.

She had meals delivered to Y/N’s room, never acknowledging it aloud, never knocking on her door to tell her it was there, never questioning whether the food had been eaten or left to go stale overnight. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. But at least she knew Y/N wouldn’t go hungry.

At least she could pretend she was still giving her something.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That she wasn’t doing this for a reaction, that she wasn’t waiting for the moment Y/N might finally acknowledge her again. That she wasn’t hoping for even the smallest sign that she hadn’t completely lost her.

But she was.

And Y/N never did.

No message. No glance. No indication that she had even noticed the effort, let alone cared.

It should have been expected.

It should have been easy to accept, easy to brush off, easy to move forward without letting the emptiness settle deeper into her bones.

But somehow, it wasn’t.

Somehow, it felt like every moment stretched longer than it should, like every hour in that silent, cavernous penthouse was suffocating her in a way she had never experienced before.

Somehow, it felt like Y/N was slipping further and further away, like every failed attempt to reach her was widening the distance between them, like she had already lost before she had even figured out what she was fighting for.

Giselle wasn’t sure if she could live with that.

The change happened somewhere unexpected.

A business dinner, one of the many events where they were expected to perform, where everything about them had to be seamless, effortless, perfect. It had become second nature by now, the way they moved in sync, the way Y/N’s hand rested lightly on Giselle’s arm, the way Giselle’s gaze lingered for just the right amount of time, her expression carefully constructed to appear affectionate but never excessive, warm but never vulnerable.

It was a dance they had perfected, a routine rehearsed so many times that it no longer required thought. It should have felt ordinary.

But tonight, it didn’t.

Tonight, Giselle did something different.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t a decision she had spent hours weighing in her mind like she did with everything else in her life. It simply happened.

She signed.

A few words. Clumsy. Slow. Imperfect.

It was not the smooth, practiced motion of someone fluent, not the effortless way Y/N’s hands moved when she spoke, not the confident gestures of a person who had spent years mastering the language. It was hesitant, awkward, uncertain.

But it was an attempt.

A quiet, deliberate effort.

A single moment of undeniable sincerity.

The response was immediate, not in words, not in movement, but in something far more telling.

Y/N hesitated.

It lasted no more than a fraction of a second, a flicker of something in her eyes, a nearly imperceptible shift in her posture, the faintest catch of breath before she masked it beneath the cool, detached expression she had perfected.

No one else noticed.

No one else saw the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, the way she swallowed, the way her lashes fluttered once, as if startled, as if something inside her had fractured for just a moment before she pieced it back together.

And then it was gone.

Buried. Sealed beneath the same walls she had spent weeks rebuilding.

She nodded, acknowledging the effort, but her expression gave nothing away. No warmth, no softness, nothing that would allow Giselle to believe she had reached her, even for just a moment.

And yet, Giselle had seen it.

Felt it.

Something had cracked, not broken, not shattered, not enough to let her back in, but enough to remind her that Y/N wasn’t entirely unmoved, that somewhere beneath the cold exterior, something still remained.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because in public, Y/N remained exactly as she was meant to be, poised, affectionate, playing her part.

And in private, she was still untouchable, still distant, still refusing to let Giselle back in.

The fight wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t something either of them had prepared for, wasn’t something that simmered over time with clear warning signs, wasn’t something that either of them had seen coming.

But maybe it had been inevitable.

Maybe it had been waiting beneath the surface, growing heavier with every stolen glance, every silence stretched too long, every wound that had been left to fester instead of heal.

It started with something small.

A ring.

The engagement ring, the one that Y/N wore in public with the same careful precision she wore every other part of their fabricated relationship. It was always there when cameras were flashing, when people were watching, when their illusion had to be flawless.

But right after coming back to the penthouse, it was gone.

Giselle noticed it one evening when Y/N reached for something on the kitchen counter, her fingers catching the light just right, bare.

It was such a small thing, such an insignificant detail, and yet it sent something sharp and ugly twisting in Giselle’s chest. Because she knew, without asking, that it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t forgetfulness. It was a choice.

Y/N had stripped herself of it the moment they were no longer under the scrutiny of the world. She had erased Giselle from her hand the way she had been erasing her from her life.

And Giselle snapped.

“What happened to your ring?”

The question came before Giselle could stop it, sharp and controlled, the edges of it honed with something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t an accusation, not exactly, but it wasn’t neutral either. Nothing about this was neutral.

Y/N barely acknowledged her.

She didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch, didn’t react in any way that would have given Giselle the satisfaction of knowing she had caught her off guard. Instead, she reached for a glass from the cabinet, filled it at the sink, and took a slow sip, her movements unhurried, deliberate.

Then, as if Giselle were nothing more than an afterthought, she pulled her phone from her pocket, typed something quickly, and turned the screen toward her.

“I take it off when I don’t need to wear it.”

Simple. Dismissive.

And something inside Giselle twisted.

It wasn’t the action itself that got to her, it was the ease of it.

The way Y/N spoke of the ring as if it were nothing more than an accessory, a meaningless trinket she wore only when required, something that had never held weight in her hands. Once, she had worn it absentmindedly, naturally, unconsciously. She had spun it around her finger when she was thinking, had traced the band with her thumb without realizing, had pressed it against her lips in quiet moments of contemplation.

Now, she was removing it the second their performance ended.

It wasn’t habit. It was a choice.

A deliberate one. A message Giselle was just now starting to understand.

And she hated that it bothered her.

“You need to wear it all the time.”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound like a demand, but it did. Tight. Clipped. Uneven in a way that barely concealed the tension pulling at her spine.

Y/N turned then, slow and measured, her gaze locking onto Giselle’s for the first time that evening. Her expression didn’t shift, didn’t soften, didn’t flicker with any trace of warmth. It was empty. Flat. Distant.

She held Giselle’s gaze for a moment, then exhaled, slow and deep, before typing again.

“Why?”

It was a simple question. But it hit like a blade.

Because Giselle didn’t have an answer. Not one she could say.

“Because it’s mine.” “Because you used to wear it without thinking.” “Because it’s the last thing tying us together, and I don’t know how to exist without that.”

The truth sat heavy on her tongue, sharp and bitter, but she swallowed it down, buried it beneath something colder, something safer, something that wouldn’t leave her exposed.

She scoffed instead, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back against the opposite counter, feigning indifference even as her nails pressed half-moons into the fabric of her sleeve.

“Because that’s what engaged people do.”

The lie tasted awful.

Y/N’s expression didn’t shift at first. She simply blinked, slow and deliberate, before tilting her head slightly, her fingers tightening around her phone like she was choosing her next move carefully.

Then, after a beat, she exhaled sharply. It wasn’t amusement, wasn’t frustration, wasn’t anything Giselle could name, just a breath, heavy and weighted, like something inside her had been held back for too long and had finally decided to push forward.

Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.

Then she turned it toward Giselle.

“Engaged.”

One word. Nothing else.

And yet, Giselle felt the shift before it even happened.

The air between them became heavier, charged with something fragile, something dangerous. The kitchen was suddenly too small, the silence stretched too thin, the walls pressing in too close.

The word sat between them like an exposed wire, too volatile to touch.

And then Y/N’s fingers moved again, swifter this time, her jaw set, her shoulders squared, as if bracing for impact before she even turned the phone back around.

“That’s what you want me to believe?”

Giselle’s stomach twisted.

She should have walked away.

Should have let the conversation die before it turned into something neither of them could come back from.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t, because Y/N was looking at her now.

“We both know it’s more than just a contract, Y/N.”

The words left Giselle before she had time to consider them, slipping out in a low, unsteady breath, carrying more truth than she had ever allowed herself to admit.

But Y/N didn’t react, not at first.

She simply exhaled, slow and deliberate, before pulling out her phone again. Giselle watched, knowing with a deep, gnawing certainty that whatever Y/N was about to say would change everything.

Her fingers moved swiftly across the screen. A few seconds later, she turned it toward Giselle.

“No, we both know this is nothing more than just an arrangement.”

Giselle’s breath caught.

It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t even an argument.

It was a statement. A challenge.

Something sharp twisted inside her, something that made her throat tighten, her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that Y/N had never been one to confront her like this before.

She had been distant. She had been cold. She had ignored, dismissed, walked away. But she had never done this, never stood in front of Giselle and thrown her own words back at her like a blade.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The space between them felt smaller now, thick with something dangerous, something fragile, something that neither of them had the strength to name.

Then Y/N’s fingers moved again, faster this time, with purpose, with conviction, with something that made Giselle feel like she was about to be gutted from the inside out.

When she turned the screen again, the words hit like a slap.

“You made it clear that it isn’t. I’m confusing necessity with emotion—those were your words, Giselle.”

The impact of those words was far greater than anything Giselle had expected.

They weren’t just thrown back at her, they were a knife pressed against her ribs, forcing her to feel every inch of the damage she had inflicted.

She had said those words.

She had made them fact.

And now, Y/N was just following the rules she had set.

Giselle’s mouth parted, but whatever excuse, whatever weak, pitiful defense she might have offered, was drowned out by the sharp tapping of Y/N’s fingers against her phone screen. Faster now. Angrier.

The phone turned again.

“I trusted you.”

A pause, a breath, and then another series of taps.

“I let myself feel something. And you shut me down. So tell me, why should I believe you now?”

Giselle exhaled shakily, fingers tightening around the edges of the counter, her entire body too tense, too wound up, too frayed at the edges.

Y/N wasn’t letting this turn into some dramatic, fiery argument filled with accusations and rage.

No, she was doing something much worse.

She was forcing Giselle to sit in the wreckage of what she had created, she was making her look at it, she was making her feel it.

And Giselle didn’t know how to answer.

Because everything Y/N had said was true, because she had every reason not to believe her.

Every reason to push her away.

Every reason to never let her in again.

Because the truth, the real, aching, inconvenient truth, was that Giselle had never expected to feel something either.

She had never expected to want, she had never planned for this, had never anticipated the moment when she would wake up and realize that somewhere along the way, Y/N had become something more than temporary.

And now, standing there, staring at Y/N’s carefully blank expression and the words on the screen that felt heavier than anything she had ever carried before, she realized just how much she had already lost.

Y/N moved before she could think, before the weight of her own words could settle, before the sting of them could fully sink into her chest and root itself there, deep and irreversible.

She didn’t wait to see the way Giselle reacted, didn’t let herself register whatever flicker of emotion might have surfaced, because she wasn’t sure if she could handle it, wasn’t sure if she could take one more second of standing in front of the woman who had already broken her apart and now, too late, looked as if she might finally realize it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, too fast, too unsteady, an erratic rhythm that pulsed through every limb as she stormed toward the door, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, her fingers trembling as she shoved her phone deep into her pocket as if stuffing the words away would erase them, as if putting enough distance between herself and this moment would somehow undo what had already been done.

But nothing could erase this, nothing could take back what had been said, and nothing, no amount of distance, no silence, no calculated detachment, could fix the way something inside her had shattered beyond repair.

She wasn’t sure where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay, not in this penthouse that had once felt like a gilded cage, vast and unfamiliar, only for it to become something else entirely, something dangerous, something soft, something that, against all reason, had started to feel like home. 

And now, it was nothing more than a ruin, a space filled with ghosts of things she should have never let herself want, the walls suffocating, the air too thick, too heavy with everything they had left unsaid. She needed to breathe, needed to escape, needed to get as far away from Giselle as possible before the weight of everything she had just severed came crashing down on top of her.

She had nearly reached the elevator when she heard it.

Her name.

Not the way Giselle usually said it. Not with detachment, not with command, not in the cool, practiced way she had always spoken in public, when her voice had been nothing more than a carefully honed tool, sharp enough to cut through a room but never personal enough to be held against her. 

No, this time, it was different, shaken, uncertain, raw in a way that felt foreign, like the syllables had fractured somewhere between her throat and her mouth before finally spilling out. It was a plea, not a demand, and that was what stopped Y/N in her tracks, not because it was loud, not because it demanded her attention, but because it didn’t.

Because Giselle never pleaded.

Because Giselle never sounded like this.

Y/N’s fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breath catching as her shoulders stiffened, as something deep in her chest clenched painfully at the sound of her own name falling apart in Giselle’s mouth. She knew she should keep walking, should push forward before the moment swallowed her whole, before the weakness in her bones made her falter, before she lost what little control she had left. She had made her decision, had chosen the only way to protect herself, had done the one thing that made sense. But her feet wouldn’t move, her body betraying her in the worst way possible, and against every ounce of self-preservation screaming at her to go, she did the one thing she shouldn’t have done.

Y/N stopped.

Just long enough to register the sharp, hurried sound of footsteps behind her, fast and unsteady, the kind of movement that didn’t belong to the Giselle she knew, the one who was always in control, always composed, always several steps ahead. But this Giselle wasn’t calculated. She wasn’t careful. She wasn’t thinking about how she would look, wasn’t guarding her reactions, wasn’t pausing to make sure her next move was one she could never regret.

She was chasing.

And then—hands.

A soft but firm grip catching her wrist, not yanking, not pulling, just holding. Not forceful. Not a demand. Just a touch, like Giselle wasn’t trying to keep her from leaving, but rather trying to keep herself from losing her.

“Wait.”

The word was barely a breath, but it was enough.

Y/N swallowed hard, feeling the weight of it settle over her, feeling the burn of something too close to regret claw its way up her throat. Her pulse hammered beneath her skin, too fast, too uneven, her body betraying her in ways she couldn’t afford. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned.

She shouldn’t have.

She should have kept walking, should have left before she could see the way Giselle looked at her, like she was afraid this was the last time she would get to.

“I—”

Giselle exhaled sharply, the sound uneven, shaky, as if whatever she wanted to say had gotten tangled somewhere between her chest and her throat, like the words themselves were too foreign, too difficult, too real.

Her grip on Y/N’s wrist loosened, fingers sliding away, but she didn’t step back, didn’t reclaim the space between them, didn’t retreat behind the cold, detached mask she had always worn so well. Instead, for the first time since Y/N had met her, she looked lost.

And then, she did something Y/N never expected.

She let her walls fall.

“I really care about you.”

The words were hoarse, raw, breaking in the middle like she hated saying them, like saying them out loud made them something she couldn’t take back.

Y/N froze.

Because how many times had she heard words like these before?

How many times had people said the right things, only for their actions to unravel them? How many times had carefully chosen promises been nothing more than well-placed traps? She had spent too long listening to lies dressed in silk, reassurances that were nothing more than weapons designed to leave her emptier than before.

She had learned that love or whatever this was supposed to be, wasn’t a word.

It was a choice. A choice people made over and over, through action, through consistency, through things unsaid but always understood.

And Giselle? Giselle had made her choice weeks ago.

She had pushed her away, severed something that Y/N had foolishly let herself believe in, told her in no uncertain terms that what she had felt was a mistake.

So how was she supposed to believe that this time was any different?

Her chest felt tight, her fingers cold as she reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone with slow, deliberate movements.

She didn’t type quickly like she had before, didn’t let her frustration or her pain dictate her pace. This time, every word was careful, measured, chosen as if she were laying bricks between them, building a wall high enough to keep herself safe, strong enough to keep Giselle out.

When she was done, she turned the screen toward her, but she didn’t look up.

She couldn’t.

“It’s better this way. If we don’t feel, we won’t hurt each other.”

Giselle stared at the words like they physically hurt.

Like they were something sharp and cold pressing into her skin, cutting deeper the longer she looked.

She had always thought words were her greatest weapon, that language, whether spoken or written, was something she could control, manipulate, wield like a blade or a shield depending on what the situation demanded. But this? This was something she couldn’t fight. There was no counterargument, no carefully crafted response that could erase the weight of what Y/N had just told her.

“It’s better this way. If we don’t feel, we won’t hurt each other.”

It should have been the end of it.

It should have been the moment where Giselle did what she always did, walked away first, before someone else could leave her behind.

But instead, she did the only thing that made sense.

She kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful or hesitant or restrained.

It was a collision, sharp, desperate, aching. A clash of breath and heat and every unsaid word that neither of them had the courage to speak.

Y/N inhaled sharply, the sound catching somewhere in her throat, her hands instinctively gripping the front of Giselle’s shirt as if she meant to push her away, but she didn’t.

Instead, she let herself sink.

Into the way Giselle’s lips moved against hers, rough and urgent, like she was terrified that this was her last chance to prove something, anything. Like she was drowning, and Y/N was the only thing keeping her afloat.

The tension between them snapped so violently that it was almost disorienting, years of restraint unraveling in the space of a single breath.

Y/N’s fingers fisted in the fabric of Giselle’s shirt, pulling her in, closing the space between them until there was nothing left but heat and hands and the kind of desperation that left them both shaking.

The kiss deepened.

Fingers tangled into hair, bodies pressed closer, hands grasping, gripping, searching, not for control, not for dominance, but for something far more dangerous. 

For something real.

Y/N gasped when Giselle’s hands slipped beneath her shirt, fingers skimming over the bare skin of her waist, a slow, maddeningly reverent touch that sent a shiver racing up her spine. It wasn’t enough.

None of it was enough.

She wanted more.

Giselle’s breath was hot against her jaw, her lips trailing lower, her hands sliding higher, and suddenly they were moving, stumbling, crashing through the dimly lit penthouse with the kind of reckless urgency neither of them had ever allowed themselves before.

They barely made it past the threshold of Y/N’s bedroom before they were pressed against the door, before Giselle’s mouth was on hers again, messy, uncoordinated, desperate in a way that made Y/N’s head spin.

The air between them grew heavier, thick with something unspoken, unbearable, inevitable.

Y/N’s hands were moving before she even realized it, fingers slipping over the buttons of Giselle’s shirt, fumbling in her haste, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The fabric parted easily beneath her touch, and then—skin.

Warm. Soft. Uncharted.

Giselle let out a shaky exhale as Y/N pushed the shirt from her shoulders, her fingers ghosting over newly exposed skin, the intimacy of it all threatening to consume them.

And then, it stopped.

Just as fast as it started, just as intense, just as overwhelming, Giselle pulled away.

Her breath was ragged, her hands still trembling against Y/N’s waist, her forehead resting against Y/N’s as if she was trying to steady herself, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I want to take this slow.”

The words were quiet, wrecked, almost hesitant.

And Y/N, who had spent so much time trying to convince herself that she was done believing in words, found herself believing in this one.

Because Giselle was choosing to stop.

Y/N swallowed, chest rising and falling too fast, fingers still curled around the fabric of Giselle’s shirt, holding on, because she wasn’t sure if she let go, she would be able to stand on her own.

Slow.

After all this time?

After weeks of distance, of cold detachment, of breaking and rebuilding and breaking again?

She didn’t understand.

But when she met Giselle’s gaze, when she saw the way she was looking at her, not with hunger, not with possession, but with something infinitely softer, infinitely more terrifying, she knew this was something different.

This wasn’t about hesitation, this wasn’t about second-guessing.

This was a choice.

Y/N let out a slow breath, her fingers loosening against Giselle’s shirt.

Then, she nodded.

She wasn’t sure if she fully understood this yet, if she fully understood Giselle.

But for now, this was enough.

Neither of them spoke as they lay in bed, bodies close but not tangled, breath syncing in the stillness of the night. There was no need for words, no need to force explanations for something that neither of them fully understood yet. This wasn’t a resolution, wasn’t a promise, wasn’t an easy fix to everything that had unraveled between them. It was simply… a moment. A fragile, necessary moment.

Giselle didn’t remember the last time she had shared a bed with someone like this, not out of necessity, not out of obligation, but because the space beside her felt wrong if it wasn’t occupied.

She wasn’t sure when the shift had happened, when Y/N had stopped feeling like a stranger and started feeling like something vital. Maybe it had been gradual, something she hadn’t noticed until the absence of it had left her unbalanced. Or maybe it had been instant, a quiet moment of realization buried beneath her own fear.

Either way, she couldn’t ignore it now.

The warmth of Y/N’s body beside her, the slow, steady rhythm of her breath, the way she wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t running, wasn’t holding herself at a careful distance anymore. It was everything Giselle hadn’t let herself want.

Her arms tightened around Y/N’s waist, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of her shirt, as if to anchor her there, as if to silently promise that she wasn’t letting go this time.

Y/N shifted slightly, turning into her, the soft weight of her head resting against Giselle’s shoulder.

She didn’t fight it, she just let it happen.

And for the first time in weeks, Giselle felt like she could breathe again.

Even as the night wrapped around them, even as the slow rise and fall of Y/N’s breath became the only sound in the room, even as warmth settled between their bodies, as something quiet and fragile stretched through the dark like a thread pulling them back together, Giselle’s mind didn’t rest.

Because peace was a luxury she had never been afforded for long.

She lay still, arms curled securely around Y/N’s sleeping form, her fingers drawing slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of her shirt, but her thoughts had already begun unraveling, slipping into the places she had spent avoiding. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling, on the faint slivers of city lights spilling in through the curtains, but all she could see was Jeno.

The way he watched, the way he waited.

The way he moved in the shadows, orchestrating something unseen, something inevitable, something she had yet to uncover but could already feel closing in.

He wasn’t done.

That much was certain.

The kind of danger Jeno posed wasn’t loud or impulsive. It was insidious, a quiet, creeping thing, a snake in the dark, slipping between cracks before you realized the venom was already in your veins. He had always been like this, playing the long game, planting seeds of destruction in places no one thought to look. And if there was one thing she knew about him, it was that he never made empty threats.

And now, he wasn’t just a threat to her.

He was a threat to Y/N.

Her stomach twisted, something cold crawling up her spine at the thought.

Because Y/N had nothing to do with this, she never should have been dragged into their family’s legacy of ruin, never should have become another pawn in a war that had started long before she had even entered Giselle’s life. She was supposed to be safe. She was supposed to remain untouched.

But Jeno didn’t care about supposed to.

Giselle had spent most of her life navigating power plays, had learned early that threats were never just spoken, they were felt before they were made, seen before they took shape, present before they had even been acknowledged. And Jeno had been there for weeks now, lingering at the edges of her world, pushing just hard enough to remind her that he wasn’t finished, that he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And she had let him.

She had let herself believe she could handle this without getting her hands dirty, had let herself think that as long as she stayed in control, he would never go too far. She had underestimated him.

That mistake wouldn’t happen again.

Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric of Y/N’s shirt, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her father had been a monster and she had let herself believe that the echoes of his cruelty had died with him.

But monsters didn’t die, they were replaced and Jeno was proof of that. Giselle refused to let another man dictate their fate, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

She had spent too much of her life playing the part the world expected of her, the woman who handled everything with cold precision, who never got her hands dirty, who never let emotions dictate her next move.

But this wasn’t about business, this wasn’t about control.

This was about Y/N.

And for the first time in her life, Giselle had something, someone, she wasn’t willing to lose.

Her arms tightened around Y/N’s sleeping form, pulling her closer, as if she could protect her just by will alone, as if holding her here meant nothing else in the world could touch her.

She didn’t know what Jeno’s next move was, but she knew one thing with certainty.

He would never get close enough to touch her.

Y/N shifted in her sleep, her breath warm against Giselle’s collarbone, her fingers curled loosely against her side, her body soft, unguarded, trusting in a way that made something deep in Giselle’s chest tighten almost painfully.

She had spent so long convincing herself that none of this mattered.

That Y/N was nothing more than a contract, a carefully chosen pawn in a game Giselle had mastered long before she had even stepped into her life. That the familiarity, the closeness, the way Y/N had become woven into the fabric of her world so effortlessly, none of it meant anything.

But that had been a lie, because this moment, this quiet, fragile, terrifying moment was the only thing that had ever felt real.

She exhaled slowly, forcing the thoughts away, forcing herself to focus on the quiet rhythm of Y/N’s breathing, the way her fingers twitched slightly in sleep, the way she fit against Giselle like she had always belonged there.

Her lashes fluttered shut, exhaustion creeping in, the weight of the day, of the fight, of everything they had just begun to piece back together settling over her like a lull.

But before sleep took her, before she let herself fall into the quiet oblivion of rest, her last thought wasn’t one she fought.

It wasn’t one she tried to suppress or reshape into something safer, something distant, something that wouldn’t leave her exposed.

For the first time, she let it settle.

Y/N’s worth everything.

[fluff-lover]

Healing Touch | Chapter 5: Return Home

Chapter summary: You and Logan travel to Alberta in search for some answers as he slowly regains his memory.

Masterlist

This chapter contains a lot of Logan’s origin story, but it’s more based on the comic than the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine.

7K words… who am I?

It’s been a few busy weeks to say the least.

After you and Logan agreed on working on his trauma together, you started having small sessions at night where you would use your power on him. In each session you placed your hands on each side of his head while he laid down on the lab’s bed and started healing his amnesia. You worked slowly, not wanting to trigger any bad memory without warning. 

There was only so much you could do, and there was no guarantee any of it would work. Your powers only worked on a physical level, meaning you could heal parts of Logan’s brain that didn’t heal on their own, despite his enhanced healing. But Charles saw this as an opportunity to train and even expand your powers, hoping that in time you would be able to heal the emotional type of wounds, or be the one to caused them.

Fragments of Logan’s memories began to resurface, scattered and incomplete, like pieces of a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to assemble. He remembered his parents: his mother, Elizabeth, and the man he believed to be his father, John Howlett. He could recall the house he’d grown up in, the details hazy but still familiar. He even knew his name wasn’t really Logan. But that was where the trail ended.

What had happened to them? How had he discovered his mutation? The answers felt just out of reach, buried beneath layers of fog he couldn’t penetrate, no matter how hard you tried.

In search of more answers, you started planning your trip to his childhood home: Howlett Estate. You would take a flight to Lloydminster and then drive for two hours to Cold Lake. Originally you suggested taking a smaller plane from Lloydminster to Cold Lake’s regional airport, but took pity on Logan’s distaste for flying and decided to rent a car instead.

You knew this would be hard on Logan, facing his memories and old traumas wasn’t easy, so you wanted to make sure this was a pleasant trip.

Coincidently, the trip took place during Jean and Scott’s wedding, so Logan wouldn’t be in the mansion during that time. Hopefully this trip would also help you rebuild your trust in Logan. Despite reassuring him over and over again that you’d forgiven him already, your friendship changed and required a lot of care to go back to how it was before.

The day of the flight you had maps, flyers and all kinds of accessories for your trip, and you had a blast going from one place to the other in the airport, getting lots of snacks and things to pass the time. Logan was never too far behind, following you around and indulging on anything you wanted.

Despite his nervousness, Logan enjoyed seeing you so excited and bubbly, but most importantly, so relaxed around him. He worried your friendship was ruined when he first hurt you but you were slowly building the trust back up.

It was only after you landed at Lloydminster and got in the rental that the real fun started. 

“I booked the cutest, cosiest looking Bed & Breakfast I could find, it’s adorable.” You said as you entered the address to the GPS. Logan groaned from the driver’s seat.

“I’m regretting this already.” He joked. “You know what? I take that back, I regretted this the moment you gave me a plane ticket.”

You laughed. 

“Oh come on! It wasn’t so bad! I took your nausea away, didn’t I?” 

His frown deepened.

“I still don’t like flying. If men were meant to fly, we would be born with wings.”

“Good thing I’m not a man.” You joked. “Be glad I got us a car instead of another flight for this part. Just drive, old man.” You said before opening a bag of snacks.

“Old man? Fuck off.”

You giggled.

“Aren’t you like a thousand years?”

Logan scoffed.

“...No.” He said after an awkward silence. “Your math is off. Also, don’t eat in the car, you’ll leave crumbs all over.”

You giggled again, and despite his grumpiness, Logan smiled.

“Whatever you say, grandpa.”

“Fuck you!” He said, but there was no malice in his voice. You just looked at him and took another bite of your snack.

“I’m hungry!” You said as an excuse. “Do you want some?”

“Nah, I’m fine. I don’t like candy.” He said, throwing you a look.

“Who the hell doesn’t like candy?” You asked dramatically “I think I have some Sour Patch kids around here, you’ll like them.” You said as you looked through your back.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because… your face looks like you’re constantly sucking a lemon.” Logan turned his head to look at you in disbelief. “Hey! Eyes on the road!”

“What do you mean I look like I’m sucking a lemon?” He asked confused.

“You know…” You pursed your lips, frowned your brow and raised your shoulders, trying to give your best impression of Logan. “Like you’re sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.” He said.

“Right… And I don’t cry while watching The Notebook. Are we just telling lies now?”

“Just give me that.” He snatched the bag of sour candy from your hand. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

“Yes, but you love me anyway.” You smiled and Logan just shook his head in defeat before pouring some candy straight into his mouth.

The ride was filled with banter and jokes. Seeing Logan so relaxed and somewhat happy made your heart flutter. You had never seen him like this, and you hoped it would last.

Watching him drive with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a relaxed smile on his face also did things to you. He looked so handsome, you would try to steal glances every once in a while.

When you finally arrived at the B&B you squealed in delight and jumped out of the car. The building had a “cabin in the woods” feel to it, but much bigger in dimensions, and it was surrounded by a large garden.

“It’s perfect! Just like in the photos! Isn’t it lovely?”

“It looks like a flower shop threw up on it.”

“Ew.” Your face quickly dropped. “Just because of that, you’re carrying the suitcases while I check us in.” You said before stomping towards the door.

“I was carrying the suitcases anyway!” Logan grumbled.

He took the suitcases and quickly caught up with you as you made your way to the reception. There you were welcomed by a sweet looking old lady.

“Welcome! You must be the honeymooners, the Wyatts!” She greeted them.

You quickly shook your head, your belly filling with butterflies at the idea of the two of you looking like newlyweds.

“Oh no, we’re not together. I mean, we’re together, but not together-together… We’re not married!” You tried to explain awkwardly while Logan tried not to laugh. “We booked two bedrooms under the name Howlett.” You said, your face growing hot.

“Yeah, we book two rooms in case the first bed breaks.” Logan joked, making you open your eyes so widely he thought they would pop out of your head.

“Logan!” You hissed and slapped his chest. Logan simply smiled and winked at you. Any other time you would be giggling like crazy at the idea of Logan and you breaking a bed, but you weren’t alone. The lady looked back and forth between the two of you before handing you two keys.

“You have room 13 and 14, they’re down that hall, across from each other. Breakfast is served from 7 to 10 in the dining room.”

You took the keys and nodded your head.

“Thank you ma’am.” you said before walking away fast, your face warm.

Your room was beautiful. It was tastefully decorated, had flowers on pretty much every surface, and the bed looked very cozy. You jumped on the mattress while Logan put your suitcase down.

“Comfortable?” He asked.

“Mhmmm.” You were barely audible with your face squished against the covers. Logan chuckled.

You felt the bed dip and raised your head to see Logan sitting down on the foot of the bed. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, so you sat up on the bed to give him your full attention.

“So, um… Listen,” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say… I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. You didn’t have to do any of this, but you did, and I wanted to say thank you.” 

You smiled shyly. Logan wasn’t a man of many words, so when he opened up like this you made sure to appreciate it and soak into the moment.

“Nothing to thank me for. Helping people is what I do, it’s what I love. Maybe I never realized there are other ways I can help other than using my powers.” You shrugged. “I guess I never had a friend that mattered to me as much as you do.” You said with a certain vulnerability in your voice. Of course you left out the part of you being completely, utterly in love with him.

The admission took Logan by surprise. How could you, a sweet, selfless, beautiful woman not be surrounded by people you loved and loved you back.

“Why?” He asked. You tilted your head and frowned.

“Why, what?”

“Why me?” He shook his head, confused. “Not only I didn’t do anything to earn your friendship, but I also hurt you. You could have so many friends, so many people, why did you stick with me?”

You stared at him for a moment in shock.

“What do you mean you didn’t do anything to earn my friendship? You’re the first friend I made at the mansion.”

“That’s it?” Logan scoffed.

“For starters.” You placed your hand on top of his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Logan, you earned my friendship with respect and support. Most friendships don’t start with great gestures, they start with kind words, spending time together, showing kindness. My first morning there I was nervous but you told me I would be okay. Words matter, Logan. And I knew I wanted you officially in my life the day you took me to the hospital to help. Remember?”

Logan looked down at your hands together and nodded.

“I remember thinking I had never seen anything like it. Not only you healed those kids, but the relief their parents must’ve felt…” He said softly. “And you never cared about people giving you credit…”

You chuckled. 

“It’s better that way.” You shrugged. “I also knew we would be friends when you started training me. You didn’t think I would be useless on the battlefield just because I don’t have fighting skills. I appreciated that, I appreciated you having faith in me.”

Logan rolled his eyes.

“I couldn’t have you running around trying to save everyone but not knowing how to protect yourself.” He said teasingly.

“I would’ve been okay. I can heal, remember?”

“Just because you can heal doesn’t mean you should allow yourself to get hurt in the first place.” Logan whispered.

Those words touched you deeply. Without even thinking you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Logan blinked and looked anywhere but you, the tips of his ear turning red.

“I think that’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me. Thank you.” You whispered.

Logan cleared his throat and got up, dropping your hand in the process.

“Right. Of course. Anyway, we have a big day tomorrow, right?” He rubbed his palms on his jean-clad thighs, looking awkward as hell. You nodded your head. 

“Meet me at 9 for breakfast and we’ll head to the Howlett Estate afterwards.” you said. 

“Aye Captain!” He picked his suitcase on his way to the door and turned to look at you. He looked like he wanted to say something again, but this time he just pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Good night, Logan.” you said after a moment. 

“Good night, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.” he winked at you and walked out.

-

Logan was used to sleepless nights, but tonight felt different. His mind kept drifting to you, no matter how hard he tried to push the thoughts away. At one point, he got up, rummaging through his jacket until he found his lighter. The one you’d given him. He turned it over in his hand, his thumb brushing over the engraving, something he often did when he thought of you.

Yet you managed to get him flustered all over again. The little kiss on the cheek you gave him earlier was driving him mad. It had been so long since he felt anything like this, so kind and gentle, so intimate without being sexual, he didn’t know how to act about it.

There was no way he could keep denying it: he had feelings for you. Could you possibly feel the same way? Your last conversation was about your friendship, how come all the sudden friendship wasn’t enough? Where did all these feelings fit in?

Logan raked a hand through his hair, frustration tugging at him. You were everything he wasn’t: beautiful, sweet, kind. The kind of person who made the world a little brighter just by existing. Surely you didn’t feel the same way about him... right? You were kind to everyone; that was just who you were. It didn’t mean you liked him.

Still, he couldn’t ignore how deeply these feelings had crept up on him. They hadn’t come all at once but had grown slowly, quietly, in the peaceful moments you’d shared: the late-night talks, the easy silences that somehow said more than words ever could. He hadn’t even realized how much you’d come to mean to him, until tonight. Until that kiss.

This would explain why he felt so jealous of Alex Summers, why he was so traumatized by the sight of your blood on his hands. Only you could get him to board a plane willingly, so what else would he do for you?

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with frustration. Things were about to get a lot more complicated. There was no way he could tell you how he felt. You deserve the best: someone kind, someone who could give you everything you deserved. That wasn’t him. Not after everything he’d done. Especially not after that night…

The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. The night he attacked you. The guilt from that moment never left him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. You’d forgiven him, but he hadn’t forgiven himself. He didn’t deserve someone like you, not after that. Not ever.

Logan sat back on the edge of the bed, staring down at the lighter in his hand. His thoughts spiraled, a storm of self-loathing and regret. He convinced himself, as he always did, that he was destined to be alone. No good woman would ever settle for someone like him, let alone you.

-

The next morning arrived with an unexpected cold, so you threw on your warmest clothes and headed to the main hall for breakfast, excitement bubbling inside you at the idea of finding out more about Logan’s past. 

But the feeling wouldn’t last. When you got to the dining room you found Logan was already there, looking grumpier than usual. He had a deep frown on his face, and looked at his coffee cup as it had personally offended him.

“Hey, good morning.” You greeted him.

When he looked up at you, his face softened and his shoulders seemed to relax.

“Morning. Slept well?” He asked as you sat down across from him.

“Not really, I guess I was too excited about today to sleep. What about you?”

Logan mulled over it for a moment.

“Same.” He said simply.

“Are you okay?” You asked. “We don’t have to do it today if you’re not ready.” You reassured him. He quickly shook his head.

“No, there’s no point dragging this on any longer.” He ran a hand down his face. Your heart ached for him, he looked tired and angry.

“Logan…” You went to reach his hand, but he quickly pulled it away.

“You should go get some breakfast, we have a long day ahead.”

You got up and headed to the table where the food was served. If Logan wanted to be a grumpy cat, so be it.

He really did look like he was sucking a lemon.

The ride to the Estate was quiet, a big contrats from the ride the day before. There was no banter or jokes, just music playing softly on the radio.

When you finally reached the Estate, you let out a whistle. 

“Damn, Logan! I didn’t know you grew up filthy rich.” You joked. The main building, a manor that seemed frozen in time, stud tall and big at the top of a hill, surrounded by a vast land.

“Neither did I.” He said with a somber tone. Being back here after so long made Logan feel uneasy, like he was entering a sacred place that was prohibited to him, while at the same time walking into a dangerous place. Either way, he didn’t want to be there. You could tell this wasn’t easy for him and you wanted to make him feel at ease, but you could only help him as much as he would allow it. And right now he was being too stubborn for that.

When he parked the car you both got out, but as Logan headed to the door he noticed you weren’t following. Instead you stood by the car, arms crossed on your chest and a pout on your face.

“You coming or what?” He asked annoyed.

“No.” You stomped your foot like a child about to throw a tantrum. “Not until you tell me why you’re being such an ass this morning.” You pressed.

Logan glared at you.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come on.” 

You shook your head.

“Nope. Something happened and I wanna know what.”

Logan groaned.

“Coming here was your idea, so come on, let’s get moving.”

But you didn’t budge, shaking your head.

“You’re doing it again!” You said.

“Doing what?” Logan asked confused.

“Pushing me away.” You replied, your voice shaking. It made Logan stop in his tracks. He had sworn he wouldn’t push you away again. With a defeated sigh he ran a hand down his face and walked back towards you.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m really stressed right now, not knowing what we may find there.” He said pointing at the building with his thumb over his shoulder. “I barely got any sleep but I don’t mean to take it out on you.” He reassured you.

Damn, you really had him wrapped around your finger, didn’t you?

“Why didn't you just tell me? You know you can tell me anything.” The sad look on your face, with a little pout on your lips, made Logan’s defense crumble.

“I know, I’m sorry sweetheart. You already did so much for me I didn’t want to burden you with something else.”

You pouted even more.

“After all this time you still haven’t learned that you’re not a burden for me.” You shook your head and stepped closer. “I guess I’ll just have to keep reminding you.” You took his hand and walked towards the door. “Come on!”

Logan smiled softly. Of course you forgave him right away, you just couldn’t stay mad at him.

He was so screwed!

“Is it anything like you remember?” You asked him and he looked around the building.

“Somewhat, yeah. But mostly things look out of place.”

Several families lived there after the Howletts, and in the latest decades functioned as a museum, so changes were to be expected, but at least most of the structure was left the same since the last time Logan was there.

You were spotted by an employee behind a counter.

“Welcome to Howlett Estate! Would you like a guided tour?” He asked.

“No.” Logan said simply. You threw him a look.

“We would like to explore on our own, but we may have questions for later.” You added politely.

“Okie dokie! Here are some flyers and you can use your phones to download more information.” 

You took the flyers and smiled.

“Thank you!” You said before taking Logan by the arm and walking away. “I like him, he says okie dokie.” Logan simply rolled his eyes.

Stepping into the museum felt like traveling through a time machine. The furniture, the lamps, the carefully preserved clothes, all of it carried the weight of 200 years of history. You couldn’t help but wish these artifacts could speak, sharing the stories they had witnessed. How many footsteps had echoed through these halls? How many secrets were tucked away within these walls?

With your arm gently hooked around Logan's, you strolled at a leisurely pace, making sure he didn’t rush through the space. You wanted him to take it all in, to truly absorb every detail around him.

In the main room rested an imposing portrait of the Howlett family: John, Elizabeth and little James.

“Is that you?” You whispered pointing at the boy on the painting.

“I think so.”

“Awww you were so cute!” You gushed. Logan blinked and looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Look at those little shorts!”

“I looked ridiculous in those clothes.” He deflected.

“Uh I’m sure they were very fashionable at the time.” You shrugged. “Your mom was very beautiful.”

Logan stared at the woman in the painting with a newfound pain in his chest: he craved for a motherly love he never felt. For someone who lived such a long life, he surely missed out on a lot of things.

“She really was.” He said softly.

You stayed quiet, knowing Logan needed a moment to process everything. There were signs of recognition in his eyes, but you didn’t dare to ask. If he wanted to share a memory with you, he would let you know.

You moved from one room to the other, until you reached a children’s bedroom and Logan stopped in his tracks.

“I remember this place…” He walked in slowly, taking everything in.

“Yeah?” You were curious. “Was this your bedroom?”

“I think so. It looked a bit different then, but yeah…”

“You had a big ass bed.” You pointed out the fancy mahogany bed. “I bet you were very spoiled.” You teased, but you dropped your playfulness when you saw the lost look on Logan’s face.

“I remember spending a lot of time in bed. I was a sickly kid.” He then walked to the bed and stared at it for a moment. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Suddenly Logan pushed the bed to the side, as if it weighed nothing.

“Logan!” You chastised. “We’re not supposed to touch anything!”

“Just keep watch.” Logan said before kneeling down and reaching behind the head of the bed.

“What are you doing?” You asked before leaning against the door, watching out for anyone coming your way.

“I left something in here…” he tapped around the wall until he heard a hollow sound. The room had clearly been reformed through the years, but to Logan’s surprise his little hidden spot was untouched. With one of his claws he managed to pull out a piece of skirting board and there it was: his little box of treasures.

He quickly put the board back in its place and then moved the bed.

“What is that?” You asked as you both sat on the bed. Logan opened the tin box, dust flying everywhere, and was met with little pieces of his childhood. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in the way Logan picked the first item, his movements careful and deliberate, a stark contrast to his usual rough manner. 

It was a little lead soldier.

“I remember this, my grandfather got it for me during a business trip.” He said before going for another item, and then another, and another. “He wasn’t very nice, so little things like this meant a lot to me.”

In the box were all kinds of things a boy could treasure: a few colorful marbles, a feather, some coins…

“It’s like a time capsule.” You whispered before reaching in and taking a postcard from the box. It had a beautiful painting of a rose. You turned it around and read outloud “Love you forever, your little flower -Rose.” You smiled softly. “Mmmm who’s Rose?” 

Logan took a moment to think before picking the car.

“A childhood friend.” He said. It was a lie, or at least not the whole truth. Logan and Rose’s story was a long and messy one, one that ended in tragedy.

“A childhood friend.” You repeated with a scoff. “I didn’t know you called your friends “little flowers”.” you teased, elbowing him playfully.

Logan rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.” He said before snatching the card from your hand and placing it back in the box. If it wasn’t because of the shy smile on his face you would think he was actually mad.

Then something in the box caught his attention and his smile dropped. You watched as he carefully picked up an old pocket watch from the box.

“This was my father’s.” He said softly. “It was broken, so he didn’t use it anymore. He told me I could keep it and maybe one day I would figure out how to fix it.” He frowned, caressing the watch with his thumb, the same way he did with his lighter. “That day never came.” He said sadly.

You watched him quietly, before placing your hand on his back and rubbing soothing circles on it.

“You just got a piece of him back, that’s something…” You commented.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Excuse me?” A voice behind you said. You quickly threw your coat on Logan’s lap, hiding the box, before turning to see a tour guide standing by the door. “You’re not supposed to sit on the bed.” He said, a disapproving look on his face.

“Right! Of course! I’m sorry!” You jumped from the bed and walked towards him. “So, I have some questions, I saw there are a lot of portraits on the staircase, are they members of the Howlett family? Who are they?” You talked fast, pushing the guide out to the hall to give Logan a moment alone. You gave Logan a pointed look over your shoulder before stepping out of the room.

Logan kept looking into the box before finally closing it and putting it in your bag. He would look more into it later, for now he had to make sure you weren’t getting in trouble.

He found you asking all kinds of questions to the poor guide, who looked confused and flustered.

“... so if the mattresses were filled with feathers, how many geese or ducks would they need to fill in a king sized bed?” you asked.

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“I imagine it would be a lot!”

“Right.”

“And they made their own candles, right? Now, how do you make a candle?” You asked, playing dumb.

“I think that’s enough, sweetheart.” Logan said, stopping by your side. The guide sighed with relief.

“I have one more question!” You said before turning back to the poor guy. “What happened to the Howlett family? Are they still around?”

“I’m afraid the family’s history is a tragic one. For starters John and Elizabeth’s first son, John Jr. passed away when he was a baby. Years later they had their second son, James. There aren’t any actual records, given the time, but for what we could gather James was an illegitimate son Elizabeth had with the groundskeeper, Thomas Logan. Either way John raised James as his own. Not that he had much of a choice, at the time it would’ve been a massive scandal if people knew James was a bastard child.” while the guide talked and pointed out some portraits you glanced at Logan. There was a storm brewing behind his hazel eyes and you worried he would lash out any moment.

“Whether Mr. Howlett knew or not isn’t clear, but we do know he fired Logan. One evenight Thomas returned and the two men fought to death. It’s believed that he came back to take his son away and was killed in the process, not without mortally wounding John first. Still, someone must’ve taken little James, because he went missing after that. People in town searched for him, but he was never found.”

Slowly and very discreetly you stood by Logan and took his hand. With a squeeze to his fingers you told him you were there for him. This couldn’t be easy for him to hear. He squeezed your hand back, your touch grounding him.

“Feeling incapable of carrying on without her husband and her soon,Mrs. Elizabeth Howlett took her own life. The Howlett name remained, thanks to John’s father, who kept the place up and running until his death. He never stopped looking for James.” The guide concluded.

There was an extended silence, as everything seemed to sink in.

“That is very sad.” you said softly after a moment.

“Indeed.” the guide said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

You looked at Logan and he shook his head.

“No, that would be all, thank you.” You replied.

“Of course, don’t forget to stop by the gift store!” the guide said before retreating away.

You turned to look at Logan fully.

“Are you okay?” 

Logan barely nodded his head.

“Enough for today.” He mumbled before walking away. 

It wasn’t long before you were both sitting at a table in the far corner of a bar. Logan knocked back drink after drink while you nursed a beer. The tin box laid open on the table while Logan inspected some of his old “treasures”. You were quiet for most of it, but you were worried about him and couldn’t keep silent much longer.

“Are you okay?” You asked. “I know today was intense and a lot happened, but did you at least get some answers? Any memories?”

Logan nodded before downing another drink.

“He was wrong.” He mumbled.

“Who?”

“The tour guide. He got most of the story right, but some details were wrong.” Logan took his father’s watch with a longing look. “My father didn’t kill Thomas Logan, I did.” He confessed. “That night I found out I was a mutant, I killed him with my claws… I was just a child.” He shook his head in shame.

“Oh Logan, I’m so sorry.” you said placing a hand on his arm.

“Thomas Logan was my biological father, but he didn’t mean anything to me. John Howlett didn’t raise me to avoid a scandal. He loved my mother and he loved me. In my heart he will always be my true father.”

“What happened after?” You asked.

“Rose and I ran away with help from my grandfather. The memories get hazy after that, but I do recall…” He took a deep breath. “I recall killing Rose by accident.” He said sadly.

“Oh, Logan…” You didn’t know what to say. 

“I hurt everyone I care about, even before I knew I was a mutant I hurt my family.”

“No, Logan, stop. The way you were conceived wasn’t your fault, you didn’t choose to be your father’s son. You didn’t kill your mother, that’s on her.” You shook your head.

“What about Rose, uh? Or the others that came after her? My life is an endless battle, one death after the other.” He shook his head in defeat. “You should go back to the Mansion without me.”

Your heart dropped.

“What?” the question came out in a shaky voice. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Angel…” Logan sounded exhausted. “I’m a bad man. You don’t need a bad man in your life.”

You frowned and felt hot tears threatening to spill out. 

“Logan, I need you to listen to me.” You said while taking his hand over the table. “I know you say you’re a bad man because you feel guilty, because you have a conscience that weighs on you. But what if I told you that doesn’t make you a bad man. It does the opposite.” He looked at you confused. “A bad man doesn’t care if he hurts someone else, he only cares about himself. A bad man doesn’t have a conscience. And this, James Logan Howlett, is how I know you’re not a bad man. Because you care, I know you do, you care so much and behind this tough exterior there’s a good man craving forgiveness, companionship and even love.”

Logan looked at you for a moment, his eyes going from one side of your face to the other, as if he was memorizing your face.

“Sweetheart…” He breathed out.

“Please don’t leave me.” you begged, catching him by surprise. “You left once and it nearly killed me, please don’t do it again, don’t push me away.” Without realizing, tears started rolling down your cheeks. Logan reached up to touch your face and your eyelids dropped as he wiped your tears.

Your heart ached for him. You were convinced he would never love you back, not the way he loved Jean, but when he touched you like that you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of hope.

In the meantime Logan wondered how he got someone like you to care for him so much, to see the good in him when he couldn’t see it himself. You were so beautiful and if it was up to him you would never cry tears of sadness ever again.

“It’s been a long day, we both need some rest.” He said, both of you exhausted.

Once back at the B&B Logan walked you to your door.

“Will you be okay tonight?” You asked softly.

“Yeah.” Logan replied without thinking too much, before frowning and rubbing his neck. “I think so...” he added unsure. “...probably not.”

“We can stay up and talk a little bit more, if you want.” You offered.

Talking was the last thing Logan wanted to do.

“Angel…” He stepped closer, something shifting in his eyes. He lifted a hand to your face, so slowly it felt as if he was trying not to scare you, and placed it on your cheek. Your breath hitched and you tilted your head against his hand, seeking his touch. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.” Logan whispered.

As if drawn together by an invisible force, you stepped closer until your chests were nearly brushing. Logan hesitated, his gaze searching yours for any sign to pull away, to stop. But all he found was an invitation: a soft, loving look that made him feel like the only person in the world. It was as if nothing else existed, no one else mattered, and you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

“I would do anything for you, Logan.” you confessed. 

And that was all Logan needed to take the next step. He leaned in and pressed his lips against you in a chaste, tentative kiss. Your hands moved up his chest to rest on each side of his neck, pulling him closer, his free hand resting on your hip.

When Logan pulled back he didn’t go far, he rested his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes slowly and looked at him still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he had kissed you. You dreamed of this moment so many times, you weren’t ready to let go.

You tilted your head up and kissed him again, this time with more enthusiasm as the initial shock washed away.

Logan wrapped his arm around your waist while you ran your hands up his neck and your fingers through his hair. When your tongue slipped past his lips, Logan let out a low growl and pulled you closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” He hissed against your lips. “I should’ve kissed sooner.” He said before kissing you again.

“I wish you had.” You whispered. 

Logan pressed you against your door, wanting to feel you impossibly close.

“I don’t think I can stop.” Logan admitted. 

“I don’t want you to stop. I've wanted this for a long time.” You said, but before he could kiss you again you pulled your face away slightly. “But I need to know…”

Logan pulled back to look at you better and waited.

“Yes?”

Suddenly you felt like you couldn’t speak, no words would come out of your mouth. When Logan saw you struggle, he tilted your chin and made you look at him.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry if I pushed you too much.”

You quickly shook your head.

“No, it’s not that… It’s just that…” You took his hands, wanting to ground yourself. “If we’re going any further, I need to know it’s not because you can’t be with Jean.” You looked at him shyly. “I don’t want to be your second choice.”

Logan stared at you for a moment in shock. He knew you were aware of his feelings for Jean, you even held him when he cried over her engagement with Scott. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you had your doubts. He wanted to shut those doubts down fast.

“You’re not.” He said. “I’m an idiot, this entire time I’ve been pinning after her yet you were here by my side, putting up with my crap.” He shook his head. “All those times I talked about her, did I hurt you?”

You chewed your lower lip as you tried to come up with an answer. But you didn’t need to, Logan saw right through you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” He pulled you closer and kissed your forehead. You instantly clinged onto him. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know.” you tried to comfort him. “I’m sorry I killed the mood.”

Logan chuckled lightly against your skin.

“You didn’t kill anything. I’m glad we talked about this.” He pulled back and cupped your face. “I don’t want Jean, not anymore. I want you, even though I’m convinced I don’t deserve you.”

You rolled your eyes and gave his shirt a little tug.

“You keep saying that, can I convince you otherwise?” You asked with a flirty tone as you played with his dog tags. Logan smirked.

“Perhaps I can be persuaded.” He flirted back.

You quickly opened your bedroom door and pulled him inside. You couldn’t help but giggle as you pushed his jacket off his shoulders and he kicked the door shut. This was everything you dreamed of! Logan easily picked you up by your thighs and you quickly wrapped your legs around his waist.

“You better not drop me!” You laughed.

“Never!” He chuckled and kissed you again.

Logan set you down carefully on the dresser where he took his time tasting your lips and exploring your mouth. Your hands wandered all over his chest, his broad shoulders, his biceps… you wanted to touch every inch of him. You couldn’t get enough of him.

At one point he pulled back and caressed your cheek.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic softness. His eyes held a rare tenderness, mirrored in the gentle way his fingers brushed against you. It was a good thing you were sitting down because your knees were weak and you felt like melting inside. “My sweet little angel.” Logan added before kissing you again.

Your hands worked on unbuttoning his flannel and quickly pushed it off his shoulder, dropping it on the floor next to his jacket.

“Logan…” You whispered against his lips. “Take me to bed…”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

You spend the rest of the night in Logan’s arms, making love and having all kinds of conversations in between, from deep and revealing to fun and silly. But you only had so much energy, and after the fourth round your eyelids started to drop. Logan watched you as you curled up against him, his fingertips caressing your arm up and down. You were breathtaking and he kicked himself for not realizing sooner.

At one point you felt the sheets rustling and the bed moving. You turned to see Logan sitting on the bed, slowly dressing himself. With your eyes heavy with sleep, you tried to sit up, lifting yourself up with your elbow.

“What are you doing?” You asked softly.

Logan turned to look at you and smiled at the sight: you looked adorable, half asleep, your hair a mess, your lips bruised from all the kisses. and the sheets barely covering your naked body.

“Go back to sleep, baby.” He whispered.

Your heart dropped.

“You’re leaving? Why?”

The worry and sadness in your voice didn’t go unnoticed to Logan.

“It’s not what you think.” He shook his head and leaned to kiss your forehead. “I just can’t fall asleep next to you.”

“Why?” you pouted.

“I’m worried I may hurt you again.” He admitted.

You looked at him for a moment, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

“I wish you didn’t leave.” You wanted nothing more but to sleep in his arms.

“I know, baby, I know.” He sighed. “I’ll keep working on it, I promise. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

You reached for his hand. What he didn’t know is that this was hurting you too.

“Will I see you in the morning?”

Logan smiled and lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly.

“Darling, after tonight, you won’t ever get rid of me.” He chuckled and leaned to kiss you. “Get some sleep, I’ll bring us breakfast in a few hours.” He promised.

“Mmmokay.” You sighed and nuzzled your pillow. “It better be a good breakfast, with lots of kisses.”

Logan chuckled and got up.

“All the kisses you want, my angel.”

--

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Fragment of a Handle from a Vessel. New Kingdom ca. 1390–1352 B.C. Faience.