wchswift

[wchswift]

oh my god??? Thank you so so much!! You don't know how much I appreciate this 🥹🥹 you're so sweet and made my day with this <33

✰ MADE OF SILK

→ summary: logan can't help but be obsessed with you in your pretty nightgowns.

⤿ logan howlett x reader / cw: suggestive with sexual tension, soft intimacy, cuddling, loving touch, protective behavior, soft, fluffy, I wrote this with worst!logan in mind but I think you can imagine any logan you want.

⤿ word count! 1k

Logan had always been a man of jagged edges.

A man who carried the weight of lifetimes on his broad shoulders, whose knuckles were more familiar with blood than tenderness. He was built for war, made for the wild—gruff and hardened by the years, by loss, by the ghosts of memories too tangled to unravel.

And then there was you.

Soft. Sweet. Sugar spun into a real, breathing thing. Everything he wasn’t.

Everything he didn’t think he’d ever get to have.

He had no business being with you, and yet, somehow, you had taken one look at the sharp edges of him and decided you weren’t afraid of getting cut. Had smiled that sunshine smile, touched him with hands made of silk and stardust, and looked at him like he was something worth keeping.

Damn if that didn’t ruin him.

You weren’t just gentle—you were delicate in the way flowers bloomed in the spring, in the way lace wove itself into intricate, beautiful patterns, too fine to be touched without care. But that softness didn’t make you fragile. No, you were something far more dangerous than that.

You were warmth. And Logan had never been good at handling warmth.

But oh, how he wanted to.

If he had to pick his favorite thing about you—which was impossible because there were too many—then maybe it’d be the way you dressed at night.

Dainty little nightgowns in all shades of pastels, adorned with lace or silk or sheer fabrics that teased against your skin. Always pretty, always delicate, making you look like something out of a dream. A doll come to life. A vision he didn’t deserve to hold, but one he’d fight tooth and nail to keep.

And you had to know what you were doing to him.

There was no way in hell you didn’t notice the way his breath hitched every damn time you walked in, the way his muscles went taut beneath his skin, his jaw clenching so hard it could crack. The way his hands twitched with the need to grab, to hold, to feel.

Tonight was no different.

Logan was already in bed, lounging with a book in hand, though he wasn’t reading a damn word. His focus was elsewhere—waiting. Anticipating.

And then you appeared.

Padding into the room like you hadn’t just made his lungs forget how to work.

Tonight’s nightgown was a soft blush pink, lace trim tracing the hem and neckline, the fabric sheer enough that the golden glow of the bedside lamp kissed your skin right through it. The delicate straps barely clung to your shoulders, one already slipping down in a way that made his throat dry up.

You weren’t even trying, and yet you had him right where you wanted him.

“Somethin’ on your mind, sugar?” You asked, throwing him the sweetest little smile.

He exhaled sharply, shutting his book with a little more force than necessary. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

You blinked up at him, all innocence and mischief, and his chest ached with how damn much he loved you.

“Whatever do you mean, Logan?” You teased, tilting your head, pretending you didn’t know exactly what he meant.

Oh, you little—

His gaze dragged over you, slow and heavy, drinking you in like the last drop of whiskey in a bottle. And you—perfect, angelic you—just smiled that sweet, knowing smile, padding over to the bed like you didn’t have him by the throat.

Logan ran a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You giggled as you climbed into bed beside him, the sound soft and airy, the kind of laugh that made his stomach flip. “Well, I certainly hope not. I’d miss you too much.”

With a low growl, he reached out, catching your wrist, tugging you closer until you half-fell into his lap. You squeaked, giggling as you braced yourself against his chest, palms pressing over hard muscle.

“You’re real cute, y’know that?” His voice was low, rough, like gravel smoothed by whiskey and smoke. His lips brushed against your forehead.

You beamed up at him, all sunshine and mischief. “I like when you call me cute.”

Logan huffed, shaking his head, but his hands—big, warm, roughened by years of fighting—slid down to your hips, thumbs grazing the soft, silky fabric of your nightgown. “You wear these damn things on purpose.”

Your lashes fluttered, feigning innocence. “What things?”

Logan leveled you with a look. “These,” he muttered, tugging lightly at the lace-trimmed hem. “Your little nightgowns.”

You bit your lip, smiling, and he just about lost it.

“I like feeling pretty,” you said simply, and the honesty in your voice made his heart clench.

He swallowed. Hard. Because damn it, you were pretty. You were the kind of pretty that made his chest ache, made his hands itch to touch, to worship, to hold on tight and never let go.

“You’re more than pretty, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with something too big for words.

Your cheeks flushed, the blush dusting over your soft skin, and Logan swore it was the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

Still holding you close, he let his fingers trace absent patterns along your thighs, the heat of his touch seeping through the delicate fabric. “I ever tell ya how much I love you?”

Your smile softened, eyes shining as you nodded. “All the time.”

“Good,” he muttered, dragging you impossibly closer until you were nestled against him, warm and sweet and everything he didn’t know he needed. “I’m gonna keep tellin’ you.”

And just like that, the rest of the world faded away.

Because here, in this moment, with you wrapped up in his arms, dressed in something soft and sweet just like you—Logan finally felt something close to peace.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @cruel-as-sin @logaenhowlett @blossomingorchids @kvntonq @tinas111 @mcrdvcks (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

thank you!!! So glad to know you enjoyed this <33 tysm for reblogging it 💜

hii could you do mark meachum x wife reader,

she’s the sweetest person to ever be and mark just lets all his anger out on her when she asks to many question, because of everything that was been happening with his tumor. so she distances herself from him a bit but once he realizes what he’s done he does everything so she can forgive him

mark meachum x fem!reader

Mark lashes out in fear, distancing yourself from him until he realizes the damage and fights to make it right. content! emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a tender ending. word count: 868

notes: thanks for the request!! I've been trying all week to get inspiration to write for Mark and enjoy what I wrote, but I was having a hard time, so I'm glad I got a request for him to practice my writing :) I hope this is what you wanted!!

There’s something about how quiet you’ve become lately that makes the walls feel thinner.

You still move like yourself — soft, deliberate, graceful in the way only someone deeply in love moves through a home. But your presence no longer wraps around him like it used to. You don’t touch his shoulder in passing. You don’t ask if he’s hungry. You don’t call him baby when he’s pacing in the hallway, muttering to himself and raking his hands through his hair like the frustration is a fire only he can feel.

You used to chase after him when he got like that. Soft hands catching his wrist. Words that didn’t scold — just saw.

Now you don’t.

Now you sit at the edge of the bed when you think he’s asleep, fingers picking at the frayed hem of your sweatshirt, and the space between you both has become a breathing thing. Alive. Growing.

And Mark knows — god, does he know — that it’s his fault.

The tumor. The goddamn tumor.

The weight of it has infected everything: his patience, his mind, his sense of control.

He can’t fix this. He can’t throw money at it. He can’t outthink it.

So when you ask —

"Did you talk to the specialist today?"

"Is there another trial you can apply for?"

"Why won’t you let me come with you?"

— His voice goes sharp before he can stop it. “Jesus, would you just stop? I don’t need you breathing down my goddamn neck all the time!”

You’d flinched. Not like you were scared. But like he’d stepped on something fragile between you. And then you didn’t ask again.

That was four days ago.

Now, you speak in past tense. You sleep turned away. You still make his coffee in the morning, but you leave it on the counter and don’t wait to see if he drinks it.

The sweetness hasn’t gone — it’s just quieter now. Guarded.

And he hates it.

Tonight, he comes home late. Tension like coiled wire in his spine. Another round of bad news. Another clue that led nowhere. Another maybe. He half-expects to find you in bed already — curled up on your side of the mattress like you’ve started building a life at arm’s length.

But the lights in the kitchen are still on.

You’re sitting at the table. Wearing one of his old sweaters. Holding a mug you haven’t touched.

You look up, and your expression is careful. Like you’re waiting to see what version of him just walked through the door.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He swallows.

“Hey.”

The silence between you cracks open — a seam in something that used to feel whole.

You look back down. “You should eat something. I made—”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is rough. Uneven.

You blink, confused. “Do what?”

“Take care of me like I haven’t been—” He stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Like I haven’t been a complete asshole to you.”

You say nothing. But your eyes glisten. Just barely.

“I know what I’ve been doing. I know I’ve been taking it out on you,” he breathes, like it costs him to say it. “Because I can’t control any of it. Because I’m scared. And I didn’t want to admit that. I thought if I kept pushing forward, if I stayed angry, it would feel like I was doing something.”

Your voice is soft. “And me asking questions…?”

“Felt like a reminder that I couldn’t answer any of them.” He laughs, hollow. “But that’s not fair to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

You look down into your mug. Swallow hard. “You hurt me, Mark.”

“I know.”

“I was just trying to help you.”

“I know that too.”

His throat works.

“I miss you,” he says finally. Quiet. “You’re right next to me, and I miss you.”

That’s what breaks the dam. Your breath catches, and you press your lips together like you’re afraid of what will come out if you speak. But he’s already closing the distance. Dropping to his knees in front of you like it’s penance.

His hands curl around your waist — tentative, like maybe you’ll flinch again.

But you don’t.

You let him hold on.

“I’m still scared,” he whispers into the fabric of your sweater. “But I don’t want to fight you. I can’t do this without you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t need you.”

You tilt his chin up. Eyes shining now.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m still here. I’m always here. But I need you to stop shutting me out.”

He nods. “I will... I'll try at least. I promise.”

You brush his hair back with trembling fingers. Kiss his forehead.

And for the first time in days, when he breathes in, it feels like maybe there’s something worth holding on for. Something left to fight for that isn’t just survival — but love.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @sturnspup @mostlymarvelgirl @youdontknowe @kathie85 @that-stanford-girlie @donatello-fiend @aryaharmon @star-yawnznn @tinas111 @candy-coated-misery0731 (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

finally getting inspired and writing part 2 of this 🫣🫣

── fangs and fury

pairing! dean winchester x vampire!reader

summary! a vampire that dean once spared, appears years later as the supposed motive for the new case the brothers are working on.

contents! enemies, complicated relationship, blood, porn with plot, hate/angry sex (kind of), smut, degrading words, Insults, teasing, riding, unprotected sex p in v and more; mdni 𖤐 18+

word count! 3.8k

𝒟ean masterlist !

── english isn't my first language, so probably some mistakes.

It was a messy hunt. Simple but without patterns. Many different bodies, in distant places and with no clear clues. It was obviously a vampire, that was the only certainty Sam and Dean had. It took them a while, but once they got to the next town they thought you would be in, it wasn't long before they found you.

And that was the first time Dean Winchester saw you.

You were covered in blood.

It wasn't subtle. Your clothes were stained, your lips parted just enough to reveal a glint of fangs beneath, your breath uneven. You stood over the body of a man, lifeless, skin ashen, and eyes wide open in terror. A predator caught in the act.

Dean didn't hesitate—he raised his machete, his stance lethal. "Son of a bitch."

Your gaze snapped to his, sharp and alert, and for a second, you didn’t move. The tension between you felt electric, sizzling in the cold air of the abandoned alley. Then, just as his muscles flexed, preparing to swing, you took a step back, your voice rough but not pleading.

"I don't want to be a monster."

The words hit him like a bullet. It was the way you said it—raw, desperate, like you were fighting for something deeper than just your life. Like you were begging him to believe you.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Dean shot back, his voice like gravel, eyes narrowed.

You shook your head, frustration breaking through. “I was turned against my will. I never asked for this.”

Sam shifted slightly, lowering his weapon just a fraction. “Then why the bodies?”

Your expression twisted with something—guilt, regret. “At first, I couldn’t control it. The hunger… it was unbearable. I—I did things I can’t take back.” You swallowed hard. “But I tried to stop, I don't want to kill people! And I swear I'm better, I'm doing a good job.”

Sam hesitated beside Dean, eyes narrowing. “A good job? What the hell is this, then? Why are you covered in blood?” his voice was suspicious, hesitant.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing red across your cheek. Your gaze was a mixture of confidence and fear. “I didn't want to, okay?” you admitted, voice raw. “But he followed me here, he tried to attack me and... I didn’t have a choice!”

Dean scoffed. “Bullshit. There’s always a choice.”

Your eyes darkened, something old and weary settling into your features. “You think I wanted this?” Your voice was sharp, defensive, but beneath it was something else—something broken. “You think I woke up one day and thought, ‘Hey, I’d love to spend eternity drinking blood, being hunted like an animal’?”

Dean’s grip on the knife tightened. He’d heard sob stories before. Monsters with excuses, justifications. But something about the way you looked at him made it hard to move, made his stomach twist.

Dean could feel the weight of your stare, heavy and unrelenting. He wanted to believe you were full of it, wanted to ignore the way his gut told him otherwise.

He lifted the blade, heart pounding. Just do it. Get it over with. But when he met your eyes again, all he could see was someone who never got a choice.

“Dean,” Sam said quietly.

Dean didn’t look at him. He just stood there, caught in a storm of hesitation, of instincts warring against something deeper.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, stepping back. “You so much as breathe wrong, I’ll come for you,” he warned, voice low.

Your lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”

They let you go that night. He didn’t look away as you turned, vanishing into the night.

And then, for years, nothing.

Years passed.

Dean had almost forgotten about you. Almost.

Then, another case—a brutal vampire kill, bodies drained dry. It brought them back to you.

Was supposed to be an easy hunt. It was clearly just a vampire, so it would be something simple and quick. Then, someone, a witness, mentioned a beautiful woman near one of the crime scenes. Security footage was grainy at best, but Dean didn’t need a clear picture. One glimpse and his stomach dropped. He recognized that face instantly.

He hadn’t hesitated this time. He and Sam had tracked you down within hours.

When they finally found you again, you were furious. The moment you saw them, you squared your shoulders, anger blazing in your eyes. Your eyes—still sharp, still burning with that same defiance—narrowed in pure fury. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to kill again? After everything?"

Dean scoffed, crossing his arms. "People are dead. And your name keeps coming up. Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word."

Your lip curled. "I’ve been clean for years. Blood bags. Animals, when I have to. But never people. Never again."

“Yeah? Then why do the bodies keep showing up?” Dean’s fingers twitched around the machete.

You let out a slow, measured breath. “I don’t know. But it’s not me.”

Dean studied you—really studied you. No blood on your clothes, no scent of fresh kills. Just raw frustration written all over your face. He hated that it wasn’t an outright lie.

Sam, watching you closely, saw something genuine in the way you said it. "Dean, maybe we should hear her out."

"No. I don’t buy it." Dean stepped closer, his voice dropping. "We’re not taking any risks. You’re coming with us."

Your eyes narrowed. "For protection, or so you can put a knife in my heart when I’m not looking?"

"Take a guess."

A storm passed through your expression before you clenched your jaw. “Fine. But if you’re wrong, you owe me.”

Dean scoffed. “Not happening.”

The motel was dimly lit, shadows stretching long across the walls. You paced near the window, arms crossed, clearly seething. Dean watched you, jaw clenched, frustration mounting. He didn’t trust you. He couldn’t. So he was here, keeping an eye on you while Sam did some more research.

"You’ve been watching me like I’m gonna rip your throat out in your sleep," you said, voice low and sharp.

Dean smirked, stepping closer. "Should I be worried?"

You let out a humorless laugh. "If I wanted to kill you, Winchester, you’d already be dead."

That did something to him. The way you said it—confident, assured, dangerous. But there was more underneath it. A challenge. A dare.

"That supposed to scare me?"

You tilted your head, gaze locking onto his. "No. I think it excites you."

The tension in the room became unbearable, thick like molasses.

Dean stood there, hands curled into fists, watching you like you were something unholy. And maybe you were. Maybe that’s why he hated you so much. Hated the way you spoke like you had nothing to lose. Hated the way you didn’t flinch when he got too close. Hated that you looked at him like he wasn’t the one in control. Hated how you were so confident and so fucking hot even though you were a vampire.

"You’re staring, Winchester," you drawled, leaning back against the motel wall, arms crossed, lips curled. "Getting ideas?"

"I don’t get ideas about monsters," Dean shot back, voice razor-sharp.

You only smirked, cocking your head to the side. "Bullshit."

Dean moved before he could stop himself, closing the distance with a fury that barely felt like his own. His hand shot out, gripping your jaw with just enough force to tell you how close you were to crossing a line.

"You wanna test me?" His voice was low, seething, full of something he wasn’t ready to name. "You really wanna see how this ends?"

You grinned, teeth gleaming like a promise. "I already know how this ends, Dean. I think you do too."

That snapped something in him. He barely registered the way his body caged you against the motel’s peeling wallpaper, the way his fingers gripped your throat—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it. Enough to make you aware of the fact that he could crush you if he wanted to. That maybe he wanted to. That maybe he wanted to do something worse.

"You think you know me?" he snarled, face so close that his breath was hot against your skin, smelling like leather and gunpowder. "You don’t know a damn thing."

"I know you don’t want to stop," you murmured, lashes lowering just slightly, mouth curling at the edges. "I know you’re fighting it so hard, you’re shaking."

Dean realized then—his hands were shaking. His chest was heaving. His body was pressing against yours so tightly that he could feel every breath you took. You weren’t wrong. You weren’t fucking wrong.

And you were enjoying it.

Your hands slid up his chest, nails scraping lightly over his shirt before you grabbed his jacket, keeping him closer.

"God, I fucking hate you," he spat, but the words came out more like a confession than a threat.

You tilted your chin up, brushing your lips against his jaw just to feel him jolt. "I know. And yet, here we are."

Dean didn’t think. He couldn’t. His grip on your throat tightened for just a second, just long enough to make you gasp before his mouth crashed against yours, brutal and punishing. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a battle. A goddamn war.

You met him with equal force, biting at his lip, digging your nails into his shoulders. He slammed you harder against the wall, groaning against your mouth when your fingers tugged at his hair, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper into something he couldn’t afford to want.

"Fucking hell—" He tore his lips away, panting, his forehead pressing against yours as he tried to collect himself. As if he could. As if you’d let him.

You laughed, breathless. "Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got, Winchester."

His fingers tightened on your waist, nails digging in. "I swear to God—"

"What?" you taunted, voice syrupy sweet. "You gonna kill me? Rip my heart out?" You dragged your lips up the side of his throat, slow, taunting. "Or are you gonna fuck me so hard you forget why you ever thought you could resist?"

Dean lost it. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly, knocking over the lamp in the process, not that either of you cared. You moaned into his mouth, raking your fingers through his hair, tugging at the short strands at the nape of his neck. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your ass, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every hard inch of him through his jeans. So you could rocked your hips against him, slow and deliberate, grinding right over where he was aching for you.

He hated you.

He needed you.

His breath was hot against your neck as he ground against you, the hard press of his cock dragging exactly where you needed it, teasing, taunting. His fingers dug into your clothed thighs, the pressure deliciously bruising. "Fucking vampire," he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing over your pulse point in a way that was nothing short of ironic. "You always this desperate, or is it just for me?"

You huffed out a breathless laugh, letting your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him growl. "Please. You’re the one who can't keep his hands off me."

"Because you’re a fucking problem," he snarled, playing with the waistband of your jeans. Moving to unbutton your pants, "And I solve problems."

"By fucking them?" you taunted, tilting your head back when he rolled his hips, the friction making your breath stutter.

His smirk was pure arrogance, pushing your jeans down with one hand. "By breaking them."

Then he kissed you again—hard. The kind of kiss that stole your breath and any lingering sense of control. His tongue licked into your mouth, messy and possessive, as he ground against you just the right way. You whimpered against his lips, and he swallowed the sound like a man starved.

"You–" He pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up, thumb smearing the lipstick smudged on your lips. His eyes were dark, hungry. "Are such a pretty mess for me, darling."

His voice was mocking, filled with that arrogant, predatory edge that only made you hotter. You bit your lip, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes, letting the weight of his body press you further against the wall.

"Shut up and fuck me," you challenged, nails raking down his back.

His low chuckle sent a shiver down your spine. "Oh, you want it now?" His fingers finally dipped between your legs, slipping through the wetness in your panties he'd been teasing for too long. "So fucking needy."

You gasped as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, stretching you open as his thumb rubbed lazy circles over your clit. Your head thudded back against the wall, pleasure blooming deep and hot in your core.

He watched you with pure amusement, his pace unhurried despite the tension crackling between you both. "I’m sorry, what was that?" He pressed another finger inside, making your hips jerk. "I couldn’t hear you over all the noise you were making."

You clenched your teeth. “Go to hell." you panted, grabbing his wrist, but he didn’t let up, his smirk only growing.

“Ladies first.”

He pulled his fingers out far too soon, bringing them to his lips, sucking them clean while keeping his eyes locked onto yours. The sight made your stomach tighten, your thighs clench.

Then, before you could retort, he was carrying you to the bed, tossing you down onto the mattress with a roughness that sent heat pooling between your legs. You barely had time to adjust before he was on you again, his body pressing yours into the mattress, mouth finding your throat.

"You're warm," he murmured against your skin, lips ghosting over your pulse, his breath hot. His teeth scraped your skin, teasing. "Too warm for a vampire."

You smirked. "Guess that makes me special."

Dean's fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, exposing more skin inch by inch. "Yeah, well… special's a pain in my ass."

Then he was tugging it over your head, tossing it aside without a second thought. His hands skimmed down your sides, lingering over the soft curve of your waist before gripping your hips, pinning you beneath him.

Your breath hitched as he leaned down, lips brushing the valley between your breasts, kissing lower, lower. You arched into him instinctively, and he chuckled, mouthing at your skin, teasing but never giving you enough.

"You're real fucking needy, huh?"

You narrowed your eyes, hands sliding down his chest. "Says the guy who's already hard as a rock."

Dean scoffed, but you felt the way his cock twitched against your thigh. "Yeah, well, you are a good-looking pain in the ass."

"Dean," you warned, wanting more of him.

He smirked. "What? Thought you wanted me to fuck you like a good slut. Didn’t say how fast."

You let out a low, frustrated noise, but fuck, the teasing was getting to you. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down just as slowly. You sucked in a breath as the cool air hit your exposed skin, but before you could say anything, his mouth was on you, lips brushing over your inner thigh, teeth scraping lightly.

You gasped, arching, but his hands pinned your hips down.

"Stay still," he ordered, voice rough.

You clenched your teeth, a sharp retort on your tongue, but it died when his mouth moved higher, kissing dangerously close to where you needed him most.

"De-Dean..." you breathed.

Dean chuckled darkly, pressing his lips to your stomach, teasing his way back up. "Now you're begging?"

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging, making him groan. "Take your fucking clothes off, Winchester."

His grin was all teeth, sharp and wicked. "Yes, ma'am."

You watched as he sat back, ripping his jacket off, yanking his shirt over his head. Revealing that broad, freckled chest. Your gaze flickered over his chest, down his stomach, tracing the scars, the muscle, the way his skin gleamed under the dim motel lamp. Then he leaned forward, letting you undo his belt, yanking it free, your fingers quickly working on his zipper.

When you pushed his jeans down, his cock strained against his boxers, thick and aching. You ran your hand over him, feeling the heat, the way he twitched beneath your touch.

Dean groaned, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Fuck."

You smirked. "Who's the needy slut now?"

His eyes snapped open, dark with heat. "You're gonna fucking regret that."

Then he shoved his boxers down, and before you could get another smartass remark out, he had you on your back again, legs spread beneath him. His hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing.

"You ready, sweetheart?" His voice was low, taunting.

You swallowed hard, glaring up at him. "Quit teasing and do it."

Dean's smirk widened. "Since you asked so nicely…"

Then he slammed into you, and fuck—the stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, bottoming out in one deep thrust.

Your head fell back against the pillow, a moan spilling from your lips.

"Shit, you feel so good," he groaned, voice tight.

He didn't move at first, just let you feel it, let you adjust, his cock throbbing inside you.

Then he pulled back—slow, deliberate—before slamming into you again, his hips snapping forward, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, nails digging into his back, but he just smirked, loving every second of it.

"That what you wanted?" he taunted, driving into you harder, deeper. "Wanted me to wreck you?"

Your breath hitched, pleasure building with each thrust. "Y-Yeah—Oh— Harder," you gasped, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor.

He growled, grabbing your legs and hooking them around his waist, angling deeper, hitting exactly where you needed. Your moan was nothing short of sinful.

Dean groaned, his pace turning relentless, rough, exactly how you wanted it. He pinned your wrists above your head, keeping you completely under his control.

"You love this," he rasped, lips brushing against your ear. "Love being under me, taking every inch, huh?"

You whimpered, hips meeting his thrusts, chasing that high. But before either of you could finish you reached up to shove him off you, rolling him onto his back. He had no choice, you were stronger than him, but the look in his eyes showed how much he enjoyed this, his gaze heavy with something feral as you straddled him, grinding down, teasing him with slow, torturous rolls of your hips.

His eyes darkened, lips parting in a breathless, ragged groan.

"Oh, I see... you like when someone takes control, Winchester?" You teased feeling him harden even more inside you, if that's possible.

His hands immediately gripped your hips, but you grabbed his wrists, pinning them down beside his head.

"My turn," you whispered, rolling your hips slowly, torturously, “You gonna let me have my fun, Dean?” you purred, “Or are you too scared to let me take control?”

You keep him pinned beneath you, hips rolling in slow, devastating circles, watching the way Dean’s jaw tenses, his breath coming out in ragged pants. You smirk, running your hands up his chest, dragging your nails over his skin just to watch him shudder. Then you lean down, your breath hot against his collarbone, mouth trailing lower, tongue flicking over his nipple before you suck it into your mouth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, thrusting into you so deep that a moan rips from your throat.

You laugh against his skin, tightening your grip on his wrists where you still have him pinned. "Sensitive, huh?" you murmur, dragging your teeth lightly over his flushed skin before sucking a mark into his chest.

You grin, sitting back up, letting his hands finally break free from your grip, your hands bracing against his stomach as you lift your hips, just enough to make him feel the loss—before slamming back down.

Dean groans, head pressing back against the pillow, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, to take back control, but still not reaching you.

You roll your hips again, slow and deep, dragging out every inch, making sure he feels everything. He’s unraveling beneath you, every muscle in his body pulled taut.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, his hands instantly gripping your thighs, eyes locked onto yours as you moved, rolling your hips just right, making him curse.

You smirked, leaning down, pressing your lips against his jaw. “You taste so good, Dean.”

His fingers tightened like he was resisting the urge to flip you back over. Your lips danced across his throat, teasingly grazing his pulse with your teeth, leaving him momentarily frozen in place. With a deliberate slowness, you traced your tongue over his skin, mocking, teasing, sending shivers down his spine.

“What’s wrong, Winchester?” you murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Scared I’ll bite?”

Dean’s breath caught. His hands dug into your thighs, his hips snapping up into you, deep, hard, desperate.

“Jesus,” he hissed, his voice sounding completely ruined, his control snapping. “Do it.”

You moaned, grinding down harder, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck, sucking just hard enough to make him groan.

Dean’s hands shot to your waist, slamming you down, setting a pace that had you both falling apart.

It was filthy. It was raw. It was desperate.

And when you finally shattered, taking him with you, the world blurred, nothing left but heat and tangled limbs and ragged, gasping breaths.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you ruined, spent, bodies trembling.

Dean let out a breathless, breathy chuckle, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead.

“Still wanna kill me?” you murmured, dragging your fingers over his stomach.

Dean smirked, his thumb grazing your swollen lips. “Ask me again in the morning.”

But in the morning, you were gone.

No note. No goodbye. Just the scent of you still on the sheets.

Dean woke up, groggy, running a hand down his face before turning to see the empty bed beside him. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he exhaled hard.

Of course.

The motel door creaked open, and Sam stepped in, glancing at the bed and noticing you were missing before raising an eyebrow at his brother.

Dean glared. “Don’t start.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

But something inside Dean twisted.

Because this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

𖤐 main masterlist.

lina's notes: This has been sitting in my drafts for so long that I'm happy to finally post it, I'm really nervous because I don't know if it turned out how I expected... But I hope you like it and give me feedback on what you think pls <3 I will probably write a second part soon, if you guys like it 👀 I wanted to especially thank @blossomingorchids who read the beginning and helped me, thank you sweetie 🫶

tagging some people I think would like: @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bettystonewell @rositaslabyrinth @multiversefanfics @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @freeluigihesbae @fuckedupfate @bejeweledinterludes @jaredpadonlyyyy @littlesoulshine @sunsbaby @soldiersgirl @losers-clvb @deansbeer @starzify @h8aaz @vmiina @figthoughts @maddie0101 (I need to make a decent taglist lol, let me know if you want to be added or remove)

divider made by @elleisdesigning <3

[wchswift]

YESS, I really liked these headcanons and I'm so glad to know that you enjoyed them too!! Thank you dami <33

headcanons for a reader who’s lowk like intimidating to look at but like secretly such a softie and wants love with logan howlett ofc

✧ logan howlett x intimidating-looking!reader headcanons

notes: I hope you like it and that it's what you wanted!! I think I got a little carried away and it ended up being too long, but yea...

First Impressions:

✷ The first time Logan lays eyes on you, he thinks you’re so controlled and have such strong body language that he feels intrigued by your presence. You carry yourself with power—your gaze cuts, your posture screams confidence, and people get out of your way when you walk by. ✷ Logan always notices you the second you walk in a room — not because you’re flashy or loud, but because you’ve got presence. ✷ There’s something about your posture, the way your eyes sweep a space. You’re not scaring anyone — just… untouchable. Regal. Unreadable. You’ve got that look that makes people sit up straighter. ✷ People don’t mess with you. You don’t invite small talk. Even when you say something kind, people take a second to realize you were being kind. ✷ He respects it. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, but you can feel the caution in his stare. That low growl of curiosity. ✷ The students act differently around you. They scatter when you walk through the mansion halls, partly because of your intense presence, partly because of how silent and shadow-like you move. ✷ You don’t smile easily. Not because you’re angry—but because your resting face is unreadable. It makes people nervous. You’re calm. Composed. And undeniably striking. ✷ Logan doesn’t think you’re dangerous—he thinks you're sharp. A little hard to read. Mysterious. And he likes that. ✷ He doesn’t get intimidated often, but something about how effortlessly cool you look? Yeah. It makes him glance twice. ✷ Logan jokes to Scott that he has finally met someone who looks meaner than him. He’s interested.

Logan Sees Through It:

✷ Logan’s been around enough to know the difference between mean and guarded. You don’t glare — you just observe. You don’t sneer — you just don’t waste expressions. That’s not rudeness. That’s discipline. ✷ He catches on pretty quick that the image doesn’t match what’s underneath. ✷ He hears you humming softly while making tea alone. ✷ You pause to hold open a door for students and actually whisper “You’re okay, sweetheart” when one of them trips. ✷ You talk tough, but Logan sees how your eyes soften when someone’s hurting—even if you don’t say much. ✷ The moment that cracks him is the way you talk to animals. A stray cat shows up near the X-Mansion and you crouch down so carefully, calling it with the softest voice. ✷ You think no one’s watching, but Logan sees it all from the window. You scratch the cat’s ears and whisper, “You don’t have to be scared.” He blinks, surprised at how sweet you look.

The Real You:

✷ You overthink everything. Especially love. Especially Logan. ✷ You don’t know how to show softness without feeling exposed. But god, you want to. You crave touch. Quiet. Belonging. ✷ You write letters you never send. You keep things that remind you of good moments. You replay compliments in your head because you’re starving for them, even if you pretend you’re not. ✷ You’re gentle in private. Logan’s the first person who gets to see the way you whisper good mornings like they’re a secret, or how you carefully fold his flannel when you borrow it. ✷ You cry once. It takes everything in you to not apologize for it. Logan’s thumb swipes over your cheek, “Ain’t nothing weak about feelin’ things. Least of all you.” ✷ The first time he calls you “soft,” you stiffen like you’re insulted. Then he leans down and murmurs, “Didn’t say weak, darlin’. Just said soft.” And you melt. ✷ You have a “stoic face” but Logan lives for the tiny shifts—eyebrow quirks, lip twitches, the soft focus in your eyes when you're half-asleep leaning on his shoulder. ✷ You pretend you’re fine after missions. Logan sees right through it. When you’re hurt, he growls, “Stop acting like you don’t need help. I wanna take care of you.”

Your Relationship:

✷ Sunshine/grumpy? Nope. You’re both grumpy. But deep down, you're just as soft, if not softer, than him. ✷ He calls you things like “tough girl,” “heartbreaker"— teasing names that only he’s allowed to use. ✷ Logan never underestimates you, but he never lets you overextend yourself either. "You’re strong. I know. You don’t have to prove that to me, ever." ✷ You two are the kind of couple people are scared to approach but also whisper about—“they’re scary… but have you seen the way they look at each other?” ✷ He calls you intimidating, but never in a mocking way. It's respect. "You walk like you own the room, sweetheart. Can’t blame people for being a little nervous." ✷ He loves that you’re tough-looking. He thinks you look hot as hell when you spar, when you walk through the halls, when you stand behind him with arms crossed like you’ll kill for him. ✷ But his favorite look is when you’re in his shirt, barefoot, blinking sleepily, asking if he wants pancakes. ✷ To everyone else, you two look like a power couple and even more intimidating together: composed, guarded, silent, strong. ✷ But behind closed doors, you're curled up in his lap with your face buried in his chest. He strokes your hair, calls you “soft thing” and “my girl” in that low, raspy voice. ✷ He gets used to you being shy about asking for affection. So he learns to offer it before you have to say anything. ✷ He adores that you only soften for him. That the world sees steel, but he gets all the honey.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @cruel-as-sin @logaenhowlett @kvntonq @tinas111 @mcrdvcks (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

send this to other bloggers that you think are wonderful. keep the game going, make someone smile!!🩷🩷

damiiii thank you sm!! 🥹🥹 You're always so sweet, sending this straight back to you ily mwaaah <3

[wchswift]

you asked for request so can I pls get literally anything angsty (but with a happy ending) with richie? 🙏🙏🙏

richie jerimovich x fem!reader

You are Carmy's cousin, and after so many years, Richie realizes that he is in love with you. content! hurt/comfort, angst with a soft ending. word count: 1.7k

notes: thanks for the request!! this one took longer than I planned but yea... I hope this is what you wanted!!

Richie doesn’t remember when exactly it shifted. Maybe it was somewhere between you always laughing too hard at something dumb he said, even if no one else found it that funny. Or maybe it was after you became the most certain thing in his life — the one he knew he’d see every day, the one who would be with him at all times. The only person truly present in his routine. The only one he never had to wonder about, never had to question if you'd still be there the next day.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen, right?

You were his best friend. You’d been his best friend for years. You were Carmy’s cousin — the real one, blood — and you’d met Richie years ago at one of those chaotic Berzatto dinners. One of the last ones before everything started cracking at the edges. You’d come in holding a pie you made from scratch, hair windblown from the train, and laughed so loudly at one of Mikey’s jokes, Richie almost choked on his drink.

You had been all sharp edges and soft smiles, rolled sleeves and clean hands that weren’t afraid to get dirty. He’d liked you right away. You didn’t flinch around the noise or the heat or the bluntness. You called him out when he was being a dick, but you also sat with him through every fucked-up moment after. The divorce, the fights, Mikey. Especially Mikey. He remembered the way you held onto him after the service, when everyone else was afraid to come close.

You were always there.

And that was the problem now.

Because Richie couldn’t breathe right when you were in the room anymore. Couldn’t meet your eyes without thinking too long about how they crinkled at the corners. Couldn’t stand how your arm brushed his as you passed by on the line without feeling like his chest was gonna collapse. Couldn’t joke the same way anymore without worrying what was behind the laugh — yours or his.

It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

He leaned back against the reception balcony, watching you talk to Sydney through the glass, laughing about some catering client who nearly cried because he was allergic to the dish he wanted. You looked up mid-sentence and caught Richie watching. You gave him this small, knowing look, like you were used to catching him staring. Like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

He looked away before you could say anything. His heart pounded so loudly he swore Sydney could hear it.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t ruin the one good thing that hadn’t completely gone to shit. Not again. He had destroyed too many things already, and you weren’t gonna be another line on that list.

You’d been with him through all of it. You held his kid when Tiffany didn’t want him in the delivery room. You sat next to him in the car after the lawyer handed him the divorce papers. You poured him water when he drank too much after Mikey’s funeral, tucked him into a shitty motel bed, and drove him back to his in the morning without saying a word. You stocked his fridge for his daughter's visit when he forgot, reminded him of the important things he needed to do, helped him write a resume he never sent...

You were always there. Always.

And Richie had started dreaming about you.

Not just sex — though, fuck, that was there too, in the background like a low hum — but stupid dreams. Making you coffee and having you in his arms. Letting you wear his sweatshirt. Driving around Chicago with your feet up on the dash, arguing about playlists and dipping fries in milkshakes. Shit he never thought he'd care about again. Domestic things. Safe things. Things he thought were out of reach for someone like him.

It scared the hell out of him.

He started pulling back. Not hard. Just… a little. Quietly. Carefully. Like he didn’t want you to notice — but hoped you would. He gave you excuses not to give you a ride to the restaurant, even when his car was parked right out front. Told you he had errands, or needed to pick something up, or that he was heading in a different direction. And when you offered to just ride along anyway, he’d dry chuckle and shake his head like it wasn’t personal.

He stopped texting first. Then he stopped replying quickly. Sometimes he didn’t reply at all. A shift in the rhythm of your day that felt heavier than it should’ve, like a favorite song skipping.

He ducked out right after the shift ended, stopped offering to take you home, didn’t wait for you to change like he usually did, didn’t hover near your station asking if you wanted to grab a drink or get late fries or just sit for a minute and talk about nothing. He vanished before you could ask, slipping away like the closing of a door you didn’t realize had been open.

You noticed. Of course you did. You noticed the space he used to fill, the silence where he used to joke. You noticed that he didn’t bump your shoulder in the hallway, didn’t steal your pen, didn’t linger. You noticed the way your stomach dipped each time he walked away without looking back.

“Hey,” you’d said one night, catching him by the lockers. You cornered him gently, voice low, eyes searching. “You good?”

He looked up too quickly, too ready. “Yeah. All good.”

“Rich, come on.”

He gave a shrug, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Just tired. Long week.”

You stared at him, trying to find the truth in his face. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“Alright,” you said quietly after a long pause, your voice softer than before. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you left. But your heart stayed behind a second longer, lingering like a light someone forgot to turn off.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, hand over his chest like it could keep whatever was breaking inside of him from spilling out. He thought about calling you. He didn’t.

You were slipping away and it was his fault.

So he did something dumb. He talked to Carmy.

Which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t that dumb.

Carmy didn’t even blink. Just looked at Richie like he already knew.

“Tell her,” he said.

Richie blinked. “That’s your fucking advice? Tell her?”

“Yeah. You think she doesn’t know?”

Richie opened his mouth. Closed it.

Carmy just went back to slicing onions like it was nothing.

The next night, Richie caught you alone out back after close. You were sitting on the steps, hoodie pulled over your knees, cigarette between your fingers, even though you didn’t smoke.

He sat next to you without asking.

You didn’t look at him at first.

“Hey,” you said eventually.

“Hey.”

A beat.

“Been weird lately,” you added, glancing sideways. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “Not really.”

You nodded, like you already knew. Like you’d been waiting for him to admit it.

Another long beat.

“I’m in love with you,” he said. Just like that. Like it burned coming out. “And it’s fuckin’ me up.”

You blinked. Turned to look at him fully.

“What?”

“I mean it,” Richie said, eyes locked on yours now. “I think about you all the time. Every fuckin’ day. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just… pushed you away. I didn’t want to screw this up.”

You stared at him. Then you let out this little, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Rich.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, I mean… you idiot.” You shook your head, smiling now. “I’ve been in love with you since before you figured out how to use the new espresso machine.”

He blinked.

“What?”

You looked at him, really looked, like you were memorizing him.

“I didn’t say anything ‘cause… I figured you didn’t feel the same. Or maybe you weren’t ready. Or maybe I just didn’t want to lose you.”

Richie let out a sound — almost a laugh, almost a choke. He shook his head.

“Fuck, I’m so dumb.”

“Yeah. But I like that about you.”

He looked at you then — really looked. The way your face softened when you smiled, the tiny scar on your jaw from that kitchen accident, the way your fingers played with the hem of your hoodie like you were nervous even now. The way your eyes searched his, wide and a little cautious, but not scared. Like you’d been hoping, just like him, but hadn’t let yourself believe it might actually happen.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every second to pull back.

You didn’t.

And when he kissed you, it felt like exhaling after holding his breath for years. Like every version of himself that had been angry or lonely or ashamed was suddenly quiet. Just quiet — and full. Like the pressure in his chest had finally found a release, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t bracing for something to go wrong.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was hesitant, a little clumsy, his nose bumped yours, and he tasted like cigarettes and nerves—but it was real. And breath and too much heart. But it was yours. And everything you didn’t know you needed.

You stayed like that, pressed together on the cold steps behind the restaurant, your knee brushing his, his fingers hesitant but curling around yours. Two people who had been orbiting the same fire for too long, finally letting themselves step into it. The tension that had tethered your every interaction, the loaded silences, the sidelong glances — it all softened into something real. Something warm.

He rested his forehead against yours. You smiled so close he could feel it, your lips ghosting over his again like a promise.

Nothing flashy. Nothing perfect.

When you pulled back, he looked dazed.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. “That was…”

“Yeah,” you said. “It was.”

And for the first time in a long time, Richie Jerimovich smiled like the world hadn’t broken him yet.

And finally, finally, okay.

Okay in the way only something true can be. Okay in the way that made the chaos worth it, made every missed chance feel like it was all leading here — to this quiet, holy stillness between two people who finally saw each other completely.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

[wchswift]

headcanons for a reader who’s lowk like intimidating to look at but like secretly such a softie and wants love with logan howlett ofc

✧ logan howlett x intimidating-looking!reader headcanons

notes: I hope you like it and that it's what you wanted!! I think I got a little carried away and it ended up being too long, but yea...

First Impressions:

✷ The first time Logan lays eyes on you, he thinks you’re so controlled and have such strong body language that he feels intrigued by your presence. You carry yourself with power—your gaze cuts, your posture screams confidence, and people get out of your way when you walk by. ✷ Logan always notices you the second you walk in a room — not because you’re flashy or loud, but because you’ve got presence. ✷ There’s something about your posture, the way your eyes sweep a space. You’re not scaring anyone — just… untouchable. Regal. Unreadable. You’ve got that look that makes people sit up straighter. ✷ People don’t mess with you. You don’t invite small talk. Even when you say something kind, people take a second to realize you were being kind. ✷ He respects it. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, but you can feel the caution in his stare. That low growl of curiosity. ✷ The students act differently around you. They scatter when you walk through the mansion halls, partly because of your intense presence, partly because of how silent and shadow-like you move. ✷ You don’t smile easily. Not because you’re angry—but because your resting face is unreadable. It makes people nervous. You’re calm. Composed. And undeniably striking. ✷ Logan doesn’t think you’re dangerous—he thinks you're sharp. A little hard to read. Mysterious. And he likes that. ✷ He doesn’t get intimidated often, but something about how effortlessly cool you look? Yeah. It makes him glance twice. ✷ Logan jokes to Scott that he has finally met someone who looks meaner than him. He’s interested.

Logan Sees Through It:

✷ Logan’s been around enough to know the difference between mean and guarded. You don’t glare — you just observe. You don’t sneer — you just don’t waste expressions. That’s not rudeness. That’s discipline. ✷ He catches on pretty quick that the image doesn’t match what’s underneath. ✷ He hears you humming softly while making tea alone. ✷ You pause to hold open a door for students and actually whisper “You’re okay, sweetheart” when one of them trips. ✷ You talk tough, but Logan sees how your eyes soften when someone’s hurting—even if you don’t say much. ✷ The moment that cracks him is the way you talk to animals. A stray cat shows up near the X-Mansion and you crouch down so carefully, calling it with the softest voice. ✷ You think no one’s watching, but Logan sees it all from the window. You scratch the cat’s ears and whisper, “You don’t have to be scared.” He blinks, surprised at how sweet you look.

The Real You:

✷ You overthink everything. Especially love. Especially Logan. ✷ You don’t know how to show softness without feeling exposed. But god, you want to. You crave touch. Quiet. Belonging. ✷ You write letters you never send. You keep things that remind you of good moments. You replay compliments in your head because you’re starving for them, even if you pretend you’re not. ✷ You’re gentle in private. Logan’s the first person who gets to see the way you whisper good mornings like they’re a secret, or how you carefully fold his flannel when you borrow it. ✷ You cry once. It takes everything in you to not apologize for it. Logan’s thumb swipes over your cheek, “Ain’t nothing weak about feelin’ things. Least of all you.” ✷ The first time he calls you “soft,” you stiffen like you’re insulted. Then he leans down and murmurs, “Didn’t say weak, darlin’. Just said soft.” And you melt. ✷ You have a “stoic face” but Logan lives for the tiny shifts—eyebrow quirks, lip twitches, the soft focus in your eyes when you're half-asleep leaning on his shoulder. ✷ You pretend you’re fine after missions. Logan sees right through it. When you’re hurt, he growls, “Stop acting like you don’t need help. I wanna take care of you.”

Your Relationship:

✷ Sunshine/grumpy? Nope. You’re both grumpy. But deep down, you're just as soft, if not softer, than him. ✷ He calls you things like “tough girl,” “heartbreaker"— teasing names that only he’s allowed to use. ✷ Logan never underestimates you, but he never lets you overextend yourself either. "You’re strong. I know. You don’t have to prove that to me, ever." ✷ You two are the kind of couple people are scared to approach but also whisper about—“they’re scary… but have you seen the way they look at each other?” ✷ He calls you intimidating, but never in a mocking way. It's respect. "You walk like you own the room, sweetheart. Can’t blame people for being a little nervous." ✷ He loves that you’re tough-looking. He thinks you look hot as hell when you spar, when you walk through the halls, when you stand behind him with arms crossed like you’ll kill for him. ✷ But his favorite look is when you’re in his shirt, barefoot, blinking sleepily, asking if he wants pancakes. ✷ To everyone else, you two look like a power couple and even more intimidating together: composed, guarded, silent, strong. ✷ But behind closed doors, you're curled up in his lap with your face buried in his chest. He strokes your hair, calls you “soft thing” and “my girl” in that low, raspy voice. ✷ He gets used to you being shy about asking for affection. So he learns to offer it before you have to say anything. ✷ He adores that you only soften for him. That the world sees steel, but he gets all the honey.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @cruel-as-sin @logaenhowlett @kvntonq @tinas111 @mcrdvcks (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

hii could you do mark meachum x wife reader,

she’s the sweetest person to ever be and mark just lets all his anger out on her when she asks to many question, because of everything that was been happening with his tumor. so she distances herself from him a bit but once he realizes what he’s done he does everything so she can forgive him

mark meachum x fem!reader

Mark lashes out in fear, distancing yourself from him until he realizes the damage and fights to make it right. content! emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a tender ending. word count: 868

notes: thanks for the request!! I've been trying all week to get inspiration to write for Mark and enjoy what I wrote, but I was having a hard time, so I'm glad I got a request for him to practice my writing :) I hope this is what you wanted!!

There’s something about how quiet you’ve become lately that makes the walls feel thinner.

You still move like yourself — soft, deliberate, graceful in the way only someone deeply in love moves through a home. But your presence no longer wraps around him like it used to. You don’t touch his shoulder in passing. You don’t ask if he’s hungry. You don’t call him baby when he’s pacing in the hallway, muttering to himself and raking his hands through his hair like the frustration is a fire only he can feel.

You used to chase after him when he got like that. Soft hands catching his wrist. Words that didn’t scold — just saw.

Now you don’t.

Now you sit at the edge of the bed when you think he’s asleep, fingers picking at the frayed hem of your sweatshirt, and the space between you both has become a breathing thing. Alive. Growing.

And Mark knows — god, does he know — that it’s his fault.

The tumor. The goddamn tumor.

The weight of it has infected everything: his patience, his mind, his sense of control.

He can’t fix this. He can’t throw money at it. He can’t outthink it.

So when you ask —

"Did you talk to the specialist today?"

"Is there another trial you can apply for?"

"Why won’t you let me come with you?"

— His voice goes sharp before he can stop it. “Jesus, would you just stop? I don’t need you breathing down my goddamn neck all the time!”

You’d flinched. Not like you were scared. But like he’d stepped on something fragile between you. And then you didn’t ask again.

That was four days ago.

Now, you speak in past tense. You sleep turned away. You still make his coffee in the morning, but you leave it on the counter and don’t wait to see if he drinks it.

The sweetness hasn’t gone — it’s just quieter now. Guarded.

And he hates it.

Tonight, he comes home late. Tension like coiled wire in his spine. Another round of bad news. Another clue that led nowhere. Another maybe. He half-expects to find you in bed already — curled up on your side of the mattress like you’ve started building a life at arm’s length.

But the lights in the kitchen are still on.

You’re sitting at the table. Wearing one of his old sweaters. Holding a mug you haven’t touched.

You look up, and your expression is careful. Like you’re waiting to see what version of him just walked through the door.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He swallows.

“Hey.”

The silence between you cracks open — a seam in something that used to feel whole.

You look back down. “You should eat something. I made—”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is rough. Uneven.

You blink, confused. “Do what?”

“Take care of me like I haven’t been—” He stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Like I haven’t been a complete asshole to you.”

You say nothing. But your eyes glisten. Just barely.

“I know what I’ve been doing. I know I’ve been taking it out on you,” he breathes, like it costs him to say it. “Because I can’t control any of it. Because I’m scared. And I didn’t want to admit that. I thought if I kept pushing forward, if I stayed angry, it would feel like I was doing something.”

Your voice is soft. “And me asking questions…?”

“Felt like a reminder that I couldn’t answer any of them.” He laughs, hollow. “But that’s not fair to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

You look down into your mug. Swallow hard. “You hurt me, Mark.”

“I know.”

“I was just trying to help you.”

“I know that too.”

His throat works.

“I miss you,” he says finally. Quiet. “You’re right next to me, and I miss you.”

That’s what breaks the dam. Your breath catches, and you press your lips together like you’re afraid of what will come out if you speak. But he’s already closing the distance. Dropping to his knees in front of you like it’s penance.

His hands curl around your waist — tentative, like maybe you’ll flinch again.

But you don’t.

You let him hold on.

“I’m still scared,” he whispers into the fabric of your sweater. “But I don’t want to fight you. I can’t do this without you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t need you.”

You tilt his chin up. Eyes shining now.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m still here. I’m always here. But I need you to stop shutting me out.”

He nods. “I will... I'll try at least. I promise.”

You brush his hair back with trembling fingers. Kiss his forehead.

And for the first time in days, when he breathes in, it feels like maybe there’s something worth holding on for. Something left to fight for that isn’t just survival — but love.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @sturnspup @mostlymarvelgirl @youdontknowe @kathie85 @that-stanford-girlie @donatello-fiend @aryaharmon @star-yawnznn @tinas111 @candy-coated-misery0731 (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

Heyy, I know I've been a little inactive but I've been a little overwhelmed and anxious. I'm full of requests from this blog and my other blog and I'm kind of anxious just thinking about it lol so sorry if I'm taking so long to respond. I will I promise.

In the meantime, I wanted to relax a bit and maybe write some short, silly things to try and help my creativity, so I'll be accepting writing requests today!!! Please send me any requests for the characters listed in my pinned list. It could be headcanons or drabble, or something like that <33

[wchswift]

just dropping to give a BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD. Once you're given this award, you're supposed to paste it in the ask of eight people who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing happens, but it's sweet to know so. I think you're beautiful inside and out, never forget to love yourself! ❤️

omg jen!!!!! you're so amazing and sweet 😭 thank you sm!! sending this right back to you my angeeel <333

[wchswift]

honorary italian richie jerimovich 🤌 🇮🇹

[wchswift]

✰ IN YOUR ARMS

→ summary: you and clark have been dating for almost a month and he is insecure about saying that he is in love with you.

⤿ clark kent x reader / cw: smallville-era, fluff, soft romance.

⤿ word count! 986

lina yaps: I'm writing so many things at the same time and I have a lot of unfinished writing in my drafts waiting to be posted, but I started watching smallville again and I thought it was a crime when I found out that there are barely any fics for him, so I had to join in and write something :3

Clark Kent feels like a colossal idiot in your presence.

It’s been almost a month now—twenty-seven days, not that he’s counting—since he started dating you, and somehow he still can’t string five coherent sentences together when you're in the room. You smile, and he short-circuits. You laugh, and he stares at you like you hung the stars. The worst part? He knows he’s obvious about it.

Embarrassingly whipped. Chloe’s words, not his.

Every look from you, every absentminded touch or sleepy smile you toss his way is a one-way ticket to catastrophe. He’d drop anything just to be near you. Academical work? Forget it. Farm chores? He’ll make it up to his dad. You? You say his name and he’s there—tall, soft, and probably blushing.

And okay, maybe it’s a little pathetic how he trails after you like a lost puppy, all wide eyes and furrowed brows whenever you frown. But how is he supposed to play it cool when you keep doing things like… wearing his flannel like it’s yours, or resting your head on his shoulder like it’s home?

Clark’s been alive for nineteen years, and he’s never felt like this. Not even close. It’s terrifying. And exhilarating. And so much more than he knows what to do with.

He might be in love with you.

But he’s not an idiot—not that much of an idiot. He knows better than to say something that heavy this soon. He doesn’t want to scare you off, even if the words sit just behind his teeth every time you touch his arm or say his name all sleepy and sweet.

It’s how he’s here now, on your bed, halfway through a cheesy horror movie you insisted on, while you’re tucked into his side, wrapped up in your favorite blanket—his hoodie, for good measure, your head heavy against his chest. You’re barely awake, fingers twitching under the blanket. Clark’s arm wraps around you automatically, protective and soft, like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he hums, his voice low and affectionate, brushing his lips against the crown of your head.

You make a small, drowsy noise, but don’t budge.

Clark smiles to himself, stretching out a little more on your bed to hold you better. He tilts your chin up gently with the hand draped over your shoulder, coaxing your gaze to meet his.

“You’ve been begging me to watch this movie all week, baby.” There’s amusement in his voice, but it’s tangled with fondness. “You’re awful, y’know that? Can’t get through a single movie without you drifting off.”

He clicks his tongue, shakes his head with mock disapproval, but his eyes are warm and impossibly soft as he looks down at you. “It’s criminal, really.”

You mumble something in protest—something that might be “I’m listening” or “Shut up”—but it’s sleepy and tangled in a yawn.

Clark grins. God, he adores you.

You stir beside him, shifting onto your back, blinking at him. “Why’re you staring?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.

“Wasn’t staring,” he lies, quickly looking away. “Just… you snored.”

You smack his chest weakly. “I did not.”

He laughs, the sound deep and warm. “Maybe a little.”

There’s a pause.

Then you sigh, softer this time. “Sorry I keep falling asleep.”

Clark shakes his head. “Don’t be. I like it.”

You blink up at him, surprised. “You like when I fall asleep on you?”

“I like being near you,” he says simply, and it’s the truth. Maybe the most honest thing he’s said all day.

You go quiet for a second, just watching him. Your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt, lazy and familiar, and Clark feels his heart stutter.

“You’re acting weird tonight,” you say, not accusing—just curious.

Clark swallows. “Yeah, I just…” He hesitates. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.

“I was thinking about how I’m, uh, really lucky to have you.”

Your face softens instantly. “Clark.”

He keeps going, nervous now. “I mean, you didn’t have to say yes. When I asked you out. I’m not exactly—like, I’m kind of awkward. And I ramble. And I trip over stuff. A lot. Especially when you’re around. And you’re so… you. And I’m just…” He trails off.

You blink, stunned for a moment.

Then you laugh. Not at him—never at him. It’s the kind of laugh that makes his whole body relax, the one that tells him you’re not going anywhere.

“Clark Kent,” you say, reaching up to brush his hair back, “you’re kind of an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“But you’re my idiot,” you finish, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Clark freezes.

Then melts.

“You’re not scaring me off,” you say quietly, like you know. “If you ever have something to say—say it. I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you—tired eyes, messy hair, hoodie wrapped around you—and his heart gives in.

“I think I love you,” he says before he can stop himself.

Silence.

Then your smile blooms, slow and full of light. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I know I love you.”

Clark stares. “Wait. You what—?”

But your laugh cuts him off again, and your lips meet his before he can finish the thought.

The horror movie keeps playing in the background, forgotten.

And Clark?

He doesn’t feel like an idiot anymore.

Not with you beside him.

Not when you’re his.

Awfully, wonderfully, completely his.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

tags: @daylighted @deansbeer @titsout4jackles (the only smallville moots i know, pls tell me if i have more out there!!)

[wchswift]

✰ COZY STUDY TIME

→ summary: you love the fact that you went to Stanford with your best friend, now he can help you with your essays while you nap on his lap.

⤿ stanford!sam winchester x best friend!reader / cw: eventual best friends to lovers, fluff, casual intimacy, studying together, reader is also a hunter, sam is a puppy in love, maybe more but I don't remember lol.

⤿ word count! 1k (this is short but i'm thinking of writing a part 2...)

lina yaps: sooo I know I usually only write for Dean and Sam isn't even on the list of characters I write for, but I wanted to share the fact that since the first time I watched Supernatural I've been a Sam girl, I defend Sam tooth and nail and I simply love him so much. After many times rewatching it I ended up becoming more attached to Dean and becoming completely obsessed with this man while Sam continued to be my favorite character, even so I always found myself having an easier time writing romantic things for Dean. But then I had this idea while studying for my last exams and I finally had to write for my sammy.

You’d always said Sam Winchester gave the best back rubs.

Though to be fair, you’d also said he gave the best hugs, helped with the worst essays, and had the best judgment—except for that time he thought spaghetti and pickles would be a “fine” combination because you didn’t have anything else in the dorm kitchen.

“Sam,” you grumble, half-asleep, your voice muffled by his thigh. “Please don’t use such big words. I can feel my brain giving up.”

A warm chuckle rumbles through him above you. You’re stretched across the length of his dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on his lap. He’s leaned against the wall with your laptop in front of him, long fingers typing away with that casual brilliance that has always made you both proud and exasperated.

“It’s literally your assignment,” he says, glancing down at you with an amused grin, fingers pausing just long enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, but you’re better at it. And I’m sleepy.”

“Are you always this manipulative when you’re tired?”

You squint up at him, one eye half-lidded. “Only with you.”

His lips twitch.

You’ve known Sam Winchester since you were nine years old. Your dad and his dad were both hunters, both stubborn, both terrible at being parents. Dean had always been a kind of older brother figure, but Sam? Sam was yours. Your person. The one who stayed up late researching monsters with you, who fell asleep next to you in the backseat of a dusty Impala on cross-country hunts, who once held your hand so tight during a banshee exorcism that your knuckles ached the next day.

The one who looked at you when you were fifteen and said, “I don’t want to do this forever,” and you just nodded because you’d been waiting for him to say it out loud first.

Stanford had been his dream. You’d just made it your own.

You weren’t exactly sure when his room had become more yours than your own. When your books started showing up on his shelf. When his drawers started having your socks. When his sheets started smelling faintly like your lotion, and neither of you said a thing about it.

And now, Friday evenings looked like this.

Sam working on your American Literature paper. You, curled up beside him, one leg over his, eyes fluttering open every few minutes just to admire his jawline in the low lamp light.

He’s halfway through a sentence when he notices your breathing even out again.

“You’re asleep, aren’t you?” he whispers, almost to himself.

You don’t answer.

He smiles, soft and small. The kind of smile he only ever gives you when no one else is looking.

His fingers slow on the keys, then still. He places the laptop to the side, careful not to wake you, and lets one hand drift into your hair, combing through it gently. You make a faint sound—more content than conscious—and nuzzle deeper into his lap.

He swallows.

You’ve always been affectionate. Since you were kids, you’d leaned into him like a sunflower leans toward light. Rested your head on his shoulder, held his hand in motel beds, tugged on his hoodie sleeves until he laughed and let you wear them. It was never weird. It was never anything.

Except now, sometimes, it feels like something.

He doesn’t know when that changed.

Maybe it was the night you showed up at his door soaked in rain, crying about a failed test, about the fear of never being normal enough to be able to live a normal life and a missed call from Dean, and he just held you, heart aching in a way it hadn’t since he left hunting behind.

Or maybe it was last week, when you walked out of the bathroom brushing your teeth, hair messy and shirt half-tucked, and he thought, God, this looks like home.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

You mumble in your sleep, brow scrunching slightly before smoothing out again.

“I’m almost done with your paper,” he murmurs, as if you can hear him. “It’s not bad. You actually had some good points… not that you’ll remember them.”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw.

He shouldn’t do this. Not like this. Not when you’re so close. So soft. So impossibly familiar.

But maybe that’s just it.

You’ve always been his gravity. His calm in the chaos. The reason he stood up to his father so he could leave and go to college. The reason he didn’t run when college got hard, when he felt too different, too haunted. He’d look across the quad and see you—head thrown back in laughter, eyes bright—and suddenly it didn’t matter what was chasing him. He was still running toward something.

You.

“Sam…” you murmur sleepily, not even opening your eyes.

“Yeah?”

You shift, wrapping your arms around his waist now, head pressed to his stomach. Your voice is drowsy but warm. “Thanks for doing my homework.”

He huffs a laugh. “Anytime.”

“I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow,” you promise, already half-asleep again.

“You always say that.”

“This time I mean it.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your hair. It’s featherlight, reverent. Your breath stutters just slightly, and he freezes.

But you don’t move.

So he exhales slowly, leans back, and lets the moment hang there between you.

Maybe you felt it. Maybe you didn’t.

Maybe one day, when the world stops spinning so fast, he’ll tell you all of it. How you were always the one. How you never needed to ask him to stay, because he never had a plan that didn’t include you.

But for now, he looks at you—curled up beside him like you’ve always belonged there—and he thinks maybe, just maybe, you already know.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

special tag for my sam moots: @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @xoswiftieprincess @acklesarchives @sunsettsam (I don't know if I'll write to Sam again at some point but if you want to be added to a possible taglist let me know <3)

[wchswift]

✰ PATCH ME IN, BABY

→ summary: being the boys’ hacker means long nights, shitty coffee, and zero quiet—but being soldier boy's hacker girlfriend makes the chaos worth it, especially when it ends in teasing, softness, and good hot sex.

⤿ soldier boy x supe hacker!reader / cw: established relationship, domestic fluff + smut, light banter, slightly soft ben (for you only), kinda out of character ben.

⤿ word count! 1.2k

Your nose wrinkles at the smell of burned toast and gun oil that fills the loft.

Which, if you ask anyone else, is a disaster. But to you, it’s just home. Soldier Boy’s boots are kicked off near the door, his shield leaning against the kitchen table like it owns the damn place. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his old tees—an ancient, washed-out thing that reads Support Our Troops—your laptop balanced on your thighs as you tap away.

He strolls out of the shower, towel low on his hips, still damp, beard a little more trimmed. Bare chest on full display.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, not even looking up, “ever heard of clothes?”

Ben smirks, voice low and gravelly. “Ever heard of knocking before ogling your man in his natural habitat?”

“I live here, and it's my place actually,” you deadpan. “and I wasn’t ogling. I was regretting my life choices.”

He saunters closer, towel slipping lower. “Sure you were, sweetheart.”

You snort but don’t protest when he plants himself behind the couch and leans over to peer at your screen. drops of water dripping from his hair, cool against your neck. “Whatcha workin’ on, Oracle?”

“Cross-checking security footage from that Vought safehouse Butcher wants us to hit. And don’t call me Oracle. I’m not a comic book character.”

He smirks, beard brushing your temple as he leans in. “C’mon, it’s a solid supe-name. You’re the hacker chick. The brains. The spooky voice in our ears.”

You snort. “Yeah, and you’re the dumbass who thinks brute force counts as a personality trait.”

Ben chuckles, low and smug. “Aw, come on. I’m the muscle, you’re the brains. It’s a classic combo.”

“Oh, so that’s what we’re calling you now? Muscle?”

"Look at least I’m not the one hiding behind a screen like a little princess while the rest of us do the dirty work.”

You slowly swivel in your seat to face him, raising a brow. “Princess?”

“If the combat boot fits…”

“Oh please. I could knock you on your ass without breaking a sweat.”

Ben chuckles. “Sure you could, sweetheart.”

“You’re only alive half the time because I am behind a screen,” you fire back. “I do the heavy lifting. You just don’t notice, ‘cause the only muscles you ever use are the ones in your biceps and your jaw.”

He grins, eyes glittering with affection. “And still, you’re into me. And you love those muscles. What does that make you then?”

You lean your head back, grinning up at him. “Touché.”

For a moment, there’s silence—comfortable, warm. His fingers drift lazily along your collarbone, rough thumb tracing circles against your skin like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

This is the side of Soldier Boy the world never sees. Not the snarling, posturing legend. Just Ben. Your Ben. Who makes the worst coffee in New York, sings off-key in the shower, and eats peanut butter straight from the jar with a hunting knife.

And who, against every possible odd, is stupidly in love with you.

“You done soon?” he asks, mouth brushing your temple.

You hum. “Ten minutes. Why? Got somewhere to be?”

“Nowhere but here.”

That earns him a soft smile. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“Yeah, well,” he rumbles, “don’t tell the others. I’ve got a rep to ruin.”

You tilt your head up to kiss him. Just a quick thing, a peck—but he deepens it like he’s been waiting all day for it. Tongue, teeth, hand in your hair. When he finally pulls back, your lips are kissed raw.

You blink up at him, breathless. “You were saying something about ruining your rep?”

Ben grins, all cocky and warm. “Was thinkin’ I’d ruin you instead.”

Oh. He was so embarrassing but oh.

Laptop forgotten, you twist to kneel on the couch and pull him towards you by the neck. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

You don’t make it to the bedroom.

He likes you right here, half-naked on his lap, his shirt riding up your hips as you grind against the hard length of him beneath his towel. His hands are big and warm and everywhere—cupping your ass, spreading your thighs wider.

“You wearin’ panties under this?” he growls, tugging at the shirt.

“Nope,” you say sweetly.

Ben groans, hands tightening around your waist. “Fuck, baby. You tryna kill me?”

“You’re a superhero, remember? Thought you could take it.”

He rips the shirt over your head, groaning like he’s been denied oxygen. “You tryna take me, is what you’re doin’.”

Your fingers slide into his damp hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again—slow, deep, filthy. His beard scratches your skin in all the right ways, his chest hot and solid against yours. You roll your hips, and he hisses, low and dangerous.

“Christ, you’re wet, soaking the fucking towel,” he mutters against your throat. “Fuckin’ soaked for me, huh?”

You gasp as he shifts, letting the towel fall away so he can slide two thick fingers through your folds, teasing but never giving you enough.

“Ben…”

“Tell me what you want, babygirl.”

You grind down, frustrated and aching. “I want you. Inside me. Now.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you by the hips and sinks you down onto his cock, both of you gasping as he stretches you open. He’s big—always is—but tonight you take him so well, like you were made for him.

“Fuck, you always feel good, always my perfect doll.” he pants, fingers bruising your hips as you start to ride him.

You move together like you’ve done it a hundred times—because you have. But it never gets old. The sweat, the grip of his hands, the way he watches you like you’re everything.

Like he’s not a living weapon, a goddamn legend.

Just a man. Your man.

“Ben,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “Love you.”

He kisses you hard, hips snapping up to meet yours.

“Yeah?” he groans. “Then come for me, baby. Show me.”

You do—body shuddering, walls fluttering around him as you cry out, the world narrowing to white-hot pleasure and his name on your lips.

He follows right after, with a deep, desperate sound, spilling inside you and holding you close like you might vanish.

When it’s over, you collapse against him, boneless and panting, skin sticky with sweat.

“You good?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face.

You smile sleepily. “Better than good.”

Ben nuzzles your neck. “Think I like this domestic shit.”

“Yeah?” you mumble. “Even when I hog the blankets and leave hair in the sink?”

“Especially then,” he says, and damn it, he means it.

You fall asleep there on the couch, tangled together under a throw blanket that smells like sex and old cologne, a bag of Doritos within arm’s reach and his shield watching over you like a silent, patriotic chaperone.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t change a damn thing.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

Lina's notes: hello!! this is the first part of a mini-series with independent one-shots that I was already planning and even mentioned here. I had this idea of soldier boy with a supe hacker reader based on DC's Oracle, and my god, I'm in love with them and their dynamic, so I wrote this little drabble as an introduction to them and their little story. I hope you guys like it and want to read more when I finally start the series properly <3

taglist: @blossomingorchids @rositaslabyrinth @bettystonewell @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bluemerakis @h8aaz @bruisedfig @jasvtsc @maddie0101 @bejeweledinterludes @starzify @gibson-g1rl @losers-clvb @tinas111 @amaris444 @sapphic-destiel @deansmisha (let me know if you want to be added or removed <3)

[wchswift]

I'm a little late (as usual lol) but thank you sm @mcrdvcks for the tag <3

I'm currently working on a worst!logan x mutant!reader one shot which her mutation is to control sounds, basically. It is set after the events of the Deadpool and Wolverine and also explores a bit of the x mansion in this new universe for logan.

You met Logan like you already knew him. Like you already understand his ways. You acted so comfortable as if you had known each other for years. You had a way of seeing people, even when they didn’t want to be seen.

He never stood a chance after that.

Now, beside you, he exhales slowly, smoke curling from his mouth like something sacred.

You flick your fingers, soft and sure, and the world fades at the edges.

Sound dulls — not silence, not exactly. Just softened. Traffic becomes a hum under water. Sirens vanish like ghosts. The city’s sharpness melts, leaving only the hush. You never press it like a weapon. You lay it down like a kindness.

Logan feels it every time. That subtle pull in the air when you shift things. The way the vibrations change, the way his breath seems to move easier in his lungs.

And you never use it on him without asking. Not once.

The first time you showed him your mutation — not told, showed — was one of those nights where the world had been too loud. Wade had been bouncing off the walls, sirens outside were shrieking, some asshole in the unit upstairs was doing tap dance or murder, maybe both. You just leaned over, resting your head near his, and flicked your wrist. The hush came down like a blanket.

He’d frozen at first. Then breathed.

Didn’t even realize how tightly he’d been wound until the noise was gone.

You hadn’t said anything. Just looked at him like here, I can hold this for you.

He never forgot it.

Never forgot how it felt to breathe and not brace.

Now, on nights like this, it’s become your silent routine — city fading out as you sit beside him, not pressing, not poking, just being. Sometimes you use it as an inside joke — like when Wade gets too dramatic, or sings Celine Dion at 2 a.m. You’ll mute him mid-note, look over at Logan with a smirk, and Logan, despite himself, will almost smile. Every time.

npt: @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @bruisedfig @floralscented @melwnst @lostinlovingrevery @tinas111 @maddie0101

[wchswift]

thank youu for the tag @tinas111 🫶🏻

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt: @acklesarchives @mcrdvcks @h8aaz @starzify + anyone else who'd like to join :)

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

NPT: @chevroletdean @brotherfuckingslut @girl-next-door-writes @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @saiyanprincessswanie @xpurdyglambertx @0ccvltism @walkingaline @samanddeansannoyingsis @gublernatural @sabriel4evah @nightxcreature