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reiding-writing · 4 months ago

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Heyy!! i was wondering if you could perchance do a drabble with dad!spencer and mom!bau!reader where they've gotten into the rhythm of calling each other mommy and daddy in front of the kids and one of them accidentally slips up and does it work without realising. And then the team is like "hold on 🤨" (probably morgan) and they have to defend themselves. Just something i've been thinking about and i don't have the artistic ability to right it myself but you do! Thank youuuu! xxx

SLIP UP. /spencer reid/

your at-home naming habits find their way into the office.

bau!mom!reader 1.1k fluff masterlist.

a/n | this is so funny i love it.

The bullpen hums with its usual energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, conversations weaving through the space.

It’s late, and exhaustion weighs on everyone like a heavy fog. Cases have been stacking up, the paperwork never-ending, and you’re all running on caffeine and whatever sugar-laden snack Garcia has left in the breakroom.

You and Spencer, despite being used to sleepless nights—courtesy of two small children at home—are still feeling the burn.

Parenting while profiling is a delicate balance, and some days, it feels like you barely hold it together. But you've found ways to cope, to slip into a rhythm that works.

Spencer leans over his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scans a report. His hair is slightly disheveled—likely from running his hands through it—and his tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up. He looks exactly how you feel, drained.

You, seated across from him, are going through another file when you sigh and reach for the next document. “Pass Mommy the file, please,”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the bullpen stills. For a brief second, no one reacts. Not even Spencer, who doesn’t hesitate to slide the file over to you, his tired brain not even registering what just happened.

But then—

“Hold on, what?”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Across the table, Morgan is staring at you with wide eyes, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. JJ’s eyebrows are raised nearly to her hairline, and even Rossi has paused his paperwork, looking mildly amused.

Hotch looks like he’s trying very hard not to react.

You glance at Spencer, who is blinking rapidly, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh my God.” Your stomach drops. Heat rushes to your face. “I didn’t mean—”

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table, his smirk growing. “Did you just refer to yourself as Mommy?”

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “It’s— It’s not—”

“Because I swear I just heard that,” Morgan continues, clearly enjoying himself.

JJ covers her mouth, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “It’s not what you think,”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what I think.” Morgan chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Reid, you calling her Mommy at home?”

Spencer makes another choked noise, shaking his head furiously. “No! I mean— yes, but not like that!”

JJ snorts, and even Hotch finally cracks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.

You lift your head, groaning again. “We have two kids under four. There’s a lot of third-person referencing, okay?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, amused.

Spencer, still red-faced, starts rambling. “It’s a psychological phenomenon, actually. When individuals—particularly parents—are frequently addressed in a particular way, their brains develop an associative response, reinforcing the use of the terms even in situations outside the expected context. It’s entirely innocent. Just an unconscious linguistic habit.”

Morgan whistles low. “Damn, Pretty Boy. You really just tried to profile your way out of calling your wife ‘Mommy’ in front of us,”

Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands.

Your face feels impossibly warm. “We’re tired, Morgan. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in—” You glance at Spencer. “How long has it been?”

“Three years, three months, and sixteen days,” he answers automatically.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn,”

Emily places a hand over her heart. “That’s actually kind of adorable,”

Garcia practically vibrates with excitement. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to hear more,”

“There’s nothing more to hear,” Spencer says, shaking his head quickly. “It’s just a habit. Strictly innocent,”

“Oh, we believe you,” Rossi says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to let it go,”

“Not a chance,” Morgan agrees.

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This is never going away, is it?”

“Nope,” JJ says cheerfully.

Spencer sighs, rubbing his temples. “Great.”

And just like that, the teasing begins.

For the rest of the day—and likely for weeks to come—you hear variations of:

“Daddy, can you pass me that report?” from Emily.

“I don’t know, Mommy, what do you think?” from Morgan.

Garcia, of course, takes it the farthest, occasionally referring to you both as “Mommy and Daddy dearest,” complete with exaggerated winks.

By the time you make it home that evening, you collapse onto the couch with a groan, Spencer falling beside you.

“I’m never going to live this down,” you mumble.

“At least they think it’s funny,” Spencer says, leaning his head back against the cushions.

You sigh. “This is your fault,”

He turns his head to look at you, eyebrows raised. “My fault?”

“You didn’t even hesitate when I said it. You just handed me the file like it was totally normal,”

His lips twitch. “To be fair, it is normal,”

You nudge him with your foot. “Not at work, it isn’t,”

He chuckles, then tilts his head, considering. “Maybe if we just… pretend it never happened, they’ll drop it,”

You snort. “You really think that’s going to work?”

“…No,”

“Exactly.” You groan again, rubbing your hands over your face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,”

Spencer smiles softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “At least we’re in it together, Mommy,”

You open your eyes just to glare at him. “You better not start doing that on purpose,”

He presses his lips together, trying to suppress a grin.

“Spencer,” you warn.

His grin widens. “Yes, Mommy?”

You grab a throw pillow and smack him with it, and his laughter fills the room, warm and familiar.

Exhausted as you both are, you wouldn’t trade this—your life, your family, the teasing from your team—for anything in the world.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff

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iihtsuratsblog · 2 years ago

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Becoming a Full Stack Developer: A Guide for 2023

A full stack developer is a software engineer capable of working on both the front-end and back-end aspects of a web application. This means they possess the skills to design and create the user interface (UI) and manage the server-side logic that drives the application.

The demand for full stack developers is high, as businesses increasingly seek professionals who can handle a wider scope of responsibilities. If you're interested in a software development career, pursuing the path of a full stack developer offers an excellent starting point.

The necessary skills for becoming a full stack developer can vary based on the technologies you intend to work with. Nonetheless, some fundamental skills encompass:

HTML and CSS: These form the fundamental elements of any web page's structure and styling.

JavaScript: This programming language empowers the interactive elements of web pages.

Back-end programming language: This could involve Java, Python, Ruby, or other prevalent languages.

Database: This is where the web application's data will be stored.

Version control: Employing a system to track code modifications.

Web framework: Utilizing a pre-built code collection to expedite development. Discover the details : How To Become A Full Stack Developer In 2023

#full stack developer #Full stack web developer #Full stack developer salary #full stack developer roadmap #how to become a full stack developer #full stack development #programming software development

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dialectlearn · 2 years ago

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The IT industry is at its best currently, and the opportunities available are massive. With the onset of IT parks, cities in Kerala, including Trivandrum, Kochi, and Kozhikode, have become the birthplace of many software companies. These software companies brought about a culture of digital literacy in Kerala, with most of the youth shifting to the IT field. With the huge number of companies, how do you, as a fresher, choose the right one? The right one would combine both industry exposure and perks. Here are the current best companies to work for as a fresher in Kerala.

#learn coding in malayalam #coding courses in malayalam #coding for beginners malayalam #coding for beginners #coding malayalam #how to learn coding for beginners #app development course malayalam #app development for beginners #how to learn coding malayalam #full stack web development course malayalam

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arjunsinghadvocatenagina · 2 years ago

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Best Full Stack Web Developer Roadmap 2023 - Iqontech

At the heart of the Full Stack Web Developer Roadmap 2023 lies a solid foundation in programming languages such as HTML, CSS, and JavaScript. These form the building blocks of the web and allow you to create visually appealing and interactive user interfaces.

#Full Stack Web Developer Roadmap 2023 #Full Stack Web Development Guide 2023 #Web Development Roadmap for 2023 #Full Stack Developer Skills roadmap 2023 #Frontend and Backend Development 2023 #Best Technologies for Full Stack Web Developers 2023 #Full Stack Web Development Learning Path 2023 #Latest Web Development Trends 2023 #Full Stack Web Development Tools 2023 #How to Become a Full Stack Web Developer in 2023

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bookshelf-dust · 1 year ago

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promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?”

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks.

You scan the coffee table, the rug below the shabby couch. It’s not like there’s any use checking the tv stand because it’s still a fucking table tray. You know he doesn’t even own the full set of four table trays? He’s just got the one? That knowledge keeps you up at night. Just like how he doesn’t have a ceiling fan pull and has to get tweezers to change the speed.

You find the remote nestled in a stack of freshly organized books. You helped Carmen assemble a very simple bookshelf so that his stash of cookbooks wouldn’t have to live on the floor anymore.

Just getting to help him turn his apartment into something other than a place to sleep brought you a contagious giddiness. Carmen’s chest aches with how much he’s laughed since he met you.

Look at all my muscles, Carm. I’m practically ready for my dick now, don’t you think?

Where’d you even get these? He’d looked down at the little allen wrench in your hand and said I don’t know, they were just here one day.

Now you have a bookshelf, Bear. What a grown up.

Carmen wouldn’t let you help him with the dishes after he cooked you dinner. He’d just kissed your shoulder and said, “Let me take care of it, alright?” with that little raise of his brows and quirk of his lips telling you not to argue because you’d never win.

And when Carmen tells you to let him take care of something, well…you listen.

You haven’t been dating very long, but it’s been enough that you’ve both developed this rhythm, this way of moving around and with each other and you just…work.

He doesn’t understand how you can dial his shyness, his hesitance, so quickly, how you can make him feel like a human again so easily. But you do.

You settle against the back of the couch, flipping through the tv guide (because Carm has never subscribed to any streaming services) until you find something worth listening to. It’s already a few minutes in, but you’ve seen the movie enough times that it doesn’t really matter.

The overhead light in the kitchen switches off and Carmen pads out to the living room, socked feet dragging on the hardwoods. Your biggest pet peeve is people who don’t pick up their feet, but somehow it’s more tolerable when it’s him.

He sits down on the edge of the couch. Just sits. On the edge. That means he wants to say something. You give him the time to psych himself up.

Carmy chews on his thumb nail and rubs his nose before he turns to you, placing his hand on the couch. His blue eyes burn into yours, and the intensity of his gaze, trained on you, makes you feel like the most important person in the world.

“H-hey, um…can we—could we snuggle, maybe?” He flushes at the fact that he just used the world snuggle. Richie would have his ass so quick if he’d heard him say that.

Your grin is brilliant. You’ve never cuddled properly with Carmen before. Maybe a head on a shoulder or a leg tossed across another, but never a real cuddle session. “Fuck yeah, we can, Carm.” You giggle and the sound softens that bubble of fear in his chest.

He bites the inside of his cheek, letting out the barest laugh.

“How did you want t-to lay, Bear?” You blink at him. “Were you just gonna—”

He starts to nod. “I was just gonna lay on your chest, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Y-yeah.”

You snort. “Lemme’ stretch out for you and then you can be a teddy bear.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Carmen shakes his head at you. He lets you pull that shit because he likes it. Secretly.

When you have a pillow under your neck and are laid out on your back, Carm slips beside you against the back of the couch and clumsily settles on top of you. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything, so he settles between your legs, only allowing the weight of his torso to envelop you.

One arm wraps around your back, the other cradling your hip, his curls brushing your chin. He turns his head to face the tv and lets out a satisfied sigh.

On instinct your hand threads through his tangled hair, scratching at his scalp gently and sorting through any piece that feels knotted.

“What is this?” Carmy asks, nodding in the direction of the screen.

“The Wedding Planner. It has Jlo and Matthew McConaughey in it.”

“Chick flick?”

You hum in agreeance. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t hate it. Jlo’s character is like you but if the restaurant was a wedding planning business and you were, you know, a chick.”

He laughs lightly against your stomach and you can feel the puff of air over your shirt.

The weight of Carmen’s body on top of yours is easily the most calming feeling you’ve ever experienced. You can’t get enough of him.

“This okay?” you ask, scratching his scalp a little more for emphasis. This is a new way of showing affection. Uncharted territory.

“Hm?” He looks up at you briefly, blue eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yeah, feels nice. I like it.”

You grin and continue to play with his hair. He’s right. It does feel nice. It is.

The next few minutes go by without any conversation, just silence. But it’s so comfortable. Carmen’s tired gaze is on the tv. You can feel him breathing, feel the way he scratches over your back absently. You don’t know if he’s aware he does it, but he nuzzles his nose against the soft of your stomach every now and then like it’s keeping him safe.

“You know I thought about being a wedding planner?”

Carmy pushes up onto his elbows, looking at you with the smallest smirk playing on his lips. “Really?”

You playfully bat at his shoulder and he moves to lay back down, but not before pressing a kiss to your sternum over your shirt. “Mhm. Still think about it sometimes.” You pause, but Carm doesn’t say anything yet because he knows you aren’t finished with that thought.

“I guess I just thought it’d be nice to help put things like that together? The organization would make me feel…complete, I guess. And you know I don’t like to help people in such an extroverted way? I like to be behind the scenes.” You laugh, a little self-deprecatingly. “Does that make sense?”

Carmen squeezes your side. “‘Course it does. And then you could come home and tell me stories about all the family drama you eavesdrop on.”

You giggle, and Carmy loves that he can feel it where he lays on your chest. He can feel your joy, and that’s fucking cool. “That I could.”

He rubs your back in small, gentle circles. “And you know, I happen to have some friends who make pretty good food and would be happy to help if you ever needed.”

“Oh, do you? Well, that’s very helpful, Mr. Berzatto. You’ll have to give me their number.”

Carmy laughs into your chest. A pure, genuine laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, and you truly think you’d have it tattooed all over your body if that was even remotely possible. His glee makes you laugh, and then you’re both snickering like you’re teenagers doing something that’ll get you in big trouble.

You reach for his hand, the one that’s resting on your hip now, and he lets you lift it towards your face. He bites his cheek, fighting the smile that rises when you press your warm and chapstick covered lips to his knuckles.

“You have such pretty hands, Carmy.”

He pinches your back. “I still don’t get why you’re so fascinated by them.”

“Because they’re pretty. And, look—” You hold yours up to his. “—they’re so much bigger than mine. And I like your tattoos, obviously. I like that I know how talented you are with your hands and how capable. I’m very lucky to hold such capable hands, Bear.”

“Capable, huh?” He gives you a look, one that makes you want to both tackle him and smack him on the arm. Instead you roll your eyes and he raises up to kiss you.

“Capable of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

Carmy laughs. It’s that little chuckle, light and airy and like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but he wants to hear more anyway. He flops back down on your chest, making you let out a rather loud oomph.

You take Carmen’s hand in yours again, rubbing over the dry patches on his knuckles, the scabs on the insides of his fingers, the scar on his palm. His whole life is written in these hands.

You start massaging the pads of his fingers without even thinking about it. No one’s ever been that gentle with him—definitely not with his hands—and a little part of him melts at the feeling.

You kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand and just look at his skin. You’re determined to memorize each line and freckle and fucked up cuticle he’s got.

“At least your nails don’t look like Richie’s, Carm.”

His chest moves with the giggle that travels throughout his body.

“Trust me, they didn’t look like that when he was still with Tiff.”

You grin, your eyes falling back on the television. Maybe Carm would be open to setting it on the bookshelf? That table tray has put in a lot of work. It deserves a break.

Carmen can see why you’re so fond of this movie. It’s one of those that doesn’t require much thought, that has humor and feels more human than most. He knows he shouldn’t think it, but you having said what you said before makes him wonder if you’ll plan your own wedding…with him.

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. But maybe we’ll get there.

You catch him smiling when they fuck up the statue in the garden and pretend not to notice. You both keep quiet now, but Carm reaches up and puts your hand back on his head.

Your fingers thread through his curls again, scratching at his scalp gently. Your other hand does the same thing to his back. You know it’s going to lull him to sleep.

When you say it, he’s already dozed off. But you are so happy that you get to make him feel safe. That he’s comfortable enough to sleep on you like this. Lucky is an understatement.

“Thank you for letting me in, Bear. I don’t think my life has ever been this beautiful.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

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therosebookshop · 2 months ago

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An Unhealthy Obsession

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Warnings/Contains: Dead dove? Yeah, dead dove; yandere, yandere, yandere; not cringy yandere, if you’re looking for yansim type yandere you will not find that here; stalking on both sides; mentally unwell on both sides yeah duh; gender neutral pronouns and reader as always; you’re aware you’re fucked in the head and why, but therapy is expensive; an ‘accidental’ murder; I hc sol to have a tongue piercing because god knows he should’ve had one, that creep from the arcade but this time bbg Sol is there to save you first <3

A/N: um hi I got sucked in by sol and for any followers sorry I’ve been absent I have ✨burnout✨ so

Inspo: a tumblr post and the title came from ‘An Unhealthy Obsession’ by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

Yandere.

A mix of two words- yanderu, “to be sick,” and deredere, “lovestruck.” Most of the time, yandere are portrayed to be sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

You know you have a problem. Something wrong in your brain, having developed from your childhood abandonment and neglect. The need to be loved turned into an obsession with a boy in kindergarten. You’d thought he would be perfect for you, because he seemed so sweet and caring. And well.. that girl you’d pushed into traffic one day after she’d given him a flower and they’d sat together at lunch had been an accident, of course. A horrible, tragic one.

Your obsessions had never been this bad. Of course, some of them had been over fictional characters. Some had been over real boys in school, but they had never returned your feelings. And you’d cried your heart out after the rejections. You simply didn’t understand why they didn’t love you. You’d stalk them to see what they liked, change your clothing and your personality and everything, just for them. To be their type.

But this obsession… had turned so bad.

He plagued your every thought. His gorgeous eyes, pretty hair, nice hands. His lips, his arms, how tall he was. Everything about him was so perfect. He was perfect. The fact that he didn’t seem to have many friends.. well, that was okay. When you finally got him as yours, he wouldn’t need anybody else. He’d have you.

You’d gained a reputation as a weird kid, one that had apparently followed you to your new college. There was a boy at the back of your class, who was nearly always accompanied by a boy who was about a head shorter, blue hair. You were jealous. But you weren’t stupid. No, you had to plan carefully to dispose of the boy.

Years. Painful years, of learning about the object of your obsession. You had a whole wall in your closet covered in Polaroids of Sol, each one neatly dated on the back in a green marker that matched the green in his hair. You had shoeboxes full of Polaroids of him, too, all of those neatly dated in legible handwriting and stacked by date. You followed him home once to set up a camera in his bedroom, complete with a mic, right near his bed to hear him sleep. You recorded it once, for if you ever needed the comforting sounds of your darling to sleep and he wasn’t available. Surprisingly, it was hard to learn anything about him just from searching his name- a lot of the kids here were from richer families, more popular families. So you simply stalked him, learned everything about him you could, and kept note of everything about him in a black hardcover notebook, kept on your person at all times.

Every little tick, nervous habit, anything. Noted. How his tongue prodded at hot food before taking a bite. The absolutely hot looking tongue piercing he had. The cute way he fiddled with his sleeves sometimes, or tapped his foot. When people were being annoying he rolled his eyes, or crossed his arms. He had a sibling-like relationship with his best friend, and you had a few pictures of his cute little pout when he was teased.

You learned from careful observation that he was in the nurse's office every other day, so you started to give yourself little injuries to be in the office too. A cut, a bruise, other injuries.

Little did you know he was obsessed with you too. You'd heard this town could be dangerous for pretty young women at night, but you hadn't ever had any issues. Because he followed you home every night. Why would you need a recording of him sleeping when he climbed into your room through your window and spooned you every night? He knew about all the Polaroids and everything. And it made him more obsessed, that you felt the same way about him.

You started to leave him little gifts- cute ones like a tiny bouquet of geranium blooms held together with twine placed on his desk (he knew about the flower box in your living room), a hoodie casually tossed over the back of his chair (it smelled like you and was oversized, so fit him well). Or bigger gifts- a horse plushie, snacks. All of them were from you, he knew they were. It was obvious, how you'd always be at your desk, which was just a couple away from his so you could inconspicuously look at him, before he was in the classroom. How you'd watch eagerly as he put the hoodie on, or slipped the snacks or plushie into his backpack to take home.

Then came the day in art class- three Expressionism drawings. You weren't an artist in any form (unless taking a lot of photographs of one person counted, and it probably didn't) and anyway, even if you were, you didn't want to spend a lengthy amount of time with anybody but Sol.

Everybody moved around to their partners, and you were the only one left without one. And, as your eyes fastened on Sol... he didn't have a partner, either.

You went over, sliding into the seat beside him. "You don't have a partner, right?"

You'd never spoken to him before. Not once. You'd heard his voice so much, but now, actually face-to-face with the object of your obsessions and sleepless nights, your heart was beating out of your chest.

"No. I don't. He ditched me." He said. And god, is his voice hot.

"Well, I don't either." You have to remind yourself to breathe, even though your knee is bobbing under the desk. "Want to be partners?"

His eyes don't miss the rapid, nervous movement of your knee bobbing, heel tapping against the floor. The corners of his lip twitch slightly. Adorable.

"I don't see why not." He says finally, eyes focusing on yours, and you have to remind yourself again to breathe. His eyes are so gorgeous. Like warm honey. You could fall into them and be trapped, like a fly in amber.

"Great." And the word comes out a little breathless, a little flustered. "I'm (user), by the way." You offer your hand to shake. "What's your name?" Like you don't already know it.

He stares at your hand for a minute, as if contemplating. Then he shakes your hand. "Solvian Brugmansia. Just call me Sol."

His hand is warm and bigger than yours, unsurprising because of his height. You can't help but grin. "Nice to meet you, Sol."

You talk a little, ideas of what to draw. He had a sketchbook open on his desk, and to see it without straining your neck, you scooted your chair over, leaning into his personal space bubble. But for such an introvert, he didn't seem to mind one bit.

He smells so good, you think. Comforting. Like paper and something akin to blood- an irony smell. And something under that, something so distinctly him you want to bury your face in his neck. You want to rest your head against him, maybe put your hand on his thigh for 'balance'. To touch him in some way.

He shifts, clears his throat, and when you glance up at him you realize his cheeks are flushed, and he looks down at you. You realize when you can see the faint blemishes on his face- oh so pretty- that you're very, very close.

You lean away, flustered and embarrased. You don't think you blush- he can see faint pink on your cheeks- but you do grin like an absolute idiot. You've learned this through playing dating games (a way to familiarize yourself with relationships, to be as good a partner as you possibly can for your future darling). You're not grinning as wide as if he had flustered you with his words, but you've still got a smile on your face.

And almost without thinking, his hand squishes your cheeks between his fingers to tilt your face up. You're so pretty, he thinks, those eyes never looking away from his, eyes that he could spend hours staring into. With the faint blush coloring your cheeks and the smile on your lips, you could be a perfect subject to draw.

"Stay like that for me." He murmured softly. "I'm going to draw you for this project."

Your lips parted, cheeks growing red, even if you couldn't feel their warmth. He opened up a page of his sketchbook, releasing your face to start sketching. He tells you how to pose- your chin on your palms, head tilted slightly. You watch him as he sketches, how focused he is, his lower lip caught with his teeth. Your eyes soften. He's gorgeous like this, pretty eyes occasionally flickering between the page and you.

Your eyes unfocus, simply staring at him. When he looks up his eyes lock with yours. He can practically see hearts in your eyes, adoration in your gaze. His cheeks turn red. You're adorable this way, oh-so-pretty. Stunning, really.

There's not enough time to finish the drawing within class, so while everybody files out he makes you stay there, finishing the sketch. When he's done he closes his sketchbook and stuffs it into his bag. "I'll show you when I color it in." He says as you grab your stuff and exit the classroom.

Out in the hallway, the two of you stand off to the side. "Since we're, um, gonna be partners, we should exchange numbers. To keep in touch and talk about projects and stuff." You add.

Please, please, please-

“Yeah. Here, put your number in.” He pulls out his phone and opens the contact app before handing it to you. You couldn't stop grinning as you typed in your number and handed his phone back. Your phone went off- a text from an unknown number, no doubt him.

You changed his contact nickname to 'Darling ♡ ' in your phone, grinning to yourself. You're so much shorter than him, he can easily see your phone screen, and he smiles to himself. He's added your contact name as 'Pumpkin'.

The obsession was so obvious.

Over the next few days of the project, the two of you ended up hanging out a lot. Usually at each other's apartment. You even went to the arcade with Sol while Hyugo went and saw a movie nearby.

It was really a cute arcade date, and you dressed as cute as possible that day- oversized sweater, baggy pants, oversized chunky boots that you sometimes lost your balance in... but it was fine, because you always had Sol to lean into for balance.

At the arcade, you played games together, laughing. Sol went to get more tokens and you insisted on sticking by his side. Somebody brushed past you, and in your horrible balanced fashion, you stumbled.

Sol caught you by the waist, steadying you. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to realize what he'd done and cleared his throat, moving his arm, but you stopped him, lacing your fingers with his, begging he wouldn't freak. His cheeks went bright red but he didn’t pull away, and you grinned to yourself as you went up to the counter with him, giving him a cute little side hug while he bought some more tokens. His cheeks were even redder now. It was adorable seeing him like this.

The cashier smiled at the two of you. "How long have you been a couple for?" You hastily released him. Sure, you knew that could be considered slightly romantic, but-

"Not long at all." His arm loops around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your face flushes a bright red. He looks down at you, noticing your blush, and his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

When you get more tokens you go to plushie machines. One of them has horse plushies. You give Sol, who's at a claw machine with plushies of your favorite animal in it, a quick look before going to the machine and putting in a token.

You're laser focused on it, cheering when you get the plushie. You don't even notice when an unfamiliar man comes up to you with a sleazy look, his two bodyguards in tow. He throws an arm around your waist, and you startle away from him, horse plushie clutched in your arms.

"Hey there, pretty. You alone?" He reeks of tobacco, and your nose wrinkles.

"No, I'm here with my boy-" You try to back up, but you bump into one of his bodyguards that blocks your way.

"What kind of boyfriend would leave a pretty thing like you all by yourself? C'mon, come with me, pet. I'll show you a good time." He starts to try to pull you away, but you stomp on his foot, hard, and run. Sol was nearby, he can protect you-

You collide right into Sol, and he keeps you from falling, eyes darting over your face with concern. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" The cute little pet name slips from his lips without him even realizing.

"This man- he grabbed me- he wanted me to go with him but I ran-" You're shaking, Sol can tell, the horse plushie still clutched in your arms. His eyes literally darken in anger, looking up and around for the man who dared to touch you without your permission.

I'm gonna kill him.

He gives you a hug, and you hug him back tightly, the horse plushie held in your hand, the bag of other prizes you two had collectively won bumping against your back as he held it in his hand. "It's okay, I'm here now."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. You smell amazing. He should find out what scent you wear, so he can buy one for himself.

But he should focus on the situation at hand. He runs his fingers through your hair. "It's okay. Let's go, yeah?"

So you walk home with him, and he holds your hand, keeping you close. Your hands are cold, and he pauses, setting the bag down at your feet and holding your hand to his mouth. His cheeks redden as he kisses the back of your hands, and you blush too.

He's so pretty. And so, so close. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same sort of adoration and obsession in his eyes that are often in yours when you look at him.

And it makes your breath catch. He feels the same way. That's what that look has to mean.

He holds your hand the rest of the way to your cozy little apartment and you invite him in. He accepts, of course, acting like he's never been inside your apartment- he knows it like the back of his hand.

And maybe you do kiss him that night. Maybe he stays over, cuddling in your bed with you. Maybe more happens. But you're his. And he's yours.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—

#therosebookshopstories #the kid at the back sol #tw yandere #fluff #yandere male #the kid at the back #yandere reader #solivan brugmansia #sol brugmansia #sol x reader

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divukanwar · 1 year ago

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just-dreaming-marvel · 4 days ago

Text

The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Library

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

Word Count: 5,125ish

Request: Logan x fem!reader. Reader is the school's/mansion's library. She's real smart, educated, knows her way around books and stuff, but is not a mutant - it's more like her power is just her being book smart lol. Logan meets her when he's sent to the library to do research for the class he'll be teaching. He spends a few days there doing his research, she helps him finds good sources for his classes, he helps her move some heavy boxes full of new books. She's a little awkward but ridiculously funny, very quiet, always has her head burried in a book. Logan's grumpy but he's funny when he wants to be, he's helpful, he's curious about her interests and thinks her being all smart like that is kinda hot. They have a crush on each other - which develops once Logan keeps coming to the library for more research and to ask for book recs for fun instead of work. They talk about books, he brings her coffee when he comes over for work, she keeps a table always clean for him in a secluded corner of the library. There's a fire at the mansion and the library is damaged, but no one gets badly injured. She's inside the library with some students, she manages to help them get out and then part of the hallway collapses and she's trapped. Logan rescues her but she inhaled a lot of smoke. Logan visits her in the infirmary and brings her a book (some classic romance novel), they make plans to go get new books for the library once reconstruction is done. They go get new books, get some coffee, set up the new library... it all feels like a big date. So Logan asks if they can do it again but now without a fire and now as an official date. She says yes, they go out, choose books for each other, lots and lots of kisses. They're the cutest couple, everyone at the mansion loves them as a couple and think they're the cutest.

Warning(s): injuries, fire

Notes: The reader does have glasses. Also, I would definitely be down with doing a part two with these two.

“Logan, if you’re going to teach history, maybe make sure you understand it all,” Storm said.

“I do understand it,” Logan huffed. “Hell, I lived through most of it.”

She shook her head. “You understand it from your point of view. You might need to head to the library to do some studying this summer before next semester.”

“Library?”

Storm laughed. “Yes, Logan. The library. It’s on the first floor, it’s like the whole right wing. We have a librarian and everything. She’s really sweet. You might even like her.”

So Logan went to the library for the first time. And that’s when he finally met you. You were sitting cross-legged behind the main desk, glasses slipping down your nose, buried in a stack of books taller than some of the students. You didn’t even notice Logan until he cleared his throat loud enough to scare the daylights out of a nearby student.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, looking up at him, glasses skewed on your face. “Sorry, uh— hi! How can I help you?”

Logan stared for a second, caught off guard by how sweet you sounded and how fast you talked. He glanced at the sign on the desk— Librarian: Miss L/N— then looked back at you. “Uh, Storm said I should do some ‘research for the history classes I’m teaching. Can you point me to those sections?”

“Of course!” You hopped up. “History would be aisles six through seven,” you started walking. “Except…”

You paused. Then you suddenly shook your head and darted into another aisle. Curious, Logan peered down the aisle to see you grab a book and come back and join him.

“Students,” you mumbled, waving the book. “They do try to test me. Anyway, history is aisles six and seven. But if you want government records, then those are eight through ten. Or there’s the good stuff— the personal accounts, diaries, things that feel like people talking instead of textbooks— I’ve got a stash in the room behind my desk.”

You stopped in aisle seven, which was labeled on the bookshelf, and slipped the book you found into place. Then you led Logan over to a corner table.

“You can do your research here,” you offered. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Then you were gone.

~~~

That night, Logan caught Storm before she headed to bed.

“Hey, ‘Ro,” he called, “how long as that, uh, librarian worked here?”

“For almost a year,” she replied. “Y/N is her name, if you didn’t ask that today. She sticks mostly to the library and isn’t included on any missions.”

“Why? What’s her powers?”

“You could just ask her, you know?”

“Storm.”

“Fine. She kinda has two powers. First, she’s a living index. She can mentally categorize and track the location of any item in her vicinity. Books, objects, even people if she focuses, but that takes a lot of energy from her. She also has something called bibliomancy. She can instantly understand and retain any written material— in any language— just by touching it. And with some focus, she can even see the emotional imprints left on historical documents. It what makes her the perfect librarian.”

Logan nodded, realizing that he had witnessed come of your power in action today.

“She would be a good resource for your lessons, Logan,” Storm said with a smirk. “Or maybe, good for you.” Then she slipped into her room.

~~~

The next day, Logan found the corner desk cleaned up and left with pencils, pens, highlighters, and various sizes of sticky notes. All neatly organized. There was also a book on the desk with a sticky note on it. He leaned over and read it.

A good place to start your research. - Y/N (the librarian)

Logan couldn’t help but form a small smirk across his lips. That’s how it all started. Logan expected to hate being in the library, but somehow you made it bearable. You weren’t pushy, just passionate and kind of ridiculous, in an endearing way. You talked fast when you got excited. You tripped over your words sometimes, apologized too much, and made strange little jokes under your breath that you didn’t think anyone heard. He heard all of them and they made him smirk when he thought about them later.

The corner desk was freshly cleaned and organized each day before he arrived. So Logan begun brining you coffee. You always took it with both hands like it was an extra special gift.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said bashfully, the third day in.

He grunted and looked away. “Didn’t want you fallin’ asleep on the Dewey Decimal System.”

That made you laugh and your laugh tugged at Logan’s heart.

~~~

Logan continued coming daily as the weeks came back. He always said it was to look for more lesson material, but deep down you knew he was coming to see you. Sometimes you’d sit with him when you had nothing else to do. You’d show him the historical documents you had and allowed him insight into your powers. One day, you started ranting about the emotion you felt in a mutant journal you had in the library. Logan simply leaned back and listened like it was the most important thing in the world.

You, in turned, noticed things about him. Like the way he held books gently, like they mattered. Especially if you’d talked about it before. Or the way he pretended to be gruff, but always checked in on those students who were staying for the summer. You caught him reading a book you recommended in the kitchen once, brows furrowed, so into it he didn’t notice you passing by. You smiled for the rest of the day.

Months went on like that, small moments mostly shared in the library. You had helped Logan create a curriculum for his class, yet he still kept coming. Not that you were going to complain. You begun recommending different books to him— not just history— and it shocked you when he read them.

Sometimes, you caught him watching you from the corner where he ‘worked’— books opened, but barely touched. You’d glance up and find him with his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed like he was studying you.

“You reading me or the book?” You teased.

“I’m pretty sure the book doesn’t taught when I drop a pen,” he grunted.

You ducked your head, flushed. “I was trying to laugh quietly.”

One time, you were reaching for a massive volume on the top shelf of the archives— precariously balancing on an old wooden ladder— when Logan walked in and just lifted you down without a word.

“Logan!” You yelped. “I had that!”

“Uh-huh,” he said, effortlessly grabbing the book himself. “And sone strong gust of wind would’ve had you in the infirmary.”

You crossed your arms. “You know, for someone who walks into danger for a living, you’re weirdly obsessed with safety.”

He hands you the book with a smirk. “Yeah. When it comes to you, I am.”

You forgot how to speak for a full thirty seconds.

One late evening, you dozed off at your desk— open notebook beside your hand, glasses askew. He found you like that and didn’t wake you. Instead, he took off his flannel and gently draped it over your shoulders. The next morning, you immediately noted the scent of cedar and firewood surrounding you. You kept the flannel with you for the rest of the day.

~~~

It had been a long day. The fall semester had just started and Logan had spent most of it trying to teach a room full of mutant hormonal teenagers why revolutions started. Most of them couldn’t even spell the word revolution. He was one paper cut away from quitting when he stalked into the library that afternoon. Everything immediately softened.

You were sitting at your desk, glasses low on your nose, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a mug of some lukewarm liquid forgotten beside you. You were writing notes in a notebook with one hand while the other rested on a leather-bound journal. You looked up when you heard him and smiled.

“Rough day?” You questioned gently, noticed how tense he was.

He grunted. “Understatement.”

You nodded. “You want your table?”

Logan didn’t answer right away, you were already standing. He watched you, the way you moved— careful, graceful in that absentminded way of people who lived half their lives in their own heads.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Table’s good.”

You walked slightly ahead of him, not pressing him to talk. You placed a fresh copy of The Old Man and the Sea on the table like a peace offering.

“You said you liked the way Hemingway doesn’t waste time on flower language,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “This one’s short. Barely any metaphor.”

He narrowed his eyes at the book. “That code for ‘sad ending’?”

You shrugged. “That’s for you to find out.”

He sat down and you lingered, like you weren’t quite ready to part just yet. And then— out of nowhere— you dropped a little fact like you always did. Something random and useless to most people.

“Did you know Hemingway wrote the last page of this in one sitting?” You said. “He rewrote the rest almost fifty times, but that last page? He never touched it again.”

He stared at you and something clicked inside of him. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or like lightning. It was simply a quiet little truth, settling into place. He was falling for you. For your quiet voice and your messy notes. For the way you lit up talking about old books and dead authors. For your ridiculous facts and your kind eyes and your complete inability to walk past a shelf that’s not perfectly organized. Logan didn’t say anything to you, just looked back at the book.

“You do this on purpose,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Make me care about this stuff. Books. Characters. History.”

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He huffed and opened the book. You didn’t walk away. You sat down near him, grabbed a different book and began reading. The two of you sat like that for almost an hour. There was no talking, just the soft turning of pages. Logan never felt more at peace. He didn’t know what this was exactly between you, but he knew he’d do whatever he could to keep it safe.

~~~

You didn’t notice at first. It happened slowly— like ink spreading across the page. You were resolving poetry books. Logan was at his usual table, pretending to read. He had one leg propped up with glasses (that you suspected were fake) perched on the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly, he held up a paperback— some beat-up crime novel you recommended— and muttered, “This guy solves a murder in 200 pages and still makes time to fall in love. What the hell am I doing wrong?”

You snorted, not even looking at him. “Being emotionally unavailable and allergic to open communication?”

You meant it as a joke, he knew that. But he still paused.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’m workin’ on that.”

And your heart— your poor, quiet, book-loving heart— did something completely stupid. It skipped. You looked up. His face was open, honest, and vulnerable. You realized that he meant it. He was trying for you.

That night, after he left,, you sat alone at your desk for a long time. You were falling for him. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way you often read about. But in the quiet and comfortable way that has built up over the months since he first stepped foot in the library. You were falling for the man who carried your books without asking. Who somehow remembered your favorite quotes. Who watched you like you were worth listening to. No one had every done any of that. And that scared you.

~~~

It started on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, a few weeks into the fall semester. The library was humming— low voices, shuffling paper, the soft thud of books. It felt safe, untouchable. You were near the back, working with a few students. One was hopelessly lost in MLA citation. Another was trying to translate Shakespeare into slang. You smiled as you juggled questions, your voice calm and steady.

Then the lights flickered. Once and then again. Everything stopped and everyone looked up. And the the fire alarms screamed. It was the kind of sound that split your bones. It was shrill and immediate and telling you that something was very wrong. The students jumped. Smoke began curling out from the air vents— thin at first, but growing fast. You smelled burning plastic, insulation and wires. It was an electrical fire. Fast, unpredictable, and deadly.

You forced your voice to stay calm even though your hands had gone cold. “We’ve practiced this,” you told the students. “Remember what we do. Single file. Stay low. Go.”

You moved quickly, but not frantically. You were steady and in control. You counted heads and kept your voice even. The students needed calm. If they saw you panic, they’d fall apart.

The smoke thickened and something cracked overhead. You heard a distant explosion, the building groaning under its own heat. Somewhere, a student shouted and another screamed.

“Go!” You urged the students. “Jamie, come on!”

But Jamie didn’t move. The boy stood frozen, near the center aisle, eyes wide with panic. Sparks flickered around his fingers— uncontrolled and crackling. He was overloaded, his mutation reacting to his fear. You needed to get the other students out.

“I’ll be back for you, Jamie!” You shouted, ushering the others towards the exit.

~~~

Logan was in the gym. His wrists were wrapped as he used the punching bag. He was trying to turn through the restless energy that never seemed to leave him. Then he heard the alarms and the screaming.

“Fire!” Someone shouted from the hallway. “In the library!”

His heart stopped. He dropped everything and ran. He didn’t wait for orders or to ask who was helping, because you were in there. And he couldn’t handle if anything happened to you.

The hallways were chaos. Smoke filled the upper floors. Students were pouring down the stairwells, coughing and crying. Teachers shouted orders. Storm shot past Logan in the opposite direction, calling for the mutant students who could help calm the flames. Logan sprinted towards the library. He turned the last corner and saw you. You were shoving the last student through the doorway, soot staining your face, with one arm held over your mouth. Your eyes met his, but you were already turning to head back in. The ceiling had already began to collapse between Logan and the library.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice ragged, smoke already eating at your lungs. “Jamie— Jamie’s still in there!”

He didn’t think or hesitate. “I’m comin’!” He yelled. “Just wait!” But you didn’t. “Y/N— damn it!”

Logan’s claws slid out with a sharp shnk, glinting through the dark. He charged in. The heat hit him like a wall. Wood burned, and the walls and ceilings buckled. He cut through his way and found you a second later, kneeling beside Jamie, trying to coax him with a shaking voice.

Logan scooped the boy up in one arm and ordered, “Go. Now!”

You nodded, stumbling after him, one hand against his back to keep balance. You were halfway to the door when it happened. The ceiling groaned. Logan stopped mid-step. A massive beam broke loose from above. Wood and plaster shattered around it. The beam crashed down between you, throwing you backwards and blocking your path to the exit. The shelves near you tipped, collapsing in a chain reaction, pinning you, one leg trapped beneath splintered shelves, the heavy support beam burning at one end.

“NO!” Logan roared.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice breaking. “I’m stuck!”

Logan shoved Jamie towards the door. “Someone get the kid!” Then he turned back and charged into the fire. He jumped over the beam and crouched beside you. “Don’t move. I’ve got you. I swear.”

You looked up at him— eyes wide and scared and full of trust. “Please… Don’t— Don’t let me die in here.”

“Never.”

Logan wrapped his arms around the beam. It was heavier than it looked and heating up with the fire. It seared his skin where it touched him, but he didn’t stop. He roared and lifted, muscles shaking. With a final, desperate yell, he threw it aside. You practically collapsed forward into him, coughing violently, body going limp in his arms.

“I got you,” he breathed, catching you. “I got you, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

And then, another crack sounded. The entire floor behind you dropped a foot with a thunderous boom. Logan didn’t think. He scooped you into his arms, turned, and leapt just as the last of the ceiling gave way. The world came down behind the two of you. He hit the ground hard, shielding you with his body as flaming debris rained across his back. Pain flared but his healing kicked in and his grip never loosened.

“Over here!” Scott yelled. “We’ve got them!”

But Logan didn’t move. He stayed on the floor, arms around you, breathing hard.

“Get me a damn stretcher!” Hank shouted.

You stirred. “Lo—Logan?” You whispered, his name barely making it past your lips.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered roughly. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your hand curled weakly into his shirt before your eyes fluttered closed again, body sagging. And Logan— battered, bloody, and breathless— held you tighter.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he whispered into your hair, voice breaking. “Don’t you ever…”

They had to pry you from his arms. He followed behind the med team like a ghost— soot-streaked, jaw clenched so tight his teeth shed. His shirt was burned straight through in places, but he didn’t notice or feel it. He only saw you, laying on the stretcher, limp and unmoving.

“You said she’s breathing,” he growled at Hank once you were in the infirmary. “So why the hell won’t she wake up?”

“She inhaled a lot of smoke,” Hank told him gently. “Her body’s in shock. She just needs rest.”

But Logan couldn’t rest. Not while you were laying there with machines practically breathing for you. Not while your cardigan— the one you always wore that had ink smudges on the sleeve— was cut down the middle and tossed in a bin like it meant nothing. You were always so careful, so prepared and so calm. He should’ve gotten there faster.

~~~

Hours passed. The infirmary emptied. Students checked in, then shuffled back to bed with minor burns or bruises. The library and a few offices were the only parts damaged by the fire, thankfully. Everyone said you were a hero. That you kept your head, got the kids out, and went back for one.

Logan couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t stand the praise. Not when he had the image of you pinned until the burning ceiling like his worst damn nightmare come true. He paced outside your room like a caged animal. Then eventually, he stepped inside. You looked small in the bed, swallowed by white sheets, wires, and tubes. Not to mention, the cast on your leg from where you had been pinned. He finally sat beside you, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“You should’ve let me get him,” he muttered. “You should’ve run.”

No answer, just the hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at the floor.

“You weren’t supposed to be in danger,” he continued, voice cracking. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I was supposed to— damn it… I was supposed to protect you.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers digging into his eyes. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things. I’ve seen people die. I’ve killed people. And I’ve walked away from it every time. But I saw that ceiling start to fall and I thought—“ His breath hitched. “I thought, if I don’t get to her, if she dies in front of me—“

Logan couldn’t finish his thought. He looked at you then, really looked. Your lips were parted slightly. Your brow twitched in sleep. Your chest rose and fell so faintly it made his throat close.

“I don’t know was this is,” he whispered, reaching out and gently taking your hand. “You and me. But I need it. I need you.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve lived too long and lost too much to sit here and pretend like I’m not— like you down’t matter to me. You matter so damn much.”

He gave your hand a slight squeeze before standing. He began pacing against, too raw to stay still.

“I’ve been through wars, Y/N,” he continued. “Literal wars. I don’t panic. I don’t break.” He turned towards you, eyes wild. “But when I heard you scream my name— when I saw you trapped— I didn’t feel like the Wolverine. I felt like a man who was about to lose the best damn thing in his life.”

He paused, letting the silence swallow the confession. Then, slowly, he sat beside you again, taking your hand.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hand twitched, just barely. He froze and watched your fingers curl ever so slightly around his.

Then your lips moved, cracked and dry. “Logan?”

His head snapped up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

You blinked slowly, eyes hazy but warm. “I knew… you’d come…”

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “You’re damn right I did.”

~~~

The first few days after the fire were slow. You drifted in and out of sleep, lungs sore, throat raw, and muscles weak. Logan never left. He dozed in the corner in a chair far too small for his frame, arms crossed like he was trying not to fall apart. He read silently when you slept. Sometimes your favorite books, sometimes books you recommend him. He dog-eared the pages now, though— something you’d once jokingly told him was a criminal offense. You forgave him.

And when you stirred, no matter how late it was, his eyes opened instantly.

“You good?” He would ask, low and gravelly.

You would nod.

Then he’d pour your water, help you sit up, and tuck a blanket around your shoulders like it mattered.

~~~

It took four days before you were allowed to walk with crutches, only for a few feet. Hank suggested that you wait for a nurse.

Logan shut that down with a grunt. “I’m helping her.”

You leaned on him. You had crutches under your arms and his hand warm and steady against your back. Each step felt like a mile, but he didn’t rush you. He matched your pace without complaint, murmuring encouragement into your head like it wasn’t tearing him up to see you this fragile.

“You’re doing great, darlin’,” he murmured. “One more step. I got you.”

You did better than expected. Until you caught sight of your reflection in a hallway mirror. You paused and took yourself in. You looked like a ghost of yourself.

“I look awful,” you whispered.

Logan stepped in front of you immediately. “Hey.” You wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Hey.” He tilted your chin up with two fingers. “You look like someone who ran into a fire to save your students and lived to tell the tale. You look like someone who fought like hell. And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in days.” You looked at him, stunned. “I’m not just sayin’ that to be nice.” You leaned into his chest then, and he held you without hesitation. “Let’s sit for a bit. You’ve earned it."

~~~

When you were strong enough to leave the infirmary, the first place you asked to go was the library. Or, what was left of it. Logan pushed your wheelchair through the blackened archway. Most of the debris had been removed. The air still smelled faintly of smoke. One half of the room was under reconstruction, while the other half was a staging area for what survived. Like your desk. It was charred at the corners, but still standing.

“I thought it would feel worse,” you whispered. “But it just makes me want to fix it.”

Logan smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Then let’s fix it.”

And you did. Not all at once, but slowly and together. Logan handled the heavy lifting— shelving, building, and hammering. You directed, sorted books, and drafted up a new cataloging system from scratch. You insisted on doing it right. He insisted on carrying every single box, even when it meant trips back and forth for hours.

One day, Logan caught you trying to lift a stack of reference books by yourself.

“What did I say about heavy lifting?” He reprimanded, taking the books from you.

You pouted. “That I shouldn’t do it.”

“Exactly. Now go back to bossin’ me around like you’re good at.”

You snored and flopped into the chair he kept beside your desk just for you. “Fine. But you’re doing the labeling next.”

He groaned dramatically.

~~~

The library was almost finished. The last shelves had been installed that morning. The paint on the walls was fresh, faintly smelling of cedar and hope. Books were still waiting to be shelved— new, old, and salvaged. But tomorrow, the doors would open again. Students would come back into the space.

Logan found you sitting in the middle of the library— on the floor, back against the last bookshelf, with a half-unpacked box of hardcovers beside you. You weren’t moving. He hesitated behind a shelf at first. He took in the sight of your shoulders hunched forward, hands gripping your sleeves, face buried in your arms. Then he heart the sound, soft and shaky. You were crying. He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside you.

“Hey. Hey—“ His voice was gentle. “Talk to me.”

You lifted you head slowly, eyes red and glassy behind your glasses. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see—“

“Too late… what’s wrong?”

You looked around the room. At the new shelves, at your desk that Logan had fixed up, and the corner you claimed for him. “I should be happy… I got it back. We rebuilt everything. But I keep thinking about that day. About how close it was. I smell smoke in the carpet still. I still dream about the beam coming down. About not making it out.”

He was quiet for a beat and then, “You almost didn’t… I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t think or stop. Just ran. And I was still almost too late.” Another tear slipped down your cheek, and Logan caught it with his thumb before you could. “I almost lost you. And I never—“ his voice cracked, “I never told you what you mean to me.”

Your breath hitched.

“You’re the first quiet I’ve ever liked,” he continued softly. “The first calm I didn’t want to run from. I come in here and it’s like… everything in me stops trying to fight… I kept tellin’ myself I’d wait. That you needed time. That maybe I was imagining it. But then I saw you lying there and I realized…” he swallowed. “I love you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “I love you too.” Logan froze. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. It was so good— safe. But every time you walked in with a drink or fixed a shelf without being asked or quote Jane Austen just to make me smile—“ you laughed, “I fell a little more.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the fire. And then he pulled you in. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, just home. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring you in the silence, and you melted into him, face tucked under his chin. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and then your lips. It was a soft, slow kiss, full of everything you’d both been too scared to say.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your lips. “Always.”

You nodded, arms tightening around his waist. “And I’ve got you.”

~~~

The next morning, you stood at the front desk, one hand wrapped around a still-steaming mug of coffee (from Logan, of course), the other smoothing down the table displays you’d been arranging since sunrise. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center, also from Logan though he hadn’t admitted it out loud. Just grunted and muttered something about ‘color’ before setting it down.

Logan came back just after seven, leaning in the doorway with a lopsided grin and another coffee in hand.

“You open yet?” He asked.

You smiled. “Always. At least for you.”

He strode over and set his coffee down, then pulled you gently into his arms. His hands curled agains your back, grounding. You leaned into his chest and closed your eyes. You breathing him in.

“Feels different,” you murmured.

“It is,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

“Took you long enough.”

He chuckled. “Took us long enough.”

~~~

The first few kids trickled in quietly. They looked around with reverence, whispering to each other about how it didn’t even smell like smoke anymore. Then came the regulars. Jamie was the first to say it. He paused in front o your desk and stared at Logan, who was pretending to organize the display table but was actually hanging around way too casually.

“Are you two, like, together now?” Jamie questioned.

You froze, but Logan didn’t flinch.

You cleared your throat. “Jamie—“

“Because if you are, that’s awesome,” Jamie grinned. “You guys were, like, a slow burn romance novel. Everyone knew. You just didn’t.”

Logan gave a small shrug. “Told you we weren’t subtle,” he muttered under his breath.

Jame waved a few other kids over. “Guys! It happened! They’re official!”

Soon, a small crowd of amused, excited students gathered around the front desk. They whispered, giggled, and pointed between the two of you like it was the best gossip of the year. You buried you face in your hands while Logan just crossed his arms and smirked.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, but not unkind. “You got ten more seconds to gawk before I assign everyone a ten-page paper on 20th-century revolutions.”

Groans echoed immediately before they scattered in seconds.

You blinked at him. “You wouldn’t actually—“

“I might,” he shrugged. “But they’re right.”

“About what?”

He reached over and pulled you into him. “You and me? Best damn slow burn I’ve ever read.”

next: The Love >

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